by Karen Ball
At his stunned expression, Taylor didn’t even try to hide her grin.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, Mr. Alexander.” Her mother patted him on the shoulder. “So I fixed you a little of everything. Can’t have a man facing his first day on the job without a good breakfast, now can we?”
He looked up at her, and Taylor was struck by the appreciative look in his eyes. “No, ma’am, we can’t. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Taylor added, “you don’t have to eat it all.”
He fixed her with a look of offended amazement. “A man doesn’t get this kind of treatment often, Mrs. Sorensen, and I intend to enjoy as much of it as I can.” He leaned forward to help himself to something from every plate, then commenced eating with gusto.
Donelle beamed at him, patted his shoulder again, and went to the sink to start washing dishes, humming as she stuck her hands into the soapy water.
“Well, suit yourself. But don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you end up with a stomachache.”
He paused, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, and regarded her with twinkling eyes. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Sorensen, but I have been blessed with a cast-iron, bottomless pit for a stomach. So I imagine the only thing less likely than me getting a stomachache”—he popped the eggs in his mouth, chewed appreciatively, then finished—“is you going easy on anyone. For any reason.”
An appreciative chuckle came from the sink, and Taylor glared at her mother’s back. As perceptive as always, Donelle stopped washing dishes and looked at her. Seeing Taylor’s displeased look, her mouth curved.
“It’s okay, dear. You go ahead and shoot sparks at me if it makes you feel better.” She turned back to the dishes. “I can understand what a terrible shock it is to get as well as you give.” She clucked her tongue. “And so early in the morning.”
“Mother!”
Donelle turned innocent eyes back to her indignant daughter. “Well, you have to admit, hon, you started it.” She beamed at Connor. “And I must say, he finished it well.” She nodded approvingly. “You made a good choice, dear. You need a man around here with spunk.”
“I need—” Taylor couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She stood and stared at her mother. “I most certainly do not need a man with spunk!”
“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Of course you do. You’d make mincemeat out of—”
“What I meant is that I don’t need a man! Period! Spunk or otherwise!” That clarified, Taylor stomped to the doorway, pausing only long enough to spin around and pin Connor with a furious glare. “As for you! Be at the stables in fifteen minutes!” Then she was gone.
Connor sat staring after Taylor, then he met Donelle Camus’s laughing gaze. “Wow.” Her mouth twitched. “Indeed.” She went back to her dishes, and he finished eating as quickly as he could. No point annoying his new boss any further. When he rose to leave, Taylor’s mom stopped him with a quiet question.
“Are you a praying man, Mr. Alexander?”
He halted, turning to face her. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
The smile she gave him was pure merriment. “Now would be a good time, don’t you think?”
A grin split his face and he laughed. “Actually,” he said, reaching out to pat her shoulder, “I’ve been praying since the minute I got this job!”
For the next week, Taylor kept Connor hopping. He would no sooner finish one job then she would give him another. One thing he could say about his new boss: she was true to her word. She was not going easy on him.
In fact, Connor sensed that she was testing him, pushing him to see if he would resist or rebel. So he made it a point to be as accommodating as possible. He accepted each task agreeably, listening carefully as she explained what she wanted and asking questions only when necessary.
The second day, after completing a job, Connor had walked into the stables, looking around at the stalls lining both sides of the building. Horses were munching away happily at their hay.
“One thing about Taylor,” a deep voice said from behind him, “she knows horses. Too bad her knowledge of people isn’t as refined.”
Connor turned. A tall, dark-haired man stood there leaning on a shovel. Connor stepped forward and put out a hand. “I’m Connor Alexander, the new ranch hand.”
The man stood unmoving, staring at Connor’s extended hand, making no move to accept it. Just then, Taylor came out of one of the stalls. “Oh, Luke, there you are.” A warm smile lit her face. “This is Connor Alexander. He’s—”
“The new ranch hand. Yes, so he’s told me.”
Taylor closed her mouth, staring from Luke to Connor. After a moment she tried again. “Connor, this is Luke Narbona. He’s the genius who keeps things fixed here and there before they fall apart.”
Connor extended his hand again, and the older man reached out slowly and shook it.
Taylor was watching them, a pensive look in those green eyes. “Luke, I was hoping he could work with you today on the back forty fence.”
“I’m not going out there today.”
Taylor blinked at Luke’s quiet but firm response, and Connor watched two spots of pink tinge her cheeks. He wanted to box the man’s ears.
“No disrespect intended, Taylor,” Luke went on, “but I’d already planned to finish the plumbing job in cabin two.”
She studied him, then shook her head. “Okay. That’s fine.”
Luke gave a curt nod and moved away.
“But when you’re done”—her tone hardened—“come see me about jobs for you and Connor to do together.”
His gaze swiveled back to her, then he gave a curt nod and stomped off.
Taylor turned back to Connor. “So,” she said, clearly doing her best to recover gracefully. “How are you at mucking out stalls?”
When Sunday came around, Connor showed up bright and early at the breakfast table. Taylor looked at him in surprise.
“It’s Sunday. You can sleep in.”
“I forgot to ask what time you leave for church. I didn’t want to miss it.”
“You … want to go to church?” She looked slightly stunned.
He held back his amusement with difficulty. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Oh. Sure. Of course. I mean, I just didn’t realize—”
“That I wasn’t a heathen?”
“Ah … well, yes.” The admission came with a rueful chuckle. “I suppose that’s exactly what I thought.”
He helped himself to some coffee. “Well, I’m not. At least not any more than any other believer who’s struggling to do what’s right.”
She started to say something, then paused. Finally, she rose to rinse out her coffee mug. “Okay, then. Drink up your coffee, Mr. Alexander. Dad’s not there to preach, but we’re still having praise and worship singing. And you won’t want to miss the prelude.” She grinned at him. “Mrs. Huntsicker plays a mean organ. Foot pedals and everything. Fairly makes the rafters rattle!”
Their time of worshiping together had been peaceful and enjoyable. Connor was pleased to find that Taylor had a sweet alto voice, and she sang the hymns with sincere emotion, as though the lyrics were more than just words. He liked the way their voices blended as they sang. She must have noticed it too for she glanced up at him several times during the first hymn.
After that day, Taylor treated him differently—as though she’d begun to trust him. At least a little. Several times he glanced up from his work and found her watching him, a curious expression on her face. When his eyes met hers, she turned away, busying herself with whatever happened to be at hand. He returned to his task with a chuckle.
The days quickly fell into a routine. They would rise with the sun, head out for the day’s work—sometimes with Luke, but more often just the two of them—then return in the early evening to clean up for dinner. Mealtime had become one of Connor’s favorite events, and not just because of Mrs. Camus’s cooking. He enjoyed watching the affectionate, often teasing, exchanges between
Taylor and her mother. From the moment he met her, Donelle Camus had made him feel at home, pulling him into comfortable conversation, listening with interest as he talked, and sharing her own insightful views. As he spent time with the older woman, he discovered that she possessed wit, intelligence, and a remarkable ability to put one in one’s place when necessary. All traits she had passed on to her daughter. In abundance.
Along with the company of the two women, the feasts Taylor’s mom prepared were a great way to start and end each day. The elegant cook would beam at him as he devoured the food, then pat him on the shoulder as she cleared away his dishes.
Invariably, as he rose to leave, she would give him some words of wisdom: “Patience is the key to victory;” “Soft words turn away wrath;” “The dog that growls the loudest usually has been hurt the most.”
The last one had been her comment as he left the kitchen that morning and headed for the stable to meet Taylor. She’d informed him that they were going riding today to check out a new route she wanted to use on trail rides next spring. Once again, Luke had bowed out.
“Got to rewire cabin three,” he said and walked away, leaving Taylor staring after him with a troubled expression.
Donelle’s earlier words had stuck in Connor’s mind as Taylor watched him while he saddled his horse, a sorrel gelding with the unremarkable name of Chestnut. Though he sensed Taylor was waiting for him to make a mistake, he was almost sure she was pleased to see how comfortable he was around the horses. It hadn’t taken more than a few minutes, and a carrot stick from Taylor’s mom, to make friends with Chestnut.
Connor glanced at Taylor as she rode alongside him in silence. The dog that growls the most … He restrained a grin. He would never have equated Taylor with a dog, but she did seem to growl a lot. He wondered if her mother’s aphorism were true.
“You know, your mother is quite a lady.” Taylor shot him a rueful smile.
“She is that. Sharp, too. She has an almost uncanny ability to tell if someone is trustworthy or not.” Her lips tipped in a slight smile. “Apparently you passed muster. In record time, I might add.”
Connor nodded, felt a wave of pleasure, and turned his head to take in the scenery. They were at the top of a hill, and he could see the jagged peaks of the Tetons to the west.
“Yellowstone is north of here, right?” He tried to get his bearings.
“About forty-five miles. Idaho is across the mountains, twelve miles or so as the crow flies.”
Connor stared at the Tetons dubiously. “That’d have to be some crow.” He took a deep breath of the crisp, cold air. “So you’ve lived here all your life?”
Taylor nodded. “It was a great place to grow up.” He heard the sincerity in her voice.
“Pretty remote.”
“Very remote, but I like it that way. It doesn’t bother me at all that our nearest neighbor is several miles away.” She lifted her shoulders in a self-deprecating gesture. “I’m not exactly what you’d call a social butterfly.”
“I’ve gotten that impression.” She laughed lightly at his comment. He watched with interest the way her whole face lit up when she smiled. She was a beautiful woman. Not in the typical fashion-model way, but in an exotic, almost exquisite way. And it was more than her features that stirred him; it was the total, intriguing package that was Taylor Sorensen. In fact, Connor couldn’t remember the last time a woman had affected him the way his new boss did. One minute he wanted to throttle her, the next he found himself wondering if her hair was really as silken as it seemed—
Whoa! Hold on there, Alexander! Wolves, remember?
“You know,” she went on, thankfully oblivious to his inner struggle, “I actually like it that I can go for days without seeing anyone other than my family.” Her grin was easy. “And the only reason I see them is that they live about a half-mile from the ranch house in a cabin they had built several years ago.”
“They didn’t want to stay in the ranch house?”
“They thought Josh and I needed to have a place of our own. Ryan and his family have their own place closer to town. And since Josh and I were running the retreats, they offered us the ranch house. I was thrilled.” Her eyes had a faraway look in them. “I love that house. I grew up in it, and it’s full of wonderful memories. I can see images of my family in nearly every room.”
“And your husband?” Mrs. Camus had told him about Josh’s death and Taylor’s struggle to deal with the loss. He watched the emotions drift across her face, the shadows fill her green eyes.
“Yes. Josh, too.”
She fell silent, and Connor regretted bringing up the subject. “Are your folks retired?” He hoped to distract her from whatever dark thoughts he’d triggered.
“My mom is retired from teaching. I think my dad will go on being a pastor until the day he drops.” A bemused smile lifted her lips. “His church is small, barely more than fifty members, but they’re a lively group.” Her smile deepened. “They keep him busy anyway.”
“Your parents have been in this area for a long time then?”
“Forever.” She chuckled. “Galloway Glen was actually settled by my great-grandfather on my mother’s side”—she suddenly developed a lilting, Irish accent—“the good and honorable Riley Galloway in the late 1800s.”
Connor laughed, caught up in her unexpected playfulness. “Let me guess. Big and hard working with red hair and emerald green eyes.”
“Sure, an’ you couldn’t be more on target if you’d known the fine fellow!” she crowed with delight, her infectious laughter flowing around him. “Seriously, he did have red hair—”
“Which is where yours came from, I suspect. And the green eyes?”
“Guilty. A definite carryover from the Irish side of the family. I have yet to see a green-eyed Ojibwa.”
“Ojibwa?”
“Yup. My great-grandmother, the love of Riley’s life. He saw her watching him tend sheep one morning, and it was love at first sight. He found her father, offered for her, and they were married soon after. Between the two of them, they took a few acres and built it to more than two thousand. Small by Wyoming standards, but a decent ranch nonetheless.”
“Small?”
A small smile graced her lips. “Any good rancher knows you need close to fifty acres a head when you’re raising cattle or sheep. The ranches around here average more than four thousand acres.”
Connor showed his surprise, and Taylor’s humor was clear. “That’s why Galloway Glen was considered a nice little spread by the other ranchers. But my grandparents weren’t really ranchers at heart. They knew the land was their greatest asset, so from time to time they sold sections off.” She glanced around them. “Now Galloway Glen covers a little over six hundred acres, about a square mile, most of which is wilderness.”
“No more sheep?”
“Only the one the twins raise to show at the county fair. But that’s okay. Riley’s work and my grandparents’ business acumen have left us pretty well set.” She shifted in the saddle. “Which is why I can afford to run the retreat center. And it’s a part of why I do it—to give something back.”
“How about wolves?”
Taylor started and gave him an alarmed look. “What?”
“Are there any wolves left in this wilderness?”
“No.” Her answer was swift … a little too swift. “They were wiped out sixty years ago. Trappers, hunters, men out for the bounty.” She urged Topaz forward, ending the conversation.
“That’s too bad,” Connor said when he caught up with her. “Galloway Glen seems like the perfect place for wolves.”
Again that sharp look came his way, her eyes searching, as though trying to reach into his thoughts. He kept his expression blank, and she turned away with an impatient movement.
“I wouldn’t know.” Her tone was cold. “I’ve never seen one.” She jabbed her heels into her horse’s side, and the buckskin bolted forward, as though startled at the forcefulness of the action.
“Did you know frowning causes ten times more wrinkles than smiling does, dear?”
At Taylor’s intractable look, Donelle Camus folded her hands. “See there? You just cost your face another ten years or so.” She leaned forward, taking her daughter’s hand in her own. “Do tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Nothing, Mom. I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.” The smile she gave her mother was anemic at best.
“Taylor—”
But her daughter rose, muttering something about checking on the horses, and left the house.
Donelle settled back in her chair, cupping her mug of tea. It was good to see Taylor so … affected. It had been too long since anyone had gotten close enough to get a rise out of her. With the exception of Ryan—who could send his sister into fits of irritation almost by his mere existence—Taylor seldom let anyone bother her. Anyone outside the family, that was.
Donelle knew it wasn’t her daughter’s remarkable self-control and patience that allowed her to be untouched by others’ foibles; rather, it was that she didn’t let anyone get close enough to matter. Josh had been the exception, and a delightful one. When he was killed, Donelle’s fears that her daughter would sink back into her somewhat reclusive shell had been more or less realized. Oh, Taylor spent time with Gavin, but even with him she seemed to maintain a certain distance. Donelle wasn’t particularly concerned about that. Gavin was a good friend for Taylor, but Donelle wasn’t convinced he was the right one to be anything more.
Connor Alexander, on the other hand …
Donelle’s delight increased. There was something about the man that she liked. A great deal, actually. She had learned from their talks that he had a heart for God and that he shared many of Taylor’s interests and values. He clearly enjoyed life on a ranch and had a passion for animals. His intelligence was evident, as was his sense of humor. He’d even made a few suggestions on how to incorporate wildlife walks into the retreats to teach the youngsters about God’s creative genius. Taylor’s eyes had lit up with excitement at the idea. Also, he seemed remarkably patient with her daughter—a trait that almost qualified him for sainthood! And several times Donelle had caught him watching Taylor with some indefinable emotion in those wonderful blue eyes.