The Gentleman Rancher

The gravel lane leading onto the property was choked on both sides with mesquite, cedar and sage. Closer to the lake, there were deep thickets of blackberry bushes, glistening with ripening fruit, just begging to be picked. Midway onto the private property, the lane diverged in two directions. Jeremy took the one to the right. As they bumped along the path, one vehicle after another, the ground sloped downward. Finally, they topped a rise and a steep decline. The sprawling lake was in view. Under the deep blue Texas sky, the lake was a shimmering aqua blue.

At the lake end of the lane was a weathered dock. Taylor parked and got out to soak up the view.

Part of the lake was open to the public and set aside for camping, hiking and other recreational activities. The rest of the property fronting the water—like Lago Vista Ranch—was privately owned. From where they stood, she could see vacation homes dotting the shore. The occasional marina. Private boat slips. A popular restaurant overlooking the lake. Out on the water, there were sailboats and cruisers. Everything you would expect on a perfect summer evening.

“I can see why you bought the ranch,” Taylor murmured appreciatively. “The view alone…”

“I come here and sit some evenings to decompress.”

Taylor liked to do the same thing when she was writing. “There’s something so soothing about the water,” she murmured. In fact, the proximity to Virginia Beach was why she had settled in the Chesapeake area of Virginia.

His smile was slow and sexy. “Want to see the rest of the property?”

“Sure.”

They backed up their vehicles, and turned around carefully.

Taylor led the way back to the fork in the lane, and still in the lead, followed the path they had yet to take.

Once again, the property had a deep aura of neglect, or maybe it was just wilderness. There was barbed wire along the edges, along with the occasional weathered No Trespassing sign, but no effort had been made to cultivate the property into the well-manicured ranchland prevalent in Laramie County.

Even if someone came in and took down the underbrush, thinned out some of the trees, and mowed the high grass in the meadows, it wouldn’t stay that way, Taylor noted.

Jeremy must have one hundred acres here, she guessed, as they came upon another rise. And there, in the middle of a small clearing, was one of the oddest dwellings she had ever seen.

The central part of the one-story ranch house was rectangular in shape and built of white stone. It had double windows on either side of the massive oak door, and a wide front porch shaded by a steep tin roof. Toward the back, there were two narrow wings, jutting out at ninety-degree angles from the main part of the house. These were made of stucco. One was painted bright turquoise, the other bright coral.

“Go ahead.” Jeremy held the door as she got out of the driver side of her Jeep. He exhaled in resignation, appearing to brace himself. “There’s nothing you can say I haven’t heard before.”

Taylor walked around the weed choked front lawn. It looked like an acre had been cleared around the domicile. Beyond that was the same overgrown tangle of scrub, trees and weeds she had encountered on the rest of the property.

“It’s…interesting.”

Jeremy fell into step beside her. “It’s bizarre.”

She walked around toward the back. As she got closer, she noted the stucco had been applied over what looked like pale orange brick. Patches of it shone through, around the edges. “I’d love to hear the story behind this.” She indicated the home.

Jeremy stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Taking her hand, he drew her out of the heat and into the shade. “The original owner built the four rooms in the center. He primarily used the place as a fishing and hunting retreat. It’s pretty rustic. He wasn’t much on upkeep and he sold it to a couple who dabbled in amateur architecture. The husband loved the South Beach area of Florida. The wife adored historic Charleston, South Carolina. They wanted to expand the house. They couldn’t agree how. So they compromised by building his-and-her wings in the stucco-over-brick-style of historic Charleston and painted them the vivid tropical colors of South Beach.”

“Wow.”

He let go of her hand as casually as he had clasped it. “The previous owners ended up getting divorced, and the property had to be sold as part of the settlement. Naturally, given the air of neglect there weren’t many prospective buyers even willing to consider taking on such a big project. I came along,” he announced proudly, “and got it for a song.”

Taylor stepped onto the V-shaped patio located between the two wings. There was no doubt the property could be turned into something, but it would take one hell of a lot of work. “How long have you had it?” she asked.

“Two years.”

She noted the pile of construction debris located next to the back door. It certainly appeared to be a work-in-progress. “And you’ve never lived here?”

“Once I show you the inside, you’ll understand why.” Jeremy unlocked the patio doors. The air inside was stifling. It felt like the heat of an oven rushing out at them. Inside the main room, the floor had been stripped down to the cement slab. There was no kitchen to speak of, just a cooler where a refrigerator should have been and a freestanding metal sink more suited to a laundry room, with an old-fashioned spigot. The remaining drywall had big gouges in it.

“You tore out all the cabinets?”

“They were rainbow-painted aluminum,” he explained.

“Oh.”

“The refrigerator had been shut off, still filled with food, in the summer heat. There was so much mold and bacteria in it, it had to go, too. Not that it would have been worth much—it was in pretty bad shape. There’s no central heat or air.”

“Then…?” she asked.

“The fireplace is it, when it comes to heat.”

Taylor blinked. “For the whole house?”

“Wings and all, yep.”

He led her toward the front of the house. “Initially, these two rooms were bedrooms, the Realtor said.” Jeremy indicated the two closed-off rooms on either side of the front door. “I think they should be formal rooms, living and dining, so I plan to take out the center part of each wall here to open them up.”

Taylor got the picture. “Which is where the sledgehammers come in.”

“Right.”

She looked around. “There’s no guest bathroom, I gather?”

“No. The original owner went with the outhouse for that. I tore that down and put in a port-a-potty.”

Taylor took a moment to consider that as she walked back toward the main living area. Although still stifling-hot, the fresh air flowing in from outside was cooling the space slightly. “How did they bathe, if they didn’t have a bathroom?”

“Lake?” Jeremy guessed. “I don’t know. Fortunately, the second owners—the couple who ended up getting divorced—had a full bath put in each wing.”

“So you have plumbing out here?”

“I will—when I get a new septic tank put in.”

Taylor nodded, thinking, “No wonder you got it for a steal.”

“Let me show you the rest.” Jeremy led the way into one wing. It was a large bedroom, painted a hideous color of purple, with matching carpet and walls. The theme continued into the adjacent bath. Taylor couldn’t help but stare. “I didn’t know they made counters and bathtubs that color.”

“Apparently you can paint them. Or get them recovered. I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do. I’d like to tear it all out and put in marble. Or maybe ceramic tile. I’m not sure.”

They ventured across to the opposite wing. It was done all in hot pink. Taylor was so busy looking around, she ran into him. He reached out a hand to steady her.

“I keep saying this,” she shook her head, “but wow.”

“I know.” He grimaced.

Taylor focused on the bright side. “Both bedrooms have a good layout. They’re spacious. They each have a bath. Big windows. Plenty of light.”