Kitabı oku: «The Man From Montana»
“Am I a cowboy now?” Charlie asked.
Ash ruffled the kid’s hair, then pushed off the bed. “You’re a novice cowboy. How’s that?”
“That means beginner?”
“Right. Smart boy.”
“Sometimes I’m not.” He ducked his head.
“Well, that’s why you’re seven. You still have a lot of growing to do.”
“Mom says so, too.”
“I’d listen to your mom.”
“And you.” The boy’s smile healed a spot in Ash’s heart.
“On this ranch, that’s a given. Your mom in her room?”
“Uh-uh. She’s right behind you.”
Ash struggled around. Rachel leaned in the doorway, hands tucked under her arms. Defensive and a little wary. He’d done that. Kissing her had not been clever. But he couldn’t stay away. One look from those blue cat eyes, one word from that expressive mouth, and he was as lost as her son was with his boots on the wrong feet….
Dear Reader,
As a child growing up on a large farm, I adored the freedom country life grants—its wonderful clear-lined skies, the big-mooned harvest nights, and winter days cold enough to make your cheeks ache. And in the midst of this pristine beauty were the animals: horses, cows, dogs, cats—creatures with personalities all their own.
We always had a herd of horses running in the pasture and, throughout the summer, cattle grazing on leased land. Each season brought about specific events. February and March meant calving season and watchful nights. Summer meant haying. And fall signified harvest and the time to “bring the cows home” again. Winter, of course, lent to slower and colder days, but certainly not without chores!
Is it any wonder that a story about a cowboy would evolve in my mind?
While Ash and Rachel and the journey they undertake are entirely fictional, the magic of hearing coyotes yap deep in the night and feeling the sting of winter winds against the skin are experiences of the heart.
May you enjoy this tale about a stoic rancher from Montana and the woman who breaks past the fences he’s erected around his life.
Mary J. Forbes
The Man from Montana
Mary J. Forbes
MARY J. FORBES
grew up on a farm amidst horses, cattle, crisp hay and broad blue skies. As a child, she drew and wrote of her surroundings, and in sixth grade composed her first story about a little lame pony. Years later, she worked as an accountant, then as a reporter-photographer for a small-town newspaper, before attaining an honors degree in education to become a teacher. She has also written and published short fiction stories.
A romantic by nature, Mary loves walking along the ocean shoreline, sitting by the fire on snowy or rainy evenings and two-stepping around the dance floor to a good country song—all with her own real-life hero, of course. Mary would love to hear from her readers at www.maryjforbes.com.
To my editor, Stacy Boyd—
for believing in me
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
She could smell the story. Feel it in her veins.
A hot, pulsing thing that would procure the career she’d vied for these past ten years.
Will you finally be proud, Daddy? Will you think my journalistic skills are comparable to Mama’s?
God, she hoped so.
At the crossroads Old Joe the baker had described, Rachel Brant stopped her rusty Sunburst and scanned the three desolate directions vanishing into the rolling Montana countryside: ahead toward the south, left going east, right westward-ho. Each road as long and gray as the next. Each banked in dirty plowed snow and flanked by fields covered in icy white quilts.
The Flying Bar T lay west, toward the Rocky Mountains.
Carefully, she picked up the curled, yellowed photograph on the passenger seat. Tom McKee in army green with his Vietnam platoon, a giant man dependent on a wheelchair since 1970. Tom, Purple Heart recipient, had lost his legs and left arm saving the ragtag remainder of his men from Hells Field. A battle that had been swept under the military’s carpet for over three decades. She wanted to beat the dust from that carpet, make her dad proud.
But according to the locals, Tom rarely came into town. His son was the McKee they knew. Midthirties and widowed, Ashford McKee ran the Flying Bar T and guarded his family’s privacy like a jackal on a fresh kill.
Ash. The man she had to get through to get to Tom. They said he resembled his father. Tall as a pine, silent as a forest.
And keeper of the Flying Bar T gates.
Tossing down the photograph, Rachel took a slow breath. We’ll see.
Stepping on the accelerator, she headed for the snowy peaks shimmering with sunlight, for the pine and forest man.
She would get her story, come hell or Ash McKee.
Beyond the fence lines, fields undulated over hill and knoll and into gullies. “I hope you’re worth it, Sergeant Tom,” she muttered. “I hope you’re worth every shivering second Charlie and I have had to endure in this backwater hole.”
Ten days she and her seven-year-old son had been in Sweet Creek, Montana. Ten days in this godforsaken land of snow and bone-freezing temperatures. And in this final week of January, with spring still a couple months away, the warmth of her previous job in Arizona was a frosty memory.
But all would be worthwhile if she got this story. Tom would be the last of seven vets she had interviewed over the years, Sweet Creek the conclusion to the no-name towns she and her little boy would have to pretend was home.
Was it too much to hope Tom McKee would rent out his guesthouse as Old Joe said? Maybe. She had been living on hopes and wishes for years; might as well add one more.
In a fenced pasture, she saw cows huddling around piles of hay on the frozen ground, while long-haired horses munched from bins in lean-to shelters. Evidently, the sunlight belied the eight below temperature.
She turned onto the last stretch of road and saw a dark, writhing mass a quarter mile in the distance. Soon, the mass became a herd of Black Angus flanked by a pair of horses with riders: a man wearing a quilted navy coat and a deep brown Stetson, and a young woman bundled in a red parka and wool hat. Two black-and-white border collies swept back and forth across the road, instinctively herding any animal selecting a different direction.
Rachel pulled behind the riders and tooted her horn; the herd’s stragglers broke into a trot, tails aloft.
The man scowled at her car. The woman—no, teenager—smiled. Rachel recognized the girl from their meet last Monday. Eager to write a weekly high school column for the Rocky Times, Daisy McKee had come to the newspaper during the girl’s forty-minute lunch break. A few words about her proposed column and she was out the door, rushing back to school.
A nice kid and Ashford McKee’s daughter.
Rachel looked back at the man astride a mammoth horse the color of dense fog. Ash McKee. Big and commanding as the far-reaching, pristine landscape on which he lived. Four days after her arrival, she had noticed him at the feed and seed, intent on getting whatever it was he was buying into the bed of his truck.
Darby at the coffee shop had pointed him out. A coup for Rachel, who, as a reporter, needed to know her town, and right now Sweet Creek was that town. Most essentially, she needed to ferret out details about the McKees; they were her reason for securing the position at the Rocky Times, a twenty-page weekly aptly named during the Depression Years, and now reaching conservative ruralists throughout Park County.
The herd trotted toward the ranch’s wide-spanning iron gates, neither McKee nor Daisy making an effort to move the cattle aside. Rachel rolled down the window. “Excuse me,” she called to the man.
He whistled between his teeth at one of the dogs.
“Excuse me,” she called again. “Mr. McKee? Could I get by?”
Cold, dark eyes turned her way. “Can you wait? We’re a hundred yards from the pasture gate.”
Yes, she could wait. If he’d ask nicely.
“I’m looking for Tom McKee,” she said to the broad rump and ground-reaching charcoal tail of his horse. “Would you know if he’s home?”
The man reined the beast around on its hind legs, its tail swinging like a banner on a battle field. Two leaps and the animal danced beside her car.
“Who wants to know?” McKee demanded.
He was cowboy through and through, down to the scuffed, worn brown boots he wore. She shivered. A modern-day Clint Eastwood in Pale Rider. All he needed was the six-shooter.
“Rachel Brant. I’d like to talk to him.”
The horse was magnificently male and powerful, crowding her spot on the road. Safety inside her vehicle seemed trivial in lieu of those commanding legs, that mighty chest. And she wasn’t just thinking of the horse.
“What about?” McKee snapped.
“That would be between me and Mr. Tom McKee, sir,” she said, her tone friendly but firm.
“Not when it comes to reporters.”
Surprise struck. “How did—” Had he recognized her in Sweet Creek on a given moment, watched her as she’d watched him?
“Entire town knows,” he said, reading her perplexity.
Of course. She’d experienced enough of small-town America to know how the grapevine worked with six-hundred-and-ninety-two souls. New face arrives, phone lines hum, coffee klatchers drain buckets of dark roast—and tongues waggle.
From her position in the car, she had a clear view under his low-brimmed Stetson. Down a smooth, elegant nose the man’s aloof eyes bored into hers.
Perhaps if she got out of the car.
She looked at the powerhouse horse shifting its lethal hooves. Come on, Rachel. You’ve dealt with difficult situations all your life.
Opening the door, she climbed out. The wind blew her short hair into her eyes, flapped her coat hem around her tall boots. The scent of horse, cow and leather rivered across her nose.
McKee’s willful jaw was dark with overnight stubble. His scowl deepened. “Go report somewhere else, Ms. Brant. You’re not welcome here.”
Beneath its rider the huge stallion pranced, the saddle creaking with the man’s weight, the animal’s energy. Frothy clouds gusted from red nostrils and long white teeth champed the bit. Headgear metal jingled. A knight’s horse. A rogue knight’s horse.
Along with her fanciful imagination a thrill traced Rachel’s skin. “I’ll let Tom make that decision.”
“His decision’s no different than mine.”
She clutched the panels of her coat. “According to you, maybe. But I’d like to hear him say it.”
“Tom doesn’t like reporters.”
No, you don’t like reporters. So she had heard in town. Could she blame him? She knew about his wife dying in a car accident five years ago. A reporter chasing a mad-cow story in the community. A Rocky Times reporter. Driving too hard, too fast, taking a curve like the reckless kid he was. The impact had killed McKee’s wife instantly. The reporter walked away.
McKee’s eyes were tough, remote and held her in a vice.
Hugging herself against the cold, she looked up at him, a man of dominion in an expanse of blue. Somehow, she had to win over this warden of the Flying Bar T.
“Please. I’m looking for a temporary place to live until I can find something in town. I understand your ranch has a guesthouse for rent. I’m willing to pay summer rates.” Anything to get Charlie out of that seedy Dream On Motel.
McKee leaned forward, arm on the saddle horn, and her skin flushed under his stern survey of her body. “The cottage is closed,” he said, then slowly straightened in the saddle. Under him, the big horse spot-danced like a Lipizzan, its mane swaying a foot below its neck while McKee controlled the reins with one large, gloved hand.
Rachel kept her stance, swallowed hard. Instinctively, she knew he would not let the animal step on her. Squinting into the bright Montana sky, she offered, “I’ll pay peak season rates.” For the story, but mostly for Charlie. Two birds with one stone.
McKee studied the herd trotting ahead of them; several cows lowed. The Stetson’s brim shadowed his eyes, and that obscurity sent a tingle across her arms.
“Go back where you came from, Ms. Brant.” His voice was low and without mercy. Spurring his mount forward, he left her staring after the cattle now rushing through the pasture’s gates.
An animal broke free and the black-and-white dogs darted out, piloting it back to the herd in seconds. Daisy jumped from her chocolate-colored horse—half the size of the gray—to close the gate. When her eyes caught Rachel’s across fifty feet of road, she sent a two-fingered wave, then climbed into the saddle before following McKee to the barns.
Go back where you came from.
He hadn’t meant Sweet Creek.
Ash led Northwind, his prize Andalusian stallion, into the big box stall at the rear of the horse stable.
She had nerve, that woman.
Last time newshounds swarmed the ranch was five years ago, chasing that goddamn stupid mad-cow story. A bunch of bull that cost Susie her life.
But this one didn’t want a story, just a roof over her pretty head.
Pretty. No damn way would he think a hack pretty.
Except she was. That bob of hair the color of his mother’s antique cherrywood sideboard, those eyes that tilted slightly at the outer corners. Cat eyes in Siamese-blue.
They always sent the pretty ones on a story hunt.
Did you not hear what she said? She wants to rent a room.
Right. That he would believe in another life.
He yanked the saddle off Northwind hard enough to make the horse sidestep. “Easy, boy. Don’t mean to take it out on you.” Hauling the gear into the tack room across the corridor, Ash clamped his teeth. Yeah, that was all he needed, a word wizard living on his ranch. A word wizard with media broadcasting power. And her power—if she chose to use it—could be a thousand times worse than the taunts and gossip he’d endured in school.
Well, dammit, this ranch was his life, and though he held its paperwork together through the eyes and smarts of his family—they paid the bills, did the ordering, worked e-mail and the Net—those bills and orders came through his direction, his guidance, his knowledge of the land and the animals. Still, the fact he wasn’t college educated sat like chain mail on his shoulders.
And while he couldn’t put the onus of that fact on the head of a woman he had met for three minutes, newsperson or not, neither could he trust her.
His family had seen its share of run-ins with the Rocky Times. The year Ash turned sixteen, Shaw Hanson, Senior, had sent his team to the Flying Bar T after Tom was accused of not feeding his stock properly due to his disability.
Ash snorted. All of it drivel. Still, the newshounds had fed like a wolf pack on the ASPCA’s investigation. Yet, to this day the person or persons who’d pointed the finger at Tom remained a mystery.
And then there was Susie’s death….
The memory twisted a knot in Ash’s gut. Now a Rocky Times reporter wanted to rent the little cottage she’d designed and he’d built? Never.
“Dad?”
He turned from retrieving a currycomb off the tack room wall to his fifteen-year-old daughter standing in the doorway. A sprite like her mother with big green eyes, a mop of long red curls. But strong enough to lift the saddle she carried to a loop hanging from the ceiling rafters.
His heart bumped. “Hey, Daiz. Need some fresh bedding for Areo?”
“Already did that this morning.”
He crossed the room and wove the loop into the hole on the pommel and around the horn.
“Thanks.” She tossed the blanket over a wooden drying rack in a corner. “What did Mi—that woman want?”
“Nothing important.”
Daisy reached for a second currycomb. “You chased her off.”
“She works for the Times.” And that should explain it. He went into Northwind’s stall. “You know how I feel about them.” About Shaw Hanson, Junior, and his crew of sleazy reporters.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I know.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Her expression sent a shaft of pain across his chest. She still missed her mother, missed their girl chats, Susie’s laughter, her hugs. Hell, he missed those hugs. He combed Northwind’s powerful withers. “I won’t let her hurt you, honey. And I won’t let her come near your grandpa.” Or this ranch.
“Oh, Dad.” She sighed and turned into the corridor.
What the hell?
“Daisy?” He peered around the door as she disappeared into Areo’s stall. For a moment, he stood wondering if he’d heard right. Her voice had held resignation, not sorrow. Had he disappointed her by chasing off that journalist? He shook his head. No. She knew how their family felt about the Hansons and their editorial finesse. It had to be something else. Well, she’d tell him in time.
Back in Northwind’s stall, he brushed down the big dapple-gray stallion, then filled his water bucket and manger. As Ash finished, Daisy exited Areo’s stall. “All done, pint?” He strode down the aisle toward his daughter. The dogs, Jinx and Pedro, trotted ahead.
“Yep.”
“All right. Let’s see what Grandpa’s got for lunch.”
They headed from the warmth of the barn into clear cold air. Hoof and boot prints pockmarked last night’s snow. Ash slowed his stride for his daughter. They walked in silence toward the two-story yellow Craftsman house that Tom’s great-grandfather, an immigrant from Ireland, had built in 1912.
Ash set a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “Good thing your teachers had that in-service today. Don’t know if I could’ve moved those steers without you.”
“Oh, Dad. You and Ethan do it all the time when I’m at school.”
Ethan Red Wolf, their foreman. A good man. “You know Wednesday is Eth’s day off. Anyway, things go ten times faster with you helping.”
“You always say that.”
“And I mean it.”
A grunt. “What did the reporter want?”
Back to that. His pixie-girl, forever the little dog with an old shoe when she focused on some particular subject. While her tenacity baffled the heck out of him at times, he was damned proud when she brought home her straight-A report card. “She wanted to talk to Grandpa about renting the guest cottage.”
“Are you gonna let her?”
“No.”
“Why not? We could use the money.”
He rubbed Daisy’s shoulder. “We’re not so hard up, honey, that we need to rent to a reporter.” Never mind that the woman in question had him thinking about things he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Like how pretty a female could be and how feminine her voice sounded on the cold morning air—even though she pushed with her words.
“Got any homework that needs doing?” he asked, veering off the thought of Rachel Brant and her attributes.
“Some social studies and English.”
The thought of Shakespeare and essays had him sweating. “Better get at it after lunch.”
“I need Grandpa’s help. We’re doing this project in socials.” A small sigh. “I have to ask him some questions.”
“What kind of project?” They walked up the wheelchair ramp to the mudroom door at the side of the house. Tom was good at English, good at reading and writing. If his blood had run in Ash’s veins maybe—
“We’re supposed to pretend we’re journalists.” Shrugging off her coat, Daisy trudged into the mudroom ahead of Ash. Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. “And…and we’re supposed to interview a veteran, so I was thinking of asking Grandpa.”
Speak of the devil. First a real reporter and now a make-believe one in the guise of his daughter. No wonder he had hated school. Teachers were always pushing kids into role-playing and projects, pretending they were real life. Just last week, John Reynolds’s eleventh grader brought home an egg and said it was a baby. Ash snorted. What the hell was the world coming to anyway? Eggs as babies? Kids playing war correspondents?
Ash closed the door, hooked the heel of his left boot on a jack. “You know Gramps won’t talk, Daiz.”
Holding back her long, thick hair, Daisy removed her own boots. “Well, dammit, maybe it’s time, y’know?”
Ash glowered down at his child. “Watch your language, girl.”
A tolerant sigh. “Dad, it’s been, like, thirty-six years. Why won’t Grandpa talk about his tours? I mean, jeez. It’s not like they happened yesterday. He even got the Purple Heart.” Frustrated, she kicked her boots onto the mat with a “Get over it already” and flounced into the kitchen.
Ash watched her go. They had been over this subject two dozen times in the past three years, the instant she reached puberty. She wanted to know episodes of her heritage, about her mother, about him, about Tom.
Ash had no intention of talking about Susie or her death. Too damn painful, that topic. What if he accidentally let out the truth, that his wife was as much to blame for the accident as that two-bit journalist?
He shook his head. No, he couldn’t chance it. Hell, thinking about it gave him hives.
Maybe one day he would tell Daisy, but not during her “hormone phase,” as Tom put it.
As for Tom…Vietnam was the old man’s business.
Ash entered the quaint country kitchen. “Hey, Pops.”
His stepfather, bound to a wheelchair for three-and-a-half decades, swung around the island, a loaf of multigrain bread in his lap. “Daisy in a mood?” On the counter lay an array of butter, cheese, tomatoes and ham slices ready for Tom’s specialty: grilled sandwiches.
Ash walked to the sink to wash his hands. “In a mood” was the old man’s reference to Daisy’s monthlies. “She’s upset about a couple things, yeah.”
“What things?”
“Wants us to rent out the cottage to a reporter.”
Tom snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“New one hired on with the Times. Drove out here this morning while we were moving the yearlings.”
“You tell him we’re not interested?” The chair whined behind Ash. In his mind’s eye, he saw his stepfather pressing a lever, raising the seat so he could maneuver his stump legs into the open slot Ash had constructed under the counter years ago.
“Not him. Her.” A sassy-mouthed woman with big eyes.
“Her?”
Ash leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. The reporter splashing the ASPCA story across the front of the Rocky Times twenty years ago had been a woman and Hanson Senior’s wife.
Tom slapped cheese and ham onto a slice of bread, cut the tomatoes deftly with his right hand.
“What’d you tell this reporter?”
“That she’s not welcome.” He glanced toward the stairs, warned, “Daiz sees it differently. Figures we need the money.”
“Huh.” Right hand and left prosthesis worked in sync over the sandwiches. “What’s her name?”
“Rachel Brant.”
Silence. Then, “Brant, huh?” More slicing and buttering. “Suppose we could use the extra cash.”
Ash straightened. “You crazy?”
Tom shrugged. “Why not? Place is sitting empty. Might as well burn it down if we ain’t gonna use it. Besides, with calving season starting, Inez’ll be feeding extra hands over the next couple months.”
Inez, their housekeeper and Tom’s caretaker, was in Sweet Creek at the moment, buying two weeks’ worth of groceries. “We’ll get by,” Ash grumbled. “We always do.” He did not need the Brant woman here, within walking distance, within sight. She was a journalist and he would bet a nosy one, prying until she got a barrel of tidbits to create a stir with her words. “Stories,” they called those reports. He knew why. More fiction than fact.
And with her working at the Times, talking to publisher–owner Shaw Hanson Jr…. Hell, Hanson probably sent her to the Flying Bar T as a dig on the McKees. After all, Ash had gone after Hanson for sending Marty Philips to sniff out that mad-cow scare. Two days following Susie’s death because of that cocky young kid, Ash walked into the newspaper and kicked ass.
And where did that get you, Ash?
Tossed in the hoosegow for three days.
Tom buttered six additional slices, cut another two tomatoes, assembling enough for a soup kitchen. “You said Daisy was in a snit over a couple things. What’s the other thing?”
“Social studies project.”
Across the counter, his stepfather eyed Ash under a line of bushy gray brows. “You wanted it done yesterday.”
“No. I don’t want her bugging you.”
That narrowed Tom’s eyes. “Me?”
“She’s supposed to interview a vet for war facts.”
“Huh. Don’t they have textbooks for that?”
“They do, but this time the kids are supposed to get it from the horse’s mouth. So to speak.”
“Well, this old horse ain’t talking.” The chair hummed as Tom wheeled around to the range. “Same reason you don’t talk about Susie,” he muttered.
Same reason? Hell, there were things Ash would never share with his family. Like the day he’d buried Susie. How he’d gone back at dusk and sat where he’d put her ashes and cried until he puked. How he pounded his fists against the sun-dried earth, cussing that she’d known better than to drive after drinking, a fact he found out from the coroner four days later.
Alcohol at three in the afternoon.
Alcohol affecting her competence.
No seat belt. Busted windshield. Busted brain.
God help him, but Susie’s disregard was his secret. Not Tom’s, and never, never Daisy’s.
His pain. His business. Like Tom with Nam.
Ash pushed away from the counter. Patting the old man’s shoulder, he said, “I’ll tell Daiz to wash up.”
At her computer in the cramped newsroom of the Rocky Times, Rachel put her face into her hands and took a long, deep breath. Yesterday she had gone about it wrong, driving out to the Flying Bar T, trying to get past Ash McKee and his warhorse.
God, when she thought of the rancher and that animal… They exuded a beauty and authority that kept her enthralled for twenty-four hours. McKee’s pole-erect back, his muscular thighs controlling the animal whose charcoal forelock shrouded its eyes. The man himself blocking the sunlit sky with his mountain-wide shoulders, his Stetson.
She rose and went to the window beside her desk, drew up the dusty blinds, welcoming the sunlight. Shaw had swept the sidewalk clear of snow. On this last day of January, the sky promoted a bank of gray snow clouds to the north, which meant that before midnight February would be whistling its way over the landscape.
Several pickups drove down Cardinal Avenue, their wheels churning the previous night’s snowfall into a crusted brown blend. Across the street, a two-tone green crew-cab angle-parked in front of Toole’s Ranch Supplies.
Ash McKee stepped down into the crystalized mush. As he closed the door of his vehicle, his gaze collided with hers across the street. Rachel drew a sharp breath. Again, she saw him on that sweat-flanked horse, smelled the steamy hide of animal, the leather of the saddle as the rancher leaned down toward her….
He turned and disappeared inside Toole’s.
Ash. Here in town. Tom, alone on the ranch.
Rachel snatched up the phone on her desk. In the face of what she wanted, Ash McKee was a massive problem. Local lore, gleaned at Old Joe’s Bakery and Darby’s coffee shop down the street, said he was not a man to take lightly. And when did that stop you, Rachel? You’ve met men far more daunting than this one. Case in point, your father and Floyd Stephens.
This was her chance. Phone Tom while his son was twenty miles away, talk to the old soldier about the guesthouse first, give him a reason to speak with her. Later, she could bring up the story.
“At all costs, get the story.” Her father’s mantra.
Nerves and guilt lifted the hair on her nape. Don’t think. Do. Her fingers shook, but she punched the number without stumbling. At the other end the phone rang twice, three times, six times.
“Come on, pick up or at least get an answering machine.”
Eight rings… “’Lo.”
“Mr. McKee?”
“Yeah?”
“My name is Rachel Brant.” She glanced toward the window. No Ash. “I was out your way yesterday to see you, but—” she couldn’t stop the edgy chuckle “—your cattle were in the way, so I wasn’t able to—”
“You the reporter?”
“I, uh—yes, that’s right. I work at the Rocky Times.”
Silence.
“I’d like to talk to you, sir, if you have a moment.”
“You’re looking to rent the cottage.”
So Ash had relayed the information. “If possible.”
“Ain’t my deal. It’s Ash’s. Convince him and you’ll have a place to hang your hat.”
“I thought you owned the ranch.”
“I do. But the cottage is his venture.”
“Actually, I’d like to talk to you, too.”
“Like I said the cottage is—”
“I know, Ash’s business. But I’d like to talk to you about something else.”
Pause. “This got to do with some damned story?”
“In a way, yes, it does. I—”
Dial tone. He’d hung up. Damn. Now what? Should she phone back? Go out anyway while Ash was in town? No, she couldn’t trust how long he’d be. The last thing she needed was to get caught out in the boonies with a fire-breathing dragon on her heels.
She should have left it with renting the guesthouse, waited until she was out there to talk to Tom face-to-face.
She sat and fumed at her desk. Almost two weeks of planning gone down the drain. Two weeks of schmoozing with the townsfolk, getting to know them on a first-name basis, cracking smiles she didn’t feel, pushing her little boy into yet another school with strange kids. Living in a moth-eaten motel.
All for what? Fame and glory?
So her father—an editor with the Washington Post—would recognize she was as capable of meritorious reporting as her mother had been? Qualified to make the big leagues, to one day write her way to a possible Pulitzer?
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