A Cowboy In Shepherd's Crossing

Uncertainty clouded Rosie’s eyes. “I do not know. She is not a maternal person, and yet I feel she loves these babies. In her own way.”

“Maybe loves them enough to give them up.” Mel kept her voice soft as Ava squirmed in her arms.

Jace turned her way. “Giving up children shows them love?” Disbelief marked his voice and his expression. “I don’t buy that. Caring for kids. Feeding them, clothing them, teaching them. That’s what love’s all about. Anyone can toss something away. It takes a real parent to go the distance.”

He knew nothing, Melonie decided. Because she’d been on the other side of that equation and he was wrong. So wrong.

She stood and handed Ava to Rosie. “I’ve got to get my stuff settled in the stable.”

She walked out, refusing to go toe-to-toe with him. The only reason she held back was because he’d been handed a rough reality a few hours before.

By Jace’s definition, her father had gone the distance.

Wrong.

He’d provided funds to raise her and her two sisters, he’d paid Corrie to mother them and he’d encouraged them to make the grade in good schools. The recent corporate bankruptcy had left her and Lizzie jobless at a time when print media was shrinking. Her father’s personal finances had left her and Charlotte with massive college loans to repay. Jobless with massive debt wasn’t how she’d expected to face the year, but her late uncle’s legacy would help.

As she crossed the sunlit lawn dividing the two arms of the horse stables, she was glad she’d kept silent inside. If tomorrow’s meeting went all right, she’d be working with Jace daily. She’d avoid arguments if she could, but she knew one thing for certain: it took a whole lot more than providing food and shelter to be a parent.

No way was he going to take on Gilda Hardaway’s job, Jace decided as he steered his truck toward the Payette forest the next afternoon.

He couldn’t bring himself to use the term grandmother. She’d gotten the title by circumstance only. It might be a biological truth, but it meant nothing to him. And saving her broken-down house meant even less. He was sticking with his plan, one hundred percent. Sell the house. Move to Sun Valley. Take the girls along with him. End of story.

“How’d your night go?” Melonie had been busying herself doing something in her electronic notebook. She looked up as they made a turn. “With the twins?”

“All right.”

She whistled softly. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Well. They’re babies. And I know nothing about babies, so let’s say it went all right, considering the circumstances.”

The twins hadn’t loved their new sleeping arrangements. They’d let that be known in full voice several times during the night. Corrie had jumped in to help him, which was a good thing because Jace would have crashed and burned by hour four. This way they both got some sleep. Just not much. The twins woke up babbling and smiling as if they’d gotten a full night’s slumber. But then, they got to take naps. Naps didn’t happen for grown-ups.

“Were you guys able to get the hay all in?”

“Harve Junior and Wick stayed out late to beat the rain. It’s done.”

The rain had held off until just after midnight, but it was coming down now. Not a massive storm. A steady gray drizzle, the kind of rain that benefited crops but thwarted farmers needing to access fields.

But the hay was safe. The girls were with Rosie and Corrie. Now, if he could get through this afternoon’s interview...

“And you spoke with your sister?”

Justine. He’d told her as gently as he could, but when she burst into tears, he half wanted to cry with her. He didn’t, because big brothers hang strong. Always. “She was shocked. Understandably.”

“I expect she was. Whoa.” Melonie stretched up in her seat as they took the weed-edged asphalt drive leading up to Hardaway Ranch. Tucked behind trees leading to the national forest, he’d never had a clear look at this house. He’d heard of it, of course. Small towns loved to talk about their eccentrics, and Gilda fit the bill.

But as they emerged from the final curve and the once-grandiose home rose up before them, he took a deep breath.

“Did you just get a horror-film vibe?” Melonie whispered. “Because I sure did.”

He couldn’t fault her comment because the large, moldy two-and-a-half-story structure would have done Stephen King proud. Surrounded by a yard in desperate need of a brush hog, the place sat like a haunted house on a hill, shrouded by three decades of shrub and tree growth. It was an absolute mess from top to bottom. So bad that he was almost tempted to take the job for the challenge it offered, but not stupid enough to do it. “Here we are.” He pulled up to vine-choked steps and stopped the truck. He studied the building, then Melonie. “We don’t have to get out. We can head right back to the road and go home.”

Genuine surprise made her look quizzical. “Not go in? Are you crazy? I just had to turn down a cable TV contract to come here, and that was tough. That makes this an amazing opportunity. I absolutely cannot wait to get inside. Come on.” She opened her door. “Let’s go.”

She wanted the job.

The anticipation in her voice was reflected in her eyes as she climbed out of the truck. That meant he had to climb out of the truck, too.

He did. Then he studied the house, the choked yard and the sprawling acres beyond it.

Somewhere within him he could almost imagine the beauty it had been thirty years ago. Before he was born, he realized.

He fought a sigh. He was all for getting back into the truck when Gilda’s voice called down to them. “I’m here. And I’m waiting. And there’s a few things folks my age don’t do well. Waiting’s one of them. Come on, come on, I’m not getting any younger.”

The old saying drew his attention. It struck a nerve or a memory or something... He kept quiet and followed Melonie up the stairs.

Full sensory overload.

Melonie cloaked her excitement as she walked into the big house. She paused inside the door to take in the ruination of what should have been a gracious old home. The classic, wide farmhouse stood as a shell of its former self. Moldings had been damaged by water leaks. Some were rotted straight through. Others had simply disintegrated. Plaster showed water damage in multiple rooms on the first floor, which meant the second floor wasn’t going to be too pretty because that water came from somewhere. The thought of reclaiming this wreck of a home and showing off her talents was a power boost for Melonie. Getting this job would keep her in Idaho, as required, but she’d be working away from the smell of the horses. Sheep she could deal with. She had no violent history with sheep.

Horses were another story altogether.

“You’re quiet. Both of you.” Gilda pressed her lips into a thin line. “I don’t like it when folks get quiet because that usually means they’re scared to say what they think.”

Melonie had been jotting a note in her tablet. She raised her eyes without raising her head. “This doesn’t scare me, Gilda.”

The old woman looked skeptical.

Melonie jotted something else before she continued. “It invigorates me. It’s rare that a designer gets the chance to walk in and lay out a fresh canvas.”

“What does that mean?”

Jace shifted his attention to her, too. She’d seen his initial reaction as he walked into the house. Horror...and interest. And something else. Regret, maybe. As if the decay made him sad.

She stopped making notes and faced them. “It means I’m mentally planning massive demolition and starting new. I think the bones of the house are great.”

“Bones?”

“The structure,” she explained. “The water leaks have done significant damage. The first order of business will be new roofs. Once that’s done we can begin the demo inside. No sense starting anything until we’ve got a solid roof in place.”

Jace stayed quiet. He’d brought a few simple tools with him. He poked walls for plaster rot and found plenty. The ceilings on the first floor were ruined, except in the front parlor. He noted that into his phone, then laser-measured the house dimensions. As they moved from room to room, the magnitude of what the elderly woman was asking became obvious.

“Mrs. Hardaway.” He slipped his phone into the leather pouch on his belt and rubbed a hand to his neck. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

“I am not paying for opinions,” she told him in a craggy voice. She’d been following them with a bright pink cane. She tapped that cane sharply against the water-stained floor.

“I beg to differ.” He kept his tone even. “That’s exactly what you asked, and I’m telling you that the cost of refurbishing this place is astronomical. Perhaps—”