“Dig in while everything’s hot,” he said. “Oh, wait.” He snapped his fingers and turned to rummage in the fridge. “I saw butter somewhere.”
“In the top compartment on the fridge door.”
He carried the butter dish to the table even as Myra broke open a hot biscuit. “These are as flaky as my gram used to make. Mine are like lead weights. Everything looks scrumptious. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Before I joined the military, I worked in restaurants. I also pulled my share of KP duty prior to getting into a Green Beret unit.”
“I’ll do dishes tonight, but I draft you to fix breakfast.” Her mouth was full when he shot a deliberate glance toward her pet pig.
“I’ve never had bacon or ham on the hoof, but I guess I can make do.” He smiled crookedly as he cut a slice of steak.
Her fierce glare made plain that Myra wasn’t amused.
Chapter Two
“Orion is a hundred percent pet.” Myra’s tone was challenging. “Our local vet found him when she responded to a tip about a family who skipped town in the middle of the night leaving a goat, a donkey and a young indoor pig to fend for themselves. Some call him a potbellied pig, but he’s really a micromini. Jewell knew I didn’t have a dog or cat, so she talked me into adopting him.”
“Jewell?” Zeke looked blank.
“Our vet. You’ll meet her. She takes care of animals large and small, plus she heads the committee trying to obtain a habitat for our snowy owls.”
“I see. In the developing world, I got used to seeing animals in people’s homes that you never see in the US. Really, the quilt and squeaky toys in his pen tipped me off that you weren’t raising him for food.”
“Teacup pigs and microminis are intelligent, curious, funny, affectionate, clean animals. Orion was good company for Gramps, and now me.” She paused, her fork in the air. “I expect Mom will pitch a fit when I show up at their house with him.” Myra’s agitation showed in the short, stabbing cuts she made to her steak.
“Uh, hey, I forgot to pour coffee.” Zeke rose, went to the counter and picked up the pot. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
“No.”
“Look, I was teasing about the pig. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Zeke poured their coffee and returned the pot to the burner.
She dropped her utensils and picked up her cup. But when their eyes met over the rim, Myra hurriedly averted her gaze. “Nothing to do with the Flying Owl is a joke.”
He gestured with his cup. “I...ah...don’t know a lot about cattle ranching.”
“No kidding.”
Leaning back, Zeke studied her, his expression pensive. “It strikes me you weren’t prepared to have me show up today to take over.”
Her eyes flashed. “Take over? Listen, you fixed a great meal. I want to enjoy it.”
“No problem.” He took a second helping. “I’m just getting way different vibes from you than I got from your family. Your mom went on and on about how anxious you are to get back to teaching in the city.”
Myra took more green beans, knowing she was being uncharacteristically surly. “My parents think I should be anxious. Especially Mom.” She couldn’t seem to stop resenting Zeke. But soon the only noise in the kitchen was the ticktock of the old wall clock and Orion rooting in his dish.
Zeke drained his cup and got up for more coffee. Retaking his seat, he said, “Is it safe to ask you about the ranch finances? I don’t want to cast aspersions on your dad, because he and your mother treated me really well. But did he give me an albatross? I can see the house needs work, but my brother said the land must be worth a lot.”
Myra’s heart gave a kick. She hunched forward. Had he given her an opening to lay it on thick and convince him the ranch was a dud? She couldn’t lie. It wasn’t in her. She took her time before looking him in the eye. “To my dad, who left here at twenty-five when he got married and began to build his own spread on a ranch that belonged to my mom’s parents, this has always been the old home place. As Gramps aged, he set up a trust with my dad, his only child. Were you insinuating you might want to sell?” Trying for casual, Myra took a drink.
When Zeke continued his silent regard of her, she gestured with her free hand. “I’d be willing to go to the bank and see what they’d allow me for a loan to buy you out.”
“You? I thought you couldn’t wait to get back to your teaching career.”
She shrugged lightly, not wanting to give away how badly she wanted to own this ranch. “Having lived here three and a half years, I’ve discovered I have a knack for ranching. It’s probably too late to get a teaching spot. Schools start soon.”
“I wasn’t thinking of selling. But if not teaching, what will you do?”
Myra shrugged again. “Maybe one of the bigger ranches needs a cowhand.”
Zeke toyed with his cup, then grinned. “On my drive here, on the other side of a town called Miles City, I saw a sign on a fence post. At the time it made me laugh. ‘Housekeeper wanted. Must be able to drive a tractor and work cattle.’ Maybe you’d do.”
She got up and started gathering their dirty dishes.
“So, no comment?”
“Miles City isn’t Snowy Owl Crossing. And I’d be leery of a job with that description. The term housekeeper could entail more side activities than I’d care to take on.”
“Like what? Oh...oh! I get you.” He blushed. “I’m not usually that slow on the uptake.”
It was her turn to stammer in embarrassment. “Uh, I actually meant it might mean the rancher also needed a nanny to take care of his kids.”
“Yikes! Are you kidding me?”
“No. At the grange hall it’s not uncommon to hear of some cowboy-rancher’s wife he met on the rodeo circuit finding ranch life not so glamorous after they have a couple of kids.”
“It does seem life out here might be lonely. How close is the nearest neighbor?” he asked, sliding from his chair to bring his dishes to where she stood loading the dishwasher.
“A...a mile or so from here.” Myra straightened. Their arms brushed, surprising her because she hadn’t realized he’d gotten so close. She stepped back and almost fell over the open dishwasher door.
“Hey, hey. Careful.” Zeke grabbed her upper arm to keep her from taking a spill.
Caught between his close, warm body and the dishwasher, her breath hitched and her pulse quickened. She breathed a sigh of relief when he let go of her arm and moved aside.
Her cell phone rang. Myra recognized her neighboring rancher’s number. “Hank, hi,” she said, stepping away from the sink. “Is everything okay at the Bar W?”
“It’s good. I thought I’d check on you. I was in town picking up supplies and I heard a rumor you were leaving. I’m running trucks to market in a few days if the snow melts—and the weathermen predict it will. Do you still need space for your stock?”
Myra pinched the bridge of her nose. She should’ve known her business would be all over town. The café wasn’t empty when she talked to her friends. And gossip was a mainstay of any small town. “I... We still need a truck. I helped the ranch’s new owner trail cow-calf pairs down to our grass pasture today. Are any of the Jarvis boys home? Lieutenant Maxwell is going to need help sorting, and certainly help sending cows through chutes for vaccinating, parasite treatment and pregnancy testing.”
“Lieutenant Maxwell? Is that the soldier hero who saved Eric’s life? Your grandpa Cal mentioned him.”
“He’s one and the same. Dad gave him the Flying Owl.” She made an effort to not sound distressed.
“Hot damn! Where does that leave you, Myra?”
“I’m still figuring that out. About the Jarvis boys...?”
“Two are off at college, and I guess you didn’t hear that Gordy, the high school junior, broke his leg playing football. He’s in a cast.”
“Damn.” Myra frowned at Zeke, who’d finished loading the dishwasher and leaned against the sink cabinet watching her.
&nbs
p; “The yearlings have to be weaned for market,” she went on. “I can do that since some of the money from the sale is slated to pay off the last of Gramps’s banknote. When will you have room on a semi?”
“Day after tomorrow. I can be there to load up by nine.”
“Okay. Oh, and Hank, I drove down a couple of Bar W heifers and calves, and a few of Ralston’s that mixed in with my herd. Working in snow I figured it’d be easiest to bring them all in.”
“Dave rented my truck for tomorrow. I’ll ask if he’ll send a cowhand over while you’re cutting.”
They reiterated a time for loading and said goodbye. Myra tossed her phone on the counter. “What was that all about?” Zeke asked.
Myra put soap in the dishwasher and started it running. “It means you’re stuck with me for a few more days at least. Unless you can pull a cowboy out of your hat. There are calves to get to market and bills to pay. Hank only charges for the gas it costs to drive from here to the stockyards. You won’t get a better deal in your lifetime. Plus, greenhorn that you are, you need to see and help with a process that gets done every year.”
“Okay. But does that mean you have to forgo finding a teaching job?”
“I told you, it’s probably too late now to secure a fall opening.”
“You did. You also offered to buy me out. Greenhorn I may be, but I’m not ready to sell. Not until I know if I have what it takes to be a rancher. Just so we’re clear, I had what it took to be a Green Beret.”
“Touché.” She opened the fridge and pulled out some fresh lettuce from the keeper, crossed the room and set it in Orion’s bowl. She rubbed his ears and the pig all but smiled.
“Is he full grown?” Zeke asked.
Myra shook her head. “He weighs about fourteen pounds. Jewell says the full-grown micromini probably ends up twenty pounds.”
“Do you have a dog to help herd cattle and the like?”
“Not now. Gramps had a beautiful border collie. Lucy gave out before he did, and he’d had her for so many years he couldn’t fathom loving another dog. He made fun of Orion when I brought him home. But it wasn’t long before I noticed him talking to the pig. And Orion liked to sit with Gramps in his recliner.” She smiled at the memory.
Zeke smiled back. “Look, if you’re not champing at the bit to get to bed, can we talk bookkeeping? I already know from listening to you speak with the neighbor that I have a lot to absorb about what goes on outside. But if I don’t understand the economics I’ll be sunk before I start.”
“It’s a boring subject, but if we brew another pot of strong coffee I’ll give you some hard facts and walk you through the software I use.”
“We’ll have to load that onto my laptop, I guess.”
“Good idea,” Myra said, dumping what little coffee remained in the old pot. Then she prepared a new one. “In the meantime, I’ll get my laptop. We can work at the kitchen table. There’s a desk in the third bedroom, but it shares space with all of my dollhouse materials and jigsaws and stuff.”
“About those dollhouses...?” Zeke’s voice trailed off, but his question hung between them.
Myra sifted a hand through her hair. “I’ll deliver the finished ones to another member of the Artsy Ladies before I leave. I don’t know what I’ll do with the half-completed projects, or the unused material and equipment. But never fear, I’ll clear everything of mine out.”
His forehead wrinkled. “I’m afraid I’m still in the dark here. Who are the Artsy Ladies?”
“Some of us formed a group to sell crafts and hopefully save the snowy owls for which the town is named. They’ve always nested in timberland running through Canada and the US. The owls are sacred to our local Native Americans, too.”
“Okay, I get that,” Zeke said.
“They’re gorgeous. Wait until you see them in flight, or in their nests if you ride up to the woods. Sorry, I’m getting off track. About the dollhouses... Our veterinarian was born and raised in Snowy Owl Crossing. She first noticed a decline in the owl population when she came home to open her vet practice. Right after I moved here to help Gramps, she organized a committee to look into securing a state wildlife refuge for the birds. It takes money to fight for anything like that. Asking for donations to buy expensive land went nowhere in a bad economy. So some of us decided to hold a Thanksgiving bazaar and all sell crafts. Profits above material costs go to fund our effort. We named our group the Artsy Ladies.”
“I counted a dozen dollhouses. There’s that big a demand for them?”
“You’d be surprised. People come from miles around to buy them and the other handmade wares.”
Zeke looked skeptical.
The coffeepot gurgled. “If the houses bug you, I’ll make time to haul them away. I’m sure someone can store them until the bazaar.”
He held up a hand. “It’s okay. I didn’t understand. Why don’t I pour our coffee while you get the computer.”
“Okay, but prepare to be bored. People born to ranching, like my dad, keep a lot of these facts and figures in their heads. As a math major, I’m different. I like spreadsheets.” She left and came back with a laptop. “Even Gramps said keeping a spreadsheet helped us not to overspend. But so you know, some years you make a profit and some you go in the hole. It’s imperative to be on good terms with your local banker, who’ll float loans to tide you over in bad years. Notes you pay back in a year when stock prices are up and you haven’t been plagued by a horrid winter or summer drought.” Myra fired up the computer just as the lights flickered.
Zeke shot a glance at the ceiling lights.
“Don’t worry, we have a generator if the power goes out. Lanterns and flashlights, too.”
He pulled a chair around to her side of the table and sat.
His body heat warmed Myra, but left her stumbling over giving him basic costs for cows, feed, bull, labor, transportation, vet and other supplies. “In a fantastic year still only eighty percent of our cows wean calves. Heifer calves weigh less than steers, which bring less money. See this column. For last year I adjusted the amount we earned in stock sales. This year I’ll do the same when we ship.” She discreetly edged her chair away from his.
Seeming not to notice, he said, “Hmm. You broke even the prior year, but lost money last year. Is that typical?”
She waved her hand to indicate that it varied. “It’s better than average for a small operation. A big cattle ranch like Dad’s can run four or five years in a row on borrowed money and then have a huge windfall. In an up year you buy equipment or roof the barn. And there goes the profit.”
“At the risk of sounding obtuse, why keep on keeping on?”
She sat back and shut down the program. “I guess it’s for love of the land. There’s not much open land left. I can’t explain it, but ranching is a job that gives you a sense of freedom. Isn’t that what you fought for? I know it’s why Eric went into the army.”
Zeke reached up to massage his wounded shoulder. He didn’t answer her question.
“That’s enough lessons for tonight.” Feeling too close to him for comfort, Myra abruptly got up, closed the laptop and carried her cup to the sink. “I see it’s still snowing,” she said, looking out the kitchen window. “It’s lessened some, but not totally. So it’s time to take another batch of hay to the cows.”
“Really?” Zeke frowned.
“Snow and cold pulls weight off an animal fast. In winter or like with this early snow, it’s day and night feeding. Cattle raising is almost always a seven-day-a-week job, Zeke. There’s also night work during calving. Grab your coat, and if you don’t own a hat with earflaps, there are extras on the rack by the front door.”
Myra went to the front door and pulled on her boots, jacket and hat. She picked up a big flashlight and led the way to the barn.
Zeke, who’d had to rush to keep up, didn’t say anything until after they’d loaded the trailer again and he sat shivering on the hay. “If I wasn’t here,” he called to be heard above the
tractor noise, “would you be doing this alone?”
Myra briefly glanced back. “Yes. I’ve gone solo the last two years, once Gramps’s arthritis got so bad he couldn’t take the cold.” From her companion’s pensive expression, she actually wondered if he might seriously be contemplating returning his gift. If that happened, she needed to phone her father in the morning, to be square with him. He needed to know if Zeke didn’t want the ranch that she did. She didn’t expect to be willed any part of Rolling Acres, so the Flying Owl was it for her. Eric would benefit from her parents’ holdings. Most ranches could only support one family. If one sibling had to buy out the interests of others, it put a hardship on the one left. Sometimes that person couldn’t afford to get married and raise a family.
That made her wonder if Zeke Maxwell had a steady girlfriend or even a wife stashed away in Boston or some other port of call. If so, that person most definitely wasn’t a ranch woman, or he’d have said so—wouldn’t he?
Because all things to do with Lieutenant Maxwell gave her heartburn, Myra stopped thinking about him. Instead, she concentrated on signs that told her she was still on the right path to reach the herd.
It was spitting snow when the first bunch of cows came into sight. Stopping, Myra let the tractor idle and passed Zeke the cutters. “Will you toss this mob some hay, please?”
“How much?” He rose stiffly.
“I could say as much as they’ll eat. But until we see what all is left tomorrow, we won’t know if we gave them too much or not enough. Just free a bale and scatter hay as I drive along.”
Zeke cut the first bale open. “Are these different cows than those we already fed? I thought we’d be tossing hay in the same places.”
“You should try to feed in different spots so the manure doesn’t get so deep in one area. Saves you from having to spread fertilizer around when the snow melts, plus it gives cows a clean table to eat, so to speak. If we had to have an early snowfall, this is a good area for the herd. There are plenty of draws and shrubs to shelter them from the wind. And the stream’s not in danger of freezing over. Water and feed are the two essentials. After you separate the cows from the yearlings and Hank transports them, you’ll drive these cows and the bull down to the pastures nearer the barn. I’ll try to show you those pens tomorrow.”
His Ranch or Hers Page 3
