by JoAnn Ross
“Does it look the same as you remember?” she asked, breaking into memories of suffering too many pots of coffee, photo albums, and tearful hugs.
“Even better.” After all the years spent in a dusty, barren landscape, the green pastures, foothills, and the glistening white mountain with its cap of snow were a bright, much welcome sight.
He glanced over at her and saw the concern in her eyes. Was she worried he wouldn’t lease it? Or worse yet, that he would? While leasing wasn’t as bad as selling out, it had to sting to have someone else’s herd grazing on pasture that had been in her family since both their four-times great-grandfathers had arrived at the river originally seeking gold.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Sawyer didn’t have a plan B if she decided to back out of the deal, but felt he had to ask.
It was her turn to shrug. “It’s not like it’s being used. We sold off all the stock except the horses and Desperado last fall.”
Desperado was a huge Hereford-Brahma cross-mix who’d been born to buck. It wasn’t that he was vicious, but despite his sixteen-hundred-pound muscular bulk, he could spin quicker than a rattlesnake’s strike. He was also smart enough to somehow sense a rider’s moves, then pull a swift and effective counterattack to unseat him.
Many cowboys over the years had tried to ride Desperado. Only Sawyer had managed to last the full eight seconds, and while he’d enjoyed hearing the cheers of fans rock the rafters of the grandstand, he’d mostly credited his success to knowing the bull so well. And the bull knowing him. What most of those he’d sent flying into the air in under three seconds didn’t realize was that, despite his name and reputation, the bull was docile as a newborn lamb when at home in Green Springs Ranch’s pasture.
“Coop said you kept the wily old guy for breeding.”
“That wily old guy just happens to be the gift that keeps on giving. He has prodigy throwing cowboys into the dirt from Canada, most U.S. states, through South America, to as far away as New Zealand.”
“Green Springs was the best rodeo stock provider on the circuit.”
They’d always bred their rodeo horses and cattle with as much care as any Thoroughbred breeder aiming for a Triple Crown. Before his retirement, Desperado had been universally known as a class act. Not only did the bull not go after a downed rider, the way most tended to do, he actually appeared to try to avoid any fallen cowboy.
“Past tense being the definitive description,” she said on a sigh. She tilted her hat a bit, shading her eyes from both the sun and his gaze. “One thing I’ve learned is that looking back into the rearview mirror doesn’t do any good. Life moves on whether you’re ready or not. As you undoubtedly know firsthand.”
“Yeah. I do.” He paused, giving a moment’s thought to lost Marine Raider Battalion Spec Ops whose voices he could still hear in his head. Especially when he was lying in his rack, wide awake at zero-dark-thirty. “How’s your dad doing today?”
The reason she’d given for not coming to the party was that her father had taken a fall. Sawyer’s brother Ryan, River’s Bend’s sole doctor, had dropped by the ranch and checked the older man out before coming to the party. He’d reported that, while Buck Merrill was shaken, nothing was broken.
“Physically, he’s okay. Though I do wish he’d let Ryan talk him into a wheelchair. Or at least a walker. He’s so damn stubborn and prideful that he won’t admit the cane just isn’t working anymore.”
“After battling off polio when he was a kid, it must suck for him to have it hit in what should be the prime of his life.”
“It does. Especially since ranching is not only what he’s always done, it’s who he’s always been. And now that’s being taken away from him.” They’d been friends long enough that Sawyer heard what she wasn’t saying and didn’t need her to fill in the blanks.
“He’s not happy about me leasing his land.”
“It’s not about you.”
Her gaze moved out beyond the pasture, where shaggy evergreens climbed from the foothills up the snow-topped mountain rising majestically above them. Despite the slight bite in the air, the wedge of Canadian geese flying overhead on their way home was another sign of spring. Which wasn’t any guarantee of warm weather, since snowfall in May, or even once flurries on the town’s Fourth of July parade, wasn’t unheard of in this part of the Cascades.
Being away had only reaffirmed Sawyer’s belief that the best thing that had ever happened to his family was when Malachy Murphy discovered this homeplace while searching for gold in Black Bear River. And he knew Buck Merrill felt the same way. Gold dust might glitter and, if a guy was lucky, could bring riches. But that wealth was easily spent, too often quickly gone. While the real treasure, the land, was forever.
“If it were anyone else leasing the pasture, it’d be even harder on him,” she said. “But you’re practically family, and to be perfectly honest, we need the money. Still, I can’t deny that he’s having trouble dealing with the idea of any cattle grazing on it but our own. He’s convinced that he’ll be back on the circuit soon.”
“You sure that’s not possible?” As much as Sawyer wanted this prime piece of land, and had intentions of offering to buy it and the neighboring section if Buck Merrill ever was willing to sell, no way did he want it at the expense of hurting a man who’d always been like an uncle. The bond between the Merrill and Murphy families was as long and wide as the river, even including a scattering of marriages between second and third cousins over the generations.
“Anything’s possible,” Austin allowed, without sounding at all optimistic. “But I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it. Literally.”
She shook off the complex brew of emotions that had her eyes glistening in the spring sun. Cowgirls don’t cry. Sawyer knew her father had drilled that edict into her from the cradle. Although at first glance, a man’s attention might be captured by the silky blond hair she’d inherited from her Scandinavian mother, her blue eyes, lush pink lips, and slender-as-a-willow body, inside, Austin Merrill was as tough as any Marine Sawyer had ever served with. He also knew that inside that protective outer shell was a soft and closely guarded heart.
There’d been a time when he would have put his arms around her, held her tight, and assured her that everything would be all right. That he’d make it right. The same way he’d ached to unbreak her heart back when they were seven. Which, he’d belatedly come to realize, was when he’d lost his heart to the pretty blond cowgirl next door.
But hell, not only had he been the one to break her heart years later with the lame apology and lie about the kiss not really meaning anything, these days Sawyer was having enough trouble straightening out his own life.
He sure as hell didn’t have any business messing with anyone else’s. Especially hers.
“I’ve got some money set aside,” he said. “It’s yours if you need it.”
She tossed up her chin in a gesture he’d seen countless times over the years. “We’ll be okay.” Knowing that her pride went deep to the bone, just as her dad’s did, Sawyer wasn’t surprised by her response. “Especially now that I’m no longer paying Jace’s hefty travel expenses.”
“I’m sorry the marriage didn’t work out.” Which was only partly true. Sawyer was sorry as hell that she’d had to go through a divorce. But he couldn’t deny that he wasn’t at all unhappy to have the guy out of the picture.
“It was a mistake from the beginning. I acted impulsively and paid the price.” She squared her shoulders, and he watched the familiar glint of determination flash in her eyes. “But now I’m moving on, turning the page, starting a new chapter, whatever cliché you want to call it.”
“Sounds as if we’re both pretty much in the same situation,” Sawyer said.
“And back together in the same place,” she agreed.
Their eyes met. And held for just a moment too long. As the years spun back, his fingertips practically tingled with an urge to reach out and trace her face.
And then
what?
And wasn’t that the effing sixty-four-thousand-dollar question?
Her mare, apparently bored with standing still, began to impatiently sidestep. Seeming grateful for the interruption, Austin picked up the reins and began heading toward the cabin. “Are you sure you want to stay in here?”
“If you’d rather I throw my gear in the bunkhouse—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I just thought you’d be staying with your family on the Bar M.”
“With the honeymooners?” It had been a little weird to see his widowed dad acting like a besotted newlywed. Weird but nice.
“I think they’re sweet.”
“And I’m happy for them, but I think it’d be better if we all have our own space.” He’d come down to the kitchen last night for one last beer, only to find Mitzi seated on the kitchen counter, his dad standing in front of her, and although—thank you, God!—they were both still dressed, it looked as if clothes could start flying any moment.
“Good point. And of course you’re welcome to the cabin. It’s been empty since Jim, Janet, and the kids moved out six months ago.”
“Coop told me that you found Jim a job at a cow-and-calf operation in Bozeman. That was nice of you.”
“It was the least I could do. The Longs were like family, but there wasn’t enough work here any longer to make the situation viable. He says they’re happy in Montana, so that’s something. Meanwhile, we’ve extra furniture in the main house you’re welcome to have.”
The Green Springs Ranch compound consisted of a main ranch house with dual wings to allow for multiple generations to enjoy breathing room while living beneath a single roof. The cabin she’d offered him had been built for the ranch foreman’s family. There was also a bunkhouse that, during the ranch’s heyday, had been home to three full-time hands and other seasonal ones. But that was now empty.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll work something out. And it’s not like I’ve got much gear to deal with.”
After being screened by the command transition counselor and attending the mandatory separations brief and seminar, Sawyer had driven out of the main gate and headed straight to a Walmart, where he’d bought a cheap canvas duffle to replace the sea bag he’d been lugging around for years. He’d picked up the straw Stetson at the Boot Barn not far from Camp Pendleton. A Marine might be a Marine all of his life, but for now, Sawyer was past ready to wrangle cows instead of terrorists.
“I wouldn’t have expected your dad to get into holistic ranching.” He looked out at Austin’s beloved horses contentedly grazing in other pastures. “Especially since he wasn’t selling all that much stock for food consumption.”
She laughed. “Why would you be at all surprised? Just because of all his complaining about tree huggers and having bitched when Rachel took down that old sign Johnny Mott had hung in the front window of the New Chance offering a spotted-owl breakfast special?”
“He might bitch about tree huggers,” Sawyer said as their horses walked side by side through the grass. “But deep down he loves the land. If Merrills hadn’t taken such good care of this place over the generations, it wouldn’t have survived.”
“Dad’s always believed in leaving a light footprint. But you know as well as I do that ranching isn’t the most secure way to make a living.”
“The best way to make a small fortune in ranching is to start out with a big one.”
“True.” She smiled at the familiar axiom. “Green Springs has survived by running a tighter ship than most. Good breeding records allowed us to sell off the majority of steers and calves to other stockmen. Any that weren’t rodeo quality went to conventional food markets. I’m probably not spilling any deep, dark secrets by admitting Dad initially scoffed when your father decided to go grass-fed, grass-finished organic.”
“A lot of ranchers get stuck in tradition, running their spreads the way they’ve always been run.” While earning his B.S. in range management from OSU, Sawyer had studied both the good and the bad.
“True. But your father was generous enough to share his profit ratios, and even a man as stubborn and set in his ways as Dad could see the benefit of not having to buy truckloads of feed every year by changing over to grass finishing.
“He also noticed that even without automatic immunizations, Bar M cattle weren’t getting sick because the nutrients they get from the grass and legumes your dad grows boosts your cattle’s natural immunity. Borrowing that idea offered us additional savings. Not to mention easing concerns of stock getting sick just when we were due to deliver a contracted number to a big rodeo.”
“Green Springs has always had a sterling reputation.”
“It has,” she agreed with understandable pride. “But we always needed to keep a lot more extra steers on hand, just in case. After we switched over, on the rare occasion we did get a sick animal, we separated it from the herd, treated it until it was healthy again, then shipped it out for the general retail market.
“More and more folk are starting to take notice that not only is holistic good for the planet, it’s good for the bottom line. Which, in turn, allows more families to stay on their ranches instead of selling out to big-city developers.”
“Or movie stars,” Sawyer said, thinking of an A-list action star who’d been buying up nearby land as if God wasn’t making any more of it.
Which, oh, yeah. He wasn’t.
“Oh, please don’t even bring Hollywood wannabe cowboys up with Dad,” she said. “Nothing gets his dander up more than people who can afford to offer millions for their own private paradise, never minding that they’ve no need to make a living off it. Which drives up property values and forces those struggling to live off their land to have to go to work in town.”
“Which our families have avoided.”
“So far,” Austin qualified. “Not that the Bar M has any reason to worry.”
“The ranch is doing well.” And although Sawyer knew that he was the logical Murphy son to take over operations, he wasn’t in any hurry. Not only did he want to prove himself capable of running his own spread, he was looking forward to his dad being in the cattle business for a very long time yet.
They’d reached the cabin.
Austin had never been much of a toucher. It was well known throughout the basin that just because his only child happened to have an extra X chromosome, that hadn’t kept Buck Merrill from raising his daughter to be as tough as any boy. She’d never been coddled or pampered. Except, when Buck wasn’t watching, by Winema Clinton, the brisk and busy housekeeper who ran the domestic side of the ranch.
But as they pulled up in front of the cabin, which, like the main house and bunkhouse, had been built with lumber grown and milled on the property, Austin reached between them and placed a slender hand on his thigh.
“I’m so glad you’re home. I was worried sick. I don’t think I ever prayed harder in my life.”
There’d been a time, back during their teen years, when Sawyer had teased her about finding a church on Sunday morning in whatever town she happened to be in while traveling the rodeo circuit. But that was before he’d discovered the old war axiom was true: there weren’t that many atheists in foxholes. Or when you were dragging your butt over rocks out in the open in the Helmand Province, a perfect open target for some Taliban sniper’s bullet.
“Believe me,” he said as his leg tightened beneath her light touch, “you weren’t alone.”
Austin gave him a long, direct look. “You’ve changed.”
Sawyer wasn’t going to lie. Although his dad had expected all three of his sons to pull their weight on the Bar M, Sawyer had been the one with a wild streak.
“Life happens.”
“Now there’s a pithy observation,” she said dryly as she took her hand back. “We’d better check the place out. Give you time to change your mind.”
“Not going to happen.”
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other choices. He’d been invited to partner with hi
s dad while staying in the big house, which, as he’d just told Austin, wasn’t a choice his father, the new Mrs. Murphy, or Sawyer would’ve honestly wanted.
If he was going to settle back into River’s Bend, he needed to make his own decisions and his own mistakes. And hopefully climb his way out of this deep, dark pit he’d landed in before he ended up becoming one more statistic.
Leasing these Green Springs pastures seemed like a good start.
3
“ARE YOU SURE you’re going to be all right?” Austin asked her father. “With Winema away visiting her grandchildren?”
“I told you, I’m going to be fine,” Buck Merrill grumbled from his saddle-brown leather recliner as he watched a rerun of an old bull riding competition. “I just had a little tumble. Nothing like falling off a horse. You don’t have to treat me like I’m a damn toddler who needs a babysitter.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
Grizzled brows dove over eyes framed by deep lines that came from years spent outdoors. “Aren’t you?”
“I worry.”
“Don’t.”
They’d had this argument too many times to count. And it never did any good, so Austin had no idea why she kept trying. Perhaps, she considered, because although her dad had forgotten more than most ranchers knew about raising cattle and quarter horses, he refused to read any of the PPS information Ryan Murphy had given her. Or the many articles she’d stayed up late into the night researching online. In this case, he was behaving exactly like a stubborn toddler, determined to have his own way come hell or high water.
“The lasagna’s in the fridge. Just stick it in for an hour at three hundred fifty degrees. I’ll be home by nine.”
“And I’ll be in the sack by then, so you might as well stay as long as you like.” They might have sold off the stock, but Buck Merrill would probably keep rancher’s hours until he took his last breath. Which Austin dearly hoped would be years and years from now.