Sweet Mountain Rancher

by Loree Lough

  “I’m starved,” Travis said once they arrived home. “Okay if I make a grilled cheese sandwich?”

  “Biology test tomorrow,” Kirk reminded him.

  “I know, I know.” He addressed the group. “Anybody else want one?”

  Only Thomas—the one who could use a little more meat on his bones—remained quiet.

  “All right,” Kirk said, “but that means lights out the minute you get upstairs.”

  Eden wondered which of the teens would volunteer to clean up, to put off bedtime a few minutes more.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” Thomas said.

  “But you ain’t even eatin’,” Wade pointed out.

  “Aren’t,” Eden said. “Let’s use paper plates. And I’ll clean up the griddle.”

  Several of the boys distributed napkins, plates, and paper cups of milk. The others formed an assembly line, one buttering bread, another slapping on sliced cheese, while Travis tended the stove.

  Eden thought back a few months, to when a similar event would have incited arguments and shoving matches that led to threats and balled-up fists. Time—and Kirk’s steady presence—helped her deescalate the brawls, and slowly they began to put into practice the lessons she’d taught about negotiations and compromises that allowed them to live in harmony.

  They devoured two dozen sandwiches, all while discussing what Nate had taught them…and wondering aloud what more they might learn on their next trip to the Double M. It was so good to see them looking forward to something that Eden found herself fighting tears.

  “Hey,” Wade said, “what you cryin’ about, Eden?”

  “My eyes are as tired as the rest of me,” she said. “And speaking of tired, it’s time for you guys to head upstairs.”

  “Biology exam,” Kirk repeated.

  Groaning, the boys disposed of their plates. They each said good-night before heading for their rooms.

  Half an hour later, when Eden closed the door to her own room, she expected to lie awake, worrying about where she’d find the money to fix the roof, the leaky washing machine and on-its-last-legs dryer. Instead, memories of Nate’s interactions with the boys lulled her to sleep.

  She woke feeling rested and upbeat, until the boys gathered at the table, devouring oatmeal or crunchy cereal as they picked up where they’d left off last night. Listening as they recounted the trip to the Double M…and their perceptions of Nate.

  “I like him,” Travis said, “’cause he ain’t all full of himself.” He glanced at Eden and quickly added, “Isn’t.”

  “Yeah, but all grown-ups seem real at first,” DeShawn observed. “Takes a while before the phony wears off and the real hangs out.”

  Eden started to disagree, but what if he’d been correct? Jake had seemed too good to be true at first, too; what if Nate’s friendly behavior had been nothing more than a polite facade? Every one of the teens had experienced some level of abandonment…

  Once their plates and bowls were stacked in the sink, they grumbled all the way to the science lab, well aware that after the exam, Kirk intended to walk them through their last assignment of the year: frog dissection.

  Dishes done, Eden joined them, standing at the back of the classroom as her able assistant handled their protests with his usual aplomb. The young counselor had completed several degrees, and could surely earn far money more teaching or counseling elsewhere. Instead, he’d chosen to dedicate himself to the boys of Latimer House, teaching math, science and history, as well as fixing broken doorknobs and leaky faucets. Eden was the first to admit that without him, the place might have fallen down around them—literally and figuratively—months ago.

  The doorbell pealed and Eden hurried to respond to the impatient, unscheduled visitor. Brett Michaels stood on the porch. Eden’s nerves prickled with dread as the landlord swaggered into the foyer.

  She forced a smile. “Brett. Hi. What brings you here so early on a weekday morning?”

  As usual, he didn’t answer her question. “You look lovely, as always.” He nodded toward the classrooms. “Amazing, considering what you do for a living.”

  Eden ignored the snide remark. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen…”

  “Sounds great,” he said, following her.

  Something about his attitude heightened her tension. Back in November, the purpose of a similar early-morning visit had been to raise the rent a hundred dollars a month. She’d managed, barely, by trading her new car for the big clunking van, and by directing a portion of her county-paid salary toward other Latimer bills. Adding those saved dollars to minuscule funds raised by local churches and a handful of regular donors, she’d made every payment. Eden didn’t know what other corners she could cut if he wanted more.

  “Almost fresh from the oven,” she said, peeling the plastic wrap from a chipped ceramic plate of chocolate chip cookies.

  “My favorite. But you knew that, didn’t you.” He sat at the Formica and chrome table donated by Kirk’s parents. Winking, Brett added, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me.”

  Not a chance. Eden grabbed a mug from the drainboard and filled it. “Now, now, we both know I’m not your type.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Brett looked genuinely surprised. “And what, exactly, do you think my type is?”

  The same kind of woman Nate is attracted to, she thought, frowning slightly. Eden searched her mind for a polite way to say “stuck up,” and noticed a crack in the ceiling. Brett followed her line of vision, from the light fixture above the table to the corner beside the back door. He sipped his coffee, pretending not to see it.

  “She’d need a degree from Barnard,” Eden said finally. “Or Brown, and memberships at Valverde Yacht Club and Castle Pines Golf Club.” Laughing quietly, she added, “For starters.”

  “Is that how you see me? As some guy who’s only interested in social networking?”

  To be honest, Eden thought, yes.

  “But, I’ve always thought you and I would make a great team.”

  Just what she needed—another control freak. The only thing she and Brett had in common was Latimer House. And a fondness for chocolate chip cookies.

  “We haven’t seen you around here in months.” She shoved the plate closer to his elbow. “What have you been up to these days?”

  He helped himself to another treat. “Funny you should ask.”

  Something told her she wouldn’t find anything funny in what he was about to say.

  “I got an interesting offer last week,” he said around a bite. “One that could prove profitable.”

  She sensed a big if coming and put her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see them shaking. Maybe she could buy a moment or two to prepare herself for the bad news. “Haven’t heard from your mom lately, either. Guess that means she’s still on her world cruise?”

  “Never better,” Brett said. “Talked to her yesterday, as a matter of fact. She sends her love.”

  “Wait, you talked about me during a ship-to-shore phone call?”

  “Sort of.”

  His tendency to sidestep straight answers reminded her yet again of Jake, and Eden didn’t like it one bit. “She asked what my plans were for today, and I mentioned that I needed to pay you a visit. She said that as soon as she’s unpacked, she wants to tell you all about her trip over lunch.” He grunted. “For your sake, somewhere other than Tables.”

  Cora Michaels loved it there, and often commented on the quaint Kearney Street location, the restaurant’s white picket fence and eclectic collection of mismatched tables and chairs. Eden would happily have met Cora at the interstate rest stop if she’d suggested it; Brett’s mother was a lovely woman…and one of Latimer’s most generous donors. At their last meeting, Cora confided that if it hadn’t been for Duke’s firm hand—and his willingness to adopt her sullen, unruly only child—Brett would have ended up in a place like Latimer House.

  But why had Brett told Cora that he needed to visit today?


  “How soon will she get home?”

  “Who knows? She was supposed to get back last week. Now it’s next week.” He shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s taken up with another old geezer.”

  Eden laughed. “How old are you that geezer is the first word that popped into your mind?”

  He took another sip of coffee and met her eyes over the mug’s rim. “Maybe someday you’ll share your secret coffee recipe.”

  “It’s no big secret. I don’t follow instructions.”

  He raised his eyebrows as he put down the mug. “Beg pardon?”

  “On the coffee can. The instructions say to use a rounded scoop. For every cup. Too strong. Way too strong, and in my opinion, I think it’s because they want you to use up the grounds faster.” Nervousness was to blame for her stubby fingernails, and fear tended to make her talk too fast. Waiting for Brett to deliver his bad news was making her feel both. Eden took a deep breath and willed herself to calm down because if history repeated itself, she’d start stuttering next.

  “So I use half as much, er, many. Coffee grounds per pot, that is.”

  “Makes sense,” he said, dusting crumbs from his fingers.

  He sounded bored. Uninterested. Distracted, no doubt, by the awful message he’d come to deliver.

  “So about this proposal I was telling you about…”

  She squeezed her hands together so tightly, her knuckles ached.

  “I thought it only fair to run it by you, give you a chance to make a counteroffer before I sign anything.”

  “A counteroffer?” Could he hear her pounding heart from his side of the table?

  “Yes. Someone wants to buy Latimer House.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Brett bypassed her comment. “Not as a rehab center for young criminals, of course. The buyer wants to rehab the house and live here.”

  Yet again, she ignored his unkind reference to her boys. “And you think I can present you with a better offer?”

  “Well, that’s the general idea. But—”

  “Oh, now I know you’re joking,” she said. “My savings account balance doesn’t even have a comma in it anymore!” Thanks to you, she finished silently.

  Brett chuckled. “Always the kidder.” His expression went stony and professional as he leaned back in the chair. “But you didn’t let me finish.”

  In truth, her bank statement did show a comma—and a few digits preceding it—thanks to the small estate she’d inherited from her grandparents. Their house on the other side of town wasn’t as big as this one, but it would do…if Brett forced her hand. Denver officials would no doubt demand an inspection before issuing a permit to house the boys at Pinewood, and sadly, the tenants hadn’t left it in very good condition. Eden had no idea what it might cost to bring it up to code.

  Brett knocked on the table. “Earth to Eden…”

  “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “Are you okay? You look a little green around the gills.”

  Green. As in money. “How much did your buyer offer for Latimer House?”

  When Brett named his price, her heart rate doubled.

  “Oh my,” she whispered. “How soon do you need an answer?”

  He shrugged. “How much time do you need?”

  Why this constant game of cat and mouse! Couldn’t the man answer just one question straight-out?

  “How much time do I have?”

  Brett’s face softened slightly. “For anyone else, I’d say sixty days. But because I like you, I’ll stretch it to ninety.”

  Her gaze darted to the calendar on the wall behind him. He might as well have said ninety minutes. Plus, his timing couldn’t have been worse. Most of the boys were making steady progress, changing from angry, mistrustful teens into productive, hopeful young men. This place, along with the steadfast work of Kirk and the handful of volunteers—psychology students, mostly—who helped run it, had given the kids stability and taught them that some adults, at least, could be trusted to act in their best interests. If Brett sold the place right out from under them? She shuddered.

  Brett got to his feet. “Give the offer some thought and get back to me, one way or the other. Just don’t wait too long, okay?”

  Eden stood, too, wrapped half a dozen cookies in a paper napkin and handed them to him.

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, tucking them into his jacket pocket before making his way to the foyer.

  As soon as he drove away, Eden went back to the kitchen and slid her to-do list from under the napkin holder. “Go to Pinewood,” she wrote across the top. Maybe Shamus had exaggerated when he’d described the mess her tenants had left behind. The visit would have to wait until tomorrow, though, because after teaching two classes and preparing tonight’s supper, there wouldn’t be time to drive to the other side of town. She pictured the clothesline she’d rigged in the basement to aid the limping dryer, and every clean-but-wrinkly shirt and pair of jeans that awaited her steam iron.

  On her way to the classrooms at the back of the house, Eden peeked into the hall mirror. The boys were shrewd, and one look at her troubled expression would make them worry, too. She smiled and fluffed her hair, and felt a strange connection to Scarlett O’Hara.

  Because for the first time, Eden truly understood the quote, “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MINUTE EDEN pulled up to Pinewood, her heart sank.

  She parked the van near the deep wraparound porch and hoped the interior of her grandparents’ three-story farmhouse was in better shape than the exterior.

  It was not.

  A slow tour of the house where she and Stuart had spent so many happy years proved that weathered clapboards and lopsided shutters were the least of her worries.

  Last time she’d been here—to deliver the lease to a nice young family—the chandelier had painted a thousand minuscule rainbows on the tin ceiling. Now, years of cooking grease and cobwebs clung to each crystal teardrop. A fresh coat of paint would hide the scrapes and fingerprints that discolored the walls, but repairing the gouged, dull oak floors would require hours of backbreaking labor. Things were worse in the kitchen, where cabinet doors hung askew and floor tiles showed hairline cracks. There were glaring, empty spaces where the stove and fridge once stood. And in both bathrooms, missing faucets and broken medicine cabinets, dumped unceremoniously into the claw-foot tubs, made her tremble with anger.

  Eden sat on the bottom step of the wide staircase and held her head in her hands.

  “Hey, half-pint.”

  She looked up. “Hi, Shamus. It’s good to see you.”

  The elderly neighbor drew her into a grandfatherly hug, then held her at arm’s length. “I suppose you’ve taken the grand tour.”

  She nodded.

  “Bet you thought ol’ MaGee was exaggerating, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly. But I did hope you had overstated things a bit.”

  Scowling, he shook his head. “Don’t know how they sleep at night, leaving Pinewood in such sorry shape, ’specially after all you did for ’em.” He studied her face.”

  How did she feel? Worried. Sad. Embarrassed, because Gramps had been right: “You think with your heart instead of your head,” he’d said, time and again. “Someday, that good-natured personality of yours is going to hurt you.”

  The way Eden saw it, poor judgment, not temperament, had hurt her. She was almost as much to blame for this mess as the Hansons. All the signs were there: Unkempt children. Unmowed lawn. Undone household chores. Late payments—and for the past six months, no payments at all. She’d bought into every one of their excuses. Harold lost his job. Lois’s car was rear-ended, putting her out of work, too. The oldest boy cracked a tooth eating walnuts. The youngest girl broke her toe trying to stop the playground merry-go-round. “Just give us a month,” they’d said, “and we’ll get back on track.” She’d suspected all along that they saw her as a pushover, but she couldn’t evict them mid
winter, or midsummer, for that matter.

  “Desperate people do desperate things, I guess,” she said at last.

  He eyed her warily. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. The Hansons are deadbeats, plain and simple.” His tone softened. “You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t pull the wool over this old man’s eyes.”

  Since childhood, she’d wondered whether Shamus’s mixed metaphors were inadvertent, or a quirky attempt at humor.

  “In your shoes, I woulda booted ’em to the curb after they missed the second payment.”

  “Please,” she said. “You aren’t hard-hearted enough to put asthmatic, anemic kids into the street.” Eden hadn’t wanted to do it, either, even after they’d fallen so behind.

  “Quit lookin’ so guilty. You did what you had to do. You couldn’t keep paying the taxes, insurance, county fees—without sinking yourself.” He snorted. “You should have let me handle them, instead of Joe Templeton.”

  She’d let the owner of the property management firm get away with a lot, too. “Well, what’s done is done, I guess.”

  “You’re well within your rights to take the lot of ’em to court. My grandson just got his law degree. Right now, he’s playing gopher to some big shot at a downtown legal firm, and he’s itchin’ to sink his teeth into a case of his own. Bet he’d give you a real good price, just for the privilege of flexing his law muscles against those deadbeats and that lousy excuse for a property manager.”

  The way things were going, she probably couldn’t even afford Shamus’s inexperienced grandson.

  “Want me to talk to Ricky for you?”

  “Ricky…not that little blond kid who used to picked Gran’s roses as presents for Maggie?” Eden pictured his sweet-tempered wife.

  Shamus beamed. “One and the same.”

  “Wow. Hard to believe he’s old enough to have completed law school.”

  “Now, now,” he said, “you can’t change the subject on a fella with tunnel vision. I’ll email his contact info to you, and tell him to expect your call.”