What She'd Do for Love

by Cindi Myers

  “Sounds like a good plan.” He yanked hard on another staple.

  “I’m sorry I was so harsh with you the other day,” she said. “When you took me out to look at the highway, I know you were only trying to help.”

  The words were as welcome as a chill breeze, but he tried to play it cool, not wanting to startle her. “I did want to help,” he said. “But you didn’t ask for my advice, so I shouldn’t have offered it.”

  “Still, I overreacted. If the invitation to go out with you is still open, I’d like to take you up on it.”

  “Really?” He couldn’t hold back a smile. So much for keeping cool. “You’ll go out with me?”

  “There’s no reason we couldn’t have dinner. Get to know each other better.”

  “That’s terrific. How about next Saturday evening?” He didn’t want to give her too much time to change her mind. “You can tell me how the interview goes.”

  “All right.”

  That settled, he felt no need to press her for more. They continued to work easily together, until all the old wire was off between the corner posts. Together, they rolled up the old wire and Ryder carried it over to Bud’s truck, along with the bag full of old staples he’d collected. Bud had unrolled the new wire in front of the posts, ready to be stapled in place.

  “The important thing is to stretch it tight between posts,” Bud said, as he clamped a fence stretcher onto one section of wire. “Christa, you pound in the staples while Ryder stretches the wire.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I promised your mother I’d take her shopping. She’s feeling good today and didn’t want to put it off.”

  Before she could protest, or Ryder could respond, Bud climbed into his truck, started the engine and drove away.

  Ryder pushed his hat back on his head and watched the older man hightail it down the dirt track. “Do you think your father planned this—leaving us alone together?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah.” She removed her own hat and smoothed back her bangs. “If Mom hadn’t wanted to go shopping, he probably would have come up with some other reason to leave.” She picked up a hammer and turned toward the fence. “Let’s get back to work.”

  Muscles straining, he pulled on the fence stretcher while she pounded staples into the hard posts. “I wouldn’t call this a romantic way to spend the morning,” she said as they rested between posts. “It’s really hard work.”

  “You’re holding your own,” he said.

  She selected another staple from the bag. “I may have lived in the city for a few years, but I’m still a ranch girl. Dad expected me to work as hard as the hands.”

  “Maybe it would have been different if he’d had a son.”

  “I doubt it. Women on ranches work as hard as the men. They have to.”

  “I’m glad I’m not having to do this by myself,” he said. “We make a good team.”

  “Well, at least you don’t make fun of how I hold a hammer. Rodrigo, our old hand, always told me I used tools like a girl. He gave me a hard time about it.”

  “I’d much rather be working with you than some old cowboy. Hold the hammer any way you want.”

  She laughed, and pounded in the next staple.

  By the time they reached the corner post, the sun was high overhead and they were both hot and sweating. Ryder looked at the remaining rolls of wire. “What now?” he asked.

  “You’ve done your four hours and I’ve had enough. Dad and Rodrigo and I can do the rest later.” She picked up the hammer and the rest of the fence staples. “We need to take the tools up to the barn. I can offer you a cold drink.”

  “That sounds good.”

  He moved aside a box of files, a camera, and a surveyor’s transit so that she could ride in the passenger seat of his truck. “Welcome to my office,” he said.

  She slid onto the seat and fastened her seat belt. “This morning I had to wait for my dad to unload a snaffle bit, two quarts of oil, a drencher and his barn jacket. So I’m used to it.”

  The cows stood in a clump by the windmill now, and turned their heads to watch the truck as it passed. “Stop by the house first,” Christa said. “I’ll get us some iced tea. Then we can go to the barn.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RYDER FOLLOWED CHRISTA through the back door into an old-fashioned kitchen with dark wood cabinets, speckled Formica countertops and a red linoleum floor. A feed store calendar hung on the wall by the back door, and a row of ceramic canisters shaped like ears of corn sat by the stove. Ryder had sat in similar kitchens all over the country, talking to ranchers and farmers and friends. Christa filled two glasses from old-fashioned ice trays, and then poured tea from a crockery pitcher. “Do you take sugar?” she asked.

  “No. Plain is fine.”

  “There’s sliced ham, if you want a sandwich.”

  “No thanks. Not just now.” He didn’t want her to make him a sandwich, or do anything other than stand here with him in this serene place, at ease, no longer running away.

  Except that she wasn’t really at ease, and part of her still wanted to run. “We’d better get those tools out to the barn,” she said, and moved past him, out the back door.

  She started to climb into the truck, but he leaned over the tailgate and took out the hammer, pliers and fence stretcher. “I can carry these,” he said. He tucked the hammer and pliers into the pockets of his jeans and hefted the stretcher in one hand. “Let’s walk.”

  “All right.” She fell into step beside him, matching her stride to his own. A breeze carried her scent to him: floral perfume, shampoo and the faint underpinning of clean sweat. Feminine and earthy. Provocative.

  A horse greeted them as he pulled open the barn door. He left the tools on a work bench just inside the door, and moved to the stalls. A quartet of horses stood watching them with alert brown eyes, silky tails switching back and forth. Ryder smoothed the nose of the closest animal, a tall bay with a black mane and tail. “That’s Peanut, my dad’s favorite.” Christa moved in beside him, almost close enough to touch.

  She held out her hand and a second horse, a brown-and-white paint, stepped over. “This is Susie, my horse. The other two are Cinnamon and Buster.” She drained her tea glass and set it atop the fence post. “Do you ride?”

  “I’m no expert, but I’ve ridden some.”

  “Want to try out Buster?”

  “You mean it?”

  “Sure. The horses need the exercise.”

  “Then let’s go. You promised to show me the ranch once. I’d like to see it.” Most of all, he’d like to see the land through her eyes, and try to understand what this place meant to her.

  They saddled the horses and he swung up on the chestnut gelding named Buster. The horse danced sideways for a few seconds, then seemed to accept the stranger on his back and followed Christa and Susie out of the barn. “Where to?” Ryder asked.

  “Want to see the original ranch house, where my grandparents lived when they first came here?”

  “I’d like that.”

  She dug her heels into the horse’s ribs and took off. Ryder followed, his eyes fixed on her erect figure in the saddle. Her dark hair gleamed beneath the brim of her hat and the faded jeans hugged her curves. He had a new appreciation for cowgirls.

  He spotted the house long before they reached it. It was a low, rectangular structure huddled against a small rise. Christa reined her horse to a stop in front of it and swung down out of the saddle.

  “Does anyone live here now?” Ryder asked when he joined her.

  “Not now.” She wrapped her horse’s reins around a post beside a water trough. Ryder did the same for his mount. “We use it for storage,” she said. “Dad replaced the roof a couple of years ago to keep it from falling in.”

  “So this is
where your grandparents lived?” He remembered the couple from the picture—the weathered, bowlegged man and the tiny Asian woman.

  “They lived here when they first married. But the house is a lot older than that. I think my grandmother told me it was built about 1920.”

  A faint dirt track ran in front of the house. A windmill turned lazily, pumping water into a rusting metal tank. The only sound was the snuffling of the horses as they drank. “It’s pretty remote,” Ryder said.

  “It is. I like to visit sometimes to be alone and think.” She walked over to some flowers that bloomed at the base of the metal tank. Roses, he thought. Pink, with small, open blooms. “My grandmother planted these. Even after they moved, she came out here to tend them. After she died, my dad punched a hole in the bottom of the tank so water would trickle out and keep them alive.”

  He tried to imagine the taciturn, practical rancher and his delicate, foreign born mother. No matter how many years she lived here, Christa’s grandmother would have always stood out as different. “Do you think she missed Vietnam?” he asked.

  “She never said. But then again, she lived here far longer than she lived there.” Christa stopped and stared at the old house, the empty windows staring blindly back. “I think she thought of this as home.” She glanced at Ryder. “Do you miss any of the places you’ve lived before?”

  “When I was little, I was always homesick for the place we had just left. But after a while I stopped doing that.”

  “You learned not to get attached.”

  “I guess so.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a good way to live. Always holding back.”

  He heard the disapproval in her voice, judging him and finding him wanting. “I don’t think of it that way,” he said. “I think of it as living in the moment. Enjoying what I have right now. Appreciating who I’m with.” He moved over beside her, almost but not quite touching, and looked down into her eyes. “I get the feeling you’re the one who’s holding back with me.”

  A small V formed between her brows. “Because I’m not throwing myself at you like half the women in town?”

  “I like that about you.”

  The frown deepened. “I’m not playing hard to get.”

  “I know that. I also know that I’m really attracted to you.” He touched her arm, a gentling gesture. “And I think you’re attracted to me.”

  She stiffened, but she didn’t move away. “I said I’d go out with you. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess I’m greedy. What if I said I wanted to kiss you?”

  She wet her lips. The tip of her tongue slicked across her luscious mouth and got his blood pumping. “I’m not afraid of a kiss,” she said.

  He bent his head and covered her mouth with his own. Her lips were smooth and cool and tasted of cherries. Sweet and a little surprising. She rose up on her tiptoes, leaning in, and slid one hand up to steady herself against his chest. She kissed him back, as ardently as he kissed her. Another surprise.

  Even after their lips parted, they stared into each other’s eyes for several seconds. They were both breathing hard, as if they’d run a long way.

  She turned away first. “I think we’d better go back to the house now,” she said. She moved away; he didn’t try to stop her. Maybe she was right. No telling what might happen if they kept on kissing like that.

  She untethered her horse and swung into the saddle, then galloped away, as if pursued by bandits.

  Ryder followed at a more leisurely pace, savoring the memory of that kiss, the feel of her in his arms. She’d been right when she’d guessed he’d learned at an early age not to attach himself to places. He found it hard to be close to most people, too. He was always friendly, but he kept an emotional distance. Good-byes were always easier when the people you were leaving didn’t know the real you.

  Christa was the exception. He wanted her to see him as he really was. And he wanted her to like what she saw.

  * * *

  FRIDAY MORNING, CHRISTA drove to Dallas for her job interview. As the miles rolled by, she told herself she should be thinking about her résumé and the questions an interviewer might ask, but what filled her thoughts was Ryder. Ryder, muscles straining against his shirt as he stretched the fence wire. Ryder on Buster looking as at home in the saddle as any cowboy. Ryder looking into her eyes, stripping away all her attempts to hide from him. Ryder’s lips on hers, kissing her until she was dizzy.

  She was crazy to let him get that close. Crazier still to invite more closeness with their date tomorrow night. She needed home and stability and familiarity; he wanted none of those things. Even if he would commit to one person—commit to her—he’d expect her to follow him around the country like a nomad. The thought tied her stomach in knots.

  Her grandmother had followed the man she loved halfway across the world, but she’d been younger, and willing to make changes. Christa was neither of those things, and she didn’t want to get involved with a man who required such negotiations. Either she’d be unhappy moving to follow him, or he’d be restless, stuck in one place with her.

  And she couldn’t afford to think about any of this now. She had to focus on this job interview. Despite her natural inclination to resist change, she wanted to keep an open mind about this position. Maybe it was exactly what she needed to get her moving forward again.

  She found the office she was looking for, a sleek glass-and-steel high rise jutting out of the flat prairie like a candle on a cake. She parked in the garage and took the elevator up to the thirty-fourth floor. Already the high heels she’d chosen were hurting her feet, after weeks in flat boots and sandals.

  “Ms. Montgomery, so nice to meet you.” The man who greeted her was only a few years older than her, with a dark goatee and sandy hair. “I’m Chad Bremer. And this is Joyce Palmyra and Randall Selvin.” The other two, who stood slightly behind him, were older: Joyce a sleek blonde in her forties, Randall a distinguished, swarthy fifty-something.

  “You have some very nice work in your portfolio,” Joyce said as they walked down a gleaming hallway between rows of cubicles. “Some very interesting small projects.”

  “We tend to work on a large scale here,” Randall said before Christa could comment. “We’re involved in national and regional campaigns for some of the top Fortune 500 companies.”

  “I’m especially interested in work for non-profits.” Christa regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. It was far too early in the interview process to mention anything like that. She didn’t miss the frowns that passed between the two older members of the team.

  “We’ve done some of that, too,” Chad said. “We did a big campaign for a charity with a national profile last year.”

  Christa kept quiet this time. They passed more cubicles. She’d probably end up in one of them if she took this job. She thought wistfully of the open loft where her former company had been headquartered. She’d had a workspace with a view of a greenbelt, and had set up a bird feeder right outside her window.

  “We employ a team approach, and if you were selected for this position, you’d work on as many as a dozen campaigns at once,” Randall said. “Most people really enjoy the variety. For instance, right now we’re working with a private contractor who specializes in building toll roads, a major oil company, a baby food manufacturer, and several political campaigns.”

  “It sounds very interesting,” Christa said. Also stressful and a bit daunting. She had interviewed at a company like this while she was still in college. Back then, she’d been excited about the prospect of being part of a large group. She’d be able to learn so much, and eventually advance so far. She’d even been disappointed to land the job with a smaller concern instead.

  She tried, but couldn’t muster any of that original excitement. Had she changed so much in only a few years? “Let’s step in here
and get to know you better.” Joyce led the way into a large conference room. Christa sat on one side of a long table, Chad next to her and Joyce and Randall across from her.

  The usual battery of interview questions followed, examining her strengths and weaknesses. “What’s your favorite part of marketing work?” Joyce asked.

  “I enjoy working with clients to discover their core message and to find creative ways to communicate that message to others,” Christa said. “For example, I once worked on a campaign designed to encourage more parents to vaccinate their kids. I designed advertisements that focused on parents’ desire to protect their children even when they weren’t around, so we showed kids wearing bicycle helmets and skateboard pads and other protective gear, and related vaccinations to the same kind of proactive decisions.”

  “What about commercial clients?” Randall asked. “What kind of experience do you have with things besides public service announcements?”

  “Actually, I have quite a lot of experience in that area.” She tried not to let his disdain for public service work rattle her. “I designed a social media campaign for an up-and-coming dress designer that doubled her business. And I was part of a team that launched a line of seasonal brews for one of the largest breweries in the state.”

  “What is your least favorite aspect of the job?” Chad asked.

  Christa hated questions like this. You couldn’t be honest and say you hated meetings or being micromanaged or any of the annoyances that came with every job. You had to find an answer that was more positive than negative, something like “I hate when I don’t just wow the client with my brilliance.”

  She smiled weakly. “I hate when the results of a campaign aren’t as good as expected. I want to do a great job every time.”

  This answer seemed to satisfy them. Joyce closed the file with Christa’s résumé and other information. “Thank you for your time today, Ms. Montgomery. We’ll be in touch if we decide to offer you the job.”