A stone fireplace was the focal point of the large room. An oil painting of Rainbow Valley as it looked in the early 1900s hung above the mantel, and like many others before her, Shayla was drawn toward it.
“O’Connell,” she said, reading the signature in the bottom right comer. She glanced over her shoulder. “Did you do this? It’s magnificent.”
“No.” His answer was clipped. “I don’t paint.” Even after ten years, he found it uncomfortable to talk about Joanne and her art.
Shayla continued to look at him. He figured she was the type who would wait as long as it took to get the answer she wanted.
Bracing himself, he said, “My wife painted it.”
“Your wife?” She fully faced him, her eyes wide. “But I thought you said—”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
“It happened years ago.” He turned abruptly. “The library is this way.”
* * *
Shayla hesitated a moment before following him, wishing she knew what to say. But then, she supposed it was better to say nothing since that’s what he seemed to want.
“Are you coming, Miss Vincent?”
“Yes.” She hurried to catch up, hoping she wouldn’t make any more blunders.
While Nat showed her the library, his office, and the sitting room, Shayla confined herself to brief murmurs of appreciation. But when Nat led her into the huge kitchen, she couldn’t stay silent any longer. “This is incredible.”
The room had a bank of windows on two sides. Stainless-steel counters and sinks gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Pots and pans and other cookware hung from hooks in the high ceiling above a center island. There were six burners on the stove and two ovens, and the refrigerator was large enough to walk into.
“It looks like a restaurant.”
“My grandma cooked for a lot of ranch hands back in the early years, back when Paradise Ranch was all that was in this valley. ’Course, the kitchen didn’t look like it does now. Started out with a wood stove, an icebox, and a plain wood floor. It’s been remodeled a time or two since then, but it was always this big.”
Shayla walked around the room, running her fingers over the countertops, admiring the details. Even the need for a thorough cleaning couldn’t diminish the wonder of it.
“What my mother wouldn’t have given for a kitchen like this,” she said. “There were seven of us kids, and we were always underfoot when Mom was trying to cook.”
“Seven kids?”
“Seven. I’ve got three brothers and three sisters.” She pictured them in her mind, playing and fighting the way they’d done throughout the years. She’d come to Idaho, in part, to get away from her large, ofttimes demanding family, and yet she still missed them.
“Which number are you?”
“I’m the oldest.” She turned toward him. “What about you?”
“Just one older sister. Leigh. She and Jim, her husband, live in Florida with their twin daughters. My mother lives near them.” He looked out the windows toward the pine-covered mountains that rose from his backyard. “We’re all that’s left of the O’Connell clan now. My grandparents are gone, and my dad died about eight years ago.”
She thought he looked lonely and wondered if he continued to mourn the wife he’d lost.
Still gazing out the window, he continued, “I always thought this ranch ought to be crawling with kids. But Joanne and I never—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
If Nat O’Connell knew what a big family was like, maybe he wouldn’t be so all-fired eager for a ranch crawling with kids. One reason Shayla had been eager to leave Portland for her aunt’s remote cabin was to escape the never-ending demands of her younger siblings.
Of course, she’d had to ask God’s and her parents’ forgiveness for the manner in which she left home. She never should have lost her temper, telling her mom and dad that she was sick to death of her brothers and sisters. She wasn’t. Not really. She loved all of them. But none of them understood how important her writing was to her.
For months, she’d felt God calling her to put her faith into words on paper, to tell stories that would exemplify God’s power over evil. Aunt Lauretta’s legacy had given Shayla the open door needed to pursue her dream of becoming a published Christian novelist. One precious year. Twelve short months.
She had to try. She had to discover if this was the path God wanted her to follow.
Please, God. May it be Your will.
“Let’s move to the upstairs,” Nat said, interrupting her thoughts. “After you see it, you still might decide against taking the job.”
He was wrong. She wouldn’t refuse the job. Working for Nat O’Connell would allow her to make the needed repairs to the cabin so it would be livable through the winter. Living in the cabin for the next year would allow her to write her novel. And writing her novel would be an act of obedience to the Lord’s call upon her heart.
“Be strong and courageous, and do the work.” That's what the Bible told her to do. Shayla meant to do the work, whatever it took.
“I’m not going to change my mind, Mr. O’Connell. You can count on that.”
Chapter 2
Hunkering down, Chet touched the tire tracks with his fingers. It had rained last night, and the ground was soft and muddy. The grooves were deep, as could be expected from heavy trucks full of cattle.
Trucks full of Eden Ranch cattle.
It had been Neal Goodman’s hard luck to stumble upon the rustlers in action. Now Chet’s good friend and ranch foreman lay on a slab in the morgue, and a hundred head of Morrison cattle were missing. In the meantime, the sheriff was busy playing politics instead of trying to find the men responsible.
Chet frowned as he stood, sweeping the area with his gaze, looking for clues. Whoever did this had known where the cattle would be yesterday. The rustlers hadn’t chanced to pick Eden Ranch. They’d planned the operation carefully. They’d known about the cattle drive up to the north range.
Whoever killed Neal was someone who knew both the foreman and Chet. Someone Chet might still call a friend.
“Lord, Your word says to ask for wisdom whenever I need it, so I’m askin’.” Chet released a sigh. “And if whoever did this is someone I call a friend, let me leave the judgment up to You."
* * *
Shayla leaned back in her chair and tapped her index finger against her chin while reading the last few paragraphs. Poor Neal. She’d grown rather fond of Chet’s ranch foreman. But somebody from Eden Ranch had to die at this point in the story, and Neal was the logical character to go.
So now what was Chet, her cowboy/amateur detective going to do about it?
She rolled the chair back from her computer desk, rose and walked outside. Through the pines and aspens, she saw Paradise cattle grazing in knee-high grass.
Hmm. Chet’s cattle had been stolen. How hard was it to round up a bunch of them? No, not a bunch. A herd. So how difficult could it be? And how many trucks would be needed to haul out a hundred of them?
She descended the steps and strolled down the short drive, across the dusty country road and up to the barbed-wire fence that marked the border of O’Connell land.
“No gate. They’d have to snip the wire. Then they could back their trucks up to the opening. That would work…but I don’t want more than two or three men involved. Somebody could talk.” She scrunched up her mouth, deep in thought. “Dogs. They could use dogs to help them, I’ll bet. But what breed of dog?” She glanced at the brown-and-white cattle again. “And what kind of cows are those?”
Nat O’Connell could answer her questions.
The image of her handsome neighbor popped into her head. She wondered if he had the same kind of faith as the protagonist of her murder mystery.
She shook her head. She might be modeling the character of Chet after Nat, but she would be wise not to confuse the two. Her interest in Nat was confined to two things—her employment and his expert
ise as a rancher. Nothing beyond that.
It was the latter of the two that concerned her now. She needed to ask him a few questions about cattle ranching.
She glanced up. Judging by the sun, it was about noon. Maybe Nat would be on his lunch break. It seemed silly to wait until Monday, when she was scheduled to start work at his place. She needed answers now so she could keep writing.
Besides, she could use some exercise. A brisk walk would do her good.
That decided, she held open two strands of barbed wire and managed to slip through without snagging either her shirt or her shorts. Then she headed across the pasture, giving the grazing cattle a wide berth.
The rugged mountains that surrounded this long, wide valley—mountains perfectly described by the words purple majesty—still wore a frosting of snow on their highest peaks, despite the warmth of early June. Here in their shadow, wildflowers blanketed the valley floor, purple and white and yellow amidst a sea of pale green. The long grass whispered as it waved in a gentle breeze. In the distance, she heard the whine of a truck engine, a lonesome sound in the otherwise quiet day.
But Shayla didn’t feel lonely. She liked the solitude. She liked everything about Rainbow Valley. She couldn’t imagine anyone not liking it.
‘Thanks, Aunt Lauretta,” she whispered.
If it weren’t for her great-aunt, she would be living in Portland, stuck in another dead-end job, her writing dreams still on hold, unrealized.
She remembered the expression on her sister Anne’s face when Shayla announced her intention of moving to Idaho to write a mystery novel.
“Write a novel?” Anne exclaimed. “Why would you want to do that?”
And Anne wasn’t the only one who reacted that way. It was as if Shayla had never before mentioned her desire to write. All her brothers and sisters thought her crazy for leaving Portland and moving to this remote area. Her parents, too. None of them understood.
“Shouldn’t you just sell that old cabin?” her mother had asked. “It must be worth something. I know you’re discouraged about losing your job. Twelve years is a long time with one employer. But there must be something better for you to do than move to Idaho and fritter away the money Aunt Lauretta left you. You’re an excellent secretary, Shayla. You’ll find another position. You haven’t even tried. You could move home until then. That would save money.”
Shayla stopped walking and, for a moment, stood perfectly still, eyes closed, simply breathing in and out while telling herself not to be frustrated by her family’s lack of understanding. She knew they didn’t mean to be thoughtless or to hurt her feelings. She knew they loved her. Still, it would be nice if, just once, they…
A strange sound intruded on her thoughts.
She opened her eyes—and discovered an enormous bull staring back at her from about twenty-five yards away. The animal was complete with a ring in its nose, wicked-looking horns, and eyes that promised physical harm to whatever stood in its path.
She was in its path.
The bull pawed the ground, snorting, nostrils flared, and she knew in that instant that her time on earth was about to end. It was not the entrance into heaven that she’d imagined for herself.
Then she was airborne.
“Shayla!” a male voice shouted above the thunder of galloping hooves.
She would have replied, only she was helpless to do so. Her rescuer’s arm was wrapped tightly around her stomach, making it hard to draw a breath, let alone speak. Bent at the waist, staring at the ground speeding by beneath her, she bounced against the man’s thigh and the side of the horse as they raced across the pasture.
It seemed an eternity before the horse came to a halt, and Shayla was half lowered, half dropped to the ground.
“What were you thinking?”
Breathless, she looked up into Nat’s glowering eyes. “I…I…” she gasped, helpless to say anything else.
He swung down from the saddle. “You’re lucky Samson didn’t kill you.”
Her legs gave out, and she sat down with a soft thud.
“Hey, you okay?” Nat didn’t sound quite as angry as before.
“Yes, I’m okay. Just…just a bit frightened.”
“With good reason. That was a foolish stunt to pull.” He knelt down in front of her. “Don’t you pay attention to No Trespassing signs?”
“I…I didn’t see any signs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How could you not? They’re all along the fence you climbed over.”
Climbed over?
She glanced behind her. Sure enough, there was a white board fence. She didn’t remember either seeing it or climbing over it, but she must have done so. How else could she have…?
“Hey.” Nat’s fingers squeezed her shoulder. “You’d better put your head between your knees. You look like you’re gonna pass out”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve never fa—”
Blackness swallowed her whole.
* * *
Nat lifted Shayla into his arms and strode toward the house. His gelding followed behind of his own accord.
“Flatlanders ought to stay in the city where they belong,” Nat muttered. “Right, Blue?”
The horse snorted, as if in agreement.
“Fool female.”
Again a snort of agreement.
She was easy to carry, even in a dead faint. Probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred, maybe a hundred and five pounds. And she fit nicely against him. Between carrying her or stacking hay bales, as he’d been doing all morning, he’d choose carrying Shayla Vincent any day of the week.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms. She was cute, in her own unusual fashion.
Whoa, O’Connell! Back up the buckboard.
This city gal wasn’t going to make it through one central Idaho winter. By the time the snow was five feet deep outside the front door of that cabin, the little mystery writer would have hightailed it back to Oregon. And that was as it should be.
Besides, he didn’t care how cute his neighbor was. When he got interested in a female again, it was going to be with one who wanted to spend the rest of her days in this valley, living and working right alongside him, one who didn’t mind being snowbound for several months each winter, one who wanted the same things he wanted, including one who shared his newfound Christian faith.
The trouble was how to find a woman like that. He’d thought Joanne fit the bill. He’d thought they wanted the same things—this ranch, a houseful of kids, a simple way of life. But he’d been wrong. Painfully wrong.
He shook off the unpleasant memories as he climbed the steps to the veranda.
After entering the house, he carried Shayla into the great room. She started to come around as he laid her on the couch.
“What happened?” she asked softly, looking up at him with confused eyes.
“You fainted.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I think those were your exact words before you passed out.”
She pushed herself upright.
“I suppose you don’t remember your close encounter with Samson, either.”
“Samson?” Her eyes widened, then she lay down with a groan. “Oh, yes. I remember.” The color drained from her face a second time. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Hey. Stay with me.” He took hold of her hand. “Miss Vincent. Look at me.”
She obeyed with obvious effort. “You shouldn’t keep such a dangerous creature. Somebody could get hurt.”
“Seems to me that’s why I put up those signs you didn’t see. Besides, this is a cattle ranch. What did you expect to find? Little lambs?”
“You’re right.” She groaned again. “Guilty as charged.”
He stifled a grin. “You still look a bit green around the gills. Lie quiet while I get you a glass of water. Maybe it’ll help.”
As he walked away, he heard her feeble, “Thanks.”
* * *
Shayla wished she could disappear. She’d never fainted
in her life. In her not-so-humble opinion, swooning females were an embarrassment to their gender. She could imagine what her hunk of a cowboy neighbor thought of her now. Not that it should matter to her.
The image of that angry, snorting, pawing bull returned in a rush. She could almost feel its hot breath on her skin. She could almost feel those horns piercing her flesh.
The blood drained from her head, and she closed her eyes again.
“Here you go,” she heard Nat say as he returned to the room.
“He would have killed me, wouldn’t he? That bull.” She opened her eyes.
“He might have tried.” He held out the glass of water. “He’s plenty mean. I probably should haul him off to market, but he’s the best bull Paradise ever had. Just can’t make myself get rid of him now that he’s past his prime.”
Slowly she sat up. When it seemed she was going to stay upright this time, she took the glass from him. “How big is he? He looked enormous.”
“He weighs in at about twenty-two hundred pounds. About the max for a Hereford.”
She gulped, envisioning the bull’s horns and evil eyes.
“Never been on a working ranch before, have you?”
“Not really.” She took a sip of water. “No.”
“Well, then, there’s a few things you probably oughta know.” He sat on a nearby chair. “First lesson, read what’s posted. Think of the signs you find on fences and gates like traffic signs at a busy intersection. Run a stop sign and you’re likely to get hit by something coming the other direction.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Good.” He smiled.
She forgot the old bull. She forgot what she was doing there.
“So tell me a little about your life in the city. Portland, was it?”
“Yes.” She sounded out of breath, even to herself. She took another sip of water, giving herself a moment to regroup. “What would you like to know?”
Trouble in Paradise Page 2