Home on the Range

by Ruth Logan Herne

  She said nothing, and that wasn’t exactly the answer he was looking for. “So what do you think?”

  She glanced out the door before drawing her eyes back to him. “They’re girls.”

  “Like, normal?”

  She winced as if wondering how he could be so far off, then raised one questioning brow. He interpreted the silent message and sighed. “Can we help them?”

  She stared out the door where the girls had climbed into the extended cab of his truck. Dakota perched in her seat, animated as ever, and Cheyenne sat as far away from her outgoing sister as she could get, quiet and withdrawn, gazing out the window at nothing. “We’ll need time. She’s not exactly happy.”

  “She used to be.”

  Elsa’s look of interest invited him to continue.

  “A long time ago. She and my wife were very close.”

  “And your wife is no longer in the picture.”

  “No.” Talking about this pinched his collar tighter, but maybe that was because he never talked about this. He glanced down, wondering what she thought. Did she lay the blame squarely at his door? Because he was pretty good at doing that all by himself.

  “Hoyl, huh?” He changed the subject with a glance toward the bird. “The mythological bird blessed with immortality for refusing the forbidden fruit when Adam offered it in the Garden of Eden.”

  She smiled at him, and when she did it was like the way the sun broke through the other day, making things brighter, more vibrant. “You paid attention in school.”

  “Jewish Studies 101, at a time when I thought it was important to expand my consciousness.”

  “You no longer feel that way, I take it?” she asked as they walked outside and approached the truck.

  “I’m storing the wealth of somewhat useless knowledge for another time,” he answered. He put his hat back in place and dipped his chin toward the pickup. “Between them and the ranch, I’ve got my hands full. And helping the town get things back in order. I never thought…” He stopped the comment before finishing it and frowned, wishing he hadn’t started it at all.

  “You never thought?” She led him gently, and when he brought his eyes to hers, it was there again, depths of empathy in a calm sea of pale green and blue.

  “About being a single parent. It wasn’t something I’d ever considered or thought about or planned.” He shrugged. “It was the last thing on earth that I wanted to happen. And then it did. So here I am.”

  She kept her eyes on his.

  She didn’t smile or nod or smooth it over with empty words. She simply let her gaze meet his, and then she took a small step back, breaking the connection. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time?”

  Like he had a choice? And even if he did, this time frame allowed him a full day of work, and that was critical right now. “Sure.”

  She nodded, waved to the girls, and walked back to the house while he climbed into the truck. Cheyenne nailed him instantly.

  “I’m not coming here again, Dad. Not ever. Never!”

  He started the engine, praying for words, longing for wisdom, and then he remembered what Elsa had done in the house.

  She’d moved the conversation on to something else, so he tried that. “ ’Kota, do you really love the shirt you got for Christmas that much?”

  “The most!” She beamed at him with such openness and love that he had to sometimes remind himself not to play favorites. “Carly Jansen has one just like it, so some days we pretend we’re twins!”

  “Maybe their family will take you in,” Cheyenne muttered.

  Normally he’d scold her. Make her apologize.

  He didn’t. He aimed a smile at Dakota and said, “I’d miss you too much, kid. I like my girls at home. With me.”

  His words made Dakota smile and squirm, happy. Cheyenne did neither, but she stopped arguing as he crested the hill. A light-bulb moment made him reexamine his parenting skills. Cheyenne engaged him with confrontation constantly. What if he didn’t engage? What if he moved on, like Elsa did today? Would it lessen the arguing and call a halt to the regular standoffs? It couldn’t hurt to try.

  He turned the truck onto their street a few minutes later and pulled into their classic colonial on the indistinctive suburban street, not far from the girls’ elementary school. He parked the truck in the drive, grabbed his hat, and started for the house, then paused, letting the girls pass him.

  “Nick, hey!” Ray Morris waved from next door as he mowed his lawn with freshly sharpened precision blades. “Listen, if you’re pressed for time and need me to do some bush trimming for you, just say the word. I’ve got vacation coming next week and you know I don’t mind helping out.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Ray.” Nick grabbed the mail, opened the house, followed the girls inside, and was immediately surrounded by neutrality.

  Was it walking into Elsa’s odd cottage, seeing the bird’s vibrant plumage, or driving into forest he hadn’t explored in nearly two decades that made his home seem bland? Pale walls, white cabinets, light wood accents, plain lighting. He stood still, gazing around. If he wanted to, he could pick this house up, move it into any suburban subdivision in the United States, and it would fit, and for some reason that bothered him today. Why should a sit-in-the-saddle western man bide his time in a faded existence?

  He set his hat down on the counter like he always did and realized the reason the hat always looked out of place was because the hat was out of place in his house. He stared around, but then Cheyenne screeched at Dakota from upstairs.

  Reality broadsided his musings, but for a moment he saw a decade of choices flash before him, most of them wrong.

  Could he fix them?

  The girls’ shouts shoved the question aside, but as he climbed the stairs, it wasn’t the dark hat against the white background that he saw. It was a glimmer for the future, a possibility he’d shoved aside long ago. Why did he live in the land of manicured lawns when the wide-open range owned his heart? Why couldn’t he begin anew? Both girls longed for what he’d been denying them until the past few weeks, a chance to be true ranch daughters.

  He hurried upstairs to tackle the current confrontation, but with a lighter step than he’d known for a while. Once the girls were tucked into bed, he pulled up pages of possibilities on his laptop.

  Staying stagnant had lost its appeal, and as he bookmarked house plans to share with a local builder, he wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner.

  Probably because your father kept telling you to.

  He drummed a finger against the tabletop because the mental reminder was spot on. Sam had been urging him to build a house on the ranch from the beginning. He hadn’t done it for two reasons: one, because his father urged him to; and two, because Whitney wanted a normal life, as she called it, away from unglamorous farm work.

  He’d done as she asked because he wanted to show his father that sacrificial love bound a marriage.

  And how did that all work out for you?

  The stabbing thought cut, but not as deep as it used to. The wife who claimed to want a normal, all-American suburban lifestyle had left him for a rodeo cowboy, and the irony wasn’t lost on Nick. He called local contractor Josh Washington and set up an appointment to meet.

  As he passed the mirror at the top of the stairs, he paused. A hint of Sam Stafford gazed back at him: like father like son, and now like daughter, boots-in-the-mud stubborn. If he changed up his paths, maybe he could unmire himself from chronic mistakes and keep Cheyenne from following a similar pattern.

  Trying to mold her according to Whitney’s plan had been foolish. He didn’t see that soon enough, and now those choices were the only scrap Cheyenne had left of her mother, compounding the error. A part of her longed to be the ranch kid she wanted to be, and another part yearned to make her absentee mother proud. Cheyenne was her own conundrum.

  But he was here. He was the parent. It was up to him to smooth the way, and as he moved toward his room he realized that parenting wasn�
��t easy, and it didn’t even feel all that natural some days. He’d noticed that more lately. But it was the most crucial job he had, and one way or another he aimed to do it right.

  Sam Stafford had messed up three boys because domination of the beef market outweighed everything else.

  Nick had every intention of showing him how wrong he had been.

  Last year’s Washington Cowboy review of eligible bachelors had gotten it right, Elsa decided as she settled fresh food and water into the bird’s cage a few minutes after Nick and the warring factions known as his daughters left.

  Nick Stafford most definitely had the best eyes, just like the reporter declared. Which meant she might need to weigh other possible circumstances contributing to Cheyenne’s anger. New relationships could add fuel to a smoldering fire, and if Nick was seeing someone, that might be a causative factor. So now she had to come up with a nonintrusive way of asking the wealthy rancher about his love life.

  Awkward, but she’d keep it smooth and simple, a trait she’d learned from several years of practice. The number of single parents had grown, and that put new questions on the table. How would he react?

  Well, that would be strictly up to him.

  Hoyl squawked, flapped his wings, and dipped his beak, scolding her for some perceived action.

  She ignored him as she scrounged through a wooden filing cabinet and pulled out a worn file folder. She put Cheyenne’s name on the tab, jotted a few handwritten notes on a legal pad, and tucked the pad inside before she filed it away.

  Memories came, swift and deep, thoughts of old files, former clients, polished desks, comfortable seating, and a five-gallon water dispenser. She glanced around, tugged her sweater tighter, and tried not to measure the difference. She’d gone from part of an upscale professional practice in Sammamish to a forest cabin. Instead of designer fish in a ten-thousand-dollar aquarium, she had a rescue parrot and a trusty dog, the only outside relationships she’d allowed into her life in thirty months.

  So who needed fixing more? Her or the kid?

  Physician, heal thyself.

  Easy to say, tough to do. She shoved the warning aside. It was too cold and damp to paint outside, so she set up an easel in the living area, grabbed her paints, organized her palette, and paused.

  She didn’t want to paint.

  She didn’t want to draw.

  She—

  A tear found its way down her right cheek. Another one snaked a path down her left side, and pretty soon wet tracks found their way down to her chin.

  Get a tissue and calm yourself. Move on. Without the paints. Break free. What are you waiting for?

  She couldn’t, not today. Facing Nick Stafford, seeing his two beautiful children, sensing his dismay, she’d felt trapped.

  So what else is new? You’ve been trapped for a long time; you’re only just admitting it. Look ahead, gaze forward, make a move. God gave you so much, so very much. Why waste it?

  Finch song broke the moment, an inviting array of notes, twittering just beyond the bedroom window.

  Another finch returned the favor from the opposite side of the house, each tweet and chirp welcoming the sun, the growing warmth, the newborn leaves of shade.

  May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace. Paul’s salutation to the Romans gave a tender thrust, a green tendril defying stony ground. In him shall the Gentiles hope.

  She wanted hope again. Rachel might have been her typically pushy big sister self, but she’d been right to urge the Stafford family toward Elsa. The urge to help Cheyenne was strong. As long as she didn’t blow it. Again.

  “She loves you! She loves you! She loves you!” Hoyl screeched the declaration, then danced along his perch. “She loves you!”

  “It’s a good thing your old owner wasn’t a rapper,” she told the bird while she swiped more tissues to her eyes and nose. “My dad loves the Beatles too. But don’t start singing ‘Eleanor Rigby’ or I might banish you to the shed. Let’s keep things upbeat, you and me.”

  “You’re a jerk! You’re a jerk!”

  So much for upbeat where the bird was concerned. She blanketed the cage and surveyed her surroundings. Normally now she’d pretend to eat, grab a book, or watch an old movie.

  None of that held any appeal tonight.

  The finch called again, letting others know he’d found his one true love and this spot was taken.

  She’d wanted that before she’d left the coast. She’d longed for a happily-ever-after, a couple of cute kids, and a minivan. Who in their right mind thinks a minivan is cool?

  She did, then. Before the earth tipped sideways and she slipped into the abyss.

  She glanced outside.

  The evening sun shimmered along still-damp leaves. She grabbed her cloak and the keys to the car, then pushed out the door before she could second-guess herself. She started the car, backed around, and drove up the drive, then turned right at the top of the rise. She drove into town and focused on the bright angled sun, not the lengthening shadows.

  She parked at the general store, walked up the steps, went inside, and breathed.

  She loved the fun mix of goods in Hammerstein’s store. She picked up a basket, ordered some fresh cold cuts and a half pound of cheese from the deli, then browsed the country aisles while she waited for the meat to be sliced.

  A cowboy hat caught her eye. Made of tan straw, the women’s version sported two jeweled turquoise wings on the side, and between the wings lay a tiny cross.

  Roots and wings. She’d preached that often in the city.

  She lifted the hat, set it on her head, and checked the mirror. Awesome.

  She loved it. Totally and fabulously, she loved the hat, the look, the whole deal. Funny how she’d hurried to leave her parents’ ranch, yearning to achieve her goal of attaining a high-class education, and here she was, tucked in the hills, wanting a cowgirl hat.

  “Your order’s ready, miss. And the hat looks great, by the way.”

  She acknowledged the deli clerk, lifted the hat carefully, and set it back on display. She had no need for the hat, no matter how good it looked. Her budget didn’t possess a column called discretionary spending, and the cool price tag said the hat was a pipe dream, nothing more.

  She gathered the cold cuts, splurged on a pint of her favorite ice cream, and bought a six-pack of fresh yeasty rolls. When she got outside, she hauled in a deep breath, ignored the evening darkness, and drove her car back home.

  Her phone buzzed a call from Rachel as she parked outside her wooded bungalow. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Just saying good night. I was thinking you might want to come over on Saturday. Hang out for a little.”

  Rachel offered the same invitation each week, and every week Elsa said no.

  Not this time. This time, as she grabbed her sack of groceries, opened her front door, and let herself in, she accepted. “How’s noon for you? I just bought some ham and roasted turkey at Hammerstein’s. We could make subs.”

  “I’d love that.” Rachel kept it simple, like Elsa would if the roles had been reversed. “Noon’s perfect. See you then.”

  “Will do.” She hung up the phone, made a quick sandwich, and put away the food before she sat down to eat. Achilles poked his nose up under her arm, as if asking what she’d been doing, leaving him at that hour.

  She fed him a bite of sandwich, then sat back, petting the dog with one hand and eating with the other.

  She’d been stuck a long time. It was time to come unstuck, and it didn’t matter if it was Cheyenne’s insolence, Dakota’s perky nature, or the pain in Nick’s eyes.

  Right now she felt like living, and that hadn’t happened in a long time.

  Seeing Elsa Andreas was better than a cowboy’s draw to a new truck, Nick realized as he pulled into her drive on Friday afternoon with Cheyenne. Why the magnetism?

  He wasn’t sure, but he squelched the emotion as he put the truck into park.

  She walked toward them and smiled, and
although Nick had been out of the game a long time, that smile made him feel better than he had in years. He climbed out his side and prayed Cheyenne wasn’t going to make a big deal out of meeting with Elsa. Her hissy fit at the ranch had been quite enough.

  To his relief, she climbed out quietly, turned, and slammed the door, but she didn’t yell, screech, or pout, and he was grateful for that. She walked forward, chin down again, but he noticed she glanced around, as if looking for something. The bird, maybe?

  Elsa set down the flowerpot she’d been holding and eased off gardening gloves. “Let me just set these here.” She spoke mildly, as if she kept her expectations at bay on purpose, and set the gloves down. “You brought something.”

  Cheyenne exhaled loudly. “My report cards. My dad thought you might want to see them.”

  “Are they awful?”

  “What?” Cheyenne darted a surprised glance up.

  “Your report cards. Are they wretched, horrible, terrible things you wish you never had to see again?”

  “Yes.” Cheyenne slipped a quick glance up to Nick, as if admitting how bad the reports were put a sizable nail into her coffin. “Did you want to see them?”

  “Nope. I want to burn them.”

  Cheyenne’s brows shot up, and then a spark brightened her gaze. “For real?”

  Elsa bent low. “Does looking at them make you happy?”

  Her instant head shake underscored the emotion. “No.” She whispered the word as if vocalizing the admission at full volume made things worse. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “How can we face the new if we’re stuck in the old?” Elsa looked up at Nick, matter-of-fact, and he had to hand it to her. She’d made her point in less than a minute, a point he’d been trying to make for over a year.

  “It was too warm for a fire inside today, and I’m glad of that,” Elsa shot over her shoulder as she lifted a handful of wood shavings and tossed them into the round fire pit centered in the yard. “If you both grab some of these, we can have a little fire going in no time.”

  Nick had returned to Elsa’s version of the Shire, unsure of his role in hobbit-land. As he watched how deftly Elsa handled Cheyenne, he decided he’d follow her lead. If she wanted him there, he’d stay. If not, he’d leave, and with a lot less trepidation than he’d felt the day before. Despite her odd house, cranky bird, old-world cloak, and sorrowed eyes, Elsa Andreas knew her way around kids and was exactly what he needed. He indicated the dry chips with a quick wave. “Got a lighter?”