Czytaj książkę: «His Ranch Or Hers»

I want to thank the hardworking editors at Harlequin who have so kindly shared my vision for the Snowy Owl books and others. Always to Paula Eykelhof and Kathleen Scheibling. Also to Dana Hopkins, and to Victoria Curran for whom I have written stories for the Harlequin Heartwarming line. Harlequin books across all lines are my favorite books to read.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Myra Odell parked the tractor in the implement barn and went out to the fenced acres of grass. Recent rains had greened the pasture nicely. Good. Maybe tomorrow she’d bring the new crop of young animals down to ready them for market. Her neighbor Hank Watson had offered to truck them to the stockyard before winter storms hit northeastern Montana. With August close to the end, she’d still hoped for a few more weeks of decent weather. But all morning the sky had looked ominous. She’d gotten fairly good at predicting weather disruptions. She’d grown up in this country, and for most of her twenty-eight years she’d spent summers here on Flying Owl Ranch with her dad’s parents. Three summers ago she’d come to help out Gramps, who’s health had declined after her grandmother passed away the previous year.

Rather than return to teaching high school math in Great Falls that year, she’d stayed to run the ranch she loved. Her mom fussed about it, but truth be told Myra liked cattle ranching way more than teaching. Although after losing Gramps, the loneliness took some getting used to. Thankfully, she’d made friends with neighbors and some in the nearby town of Snowy Owl Crossing. And Gramps said she was a born rancher. Which was good because Myra saw herself spending the rest of her life right here.

Stepping down from the last rung of the split-rail fence, Myra checked her watch. She could feed the two saddle horses she kept for herding cattle before driving into town to grab staples in case the Farmer’s Almanac was right about them getting an early snow. She might drop in to see a couple of her girlfriends, especially Jewell Hyatt, to ask if she had any news from the state. Their committee had put in a request to designate some local land as a snowy-owl habitat.

A waterfowl preserve was already adjacent to a nearby lake, but snowy owls nested in tall fir trees too often being logged off. The birds weren’t yet endangered, but everyone in the area who loved watching them raise their young knew the owl population was shrinking. Quite a bit just since Myra had made her home here.

The horses whinnied a welcome. Both stuck their heads over their stall doors to see if she’d brought apples or a carrot in addition to their daily rations. Today she had neither, but they made do with muzzle rubs.

She left the barn and was heading toward Gramps’s aging Ford pickup when her cell phone rang. Myra dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and was surprised to see her dad’s number on the screen. She rarely heard directly from him as he tended to let her mom or her younger brother, Eric, touch base for the whole family. Her folks owned a much larger cattle ranch off the highway that ran between Miles City and Billings. Because it was rarer still that any of the busy Odells took time to phone during a weekday, worry knotted in Myra’s stomach as she swiped the bar to answer.

“Hello, Dad? Is everything all right at Rolling Acres?” Myra heard the tremor in her voice and took a deep breath to dispel her concerns.

“Everything is fine. I have good news. Lieutenant Maxwell is here.”

“You mean the guy who saved Eric’s life in Afghanistan? I didn’t know he was out of the hospital.”

“Zeke, that’s right. He’s out of the VA hospital after an extensive stay after he saved Eric’s life.”

“Doesn’t he live on the East Coast?”

“Yup, he was renting an apartment in Boston, where he grew up. Seems his folks have retired to some island.”

“Eric told me they’d kept in contact. I recall him saying the lieutenant had to have his left shoulder and elbow rebuilt. It sounded serious. I think Eric felt some guilt because the guy got hurt saving him and the others.”

“I don’t know that he felt guilty. Certainly grateful. Your mother and I can’t thank him enough, either.”

“For sure. So what’s he doing in Montana?”

“That’s really what I called to tell you. Zeke’s friends and family have all left Boston for other opportunities. Eric thought he needed cheering up.”

“So you invited him to visit. That’s thoughtful of you guys.”

Myra’s father cleared his throat. “Actually, kiddo, your mom and I had this brilliant idea to gift him the Flying Owl. With Dad gone and you needing to get back to the job you went to college for, we dug out the deed. As co-owner on Dad’s trust, it was simple to have Don Jarvis draw up a new deed. I sent it off to Lieutenant Maxwell last month. At first we didn’t hear back and so weren’t sure he’d accept. Then yesterday he showed up to ask if it was legitimate. I assured him it is. Expensive as land is, nothing on earth can ever equal the worth of him saving Eric’s life.”

Myra’s ears started to buzz. She wasn’t sure she’d processed everything she thought she’d heard her dad say. Turning around, she sat heavily on the old truck’s running board. A sick feeling gripped her stomach and washed over her. “I...I love the Flying Owl. Wh...why didn’t you call and discuss this with me?”

“Now, honey, your mother and I know you felt obligated to stick around and help your gramps. We appreciate all you did to make his last years easier. He was a lost soul after Mom died, and I was tied down here. Like your mother keeps telling me, you’ve dedicated enough time in that out-of-the-way place. This way, you have a week or so before a new school year starts to look for teaching jobs. You deserve to get back to living and working in a city where you’ll meet young men and women your own age.”

Myra couldn’t force the plethora of objections past her constricted throat.

“Honey, did I lose you?”

“Uh, no,” she managed to rasp. She swallowed a bunch of times and swabbed at tears trickling from her eyes. She heard doors slamming in the background on her dad’s end, followed by loud male laughter. “Dad, you don’t understand—”

He cut her off. “Listen, hon, Eric and Zeke are back from riding ATVs around the ranch. Zeke’s joining us for supper, and he’ll spend the night. Tomorrow he’ll drive to the Flying Owl. That gives you this afternoon and evening to pack your stuff and take any mementos from the ranch you want. I figure he’ll arrive by noon. Maybe you’d be so kind as to give him a quick tour of the ranch. Afterward, come stay with us until you get a job offer. We haven’t seen enough of you,” he said, his tone gruff with emotion.

Myra remained at a loss for words. She loved her family. She didn’t doubt they loved her. Possibly she was partly to blame for this awful turn of events. After all, she’d never told them how much living here and running the ranch meant to her. “Sure. Bye, Dad,” she managed to whisper past a growing lump in her throat. She quickly disconnected and buried her face in her hands.

Numb, but not one to wallow in self-pity, she decided to get on with her earlier plan of going to town. If this wasn’t all a bad dream, she had friends to notify of the sudden, colossal change in her life.

As she drove the two-lane road toward Snowy Owl Crossing, gray clouds obscured the jagged tops of the mountain range she loved. With its rock-strewn mountains, patches of evergreen trees and gentle hills flattening into rich farm and ranch lands, this area had everything. She hurt to think of leaving it.

The town had a single major street lined with businesses. At one end sat a combination grocery store–post office, at the other, a very busy feed store. Myra remembered a time Main Street wasn’t paved, when she’d spent summers here as a young girl tagging after Gram and Gramps. Little else had changed about the weathered wood stores, except for a new generation of proprietors.

She parked near the coffee shop owned by the mother of one of her good friends, Lila Jenkins. Only a year older than Myra, Lila was already a widow with a nine-year-old son. Following her husband’s death, Lila had begun working part-time for her mom. She also owned a bed-and-breakfast that catered to fishermen, but she was struggling to keep it afloat.

Still discombobulated by her dad’s call, Myra hoped a strong cup of coffee would help snap her out of the pain gripping her.

As she entered the cheery, warm café, it surprised her to see a couple of her other friends seated at a back table. Jewell Hyatt, born and raised in Snowy Owl Crossing, now served as the area’s main veterinarian. Shelley Price was a few years older than the other women in the Artsy Ladies group. Her husband was a park ranger and she taught ceramics out of her home. Shelley made beautiful items for the November bazaar they all participated in to raise money for the snowy owls.

Lila emerged from the kitchen, saw Myra and smiled. But Myra’s heart sank. Saying goodbye, telling her friends she wouldn’t be able to finish her projects for the bazaar this year would be harder than she’d imagined.

Spotting her, Jewell stood and beckoned her to their table. “Gosh, Myra. Sit down. What’s wrong? You look... I don’t know, sad-eyed. Not exactly sick, but not well.”

Myra pulled out a chair just as Lila reached them. “Can I get you something? I made chocolate pie today. I know it’s your favorite.”

“Just coffee. But hurry back,” she said, sinking down on the chair across from Jewell. “I’ve got news. Bad news.” She shed her jacket as Lila dashed behind the counter to pour coffee for herself and Myra. As soon as her friend returned, Myra blurted out everything she’d learned from her dad’s call.

For an elongated moment her three friends looked stunned. Then Lila leaned over and hugged her. “Is there nothing you can do to change your father’s mind?”

Myra blinked away a sudden rush of tears. Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.

Jewell reached across the table and squeezed her friend’s arm. “Let’s think a minute. You say your dad jointly owned the ranch with your grandfather. So as awful as it seems, I guess he has a right to give the property away. Too bad you can’t just run this new guy off.”

Lila glanced at the others. “Dare she even try running off a former Green Beret? They’re tough. Plus, he saved her brother. That makes the guy a hero, right?”

Myra paused before drinking from her steaming mug. “How would I even run him off?”

Jewell clasped her own cup. “Maybe you won’t have to run him off. Didn’t you say he’s from Boston? Managing a cattle ranch isn’t like doing a bunch of sit-ups. Even if he led a squad or a platoon or whatever they call it, I don’t think that compares to keeping a herd of cattle alive during a Montana winter. What’s to say he’ll stick it out?”

Shelley, who’d been quietly sipping her tea, smiled. “That’s brilliant, Jewell. Myra, why not volunteer to stay on and help this dude like you did your grandpa? Only, you let him do all the dirty, messy chores. Get my drift?”

Myra brightened then frowned. “The folks want me to stay with them while I apply for teaching jobs. They’d probably veto any notion of me sharing a house with a stranger. Even if he did save Eric’s life.”

Lila leaned forward to stare at Myra. “You’re an adult woman. I work part-time for my mother, but she has no say over my private life.”

The others all nodded and Myra blew out a noisy breath. “You make good points. But my parents paid for my education. I never talk to Mom that she doesn’t work in how I’m wasting my time tucked away here. She likes living nearer Billings where she has access to big stores and such. City amenities we don’t have.”

“But that’s not you,” Jewell stressed. “It’s your life. And you know we’ll all be disappointed if you leave.”

“Not as disappointed as me,” Myra admitted, thinking it over. “I usually hire help with haying and branding and such. High school kids from neighboring towns or the reservation. The Flying Owl doesn’t have a bunkhouse, so Gramps never kept full-time hired hands. I suppose if I didn’t take anyone on this winter, this Lieutenant Maxwell would have to do all the worst chores himself.”

“That’s right,” Jewell said with a smile.

“But I don’t know much about him. Eric spent a year under his command. They kept in touch after they both left the service. I can phone my brother and ask if it’s safe for me to live under the same roof at least long enough to see he doesn’t ruin Gramps’s ranch.” She perked up the more she talked.

“Now you’re sounding like the Myra we all love,” Jewell said, grinning. She lifted her coffee mug and all the women did the same, touching their rims in solidarity.

Myra set money on the table for her coffee. “I need to get to Hadley’s store before it closes to stock up on a few things. Zeke Maxwell is due in sometime tomorrow morning. I’ll see how our meeting goes. Then I’ll phone one of you.”

“Zeke? Is that short for something?”

Myra shook her head as she shrugged into her jacket. “Dunno. Eric’s mentioned he has a twin brother, who travels the world hunting gems. And I think their parents retired to the Caribbean. I know he bunged up a shoulder and elbow saving Eric and other men while under enemy fire. And for that my dad gave him the Flying Owl.” She made a face.

Shelley patted Myra’s hand. “Tonight I’ll burn a candle with the hope he sees right away that he doesn’t fit in. The hard work and isolation in Snowy Owl Crossing might well be too much for him.”

“Thanks, everyone. I’d best get moving. I probably still should gather the family albums and put them in a box. And drag out my suitcases. I can’t make this visit goodbye. However things shake out, I’ll come see you all again.” She left then before the tears that sprang to her eyes could fall.

* * *

THICK CLOUDS THAT had blanketed the mountaintops for most of the previous day had blown in overnight. By 10:00 a.m. stinging snow had dusted and showed little sign of letting up.

If it continued for long, Myra knew she’d need to haul hay out to the herd. But she wanted to wait for the new owner to put in an appearance. Boy, that title almost gagged her. She had phoned Eric last night. When she’d asked if his former lieutenant suffered from any post-traumatic stress problems, he’d laughed and said Zeke was a solidly good guy through and through. Her brother asked why she wanted to know, but she hadn’t told him. Really, she hadn’t made up her mind. She’d yet to search online for teaching jobs. She felt qualified to hire on as a ranch hand, too. But with the flat economy, not a lot of ranches were advertising. At least none in the immediate area. She had checked on that.

While she could delay ferrying hay out to the main herd, she didn’t want to put off bringing the young steers down from the summer lease in the foothills. Too bad the grass that yesterday had been so green and lush was now white with snow. If need be, she could clear a few patches with her snowblower.

Donning boots, a ski hat with earflaps and a Sherpa-lined leather jacket, Myra tramped to the barn. At the sound of an engine, she glanced toward the private lane. Not recognizing the big black Chevy pickup sporting off-road tires, she assumed her nemesis had arrived.

The man who emerged from the pickup—newer than Gramps’s old Ford by at least a decade—looked to top six feet by a couple of inches or so. Bareheaded in a snowstorm, his dark hair was cut military short. He did wear boots and a far-from-new bomber jacket with some insignia patches sewn on the left side. The US flag stood out. It was hard not to notice that his shoulders were broad, but as he strode toward her she detected no sign of an injury to his left side. He walked straight as a telephone pole, a thirtyish guy in perfect shape. So if the VA had put him back together, they’d done a bang-up job.

He stopped a foot or so from her. “Hi. I’m Zeke Maxwell. You must be Myra, Eric’s sister.”

She lost track of a few seconds as she gazed up into warm dark brown eyes fringed by to-die-for long, thick eyelashes. Caught assessing him, Myra fumbled worn gloves out of her jacket pocket. That gave her a moment before answering as she bent to retrieve one from the snow-covered ground. “Is Zeke a nickname?” she asked, blurting out the question Jewell had asked yesterday.

The man wrinkled his nose. “Ezekiel. A family name that got passed down through generations. As twin A in a set, I drew the short straw. I still haven’t forgiven my mother, so you don’t want to call me that.” He pivoted in a slow circle, dusting snow off his head as he took in the house, barn, sheds and corral before circling back to examine Myra from head to toe. “Why are we standing out here in the weather? I could use a cup of coffee and a fire to warm up.”

“The house is unlocked. Coffee’s in a thermos by the pot. I’m heading out to drive the cows and yearlings down from the foothills into that enclosure.” She stabbed a finger, which he followed without moving his head.

His right shoulder rose slightly then fell. “Give me a minute to grab a hat and gloves from my truck and I’ll join you.”

“Being from Boston and all, do you even ride? Do you need me to saddle your horse?” she drawled.

“Unless you give me a nag, I won’t hold you back.” He spun on a heel and stalked back to his pickup.

Myra tugged on her gloves, flipped up her jacket collar and stomped into the barn. She should probably apologize, but really, if he thought one ran a ranch sitting by a fire drinking coffee, the Flying Owl would be in shambles before spring thaw.

Marching to the back of the barn, she led Cayenne, a sorrel mare, out of her stall and had the saddle on and cinched as Zeke appeared in a Boston Red Sox ball cap. His ears were gonna freeze, but he’d learn. “You get the black gelding,” she told him. “His name is Ember. Saddle’s on the rack. Bridles are on the wall peg.” She took one down and settled it over the sorrel’s head.

He flashed her a glance, as if he had something to say, but then yanked up the saddle, smoothed the blanket over the gelding’s back and settled the saddle as easily as if it were an everyday occurrence. Same with the bridle.

In silence they left the barn. Zeke mounted while Myra closed the barn door, then she, too, swung into the saddle.

Zeke let her lead. As they moved from a trot into a canter, he pulled alongside. “Feels like we’re in the middle of a snow globe. Is snow usual this time of year? Will it last? At supper Eric said the weatherman predicted mountain snow. Your dad scoffed.”

“The almanac shows it could last a few days. It’s early. As a rule, the first snowfall is late September or early October. If this is a harbinger of what’s to come, it could wreck winter-wheat crops.”

“Do you raise and sell wheat, too?”

“Ranchers raise, cut and bale wheat, grass and alfalfa for cattle feed. Lose a crop and you either have to buy grain at outrageous costs or sell stock you can’t afford to feed at a loss.” It was plain he didn’t know diddly-squat about ranching. Maybe Jewell was right, maybe he’d opt out. She wasn’t a fan of feeding the greater herd by hand this early in the season. But if it made him leave, she’d say, let it snow.

They reached the foothills where her stock huddled in a cut between the hills that blocked the windblown snow. Myra rode past them, uncoiled her rope, swung it around and yelled “Hi yi yi” several times. Startled, the animals bolted away from the noise.

“What do you want me to do?” Zeke called.

“Watch for stragglers. Make noise to bring ʼem back into the fold. I see some have my neighbor’s brand. We’ll take them in. He can collect them when it’s convenient. Hank Watson runs the Bar W. He’s kindly volunteered to truck my yearlings—uh, your yearlings—to market shortly. If you see the slant R brand, that’s Dave Ralston, your other neighbor. He’s a good guy to know. He rents out his baler. A ranch this size can’t afford to buy one.”

Zeke bobbed his head.

Myra noticed he rode well, and he brought in a number of strays as they rode down the hillside and made their way to the large enclosure. Subconsciously she’d hoped he’d screw up.

As the ranch came into sight through falling snowflakes, Myra raced ahead, hopped off Cayenne and opened the gate.

Without asking, Zeke hung back and drove the cattle through.

“Phew,” he said, swinging down to help Myra shut the gate. “I see they’re pawing up the snow to get to grass. Good they know to do that.”

“Yep. The snow is slacking some, but we still have to take hay out to the main herd. We’ll go put our horses up, hook the big tractor to the flatbed and load up twenty or so bales.”

“Okay.”

Myra couldn’t help but notice he sounded unsure. Maybe she should let him stop for coffee. On the other hand, if she kept the pressure on, by nightfall he could give up.

“Just unsaddle Ember. I’ll brush both horses down and feed them later. We need to get the hay distributed while it’s light.”

Again Zeke followed orders.

Myra fetched the tractor and hooked up the flatbed. Backing the trailer into the barn, she climbed a ladder to the hayloft and began tossing down large bales.

“Do you need assistance?” Zeke asked, squinting up at her.

“You could straighten them on the trailer. If I don’t have to do it at the end of pitching off twenty bales, it’ll save us time.”

He stepped up on the trailer and that was the first time Myra noticed he greatly favored his left arm. She heard him grunt as he hefted the heavy bales one-handed. For someone her size—and at five-seven she wasn’t petite—moving bales took knowing how to leverage the weight. Obviously it was the same for a man with an injured arm. She debated telling him to leave the stacking for her, after all. But she didn’t want to insult him. When she left, the work would all fall on him unless he hired help. Maybe he had a disability pension that would help cover costs. She and Gramps hadn’t had extra money to work with.

“I’ll drive the tractor this time because I know the route,” she said once they were ready. “You can sit on the bales. See, I’ve fitted one like a chair so you won’t bounce off.” She’d thought Zeke might laugh, but he had begun to look weary. And a dense fog had settled down, covering the mountains.

“Feels like we’ve landed on an alien planet,” Zeke hollered after she fired up the tractor and drove into the whirling mist.

So he did have a sense of humor. Myra tossed him a smile over her shoulder.

It took about half an hour to reach the pasture where the Angus heifers milled about on either side of a coulee. A bull stood in the brush beyond the fence. Stopping, Myra took her cutters out of the toolbox welded onto the tractor. Crawling back across hay bales, she cut one open, stood and spread hay into the draw. Big, snorting, drooling cows immediately jockeyed for access to the new hay and began to eat.

Taking his cue, Zeke snipped open the next bale and manhandled it farther along the natural trough. “Listen, this will go quicker if you drive the tractor and I do the bales.”

Taking pity on him, because Myra saw it wasn’t easy for him to do the lion’s share while favoring one arm, she said, “We can take turns. I’ll drive the length of this coulee. There’s another like it a few hundred yards over nearer the stream. We’ll catch it on the return trip. Oh, wait. Can you drive a tractor?”

“I learned to drive anything with a gas pedal and a steering wheel in the army, and we had to improvise if either of those pieces got shot out.”

She hid a grimace but nodded. It’d been over a year since her grandfather had been able to help her with any of the heavy chores. Working in tandem with Zeke cut the time by more than half what she’d thought it would take to attend to the herd.

“How many cattle did we just feed?” he asked as she broke apart the last bale.

“A hundred fifty, plus or minus any that wandered off or were taken down by coyotes. There are close to a hundred moms with yearlings that we put in the grassy pen by the barn. Those youngsters will be sold before true winter sets in. You calve in the spring, sell in the fall.”

Zeke looked around at the snow falling in earnest. “This isn’t winter?”

She rolled her eyes. “Far from it. For a Montana winter you’re talking snow too deep to trek through. Once the calves are shipped, you’ll bring the main herd down to pastures around the barn. Even then it can snow so hard you’ll have to take grain out on a sled. Every day you’ll break the ice on the water troughs.”

He hunched over the steering wheel and followed their earlier tracks back to the barn. Parking, he let the motor idle. “What next?”

“I’ll store the tractor and see to the horses. Then I’ll go in and start supper. Why don’t you go on to the house and get settled. I cleared out Gramps’s bedroom and put fresh sheets on the bed and towels in the bathroom. It’s the room to the right of the living room. My bedroom is at the back of the house. I could pack up and head out tonight, but with this storm I’d rather wait until morning.”