His Ranch or Hers

by Roz Denny Fox

  As he contemplated returning it for a refund, Myra knocked.

  “Zeke?”

  Still uneasy about discovering his lusty feelings, Zeke debated several seconds before striding over to open the door.

  “I have meat loaf baking. I’m considering making corn bread, unless you’d rather fix your biscuits. They were so tasty.”

  He brightened. “Do you put creamed corn in your corn bread?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I vote for that. We had a cook when I attended jumpmaster school at Fort Bragg who made corn bread like that. All the guys in the class wanted to kidnap him when they sent us to another unit.”

  “Jumpmaster? You parachute out of airplanes?”

  “Not recently, but yeah, I’ve made many jumps.”

  “Nothing about ranching takes that kind of grit,” Myra stated emphatically.

  Zeke exited his room and closed the door. “Parachuting is a matter of training. I’m sure you didn’t come into this world knowing how to vaccinate cattle. Doing that as many times as you did today, all while avoiding getting hooked by horns, takes guts.”

  Myra shrugged. “I guess it’s a matter of perspective. Okay, getting back to supper, I’ll make corn bread tonight if you cook tomorrow night. We’ve got to start cutting alfalfa, get it baled and stored in the barn ASAP. I heard on the weather network that the temperature’s going to dip again. Sounds as if winter’s coming early. We need to bring the last of the herd down out of the foothills, too.”

  It was plain to Zeke that if Myra had ever felt uncomfortable about the hug they’d shared, she’d gotten past it. Perhaps she’d only meant it as a sisterly gesture. Maybe she did place him in a category with Eric. He’d never had a sister, so looking at her that way wasn’t an option for him. And just now as their shoulders and hips brushed when they went through the kitchen doorway side by side, Zeke’s insides vibrated. He turned and went out to his pickup to bring in the microwave. Plainly he had way more work to do to keep his feelings for her platonic.

  Still, dinner was pleasant. They were almost finished and Myra’s cell phone rang.

  “Hank, hi,” she said on answering. “So you’re back from selling our stock?” She smiled at Zeke. “That’s a good total weight.” She jumped up and sorted through some papers stacked on the counter and sat back with a pen. “The cost per pound is four cents less than last year, but with the calf weight up it comes out to approximately the same income.” She jotted down a figure and shoved it across the table to Zeke.

  It didn’t mean much to him and was less than he’d made per year in the military. But Myra seemed pleased, so he smiled back at her.

  “I did hear the weather report, Hank. I plan to cut alfalfa tomorrow. So your sons combined today and you rented Dave’s baler for tomorrow? I’d better give him a call to arrange our time.” It sounded as if she was repeating his half of the conversation for Zeke’s benefit. “Sure, Zeke and I can help move bales into your hay shed if you reciprocate.” She frowned a bit. “Yeah, I know the October potluck dance at the grange is Saturday night. Jewell reminded me. No, I didn’t mention it to Zeke. We’ll see how much work we get done since we’re all racing against another snowfall.”

  They talked awhile longer, then Myra swiped off and set her phone with the pen and paper. She began stacking dishes. “It had better be early to bed tonight.”

  Zeke grabbed another piece of corn bread before she could make off with the pan. He eyed her as he bit into it.

  “Why are you giving me that look? Cutting, baling, moving, stacking should all be self-explanatory,” she said. “I’ll throw our work clothes in the dryer. They’re clean and will be ready to wear tomorrow.”

  He swallowed and wiped his lips. “What about the potluck dance?”

  “Ah...that.” She carried dishes to the sink. “The cattlemen’s association holds them four times a year. If you’ve seen any old Western movies with barn dances, it’s pretty much like that. Women sit around and talk about fashion, kids and food. Men discuss feed and cattle prices, and football. Everybody eats. Some dance, then everyone goes home.”

  “You don’t sound like a fan.”

  Myra didn’t glance up from loading the dishwasher. “They’re okay. It’ll be my first without Gramps.” Her voice wavered.

  Before he could help himself, Zeke was at her side, pulling her into his arms. “Damn, I’m always putting my foot in my mouth. I didn’t mean to press and make you sad.” He rubbed his hands up and down her tense back until she relaxed.

  “It’s okay.” Her voice was muffled against his shirtfront. “Saturday night will be your chance to meet all of your Snowy Owl Crossing neighbors.”

  “Is that a problem for you?” He reached between them and with a curled forefinger lifted her chin until they gazed into each other’s eyes.

  “N-no,” she said shakily. “The Flying Owl is yours now. These folks are your neighbors. In a few months they’ll no longer be mine.”

  Zeke noticed again how her voice hitched. Remembering what it’d been like for him to say goodbye to the men in his unit—men who’d been closer to him at times than his twin—he thought he knew what Myra might be feeling. She’d worry that Saturday would be her last gathering with her friends. Bothered by the dull sheen in her normally sparkling eyes, Zeke caught her face in both his hands and he kissed her cool, trembling lips. He didn’t stop until he felt them warm under his.

  When he eased back, Myra’s eyes were no longer dull. They were, however, unfocused, disbelieving. Zeke released her and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn’t sure disbelief was a good sign.

  “What was that for?” she asked huskily, turning aside to grip the edge of the sink with both hands.

  Zeke wanted to say he’d been thinking about kissing her since they rode home together on Ember after going to see the snowy owls. Instead, he said, “Nothing,” and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I made you sad about your grandfather by asking about Saturday’s event. Do you want to slap me?” he asked abruptly, tucking his fingertips into his back pockets.

  She whipped around. “No. No. Why would I? I’m not a violent person.”

  He grinned at that. “Could’ve fooled me. I’ve seen you shove a thousand-pound heifer into a chute and stick them with a needle full of gunk that made them holler.”

  “That’s different. It’s necessary.”

  “Okay. I’m going to hit the sack now. I hope you don’t change your mind about that slap. I could, probably should, apologize. But...kissing you wasn’t a hardship, Myra.” Leaving it there, he bent, scratched Orion behind the ears and sauntered from the room.

  * * *

  MYRA CONTINUED TO cling to the sink for some time after she heard his bedroom door close. Heavens, she didn’t want to slap him. Far from it. And she was glad he hadn’t apologized, but she was sorry he’d kissed her out of sympathy for her grandfather. That sucked.

  Yes, she’d felt sad, but her reasons were jumbled. She feared neighbors at the event might view her differently now. While there was pain attached to losing Gramps, there was pain, too, in losing the ranch. Mixed in was more than a little chagrin. What was wrong with her that a great-looking single guy like Zeke felt he had to roll out some excuse for kissing her? Moreover, why did she wish a kiss might happen again?

  Myra pulled herself together to phone Dave Ralston and set a date for his baler in exchange for helping him stack hay. Once that was done, she picked up Orion, turned out the kitchen light and went to move the clothes to the dryer. She set items already dry by his door before retreating to her room. Did she seem less womanly for working cattle and running a ranch? Should she be mollified that Zeke said kissing her hadn’t been a hardship? What did that mean, anyway? Dang!

  Before getting ready for bed, she took stock of the clothes in her closet. Normally for potlucks she wore the kind of jeans and shirts she worked in. Clean ones, of course. But she did own a couple of skirts.

  “Orion,” she announced,
setting him down on his comfy quilt. “Saturday night you’ll see a new me.”

  But crawling into bed, she was plagued by second thoughts. Was she going soft on him? Her good friends in the Artsy Ladies group would give her a hard time if she dressed up. Did she care? Far too late into the night she weighed their probable reactions against wanting Zeke to see her as something more than a rancher.

  Chapter Seven

  Morning brought gray cloudy skies and blustery north winds.

  “Do you think it’s going to snow?” Zeke asked Myra. He stood at the kitchen window eating his toast.

  “I hope not.” She peered over his shoulder. “The fields are dry. If we have to bale wet alfalfa, it’ll mold before we need it as feed over the winter. Every rancher in the area will be rushing to finish. Our next few days will be busy running from ranch to ranch.”

  They tidied up, dressed warmly and went to the barn. Myra drove the combine. Zeke rode shotgun. Talk was limited until Myra noticed Zeke’s new jacket.

  “I’m glad I bought it,” he said. “The wool lining blocks this wind.”

  Their conversation ended. Myra didn’t know what she had expected. After the way they’d parted the previous night, she’d been prepared for some discussion of their relationship. Obviously it weighed heavier on her mind than on his. And she should be the one paying attention to duty. It did still grate on her, how yesterday he’d called her bossy after asking for her expertise and opinions. Then he’d kissed her, of all things.

  They lumbered up to the field. Myra stopped the combine and explained to Zeke how they cut swaths up and down the long direction.

  “Seems easy enough. Show me how to operate this machine,” he said.

  She did and it surprised her how quickly he caught on. For the first time since he’d set foot on the ranch, Myra felt as if she wasn’t needed. She sat in the jump seat doing nothing as he cut two perfectly straight rows. “It’s noticeably colder up here,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the noise of the combine engine.

  Zeke made another turn. “I can handle this if you have something else that needs doing.”

  Myra stiffened, feeling dismissed. But that was foolish. “Let me off. I’ll go saddle Cayenne and ride out to bring down the rest of the herd.”

  “Can you do that alone?”

  “Of course.”

  Taking her at her word, he stopped and helped her down. “If you haven’t returned by the time I finish, do I drive to the barn?”

  “Do you have your phone?” At his nod, she said, “Program in Dave’s number. He’ll come over or send someone to pick up the combine. Later, we go help Hank.”

  Myra thought he’d have more questions, but he added the number she gave him and pocketed his phone again.

  A brisk ride up to the herd in an even brisker wind cooled her ire and brought clarity to her situation. She’d been running on the false hope that Zeke Maxwell would fail and she’d reclaim the Flying Owl. While he had walked away from one dirty job, he could easily hire these kinds of things in the future. Calving and branding were chores even she brought in help for. And Zeke had a military pension. A one-man operation didn’t require as much funding to stay solvent. That was the truth of it.

  Tears leaked from her eyes as she chose a cow to tie a cowbell on so the herd would follow. Myra blinked hard, electing to blame the wind for her tears.

  It wasn’t hard to circle the herd and start them moving. Dumb as people thought cows were, they knew changing seasons. This mature group knew better food and shelter awaited them if they left the foothills. Because it was a mindless task for Myra, she had time to make plans. Fall, regardless of inclement weather, was when work slowed down on the ranch. She’d finish her dollhouses for the bazaar and in her spare time dust off her teaching résumé. She’d need a job. It couldn’t hurt to send out feelers to the school where she had taught four years ago, and to a couple of others.

  The very notion hurt, but she needed to think about her future.

  With a few decisions now made, she reached the pasture with the herd by noon. The cattle seemed eager to crowd into the large fenced area with access to a stream and plentiful grass. Myra leaned out of the saddle to close and lock the gate after the last straggler. She felt a sense of accomplishment as she always did after completing a job. Shifting upright in the saddle, she rode on to the alfalfa field.

  Not expecting to see Zeke done with the cutting so soon, it surprised her to find him with Dave Ralston, offloading the baler. The alfalfa had all been cut.

  Myra slid off Cayenne. “Hey, I didn’t think we were due to get your baler until tomorrow.” She aimed her question at Dave.

  “Hank’s crew finished early, freeing up Foley’s combine. Hank said you’re gonna help him load bales and stack them in his shed. Looks like everyone sped up because of that weekend storm.”

  “I figured on waiting until tomorrow to bale here. But if you have a minute to show Zeke how the baler works, I’ll go unsaddle Cayenne, grab a bite and head on over to Hank’s. Did you stop for lunch?” she asked Zeke.

  He shook his head. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Don’t skip meals. I’ll bring you a sandwich and a thermos of coffee.” Swinging into the saddle, she turned toward the house and heard Dave say, “That’s why we need a woman around, Zeke, old buddy. They keep us healthy. Yeah, yeah... I know there’s other reasons,” he added with a laugh.

  Not wanting to hear how Zeke might answer, Myra kicked Cayenne into a trot.

  Once she stalled the mare and fed her and Ember, Myra went into the house to check on Orion while the coffee brewed. Then she assembled sandwiches and put veggies and a whole chicken into the Crock-Pot for supper. Filling a thermos for Zeke and one for herself, she hurried out to the pickup. It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last that she’d eaten her midday meal on the way to another job.

  Dave’s flatbed and her combine were gone when she again drew abreast of the field. Zeke already had two neat rows of bales strung out behind him. Myra wished she had money to buy a hydraulic bale loader. So far no one in the area had sprung for one. They were costly, but hand loading, unloading and racking heavy bales had caused many a rancher to suffer a heart attack. But what did she care? She was leaving.

  She flagged Zeke down. “Take a minute to eat. I’ll wolf mine down on the way to the Bar W.”

  “Dave said since your land is flat I can drive the baler back to the barn when I’m done. He’ll pick it up tomorrow. I don’t think this will take me more than a couple of hours. What should I do then?”

  “The clouds have lifted. It’s hard to believe reports of a snowstorm. Still, we need to get our bales inside. If you get through, come to Hank’s ranch.”

  “Okay. Where is the Bar W?”

  Myra picked up a stick and drew a rough map in the ground. “This is nice soft dirt. If the weather stays like this tomorrow, I’ll take a portable pen out for Orion. He can dig while we load bales. This may be the last clear week before spring.”

  “No kidding? It’s still September.”

  “Some Montana winters last six months. Or like last year only three. But that’s rare. Hey, the day’s wasting. Call me if you get lost.”

  Zeke’s sharply arched eyebrow signaled his thoughts on that. He followed up by calling out, “I led men on night patrols from one remote Afghan village to another without losing my way. Around land mines,” he added. So Myra tossed him a wave and drove off.

  * * *

  THE BAR W RAN a bigger operation than the Flying Owl. Hank’s ranch had grown over time with the help of his sons and their wives. They all had homes on the large property. As Myra drove along their winding lane, she could see the family working in the distance. She parked between barns and rummaged in her center console for gloves and a back belt. Luckily she also had a spare, because she hadn’t mentioned using a back brace for work with heavy bales to Zeke. She should have given him one early on when they’d hauled hay to the he
rd.

  Work stopped briefly as she joined the Watson family and their one hired hand. Hank drove the tractor pulling a large trailer between bales that sat a dozen feet apart in long rows that disappeared over a gentle rise.

  “Where’s Zeke?” Hank asked Myra.

  “I left him baling our field. Dave dropped off the baler early. Did you hear we’re supposed to have snow by the weekend?”

  Hank’s youngest son, Mark, straightened and adjusted his Stetson. “This wind is cold enough to bring snow, but there’re fewer clouds than when we started at dawn.”

  Myra passed Mark then Hank’s older son, Joe, and went by the hired hand with a brief greeting, indicating she’d load the bale beyond him.

  Hand loading required a rhythm. Anyone not familiar with the process might think it was some weird ritual dance. As the trailer lumbered past a helper, a bale was loaded, then that person jogged ahead to the next waiting bale and so on until Hank announced the trailer held enough to take to the shed. One by one each helper grabbed a spot on top of the bales and rode in. At the enclosure they worked in tandem, removing bales and ricking them so air circulated to keep the green-cut hay, alfalfa or milo from molding over a long winter.

  They were unloading their second batch of bales when Zeke drove in.

  “See, I made it with your sketchy directions,” he said, tossing Myra a grin.

  She ignored his jab and introduced him to the younger Watsons and to Len Carver, a cowboy who shook Zeke’s hand before announcing, “I’ll let Zeke take my place. I saw a couple of fences that needed mending.”