The Rancher's Redemption

Mom lifted her gaze heavenward. “At least, tell me you got Ted to sign the custody agreement.”

Rachel’s smile fell. “He wants another stipulation.”

“What is it this time?” Nana put down her knitting needles. “Does he want you to be his designated driver on Saturday nights?”

“It’s nothing.” Rachel bent to pin a fan of the pinwheel together, unable to look at her family.

“From the expression on your face—” Nana thrust a finger in Rachel’s direction “—your nothing means something awful.”

“It’s not.” It shouldn’t be. “Ted wants me to agree to stay here to raise Poppy.”

“As if you’d leave us.” Mom picked up Poppy and gave her another Cheerio from her stash. “We wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“We sure couldn’t get Stephanie to run the ranch.” Nana harrumphed. “Your little sister is more interested in the color of her nails than in the color of a healthy heifer’s tongue.”

Rachel grimaced. She wasn’t sure she could confidently state the correct color of a healthy heifer’s tongue, either. And she resisted looking at her nails. She hadn’t had a manicure in who knows how long. Or a pedicure. Or gone shopping for clothes for herself. Or had highlights put in her hair. She missed the days when she could pamper herself, like Stephanie, who had two beautiful girls and a handsome architect husband in nearby Livingston.

Poppy giggled and patted her palms on Mom’s cheeks. “Ga-ga-ga-gahhh.”

Guilt wrapped around Rachel’s chest and squeezed. With such an adorable daughter and a loving family, Rachel shouldn’t resent Ted’s restriction.

The sound of wood cracking and snapping could be heard outside. She hurried to the window and peered out on the backyard. “Shoot. It’s that heifer.” She’d forgotten to text Henry. The cow had pushed her way through the pickets to the vegetable garden. “I’ll get her.” And now she could add fixing the garden fence to her long list of to-dos.

Rachel rushed to the mudroom, slipped out of her heels and into Mom’s pink and gold-trimmed cowboy boots. She grabbed Dad’s lariat from a hook on the wall and then ran out into the heat wearing her best suit and pearls. “Git! Git!”

The heifer looked up. The green feathery tops of Nana’s carrots dangled out of one side of the cow’s mouth. She didn’t budge, most likely because she didn’t consider Rachel a threat.

The cow lowered her head and resumed her grazing.

“Hey! Hey!” Rachel slapped the stiff rope against her boots and then ran down the porch steps, charging the heifer. “Get out of there. Git-git-git!” She sounded like Poppy, except not as happy. She swung the loop of rope at the heifer’s front flank.

Startled, the heifer rolled her eyes and backed up a few steps, reevaluating Rachel much the same way Ben had earlier.

“That’s right. Git!” Rachel swung the lariat in front of the cow’s face. “Back up. Get out.”

That worked. The heifer made a sound like someone had sat down hard on a whoopee cushion. She wheeled and trotted out through what was left of the fence posts, kicking up dirt clods at Rachel. Slimy mud spattered her good jacket and skirt.

A guttural wail filled the air.

That wail... It was hers.

Rachel had three court suits that fit her mommy hips.

Well...now only two.

Her mother tapped on the bedroom window glass, her face hovering above Nana’s. “Are you all right?”

Rachel nodded, even though she wasn’t. She marched across the ravaged carrots and torn-up grass, scrunching her eyes against the threat of tears, because ranchers didn’t cry. Not over ruined wool and silk.

The heifer headed behind the barn.

Rachel took off after her, rounding the corner only to find the escapee ambling down the weed-choked road that separated the Double T from the Blackwell Ranch, tail swinging happily as if she was high on carrots.

The gate was open, which gave rise to many questions. Why was it ajar? Who’d been careless enough to leave it open? How had the heifer escaped the large pasture? Was another gate open? A fence down? Were other livestock roaming about? The herd was supposed to be summering across the river in higher, greener pastures.

Rachel latched the listing gate, closing off the road and shutting the heifer in. Someone would have to saddle a horse and ride the property line to find how and why the heifer was free.

Personally, she’d like that someone to be Henry. She hadn’t expected to do anything but paperwork today and hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Although her clothes were already ruined, she reminded herself.

Rachel turned toward a small house behind the barn. It was the original one-room homestead. It had no front yard. No fenced backyard. No driveway. But a well-used green Ford pickup was parked near the front door.

“Come in,” Henry called after she’d knocked.

The tiny house had somber walls and exposed beams. A twin bed was in one corner next to a tall pine dresser. The doors to the closet and bathroom were ajar. The kitchen had a collection of empty soda cans on the brown Formica countertop. A burgundy recliner and television filled out the space, the latter perched on an old kitchen table with spindly wooden legs.

Henry sat in his recliner, an empty microwave container of macaroni and cheese in his lap. His scuffed boots were discarded near the door, as if he’d needed to take off his shoes first thing to pamper his aching feet. He muted the television. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

Is it too much to ask that he call me Rachel?

Probably, since he’d seen her as a toddler running through the front yard sprinkler naked.

Hoping to garner some respect, Rachel tugged down her blouse and buttoned her jacket. Her efforts to look like a presentable boss—one worthy of a title better than little lady—resulted in a fair amount of dung sprinkled on the floor. “There’s a heifer loose. I shut her in the road leading to the river, but there’s a break in the fence somewhere.”

“I’ll get to lookin’ tomorrow.” Henry was seventy-five if he was a day. He’d been with the ranch since he was in his twenties. Nothing upset him. Not loose heifers or flooded pastures. “Thanks for letting me know. If she continues to be a problem, we’ll have to make steak out of her.”

Rachel had never been good at eating animals she’d had a face-to-face with. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s make sure none of the rest of the herd is loose.”

“Little lady.” Henry slid his glasses off his nose and stared at Rachel. “After your father died, we made an agreement. Unless there’s an emergency, I don’t put in more than my eight hours, or I retire.”

The last thing Rachel needed was to upset Henry enough that he’d retire. But still, she worried. They had so few cattle left. “What about Tony?”

“He left early to have a root canal in Bozeman.” Henry’s gaze drifted back to the television. “He won’t be in tomorrow by the way.”

Shoot. She’d forgotten. But still... “This needs to be done tonight.”

“Ain’t no hurry, little lady. We don’t live in a time of cattle rustlers.” Henry cast a disparaging glance at Rachel’s pearls and then at her mother’s pink-and-gold trimmed boots. “The Blackwells raise Black Angus. They aren’t going to confuse white-faced cows on their land with their own.” He unmuted the television. “You can’t run a ranch in heels and pearls. Now, you worry about taking care of that baby of yours and I’ll worry about the ranch.”

Rachel left, feeling as if she’d been given a glass of water, a pat on the head and then shooed toward her bedroom.

Little lady.

Rachel’s anger increased with every step she took. Dad wouldn’t have waited until morning. There was nothing for it. This little lady was going to have to ride out to the fence line herself.

Now all she needed was something to wear.

CHAPTER THREE (#u6a1e8a71-d6f7-5558-bd1a-35aab36077e7)

BEN SPENT THE rest of the afternoon and early evening at the kitchen table of his childhood home researching water rights and occasionally staring up at the pink-feathered chandelier above him.