What She'd Do for Love

by Cindi Myers

  “Sure thing.”

  Ryder said his goodbyes and headed for his truck. He drove out of town, to a ranch that bordered the Montgomery property. The rancher, Melvin Nimichek, met him on the front steps of the ranch house. “Right on time.” The stocky older man, dressed in a green-and-white striped snap button shirt, starched jeans and gray eel-skin boots, checked a heavy gold pocket watch. He then tucked it away in his jeans and offered a leathery hand. “Bud Montgomery told me I should talk to you again. You made a good impression on him.”

  “Thank you for seeing me. Mr. Montgomery’s assistance had meant a lot to me.” He couldn’t say why he and Bud had hit it off so well. In many ways, the rancher reminded Ryder of his dad, with the same direct manner and rock-solid code of ethics. But Bud was quieter than Martin Oakes. Whereas Ryder’s father was quick to tell Ryder what he should and shouldn’t do, Bud listened to what Ryder had to say, and didn’t try to push his own agenda. Maybe, since Ryder wasn’t his son, Bud didn’t feel the need to solve every problem or share every opinion.

  “Let’s walk up the drive and you can show me exactly how much of my property you intend to take.”

  “The state will pay the full market value for the land,” Ryder said. “And we’ll build fencing and even plant trees, grass and wildflowers. You’ll maintain your privacy and have great access to the highway. The value of your remaining property will likely increase.”

  “Don’t know how I’ll get used to hearing those big trucks zip up and down the highway all day and night.” Melvin matched Ryder’s stride. He was impressed the older man could keep up. “That’s a big chunk of my land you want—a third of my acreage. Prime pasture.”

  After years of drought the pasture was reduced to dirt and stubby grass, but Ryder figured the older man didn’t see it that way. He remembered when his cattle had grazed on lush grass. Maybe he even remembered when the only road into town had been a narrow dirt track. “We need enough land for the highway itself as well as utility right-of-ways and a buffer zone to protect the property owners on either side.”

  He stopped near the pink-flagged survey stakes the state had erected months earlier to mark the new route. “You see how there’s a gentle curve up through here. We’ll build up the roadway so water will drain off, with gravel catchments on either side to filter the runoff and keep oil, gas and other chemicals from washing into the groundwater.”

  “So I don’t have to worry about all that stuff washing into my well,” Melvin said.

  “No, sir. The state is committed to protecting the water. We all know how precious that resource is.”

  Melvin grunted and both men stared across the pasture. Ryder pictured the highway to come, a sweeping curve of pavement built to the most up-to-date, exacting standards. He wondered if the rancher saw the same thing.

  “My son doesn’t want me to sell,” Melvin said. “He thinks I should hire a lawyer and ask a judge for an injunction.”

  “You could do that,” Ryder said. “But it could cost you a lot of money to fight this, and I don’t think your chances of winning are very good. The state is really behind this project, and most of your neighbors have already agreed to sell the right of way we need.”

  “My son tells me if I sue, I could get my neighbors to go in with me.”

  “Is your son upset because he expects to inherit the ranch?”

  “Oh, he’ll inherit it, but he won’t ever ranch.” Melvin shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on the heels of his boots. “He runs some tech company in Dallas, designing computer games. But you know how kids are—they want to know the old home place is still there, even if they don’t have much practical use for it.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “He’s going on forty, but he’s still a kid to me.” The rancher looked Ryder in the eye. “You’ve been here long enough to see ranching isn’t what it used to be. The old-timers say it was this bad in the dust bowl days, and we came back, but I’m not going to live long enough to see that, I don’t think.”

  “I think we still need ranchers and farmers, but things have changed,” Ryder said.

  “I appreciate that you haven’t pressured me like some slick salesman.”

  “I’m an engineer, not a salesman. I have a job to do, but I can appreciate that this kind of decision isn’t easy.” Ryder had never felt the close ties to a place the way these people, who had lived and worked here for generations, did. But he knew what it was to love his family, and he imagined love of a home could be like that.

  “I told my son this was my decision to make, that I was looking out for my future as much as his. And I talked to my wife about it. We figure if we sell the land and take the money the state is offering, we’ll be more secure in our old age. We won’t have to depend on our son to pay the bills, and we can stay in our house. That’s worth something in itself.”

  Ryder waited. He’d learned the value of silence when dealing with people. They needed room to weigh their thoughts and draw their own conclusions. “Do you have the paperwork with you?” Melvin asked.

  “I have an agreement to sell. The state will draw up the closing papers and set a time for you to sign them and receive your check.”

  “Then let’s get it and get this thing done.”

  They returned to the truck and Ryder retrieved the contract to sell the land to the state. Melvin signed it and let out a sigh. “My great-grandfather settled here in 1882,” he said. “He took a section of land and his brother took a section. His brother sold out after only two years—that’s the land the Montgomerys have now. Over the years different people sold off little chunks, so I suppose I’m no different. You should have seen it in the good years, though. Back in the seventies when we had rain and the grass grew knee-high, cattle really was king and we thought the boom would go on and on.”

  Now that the deal was done, it was as if the older man needed to review the history of the place, to justify his decision all over again. Ryder had had the same experience with others. He accepted their stories as he had accepted their signatures, as part of the process of passing along a legacy. “I appreciate the contribution you’re making to this project,” he said. “I’ll stay in touch to let you know when to expect construction crews. We’ll try to disrupt your life as little as possible.”

  “I guess I’ll have a prime view of the roadwork,” he said. “I worked a highway crew one summer, a long time ago. It’ll be interesting to see how the methods have changed since then.”

  “Look me up anytime, and I’ll give you a tour, answer any questions you might have.” The men shook hands and Ryder climbed back into his truck. As he waited at the highway for a truck to pass, he thought of turning left, and stopping by the Rocking M. Maybe Christa would be there. But she’d be busy with her mother. The family didn’t need him disturbing them.

  Christa might not welcome his presence, anyway. She’d made it clear she didn’t think of him romantically, and though he would have welcomed her friendship, he wasn’t optimistic about that, either. She saw him only in the context of the highway project. To top it off, when they’d met in the Blue Bell last Saturday, he’d been so concerned with blocking any attempts his mother had at matchmaking, that Christa might have taken his protestations the wrong way.

  He flipped his blinker for a right turn and eased onto the road. When you only lived in a place for a short time, staying only because your job took you there, people never really got to know you. And he never really got to know them. Keeping his distance had been a survival skill he’d learned at a young age; don’t get attached and it won’t hurt so much to leave. But the people in Cedar Grove—Bud, Paul, and even Melvin and yes, Christa—made him wish for roots that ran deeper.

  * * *

  THE CHAMBER OF Commerce met for breakfast at the Blue Bell on Friday mornings. Etta Mae directed Christa to a
large table at the back of the room. “Christa! There’s a seat over here by me.” Kelly waved from midway down the table. Already feeling better about her decision to attend the meeting, Christa navigated a path through the chairs to join her friend. “You remember Didi Moffat, right?” Kelly indicated the dark-haired woman on her other side.

  “It’s Didi Raybourn now.” Didi offered her hand.

  “I saw Paul the other day.” Christa shook hands, getting comfortable in her chair. “He said y’all have a new baby.”

  “We do.” Didi leaned back so that Christa could see the infant carrier in the chair beside her. “This is little Alex.”

  “He’s adorable.” Christa offered a finger and the infant grasped it, and offered a toothless smile. She felt a brief stab of longing. She and Didi were the same age, yet Christa seemed years away from ever having a baby of her own.

  “What are you doing here?” Kelly asked. “Are you that bored at home?”

  “My mom volunteered me.” She chose a biscuit from the basket in front of her, and looked around for the butter. “But I thought it might be good to hear how the Chamber feels about the highway project.”

  “Some are for it, some are against it.” Kelly handed Christa a bowl of butter pats. “Though I think now that the project is a done deal, the Chamber has decided to do what it can to make the highway a positive, not a negative.”

  Rhonda Benson, tall and broad-shouldered with a crown of short brown curls framing a round face, loomed over the other end of the table. She tapped a fork against her water glass. “I want to call this meeting of the Cedar Grove Chamber of Commerce to order.”

  While Christa ate biscuits and eggs and sipped coffee that was better than any produced in a chain coffee shop, Rhonda quickly dispensed with minutes from the last meeting and a string of announcements about businesses that had closed or those that planned to relocate along the new highway. No one commented on the announcements; apparently such news was routine these days and they’d all accepted the changes as inevitable. Christa wondered if she’d come home when the highway was first announced would she could have made any difference? Would people have listened if she’d asked them to protest?

  “Now we come to new business,” Rhonda announced. “The Annual Summer Festival.”

  “Should we even have a festival this year, with so many businesses in transition?” Christa couldn’t see the woman who spoke, but several people around her nodded.

  “Absolutely we’re going to have a festival,” Rhonda said. “The money all goes to good causes—the Animal Shelter, the Food Pantry, and the Strangers’ Aid Society.”

  Christa leaned over to whisper to Kelly. “What’s the Summer Festival?” she asked.

  “Rhonda and some others came up with the idea a few years ago,” Kelly said. “It’s really fun. All the money goes to charity.”

  “With fewer businesses to participate, we’re all going to have to do our best to come up with clever ideas for the booths,” Rhonda said. “We want to give people a reason to visit, and we want to raise more money than ever for these worthy causes. Now, I want to hear your ideas.”

  “A dunking booth is always good,” someone said. “Especially if we can get a local celebrity, like the mayor or the school principal.”

  “Ned Yates always handles the petting zoo,” a woman said. “The children love that.”

  “Those are all splendid suggestions, but I’m looking for something new and different,” Rhonda said.

  “We should have a theme for the festival,” Christa said. “Something we can use in advertising the event, to promote interest.”

  Rhonda nodded. “What do you suggest?”

  Familiar faces turned toward her—some she had known since before she took her first steps. They were all waiting to see what the hometown girl with the big-city experience had to say. Christa hoped she lived up to their expectations. “Why not focus on local heritage?” she said. “We could feature displays about the ranches in the area, and organize the booths along a heritage trail. Each stop would highlight some interesting aspect of local history.”

  “I could make my booth like a little schoolhouse, and have pictures of early schools, and maybe an old desk and blackboard,” a woman said.

  “The bake sale booth could feature old recipes—and sell the historical society cookbook they put together a couple of years ago,” someone else said.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Rhonda said. “Thank you, Christa.”

  Kelly put her hand up. “Yes, Kelly?” Rhonda said.

  “I think we should have a kissing booth.”

  Laughter greeted this suggestion. Kelly’s smile never faltered. “But instead of women selling kisses, let’s turn it around and have men.”

  “I can guess one man we all hope will participate,” Traci, the bank teller, said. “Do you think we can persuade Ryder Oakes to offer up his lips for a good cause?”

  “I don’t think we want to risk any kind of sexual harassment claim,” Rhonda cautioned. “But I like that you’re thinking of new ideas for the booths.” She scanned the table. “Does anyone else have an idea?”

  “Instead of a kissing booth, maybe we have one of those bachelor auctions,” Didi said.

  “This town doesn’t have enough bachelors,” Kelly said. Several other women murmured in agreement.

  “Maybe not bachelors, then,” Didi said. “Maybe we ask guys to offer up their services for chores around the house. There are plenty of single moms and widows and older people who would love to have someone to paint or mend screens or something for the day. I think we’d get a lot of interest.”

  “Not an auction, a raffle,” Rhonda said. “That way no one’s feelings get hurt if they draw a low bid. We could ask the participants—men and women—to offer up four hours of their time for chores around the house.”

  “It’s not as much fun as a kissing booth,” Kelly said. “But I think people would like it. We’d probably sell a lot of tickets.”

  “I’d buy one,” a woman at the opposite end of the table said. “I’ve been after my husband to paint the back fence for two years now. It would be nice to get it finally done.”

  “If I win Ryder, can I use the four hours having dinner with him?” Traci asked.

  Rhonda brought her gavel down on the table, making the silverware jump. “Order.”

  Conversation died and everyone turned their attention to the chairwoman. “I think the handyman raffle is a great idea,” Rhonda said. “Kelly, you and Christa take the lead on that. Find us some willing participants and we’ll all help sell the tickets.”

  Christa opened her mouth to object to being volunteered for this assignment, but Kelly kicked her under the table. “Come on. It will be fun,” she said.

  “All right.” After all, she’d agreed to volunteer, and she’d rather work with Kelly than anyone else.

  “We’ll start with Ryder,” Kelly said. “I can’t wait to see his face when we tell him we want to raffle him off.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE DIRT ROADS around Cedar Grove took their toll on Ryder’s white truck, so most Saturday mornings he devoted to washing the truck, parked beneath a large live oak in front of his apartment. Barefoot, wearing old jeans and stripped to the waist, he enjoyed the fresh air and exercise and the end result of a clean truck.

  When the blue sedan pulled to the curb midway through his Saturday morning ritual, he thought at first the driver was coming to visit one of his neighbors. But when Christa Montgomery, dressed in pink shorts and a pink plaid sleeveless blouse, slid out of the driver’s seat, Ryder couldn’t help hoping she’d stopped to see him. He dropped the sponge back into the bucket of soapy water and waved.

  Christa returned the greeting and started toward him. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, so he couldn’t read her expression. Sh
e wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t seem angry, either.

  He walked out to meet her. After the coolness in the shade, the sun felt hot on his bare shoulders. “Hello, Christa.”

  “Hello, Ryder.” She stopped in front of him, but avoided his gaze.

  “Are you looking for me, or is this just a pleasant coincidence?” he asked.

  “I came to ask a favor.”

  “Anything for you.” He wasn’t normally a flirt, but she brought out that side of him. Standing here in the late summer sun, he was too aware of her long, bare legs and pink-clad curves. The light glinted off her hair and her cheeks flushed pink. From the sun, or from something else? Maybe he unsettled her; he liked the idea that he could do that.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. Yes, she was definitely uncomfortable. “The Chamber of Commerce sponsors a festival every summer, in the town park. All the proceeds go to local charities.”

  So it wasn’t a personal favor; he told himself he shouldn’t be disappointed. “How can I help?”

  “One of the committee members—not me—thought we could raise a lot of money if we held a raffle.”

  “I think raffles are a pretty time-honored way of raising money. What are you raffling?” And where did he come into this? Did she want him to buy tickets? Surely that wouldn’t make her so uncomfortable.

  “We’re asking men and women to offer their services doing things around the house—repairs and painting and housecleaning, things like that. People can buy raffle tickets for a chance to win four hours of chores from a particular person.”

  “And you want me to be one of those persons?”

  “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. After all, you don’t even live here.”

  “I’m living here for the time being—probably for the next couple of years. I don’t mind helping out. And I’m a pretty handy guy.”

  “All you have to do is show up at our booth on the day of the festival,” she said. “You can work out the details with whoever wins you. I mean, whoever wins your services. Your time.” Her cheeks blushed pink.