The Rancher Needs A Wife

“Did not,” said Chrissy.

“Were you there?” asked Rachel. She gave Jody a pitying glance and whispered something to the other girls, leaving Jody and Chrissy cut out of the conversation.

“Don’t pay any attention,” said Chrissy. “Like I said, she’s just jealous. Lucas wouldn’t come over here if he was mad at you.”

“I should have been expecting this, I s’pose.” Jody sighed and began to pack up her lunch, too upset to consider eating Gran’s beautiful sandwich. “I’ve read in magazines about guys playing this game with girls.”

“What game?”

Jody sighed again. “Sending mixed signals.”

WAYNE LINGERED over the remains of his chili lunch special in a wide diner booth at the Beaverhead Bar & Grill on Monday afternoon, shaking his head over Ed Meager’s latest letter to the editor of the TuckerTribune. Some people simply couldn’t let go of a bone, even after the dog on the other end had given up the tug-of-war and gone off to find something with a little more meat on it.

In Ed’s world, the sky was always falling. And if his current diatribe was on target, the atmosphere was going to be missing a whole lot of ozone when it hit the ground.

At the moment, the sky over Tucker was shedding the kind of rain that fell in soft, fat drops and sank deep into the soil—the kind of rain that would have been appreciated back in July, before a monstrous midsummer wildfire had wiped out hundreds of acres of pasture and timber land on the west side of the range. Out on Main Street, truck tires kicked up jets of spray over the glistening street pavement and passersby hunched inside their jackets. The temperature was dropping, and snow would surely follow, drifting to lower elevations in another month or so.

Inside the Beaverhead, the overheated air filmed the window beside him and tempted him to strip off his jacket. The peppery tang of Max’s chili hung in the air along with the odor of the chopped onions that had gone into it. On the kitchen radio, Clint Black wailed over the hissing grill and the chugging dishwasher. Milo Evers, in town to fetch supplies for Granite Ridge, leaned over his coffee at the counter, and across the room Susie Dotson scrubbed at a chocolate pudding smear on her youngest girl’s face, murmuring stern mother’s warnings in counterpoint to her daughter’s fussy whine.

Cute little thing—Amanda, that was her name. Always done up in neat pigtails with tiny plastic clips and bright ribbons, and shoes that looked like something NASA had designed for moon-walking Lilliputians. Today Amanda’s shoes flashed with pink lights when she moved, the way she was moving now, kicking in frustration against the edge of the vinyl seat as she arched and slid toward the floor in a slow-motion getaway.

He wondered what it would be like to slip a glowing pink shoe onto a foot that small, or to tie a ribbon on the end of a thin, silky braid. He longed to find out.

Loretta Olmstead, the lone waitress on duty, shuffled over with a fresh pot of coffee. “Sure is quiet in here for a Monday. More Rotarians usually stick around for lunch.”

“The meeting dragged on a bit longer than usual.” Wayne lifted his cup for a refill. “Most of the cattle got brought down from the high country over the last week or so. Folks have their hands full getting the herds settled in for the winter.”

Loretta stared out the window at the soggy street. “Still, I thought the weather might tempt them to stay inside. And Max made an extra batch of his berry cobbler.”

“Maybe I should perform a kindness and have seconds,” said Wayne with a smile. “Wouldn’t want to see Max get his feelings hurt.”

“You don’t need an excuse to have a second helping of something sweet,” said the waitress. “Could use a little fattening up, in my opinion.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, darlin’. Even if it sounds a bit underhanded, coming as it does from someone in the food service industry.” He grinned and ducked out of range as she flapped a hand at him.

“When are you going to get yourself a wife,” she asked, “or someone to make your berry cobbler for you?”

“I’ve got Benita.”

“Housekeepers don’t count. Besides, Benita’s got a husband of her own.”

“I like the way she cooks. And the way she keeps my house. She’d be a hard act for any wife to follow.”

“There’s more to tending to a man than picking up after him and filling his stomach.”

“You got someone in mind?” He fell into the familiar rhythm of the game he’d been playing with Loretta for years, a game that had been suspended for one short season during the months he’d spent with Alicia.

“What about that sweet Mary Wilcox, the Presbyterian Church secretary?”

“The one who plays the organ and sings like a tortured cat?” He shook his head. “She’s sweet enough, I s’pose, but I don’t think I could tolerate the sound of her clearing her throat at my bathroom sink in the morning.”

“You’re too damn picky,” Loretta said with a shake of her head. “Someone with your good looks and that big spread shouldn’t have this much trouble finding a replacement for the girl who ran out on you.”

“If my good looks and big spread weren’t good enough to keep one wife, why would they be good enough to catch another?”

“Nothing wrong with the bait, hon.” Loretta patted his shoulder. “You just gotta build up your confidence. Get in some dating practice. Get out there and do a little fishing.”

She pulled her pad out of her pocket and added another serving of Max’s cobbler to his tab. “Speaking of fishing, what are you up to with that Maggie Sinclair? Heard you two were getting a little too close for comfort out on the dance floor Friday night.”

“I don’t know that I’d agree it was all that close,” said Wayne, “but I will admit it was plenty comfortable.”

“Well, don’t go getting too cozy.” Loretta tucked her pad back into her chili-stained apron. “Everyone says she’s getting out of Tucker the first chance she gets.”

Even though he shared her opinion, Wayne found himself wishing he wouldn’t be subjected to these constant reminders of Maggie’s imminent departure. “Wonder why she took that job at the high school if she didn’t plan on sticking around a while?”

“Jobs don’t hold people in place when they want to be someplace else.”

Neither does a marriage, Wayne added silently. He took a sip of his coffee. Cooling already.

Loretta leaned over his shoulder and stared down at the paper. “Is that another of Ed’s letters?”

“Yep.”

“The ozone again?” She sighed when he nodded. “Gotta give the man credit for trying, I s’pose.”

“That’s a fine and generous thing to say.” Wayne winked at her. “Care to put it in writing and send it to the editor?”

The little bell over the main diner door jounced and jingled. Trace Bardett, Frank Guthrie and Jasper Harlan entered and crowded around Max’s specials slate, examining the day’s offerings while they stomped and shook the wet off like three big dogs.

Loretta wandered behind the counter. “Hey, boys.”

“Hey, Loretta.” Trace leaned over the plastic pie dome. “Is that Max’s cobbler?”

“Yep.”

“Think I’ll have me some of that.”

“Be right there.”

Wayne watched the men shift and hesitate before migrating toward his booth. He folded the paper and shoved it aside, bracing himself for the discussion of the donation that he knew was heading his way with them.

“Hey, Wayne.”

“Hey, Trace,” he answered with a nod. “Frank, Jasper.”