Reuniting With the Rancher

by Rachel Lee

  “You ever planted a tree before?” Cliff’s voice broke the silence she would have liked to continue forever.

  “No.”

  There was a notable pause before he said, “I’ll help.”

  His reluctance couldn’t have been any more obvious. Hers equaled it. But before her pride could erupt and get her into trouble, she faced the fact that she needed the help. If she did it all wrong, she’d kill the tree. And from the size of the root ball, she questioned whether she’d even have the physical strength to dig a hole so big.

  She glanced at Cliff from the corner of her eye. He’d have the strength. Damn it. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  Another mile passed, then he surprised her by speaking again. “Your aunt was a remarkably caring, giving woman,” he said. “If anyone in this county hit hard times, she was there for them. I guess you take after her.”

  Reluctantly, she looked at him. “How would you know?”

  “I’m assuming. You’re a social worker, right? That means you help people, right?”

  She heard the annoyance in his tone and realized her response to him hadn’t been very gracious. In fact, it had been challenging. Sheesh, she needed to get a handle on this antipathy toward him. He at least was making some kind of effort, much as she really didn’t want it.

  “In theory,” she said. “Yeah, in theory. Once in a while I feel like I’ve gotten something good done. Most of the time I’m not sure. It takes kids a long time to grow up.”

  “You work with kids?”

  “Mostly. With their parents, too, depending on what the problems are.”

  “Do you get any short-term rewards?”

  The question surprised her with its understanding. She hadn’t expected that. “Sometimes. But I’m not in it for rewards.”

  “No, you’re in it to help.”

  The echo of her words a decade ago was so strong she winced. She distinctly remembered telling him that she had a bigger need to help people than she could meet around here as a rancher’s wife. God, how full of herself she had been. She’d left wounds behind her as she’d set out like Don Quixote, with little idea of what she was getting into, or how many windmills would shatter her lance.

  She didn’t answer him, instead turning her attention to the countryside that rolled past. What was the point? They’d be better off having as little to do with each other as possible. It was just that simple. Hard to believe that a fleeting affair, however torrid, might have left scars that lingered this long.

  She certainly hadn’t expected it to.

  One summer, a long, long time ago. She’d been visiting her aunt between semesters. He’d been gradually taking over the reins of his ranch from his father, just beginning to reach the fullness of manhood.

  She had been sunning herself on a cheap, webbed chaise in the front yard, wearing a skimpy halter top and shorts, a book beside her on the grass. Martha had shooed her outdoors and was inside lining up a potluck dinner for her church. A potluck Holly had no intention of being dragged to. She was just a visitor, passing through, her sights set far away.

  But then Cliff had come riding up. She hadn’t seen his approach because he came from the rear of the house, but as he rounded the corner, she caught her breath. Against the brilliant blue clarity of the sky, he had looked iconic: astride a powerful horse, cowboy hat tipped low over a strong face, broad shouldered, powerful.

  She should have run the instant she felt the irresistible pulse of desire within her. She should have headed for the hills. Instead, caught up in an instant spell, she had remained while his gaze swept over her, feeling almost like intimate fire, taking in her every curve and hollow. She’d felt desire before, but nothing like what this man had ignited within her.

  Then the real folly had begun. She had to return to school in two months. She’d thought he understood that. When she talked about getting her master’s and going into social work, she had thought her goals were clear. She had no intention of remaining in this out-of-the-way place as a rancher’s wife, and just as she couldn’t give up her dreams, he couldn’t give up his ranch.

  So who had been at fault, she wondered now, staring out the window. They had played with fire, they’d seized every opportunity to make love anywhere and everywhere, but then the idyll had come to an end. He had wanted her to stay.

  She had snapped in some way. She had been living a fantasy of some kind, and he’d intruded on it with reality. She had thrown his declaration of love back in his face, then had called him stupid for thinking it could have ever been anything but a fling.

  To this day she didn’t know what had driven her cruelty. By nature she wasn’t at all cruel, but that day...well, the memory of it still made her squirm. Maybe it had been a self-protective instinct, a way to end something that could move her life in a direction she didn’t really want to go. Or maybe some part of her had been almost as desperate as he was, but in a different way.

  She would probably never understand what she had done that day, but it had not only driven Cliff away, it had dashed the entire memory of that summer fling. She could not enjoy the memories of even the most beautiful or sexy moments of those weeks. All of it had to be consigned to some mental dustbin.

  She had figured at the time that Martha must have known what was going on, but she’d never said a word. Now this? Maybe Martha hadn’t guessed. If she had, then there was an unkindness here she wouldn’t have believed her aunt capable of. And not just to her, but to Cliff, as well.

  She sighed, pressing down memories that seemed to want to reignite right between her legs, reminding her of the dizzying pleasures she had shared with Cliff. That was gone, done for good. Over. Finished.

  If only the words would settle it all in her body, which seemed inclined now to react as foolishly as it had all those years ago.

  When he spoke, she felt so far away that his voice, deeper now than in the past, nearly startled her.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a rube,” he said, then paused. “Hell, I am a rube. But I hear parts of Chicago can be pretty dangerous.”

  “They are,” she said cautiously, wondering where he was headed.

  “Did you work in those parts?”

  “They’re the parts where we’re needed most, usually.”

  He fell silent, and she waited. Surely he wasn’t going to leave it at that.

  “You have guts,” he said, and not one more word.

  “No more than the people who have to live there.”

  “But you choose to be there, to help.”

  She couldn’t imagine how to answer that. Yes, it was her choice, but the need cried out to her. She only wished she could provide a safer environment for those children, but the problems were huge. No one person could solve them.

  “It’s partly drugs,” she said. “They encourage gang wars.”

  “Like during Prohibition.”

  “Yes, like that. Turf wars. Other things. Poverty grinds people down and sometimes brings out the ugliest parts of them. I just try to help kids so that they don’t get drawn into it. There’s not much else I can do to protect them, unless there’s abuse in the family.”

  “It must feel thankless at times.”

  She couldn’t believe he was talking to her in this sympathetic fashion. Not after the dislike that had radiated from him on their first meeting. Was he trying to mend bridges? She squirmed a little, thinking that if anyone should be trying to rebuild bridges, it was her. “Seeing just one kid make it is enough.”

  “Is it?”

  She had no answer for that, either. But the tension that seemed to have lifted from her just by being away for a short while was settling heavily on her. She had matters to take care of here, she reminded herself. She had to decide what to do with her aunt’s possessions, whether to rent the house—a million e
nds to tidy up. She couldn’t spend all her time worrying about her kids back in Chicago, not when she was too far away to do anything.

  Mercifully, he dropped the subject, and little by little, she returned fully to Conard County. She wished her kids could come out here, taste life without gunshots up the street any hour of the day or night and know what it was like to live even briefly without the fear.

  She sighed, twisted her hands together and reset her sights on all that lay ahead of her.

  What was she going to do with the house? Her job lay over a thousand miles away. She couldn’t sell it. But renting it might lead to its ruination if she wasn’t here to keep an eye on it.

  Too soon, she argued with herself. She had time. No decisions had to be made this moment. Just plant the tree for Martha and then try to find comfort in residing in Martha’s house, with all the good memories she had of her aunt.

  She felt her eyes sting as she thought about Martha. The world had lost a true character and a great soul.

  * * *

  Cliff watched her from the corner of his eye, glancing her way from time to time as the road permitted. On a weekday, on these back roads, there wasn’t a lot of traffic. Ahead of him stretched an empty road, its only danger the potholes left behind by winter. Along either side ran fences, often hidden behind the tumbleweeds caught in them, creating a low tunnel. But in those grasses to either side of the road, he knew there were drainage ditches, invisible in the grass, but enough to cause a minor accident.

  So he really should keep his attention on driving. But just as she had done all those years ago, Holly drew him. The windows were open, thank goodness, otherwise he’d be assailed by her scents, and if there was one thing he knew for certain, he hadn’t forgotten them. She still used the same shampoo; she still had the same enticing scent of femininity. Not strong, as it had been after they made love, but enough to remind him.

  So here he was, stupidly walking into hell again. She’d only be here two weeks, long enough to get him all knotted up again, but completely lacking any kind of future. He hoped he had the sense to help her plant the tree and then go his way. Oh, he’d be a good neighbor and offer to keep an eye on the house when she left, but keeping an eye on a house wasn’t anywhere nearly as dangerous as keeping an eye on Holly.

  He wished her thinness, her evident fatigue, would turn him off. Instead, all it was doing was turning his insides into protective mush. He couldn’t have this.

  Inwardly he cussed himself for a fool, and warned himself to raise his guard. Do the minimum, stay away and turn his fullest attention to his own ranch, which had been all that had saved him all those years ago. Hard work was the answer.

  Then she surprised him. She hadn’t made a single friendly gesture, but now she did. Damn it.

  “How’s the ranch and business?”

  Well, that ought to seem like a safe, casual question. Coming from her it felt freighted. “Okay,” he said. Then realizing how abrupt he sounded, he added, “Leasing the acreage from your aunt has been a great help. It allowed me to expand.”

  “I heard cattle were getting more expensive to raise.”

  “Out of sight. We’re transitioning to sheep. The wool market is still good.”

  “Good.”

  Clearly she wasn’t really interested in his life. If he was honest, she hadn’t been all that interested years ago, either. He might have found it easier to excuse her self-interest as youth if she hadn’t followed it up with the coup de grâce.

  Then, “Are sheep more difficult to raise?”

  “Troubles come in all sizes and all degrees of fuzziness.”

  She surprised him with a laugh. “What a description!”

  “It’s true.” He hated himself for wanting to smile. This was a demilitarized zone, not a party. “I traded one set of problems for another not so very different. The thing is, the sheep do better grazing on my land, and the wool comes every spring without me having to reduce my flock to make some money. Renewable resource.”

  “I like that.”

  He volunteered some more, testing her interest. “I also have a small herd of angora goats. They’re a bit more susceptible to parasites, but their wool brings a higher price, so naturally it’s more expensive to get going. Of course. So I’m growing my herd nature’s way.”

  “It sounds like you have a plan.”

  “I hope so. Independent ranchers are in danger of becoming an extinct species. But I’m actually doing pretty well.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that, Cliff. So the sheep and goats get along well?”

  “Well enough. My main headache is that the goats are more independent and adventurous. Keeping track of them can be a pain sometimes, and they need dietary additives. But when all is said and done, I like their antics.”

  Oh, well, he thought. He was going to have to deal with her at least some over the next couple of weeks. Greasing the skids with some superficial chitchat and courtesy ought to be safe enough. But no way was he going to fall into her honeyed web again.

  Still, despite all the ugliness that had once happened, he couldn’t help a twinge of concern. Way too thin, he thought as he glanced at her again. The bones in her face had become prominent, and her skin appeared stretched tightly across them. Not good.

  But he didn’t know how to ask without crossing into territory where she didn’t want him to walk. Of that he was certain. He had begun to suspect that the past was no more buried for her than it was for him. Some things, it seemed, hurt forever.

  He sought something else to say, and the question came out without thinking. “You married? Kids?”

  “No and no.”

  It was a short answer, making it clear there were indeed limits to how personal she wanted to get with him. Hell, he thought, who was it who had taken out the scythe at their last meeting? Certainly not him.

  “I tried it,” he said finally, and waited.

  Presently she asked, “And?”

  “And it stank. Big-time. We couldn’t shake the bottle hard enough to mix the oil and vinegar.”

  He waited, then heard a smothered laugh escape her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, but your description...”

  In spite of himself, he laughed, too. “Well, I can’t think of a better one. Martha warned me.”

  “Really?”

  He sensed her turn toward him for the first time. “Yeah. She said... Well, she was Martha. She asked me which head I was thinking with, and said that it would make more sense to ride my horse off a cliff than marry that woman. She was right.”

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say I went off the deep end for one woman and woke up to find myself married to a different one.”

  “Ouch.”

  “My ego needed some bandaging, but that was about it. Sometimes it just isn’t meant to be.”

  She fell silent, and he let the subject go. It hadn’t been right with Lisa, and chances were it wouldn’t have been right with Holly, either. Not back then, for sure. Time to man up and admit it. He and Holly had been horses pulling in different directions, and if he’d been older and wiser he would have recognized it.

  Well, he had learned his lessons. He hoped. All he needed to do was get that tree planted, see if Holly needed any other assistance and go back to his ranch, his sheep and his goats. It would take a special woman to want a life like that, and he couldn’t afford to forget it.

  They finally jolted up to Martha’s house. “I need to get this road graded,” he remarked. “It always goes to hell over the winter and spring, and that little car of yours is going to bounce like a Ping-Pong ball.”

  She didn’t say anything, and he wondered if he’d trespassed by taking possession of the problem. He didn’t know whether to sigh or roll his eyes. Oh, this was going to be fun. Thank you very mu
ch, Martha.

  He braked without turning off the engine. “Where do you want to plant it?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I don’t know how big it’s going to get, how much sun it needs.” She screwed up her face in the way he had once loved. “City girl here.”

  How could he forget that?

  “Southwest corner,” he suggested. “It’ll get enough sun, keep the house cooler in the summer and lose all its leaves so it won’t keep you colder in the winter.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Slowly he rolled the truck around the house. “It’s going to need a lot of water the first month. And that’s going to be a drag. Martha doesn’t have an outside tap, so no hose.”

  “Really? I never noticed that before.”

  Why would she? She’d never been here long enough to really learn anything, although she had been here long enough to cause him a peck of trouble.

  “I’ll have someone see to it after you go home.” That’s as far as he would go. Or so he told himself.

  “Thank you.”

  Damn it, he could almost hear Martha laughing and asking, “When did you turn into a chicken, boy?”

  Then Holly said, “Martha always had such a big vegetable garden. She had to water it somehow.”

  “That’s where the hand pump comes in. Come on, you were here lots of times. Surely you saw.”

  She paused. “My God, I’d forgotten. Of course I remember. I used to love to do it for her.”

  “Right. She planted in rows and pumped until the water filled the space between them. Every couple of days. The last few years it got harder for her, so I put in a motorized pump for her. Maybe you missed it.”

  “I guess so. My job gives me only short vacations.”

  “Well, it won’t help with the tree regardless. It’s going to be buckets.”

  “I can do that,” she said stoutly.