Home on the Range

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “It didn’t go well?”

  “It didn’t go at all. I left when you called.”

  He sat straighter as her words registered. “You mean you were actually in the interview when I called?” Guilt mushroomed inside him when she nodded. “And you left?”

  She frowned as if confused. “I told Cheyenne I’d be here when she needed me. The interview wasn’t supposed to happen until after the Fourth of July, but the hiring committee was on hand to talk to a few prospective teachers, so they asked if I could come in today. So I did.”

  “This was with the school district?”

  “For a position as a counselor for grades five through eight, yes.”

  “And you’re okay to do the job?” It came out wrong, as if he doubted her. She’d demonstrated her strength and skill set from their first meeting, going toe-to-toe with him, and he hadn’t questioned her ability once. In fact, he’d learned from her. Things about kids, about himself, about dealing with loss.

  “I’m more than okay.” She faced him with a cool look. “I’ve come full circle, and I think I’m even better equipped to handle kids and crises because of what I’ve gone through. I’ve seen the inside of the monster and fought my way out, so if I can do it, anyone can.”

  “Elsa.”

  “Delicious rice.” She turned her attention to the achiote flavored dish. “I wonder if Isabo will share the recipe.”

  He ignored her effort to change the subject. “Listen, I —”

  “Nick.” She raised one hand, and he paused to let her talk. “It’s all right,” she told him, as if comforting him, but she was wrong.

  It wasn’t all right; nothing was all right.

  “I should have been up front with you from the beginning and I wasn’t,” she continued, “but that brief chance to be part of the girls’ lives, to be part of all this”—she swept the barn a quick glance —“has meant a lot to me. It helped me see that I can do anything, the same premise I’ve taught kids for years. So thank you.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  She knit her brow. “Do what?”

  “Act like there’s nothing between us. As if there wasn’t something amazing and wonderful happening before Saturday.”

  She let the plate rest quietly in her lap. “But things changed.”

  He leaned back against the wall and watched her. “Someone once asked me which of the Staffords were the calm, patient ones.”

  A tiny smile indicated she remembered asking the question.

  He moved closer. “I’d like a second chance.”

  “Nick —”

  She didn’t look at him. She looked beyond him, trying to figure out how to let him down nicely, no doubt.

  Nick Stafford had no intention of being let down easy. He’d go down swinging for the fences, just like he did when he played hardball as a kid, because this was way more important than any ball game. This was his life. His heart. His home.

  He reached down, lifted her plate, and set it on the desk, then drew her up. “First of all, you’re a big fan of second chances. I know this for a fact.” He settled his arms around her and waited for her response.

  “I’ve been known to say exactly that,” she admitted. “But I’ve also advised time and caution. Patience too. Because no matter what you see on TV, life doesn’t get fixed in sixty-minute increments. It builds over time.”

  “I’ve got time, Elsa.” He held her gaze steady. “No matter how long it takes. When I realized that you had issues you didn’t share, and Whitney was messing with the girls’ heads, everything piled up. It was a dumb reaction and I’m sorry. Will you forgive me? Please?”

  “Nick, I —”

  “I said please.” He raised his brows and stroked a thumb along the soft curve of her cheek, sweet and gentle.

  “You did.”

  “A trick I learned from Dakota. It generally works for her.”

  She sighed softly and his heart did a little leap for joy.

  “Elsa…” He murmured her name, raised one brow, and then shifted his gaze to her lips. “I do possess other powers of persuasion.”

  “You do?” She lifted her gaze from his mouth to his eyes, then back. She frowned slightly. “I don’t quite recall…”

  He grinned, moved forward, then paused with his mouth just above hers. Close. So close…“Allow me to refresh your memory.”

  He settled his lips on hers and lost himself in the kiss, the feel of Elsa in his arms.

  She fit. She fit the way he remembered so well, as if made to be there, with him.

  “This is how it’s supposed to be, Elsa.” He whispered the words against her cheek, her hair, loving the scent of her hair and her skin. “I can tell because everything feels right, and when you’re not here, it feels all wrong. Which means I deserve a second chance, don’t I, honey?” He snugged her close and brushed the gentle question to her ear, her cheek, hoping for the right answer, but if she needed more convincing, Nick Stafford wasn’t afraid to do it.

  —

  He called her honey.

  He wanted a second chance, a chance to begin anew. To see where this might lead.

  So did she.

  Her heart was doing a happy dance, pounding against her ribs.

  BeeBee made a noise across the way.

  She leaned back against his strong arms and indicated the whelping stall with a glance. “We’ve got work to do.”

  He brushed the back of his big, rugged hand to her cheek and smiled. “We do.”

  “And Cheyenne still needs tutoring.”

  “She does.”

  “And after examining my summer calendar, it appears that I’m available as promised.”

  “I can’t deny I was hoping that was the case, Doc. Because I’ve heard summertime is the best time for courting a pretty gal in the PNW.”

  His quaint cowboy talk made her smile. “Do tell.”

  “Campfires. Walks in the woods. Along with possible volunteer efforts on that new church building.”

  “Well, Wandy Schirtz did invite me back to help, and my brownies were a big hit with the volunteers.”

  “There you go.”

  He smiled. Then he settled his hand along the back of her neck and drew her in for a kiss as puppy number seven took its first breath.

  He pulled back when Cheyenne’s footsteps dashed their way. “Number seven!” She grinned up at them when she spotted the newest baby dog. “Oh, isn’t this the most amazing day ever?”

  When Nick slung an arm around Elsa’s shoulders and grinned, she looked right at his delightfully headstrong daughter and nodded because Cheyenne was absolutely right. “It truly is.”

  Sam Stafford watched as his growing family raced around the yard for their first annual Fourth of July celebration.

  He’d never bothered hosting anything like this at the Double S before. He’d been too busy amassing his fortune to worry about parties and holidays, so whatever the cooks had done to create a day, they did, and he was no part of it.

  But now he watched as Colt took the kids on wagon rides through the lower fields. Angelina and Noah were tucked up on the old wagon seat beside Colt, while Nick’s girls, Elsa, and Nick rode along in the back with Rye Bennett’s kid sister Jenna.

  Murt had fashioned a nice campfire, and Hobbs, Rye, and Trey were keeping an eye on the spit as it made slow circles above the rotisserie Murt put together nearly twenty years back.

  Nick shouted something to Colt from his seat on the wagon bed, and Colt laughed out loud, just loud enough for Sam to hear. Two boys, at each other’s throats from the time Nick was old enough to walk…

  Now brothers, bound in love and respect, at long last.

  One to go.

  Trey, his beloved third son, the child he’d plucked from a den of squalor when the boy’s foolish parents overdosed. His nephew by blood, his son by law, and Sam had no intention of dying before he saw Trey happy too. If God entertained the idea of answering prayer and granting wishes, all he wan
ted or needed was to face his Maker knowing he’d left all three sons happy, and anyone with half a brain could look at Trey and see that sorrow wound tighter than a calf roper’s knot around his gentle heart.

  Isabo came through the door, carrying two large glasses of iced tea. He was actually starting to like tea, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. “Thank you, Izzie.”

  She settled into the rocking chair next to his. “It’s a fine view from here, Sam.”

  She wasn’t talking about the verdant valley or the rolling rise of the Cascades surrounding them. She meant family. His. Hers. And friends. “It is.”

  “You’re making a difference, Sam.” She reached out and covered his hand with hers.

  “Enough?” He turned her way and she shrugged.

  “For God to say, not us. We do what we can, as we can.”

  He snorted. “Easy enough to say when you’ve lived a good life being nice to others.”

  “God sees the heart, not the accomplishments.”

  Did he, Sam wondered? Did he know how sorry Sam was for all those years of being a jerk?

  Trey moved their way and climbed the steps as if everything was fine. He faced his dad with the sincere expression country music fans knew and loved.

  Sam knew better.

  “I’m flying out on Thursday to be back in Nashville for a charity event,” Trey reminded him, and Sam didn’t miss the flash of reluctance in his youngest son’s eyes. “Then I’m going to load up the SUV with as much stuff as it can hold and head north again.”

  “You don’t mind coming back?” Sam took Trey’s hand, much like he’d done over twenty-five years ago when a neglected three-year-old with wet pants won his heart.

  “No, sir. Glad to. And I’m looking forward to an easy cross-country trip. It’s been a while since I was able to just get in a car, point north, and drive.”

  Sam gripped his hand. He wanted to say more. So much more.

  Wait.

  He felt the caution like a breath of Cascade wind and stayed quiet. And when Trey squeezed his hand lightly, leaned down, and kissed Sam’s forehead, the older man had to choke back words of remorse.

  Colt had found his way.

  Nick was the happiest he’d ever been.

  And if Sam was truly ready to put the reins firmly in God’s hands, he needed to turn this big-hearted youngest son over too. But this might be the hardest of all, because in the world’s eyes, Trey seemed like the most balanced of them all, but they hadn’t seen how that little boy lived the first wretched, impressionable years of his life.

  Sam did. And it broke his heart to this day.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I know.” Sam had to choke the words past the lump in his throat. “You always have, Trey. I love you too.”

  Trey winked, breaking the serious connection, and Sam allowed it because his third son would need to find peace in his own way, in his own time. Sam just prayed he’d be around long enough to see it and celebrate it.

  God’s timing. Sam was real hopeful that he and the good Lord were still on the same page.

  “Trey, can you grab the basting sauce?” Hobbs called across the spread of deep green grass.

  “Will do.” Trey ambled inside, and when his footsteps sounded against the kitchen floor two rooms back, Isabo reached out a hand once more.

  “For this one,” she whispered, “we pray together, my friend. For his joy, his peace, and his faith.”

  She took his hand in both of hers, and in her face he saw the confidence of a true believer, the very thing he longed to achieve. Looking into Isabo’s heartwarming gaze, Sam Stafford finally believed it might really be possible.

  FROM THE KITCHEN OF THE DOUBLE S RANCH

  ISABO’S YELLOW RICE

  ¼ cup olive oil

  2 packets Sazón seasoning

  3 cups water

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 tablespoon chicken base

  1 ½ cups rice (Isabo likes to use basmati or jasmine. Me too!)

  A couple of stalks of chopped celery

  A couple of carrots, peeled and chopped (Isabo would laugh if I pretended she measures. So let’s humor her!)

  1 can whole kernel corn, drained

  Pour olive oil into a four-quart saucepan. Sprinkle with Sazón. Heat gently. When oil is hot, add water, salt, and chicken base. Mixture will bubble up. Stir to combine. Add rice. Bring back to a boil, cover, and reduce heat to low/simmer. After ten minutes add chopped celery and carrots. Cover and cook about six minutes more. Add drained corn. Simmer about four or five more minutes.

  This is great right away, it’s good cold, and it’s wonderful reheated. This recipe is family size but can be doubled or tripled for bigger gatherings, something Isabo is quite accustomed to out on the Double S!

  ELSA’S CHEESY BISCUITS

  2 cups Bisquick

  ⅔ cup milk

  ⅔ cup sharp cheddar shredded cheese

  1 stick butter, melted

  1 teaspoon garlic powder (more or less to taste)

  2 teaspoons parsley

  ¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese

  Mix Bisquick, milk, and shredded cheese. Spray baking pan or cookie sheet with cooking spray. Drop biscuits by generous spoonfuls onto baking pan. Bake at 400 degrees for 12–15 minutes or until just golden. Remove from oven. Cool for five minutes (if you can wait that long!).

  Mix garlic, parsley, and cheese with melted butter in bowl.

  Dredge each biscuit in the buttery, cheesy mixture. Serve warm.

  Amazing!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Huge thanks to so many people on this book…First to my beloved literary agent, Natasha Kern, a woman who sets the standards high for those who work with her, but whose confidence and faith are always a loving inspiration! Thank you, Natasha!

  To Shannon Marchese, who gave me this chance to formulate new westerns with their own flare. Your advice is a wonderful addition, even when it takes me a few days to remember to be grateful.

  Thanks also to my husband, Dave, and my son, Seth, who are always willing to put their hand to the plow with new ideas. Their willingness to work long hard hours in all kinds of weather amazes me.

  Thank you to Yvonne Joslin Bagley for her advice about flowers and flora native to the area so that I could paint realistic pictures of a land not my own, and to the Washington Cattlemen’s Association website for lots of pertinent information. And I can never write a cattle book without giving author and friend Mary Connealy and her husband, Ivan, a shout-out for all of their willing advice, which ranges from funny to cryptic to sensible.

  To all of the teachers, day-care workers and nannies, and counselors out there who work the front lines with kids every day, in particular Amanda, Lisa, Karen, Seth, Lacey, and Beth. You guys bring warmth and balance to young lives in the rise and fall of life. Thank you for that. You never know when some small thing you do makes a great difference to a child.

  Additional thanks to Beth for helping me keep things going last year. I couldn’t have done it without you!

  To McKenna Tydings who inspired my version of Cheyenne Stafford. McKenna, you are part of my heart, and your strongly held emotions helped shape this delightful (and stubborn!) character. You’ll always be “part Ruthy” no matter how much your parents try to fix it! I love you to the moon and back, and your heartfelt letters have made me smile…and cry. You’re an amazing girl.

  And to MacKenzie and Anna Blodgett, two little darlings who made writing Dakota’s character a piece of cake. They are truly sugar with a whole lot of spice, and they’ve made wrapping their daddies around their fingers an art form. I love you, girls!

  A Selection From

  Book 3 in the Double S Ranch Series

  Coming March 2017

  For once in his life, Trey Walker Stafford had aced his two older brothers. The fact that he had to risk his life and offer up a chunk of his liver to claim the title made it a dubious honor.

  The irony wasn�
�t lost on him as Trey drove his packed SUV west on I-90 through central Washington. The thought that of three sons, it was the orphaned, adopted nephew whose DNA provided the best possible outcome for his adoptive father fit today’s reality TV scenarios too well.

  But then their lives up to this point had seemed like a reality television show, so why change now?

  The fingers of his left hand thrummed a senseless beat on the leather steering wheel. He drove the roads he’d known for so long, intent on getting back to the ranch. He meant to do whatever he could to help his father. But surgery, painful recovery, and possible death weren’t on his agenda. His agent made that clear, multiple times this past week, and by every possible available media.

  Trey could imagine the speech now. “You’d risk everything you’ve earned, everything you have, your home, your ranch, your music, your life, to help the man who threw you out of the house because you loved music? You’re a better man than I am, Trey. That’s for sure.”

  He wasn’t better. He knew that. He was guilt-ridden, and fairly vacant inside, like one of those black holes yawning wide in an endless universe. So solid. So dense. Yet empty. And it had felt that way for a long, long time.

  “Poor little boy.”

  The voice. Her voice, the voice of his mother, Sandy Lee Stafford. Beloved on her early country music recordings, that voice turned utterly scathing when it came to her little boy.

  She’d stood over him, smelling unwashed and looking hateful, and that’s all Trey envisioned anytime someone mentioned his mother. They said a three-year-old doesn’t have the capacity to remember actual events, that they might have snatches of recall, here and there. Whoever they were, they were plumb stupid, because Trey remembered enough. Too much.

  “There ain’t no one in this world ’bout to feel sorry for you, Trey-Trey. Least of all, me.”

  He must have been crying. He couldn’t remember the tears, but he remembered the wetness on his face.

  And then she was gone, and his father was gone, and the next thing he knew, Sam Stafford strode into that police station, larger than life, scooped him up, and took him home.