by Erin Marsh
“Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock.”
Clay climbed into his vehicle and gave her a wave as he pulled out. She stood there for a few more seconds, hoping she hadn’t just made a very bad mistake.
Chapter 4
Clay surreptitiously glanced over at Lacey as they approached the ranch complex. He felt nervous, bringing her here. He’d had potential commercial buyers and federal and state inspectors tour the facility, but he’d never invited anyone for a personal visit. His mother wasn’t interested. His father was still serving time in jail. And no one knew where his brother was. Clay had severed his New York connections years ago. His old friends had done nothing but party, and after what had happened to Greg, he’d wanted free of that lifestyle. Even if Clay had wanted to rebuild some of his former contacts, his dad had also scammed their East Coast social network. The Stevens name was even more hated in the Big Apple than in Sagebrush.
“You know, I’ve never been here before,” Lacey said as she stepped from the truck and scanned the cluster of buildings. “It’s good land.”
Clay nodded. His maternal ancestors had established the ranch after feeling overcrowded in the East. The isolation of Sagebrush Flats had suited them. He supposed they’d felt protected in their oasis surrounded by semiarid flat lands that turned into a network of box canyons to the north. When he sat near the creek and listened to the wind move through the aspens, he could see why they’d thought they’d found their own little paradise.
“I’m fortunate,” Clay said.
He watched as Lacey’s eyes skimmed over the horse barn. It was a massive, old structure and too big for a modern ranch. Nowadays, ranchers used four-wheelers and side-by-sides instead of horses. Since he was in the process of reducing his herd as part of his goal to produce one-hundred-percent grass-fed beef, he also needed less storage. But Clay hadn’t had the heart to change the old barn. His people had built it by hand more than a century before. Instead, he’d converted some of the old stalls into office space. He’d torn down the more recently constructed outbuildings but kept any with historic value. They’d fit well with his stage-two plans for the ranch.
“The barn is gorgeous,” Lacey said. “You’ve kept it well maintained.”
Clay nodded. “The roof inside is amazing. They would have had to bring the lumber from up north.”
Lacey turned to scan the rest of the property. He waited for her eyes to fall on the ranch’s most unique feature. Her reaction didn’t disappoint. Her lips parted slightly as she caught sight of the famed Frasier Mansion. “It really does look like a miniature English manor house.”
“My great-great-grandmother refused to leave England to marry a no-good American from Scottish stock unless my great-great-grandfather built her one,” Clay said.
“So the local legends are true?” Lacey asked.
“After my grandfather’s death, I went through the boxes and trunks in the attic. I found the letters my ancestors had exchanged around the turn of the twentieth century. Sure enough, Great-Great-Grandma Elinor demanded that Great-Great-Grandpa Robert send her a photograph of the house before she was willing to accept his offer of marriage.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. I ended up framing her letter and sticking it on the wall.”
Lacey burst into laughter. “She must have been a pistol. How’d they meet?”
“Robert’s father was a proud man, and he wanted his son to go on a grand tour like aristocrats did. Elinor met Robert at a local dance when he was traveling through the English countryside. She came from impoverished gentry. I think her father was a baron or something, but he supposedly had a bunch of gambling debts. Good ole Elinor probably married Robert for his money rather than for love. It’s an unfortunate family tradition.”
“Well, he must have been in love to build her this. Bricks wouldn’t have been cheap back in those days, especially out here.”
“The ranch was doing good then,” Clay said. “The house is difficult to maintain though. It’s more than a hundred years old, and the plumbing sucks. I got it rewired about a year ago. It cost a fortune. It was mostly knob and tube, and there’s places where you can still see the old gas fixtures.”
Lacey shot him a decidedly worried look. “You’re not going to tear it down, are you? It’s a piece of Sagebrush’s history!”
Clay was surprised by the fond smile that crept over his lips. Hell, when had he begun to find Lacey’s campaigning spirit endearing?
“Don’t tell me your conservation efforts extend to crumbly old houses and not just vicious meat-eaters.”
The mulish expression on Lacey’s face told him she’d have his house declared a historic landmark before she’d let him touch one brick. She crossed her arms. “History deserves saving too.”
“We may just agree on that point.”
She’d already opened her mouth to rebut his statement, but his capitulation left her momentarily at a loss. Her jaw worked for a moment, and the transformation from outrage to mollification was comical. She looked like a confused pixie again, and for one mad moment, Clay wanted to stoop down and kiss her.
He didn’t, but he didn’t like how close he’d come.
“So you’re not going to tear it down?” Lacey finally asked.
Clay shook his head. “The house might be a pain in the butt, but I don’t want to be the person who destroys what my ancestors built. The whole point is to save the ranch. I’d rather not start with dismantling it.”
“How many bedrooms does it have?” Lacey asked.
“Ten.”
She whistled. “That’s enough for a small hotel.”
Nervousness crept through Clay. This was his chance. He would need the town’s support to start the second phase of saving the ranch. If he could just convince the town’s favorite daughter to champion his cause, it was as good as won. “Well, that’s part of the plan.”
“What plan?” Lacey asked, her voice instantly on guard. “Are you thinking of opening a boutique hotel?”
“Not exactly,” Clay said. “More of a wedding venue. Between the house and the barn, I think we could have something really special.”
Lacey gave the cluster of buildings a more critical look. “It is picturesque here. The property has a different feel than most ranches in this area.”
“The creek would be a great place for photography. I’m thinking about building a gazebo down by the water. I’d like to renovate the bedrooms in the house in case some of the wedding party wants to stay onsite.”
“What does your foreman think?”
Clay felt his mouth twist at the mention of Pete Thompson. The man had never liked him, and the feeling had only worsened when his grandfather’s will had been read. Thompson’s family had been foremen on the ranch for most of its existence, and when Clay’s mom had moved East with her husband, Thompson had become Clay’s grandfather’s de facto son. The man had been convinced he’d inherit the estate instead of a useless city slicker.
“I alluded to the idea once or twice. Thompson wasn’t thrilled.” Only a shit-brained idiot would think of turning a working ranch into a prissy wedding venue. True, Clay had only said he’d read an article about the trend, but he doubted Thompson would have softened his words even if Clay had admitted to seriously considering the idea. If it weren’t for the fact that Clay was certain he’d lose all his ranch hands, he would have fired Pete. But Pete was an institution, and although he didn’t approve of Clay, he was still a damn good foreman. Nobody knew the land better than him, including Clay.
“Yeah, Uncle Pete is pretty old school,” Lacey said.
Clay barely suppressed a groan. When he spoke, he tried to keep his voice light. “So you’re related to Thompson too?”
His exasperation must have shown in
his voice, though, because Lacey shot him an amused grin. “No, it’s an honorific like with Uncle Stanley. Since my grandfather’s property borders yours, my family was always close to Uncle Pete. Even though Grandpa lives in town now, he still sees him at least once a week. Plus Uncle Pete is a regular at the Prairie Dog Café.”
“Is it confusing trying to figure out all your family relations and connections in town?”
“Sometimes,” Lacey admitted. “Jesse used to say we needed a flowchart.” At the mention of her brother, sadness washed over her face as quickly as a flash flood. A deep silence descended—one of those quiets that threatened to consume a person. Clay recognized it. He felt the same thing when he thought about his own sibling, who was lost to opioids instead of to death. He started to reach for Lacey, but before his fingers could brush her arms, his dog Ace bounded up. Lacey’s face instantly brightened at the sight of the muscular beast barreling toward them. Despite Ace’s rough start in life, his face was always stretched in permanent doggy joy. He’d had a few teeth pulled, so his tongue lolled out, making him appear even sillier.
“Who is this?” Lacey crouched to greet sixty-five pounds of wiggling canine. Her voice sounded a little too cheerful, as if she was overcompensating for the earlier darkness. Clay didn’t mention it. Instead, he bent down next to her and the dog.
“Ace. He’s a pit bull–Lab mix. He might have some mastiff in him too. But he is one hundred percent love.”
“I can see that,” Lacey said as she received sloppy dog kisses on her face. She didn’t pull away like a lot of folks did. Ace was built to intimidate, and he’d been forced to fight by his previous owners. When Clay had met him at the pound near the city, he hadn’t been able to resist Ace’s soulful eyes. The poor guy had lived at the rescue center for a long time. Although the volunteers had healed him physically, he needed open air and space. He’d first learned to trust Clay and then to enjoy life. Despite his past, he was nothing but an old softie who loved following Clay around.
“He seems to like you,” he told Lacey.
“And I like him too,” she replied, speaking in the silly tone people used around animals and babies, her focus entirely on Ace’s adoring face. As she scratched behind his ears, the dog soaked up the attention. His mouth opened in a blissful grin, his tongue lolling out even further with each excited pant.
“Aren’t you a handsome boy?”
Ace responded with a lick from her chin to her hairline. She giggled at the onslaught. Some people wouldn’t appreciate Ace’s massive jaws and teeth so close to their face, but this was a woman who loved wolves.
“How old is he?”
“About seven, we think. He was rescued from a dog-fighting ring when he was two. I adopted him when he was four.”
He could see the surprise in Lacey’s eyes, and it bugged him a little. But this was what today was about. He needed her to see that he cared for the animals under his responsibility, that he worked the land, and that he belonged in Sagebrush.
“I have a lot of plans for the ranch,” Clay said. “But they’re not going to succeed if I don’t have local support.”
Lacey looked up from petting Ace. “What are they?”
“How do you feel about a horse ride over some of my property?”
* * *
Fleur, the rescued cougar, twitched her long tail as she watched the newcomer from her vantage point on the high rocks in her enclosure. Her sister, Tonks, lay in the sun, her legs stretched out to the side as she slept. Although Fleur also appreciated the warm rays as winter moved into spring, she had more important things to do than snooze. Hand-reared by humans, she found the bipeds fascinating. Lately, the Black-Haired One had begun erecting a new enclosure. Even more intriguing, an adolescent human had begun to help him. Only two years old herself, Fleur found youthful bipeds the most fascinating. She was particularly fond of the Black-Haired One’s eldest daughter, the Gray-Eyed One. Most of the animals were.
Fleur’s ears perked as she heard the crunch of talons on gravel. She knew that sound. Her sister began to stir. She rose gracefully and crouched down into a stretch. Her jaws opened, revealing sharp canines and a pink tongue. She plopped her hindquarters on the ground and made a show of grooming her front paw, but Fleur had roughhoused with her sibling enough to recognize her act. Tonks was only pretending to be distracted. She’d sensed the same noise as Fleur.
The juvenile honey badger, Scamp, was making his way to their enclosure. The little weasel loved tunneling into their home. Fleur found his antics rather diverting. Although the humans provided them with rubber balls, food hanging from trees, and ropes to tug on, it was simply not the same as chasing a real animal.
To Fleur’s surprise, Scamp did not enter their exhibit. Instead, he scurried straight toward the new biped. The human, who Fleur decided to call the Blue-Eyed One, did not notice. He was too busy digging. Scamp then tried chittering, but even that did not draw the teenager’s attention. The human wore odd things in his ears, which seemed to be interfering with his hearing. Fleur watched with interest as Scamp’s gaze focused on the white wire attached to something in the boy’s pocket. It ran all the way up to the white discs in the biped’s ears. When the Blue-Eyed One reached for a tool on the ground, Scamp rose on his hind legs and caught the white wire in his teeth. The biped let out a howl, and Scamp dashed away.
“Hey! Come back here! Those earbuds are mine!”
Fleur relaxed her muscles as the teenager dashed after the honey badger. Her sister sighed and settled back down in the sun. Scamp had found a new playmate, and the chase was on.
* * *
“You’re in the process of introducing holistic land management to your ranch?” Lacey repeated. She thought she saw Clay’s jaw tighten, but she couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d heard Uncle Pete grumble about that Stevens boy trying to use book learning to run a real ranch. She’d thought he meant spreadsheets and graphs. She hadn’t expected Clay to bring her to the edge of a wetland he was rehabilitating.
“I didn’t just take ranch management courses in college, Lacey. I double-majored in that and ecology.”
She stared at him in disbelief. They shared a degree? “Neither of those disciplines is easy.”
He shrugged and bent to pet Ace, who’d trailed after them. “I needed to keep busy, especially back then. When I was a kid, I got bored easily, and that’s when I got into trouble. I knew college was full of parties. After what happened to my brother, I was over that crap, so I made sure I didn’t have time for them.”
“You’re not at all like I thought,” Lacey admitted as a swell of respect for Clay swept through her like a rising river.
Clay gave a tight nod as he straightened. “I was hoping to convince you of that today. I thought you might be receptive to my plans.”
“I still can’t believe the Frasier ranch has a ciénega or that you’re working to restore it. This is beyond incredible.”
Lacey and Clay had dismounted from their horses to walk along the marshy ground. The midmorning sun glinted off pools of low-lying water, and a fresh earthy scent filled the air as the breeze rustled the grasses growing out of the swampy dirt. The twill of northern leopard frogs resonated across the land. Lacey even caught a glimpse of one of the spotted amphibians as it dove for cover behind a clump of alkali sacaton plants. Unfortunately, Ace noticed too. With a bark, he took off running. His movement startled a white-tailed kite that flew straight into the air. When the majestic hawk reached the right altitude, it spread its dark wings, its white body a bright streak in the cloudless sky. It swooped near the red cliffs surrounding the peaceful canyon.
“The land here was always a little wet and slightly spongy,” Clay explained. “When I learned about ciénegas in college, I thought this might have been an alkaline marshland. I asked my grandfather, and he remembered his own grandfather mentioning draining a swamp in his youth. So I went
up in the attic and rummaged through my ancestor’s old journals, and sure enough, there was talk about water bubbling up from the ground.”
“How did I not know about this?” Excitement zipped through Lacey. Ciénegas were alkaline marshlands unique to the American Southwest that used to dot the landscape, bringing much-needed water and life to the arid environment. But misuse, misunderstanding, and mismanagement had caused them to dry up. Very few untouched ones remained, and their usefulness was just beginning to be understood. A large ciénega so close to the national park would be invaluable. The wetland would offer shelter to so many animals, from beavers and muskrats to the spiny soft-shelled turtle and the belted kingfisher.
Clay’s mouth twisted in frustration laced with bitterness. “I guess Uncle Pete didn’t tell you about that Stevens boy’s damn swamp.”
“Your ranch hands don’t approve?”
Clay removed his cowboy hat to scratch his head. Perspiration had caused a couple of locks to curl against his forehead, and Lacey found herself battling the urge to smooth them back. Her fingers even twitched.
“No.” Clay ran his hands through his hair, causing several strands to stick up.
Lacey’s nerves stood at attention. She told herself to focus on his words. This conversation was important. Surprisingly important. If more ranchers considered reintroducing wetlands to their property, it could help alleviate the endless droughts plaguing the Southwest.
“They think I’m crazy trying to improve a ‘muck patch in the desert.’ My grandfather thought the same.”
“I assume that’s a direct quote.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But it’s a natural feature,” Lacey said. “You’re not building new ones, just restoring an existing one.”
“It’s not how my grandfather ranched or his father or his father’s father or his father’s grandfather. I caught a lot of hell from Pete when I closed up the old diversion ditches.”
