His Ranch or Hers

by Roz Denny Fox

  “When do you move them back up here?” he asked right before she revved the tractor and they headed to the next grouping of cows huddled against the biting wind.

  “After these heifers drop their calves in the spring. Usually that’s March and April. I suppose I can make a chore list,” she called back to him, trying not to sound exasperated. But the man was a total novice. What had her father been thinking? Had he been blinded by the fact Zeke had put himself in harm’s way to save Eric that he gave no thought to what might befall the Flying Owl? That kind of selfless heroism did deserve recognition, but darn, couldn’t her dad have called in some markers and found Zeke a job in Billings or maybe with the Stock Association? Her grandfather and her dad had both once been officers.

  Zeke remained strangely silent throughout the rest of the hay distribution. Perhaps he was too cold to talk. The snow petered out. As they drove home, the sky cleared to patchy clouds. The silvery moon popped in and out of the clouds. Those were the quiet beauties that never failed to touch Myra’s heart. She wondered what was going through Zeke’s mind. He never said a word.

  It was well past midnight when she once again unhitched the trailer and stored the tractor in its shed.

  Zeke broke his silence. “I’d think times like this would be when you’d want to have a dog. What if you run into trouble out there in the dead of night?”

  She cocked her head and guided him to the house. Stamping snow off her boots at the door, she said, “I have my cell phone and there’s good service all over this ranch. But if you want a dog, Zeke,” she said, opening the door and shedding her hat and jacket inside, “I know Jewell would be more than happy to hook you up with a healthy pet. I can ask her to drop by tomorrow or the next day. We need vaccine for the heifers. If you want my advice, don’t let her get you a puppy. You’re going to have plenty to learn about the ranch, which won’t leave time to train a puppy.”

  He nodded. “How much sleep do you get?” he asked tiredly.

  Myra took pity on him because he did look beat. “I know I tagged you to fix breakfast, but how about if tomorrow I handle that? In fall and winter we eat breakfast around six. Spring and summer earlier.”

  “I’ll set my cell-phone alarm. Is there a towel I can use in the bathroom?”

  “Yep. And the bedding is fresh. It’s all new, actually. Courtesy of my mom. They stayed here for Gramps’s funeral.”

  Zeke returned his borrowed hat to the rack, excused himself and made a beeline for his bedroom.

  Myra was weary, too. Probably she was more tired for still laboring under the shocking news that she needed to turn over her beloved ranch to a stranger. To a man who, however heroic he might have been on the battlefield, was green as a gourd about cattle ranching. Going to the kitchen, she picked up Orion, whispered her thoughts to him and carried him to her room.

  * * *

  LATE THOUGH IT WAS, Zeke needed to shower. He hoped the sound wouldn’t keep Myra awake.

  Letting hot water beat down on his back and the sore shoulder that still bore scars from his surgeries, his mind drifted. Myra Odell of the curling blond hair and somber, whiskey-colored eyes, was a dynamo. She was nothing like her sibling. When he’d acquired Eric on his combat team, the kid had been fresh-faced and kind of unsure about everything. He’d never have made a career soldier.

  Zeke shut off the water and toweled dry. He thought about Myra going out in the snowy evening to load a trailer and haul hay into a stark, cloudy night. Eric hadn’t shirked any duty to which he’d been assigned, but he hated night patrol. He went out of his way to trade night duty for any number of undesirable tasks. Maybe that all stemmed from growing up feeding cattle on nights like tonight.

  Checking his clothes as he emptied his duffels and hung things in the closet, he noted that while he’d brought long-sleeved shirts and knit Henleys, he didn’t own anything flannel. He made a mental note to buy flannel shirts, long underwear and a Sherpa-lined jacket like Myra wore. August had yet to end and both times he’d ridden out with her he’d frozen his fanny.

  He fell into bed, wondering if he did have what it’d take to be a rancher. His twin had called this a sweetheart deal. Even he’d considered it a windfall when the papers from Jack Odell had arrived. Now he wasn’t sure.

  As he lay on his back, staring up into total blackness, it crossed his mind that he could sell the cows, cattle or whatever one called them. And use his army disability pay to live out his days here rocking on the back porch he’d glimpsed. From his drive up, he could see that the mountain range behind the property held a certain gray and purple majesty.

  Forget it. The still-rational part of his brain reminded him how stir-crazy he’d been during his recovery and later in Boston when he hadn’t found a job. He wasn’t cut out to do nothing. So what were his options? No clear idea came to mind because the warmth of the soft bed and the day’s unfamiliar exercise overtook him and he slid into sleep.

  * * *

  LIGHT POURING INTO the bedroom woke Zeke. At first he felt disoriented, until the room coalesced around him and he remembered having come to the ranch. The Montana ranch he now owned.

  Even as he kicked off the covers and sat up, his phone alarm chimed. And he smelled something cooking. Sausage, maybe.

  Climbing from the bed caused pain in more areas than his injured elbow and shoulder, and left him feeling as if he’d aged overnight. It had to have a lot to do with manhandling hay bales, or perhaps bouncing around on a tractor-pulled flatbed. That last trip out to the herd had been an especially rough ride.

  How had he gotten so out of shape in ten months? The six he’d spent in VA surgeries and rehab, and the four he’d spent pounding the streets in Boston job hunting? Before that, he’d jogged Afghan hills carrying a loaded M16 and a fifty-pound pack.

  Zeke told himself to stop being wussy. After dressing, he made the bed, and after washing his face, left his room—only to fall over Myra’s pig. The creature was chasing a rubber ball down the hall. To keep from stepping on the pig, he lurched to the side, but slammed into the door frame. It shook the house and hurt his right arm—thankfully, not his healing left one. All the same, it prompted a colorful array of swearwords.

  When he regained his balance and glanced up, Myra stood in the kitchen doorway, spatula in hand.

  “What in the world happened?”

  “I tripped over your silly pig.”

  “Sorry. I let him out to exercise when I know he can’t go outside. Will you put him in his pen? I have sausage and potatoes warming in the oven. Now that you’re up I’ll fix the pancakes.”

  She disappeared from the doorway, her voice floating back to Zeke. He gingerly picked up the round little pig and was surprised when the animal snuggled under his unshaven jaw. Zeke hadn’t expected a pig to act like a puppy or for those ears to be so soft. Feeling a bit awkward, Zeke scooped up the ball, too, and did as Myra asked, carrying pig and ball to the kitchen pen, where he deposited them.

  “Thanks. I’ll fill you a plate and you can wash up. I’m happy to report yesterday’s storm has passed. Can you hear the snow melting off the eaves? A weak sun is rising. Unfortunately it’ll make everything slushy and slick.”

  “What’s on our agenda for today? If the snow is melting, does that mean we don’t have to haul hay out to the cows?”

  “That depends on how strong the sunlight gets. There’s still grass in the hills. There’s also more shade, and the cattle may stay in the shelter of coulee brush. I’ll check to see if better weather is predicted. If so, we can take out a few cakes of protein supplement to tide them over until the grass is visible again.”

  Zeke dried his hands on the kitchen towel she handed him. “Okay,” he said agreeably, taking the warm plate of food from her.

  “I’ll bring the coffee carafe to the table so we don’t have to hop up and down.”

  Zeke watched her dump a teacup full of lettuce, carrot and an apple slice into the pig’s heavy metal bowl before she brought her p
late and the coffeepot to the table.

  “Is that all you feed...what did you call him?”

  “Orion. And yes,” she said, settling down after pouring them both coffee. “He’s a miniature. I’m not fattening him up for market. A pig will eat all day if you let them. Jewell said it’s no different for ones bred as house pets. He eats scraps in small portions. I have to keep his water bowl full always. And so you know, while we’re here, never give him salty treats, avocado or chocolate. That’s why I have child locks on the bottom kitchen cabinets. If he’s loose he opens cupboards.”

  “I wondered about that yesterday.” Zeke looked up from his plate. “Does he sleep in the pen at night?”

  “I have a dog crate in my bedroom with his night blanket.”

  Zeke shook his head and tucked into his food.

  “If you get a dog before I leave here, you’ll have to feed him in the barn. Orion would gorge himself on dog food, which is way too rich for a mini pig.”

  Swallowing the last bit of sausage, Zeke picked up his coffee. “I’m still not clear on what all you say is on today’s agenda. I recall you told your neighbor we’d get stock ready for him to take to market. Do all ranchers work together?”

  “I’ll start with basics about our community. The reservation borders town on the east. Sioux, mostly. It’s a community in itself, similar to Snowy Owl Crossing. They farm, ranch and guide hunters and fishermen. Like local ranches, the Flying Owl is a cow-calf operation. We get calves in the spring and sell them in the fall.” She paused until she saw Zeke nod as if he followed her explanation.

  “Calves are ear-tagged at birth to make sure they don’t get separated from mothers. Pairs are sorted and calves branded before we move the herd to summer range. I’ve found it’s easier to keep heifers with calves to eventually be sold in an area with access to a bull so they’ll produce again. Those that didn’t calve this year spend time with a rented bull in summer. Hopefully to produce calves. That’s what’ll happen to some of the ones we fed yesterday. Have I stopped making sense? You look mystified.”

  He placed his knife and fork across his empty plate. “It’s a lot to take in. Are there books that teach cattle ranching?”

  “Books?”

  Zeke gestured with his cup. “Yes, in boot camp we were issued technical manuals explaining much of what a new recruit needed to know.”

  “I suppose there are books. Aren’t there books written on practically everything?”

  “Yes, but if you didn’t learn all the stuff you spout off the top of your head from a book,” he said, frustrated, “how is it you know so much?”

  “I was born on a ranch,” she pointed out, standing to collect both of their plates. “Summers from my earliest memory I spent right here tagging after Gramps. Oh, sure, Gram taught me canning, jam making and cooking. But I learned all I’ve ever needed to know about running a ranch from helping Gramps and Dad do the work.”

  “Okay, so listen. I’m having some thoughts here. Yesterday you said it’s too late for you to get a teaching job this fall. What would you charge to stay here and work for me until a math job comes your way? I can follow you around and learn what I need to know to keep this ranch running like it does now.”

  The dishes clattered in the sink where Myra dropped them. She spun toward him, her mouth agape. “Wor...work...for you?”

  Zeke sucked his bottom lip between his teeth then released it. “Didn’t mean to take you by surprise. I do own this ranch now,” he said gently. “If it’s a title you want, how about we call you the ranch manager until I get up to speed?”

  Myra’s cell rang, and she snatched it off the counter. “It’s, uh, my dad. I’m sure he’s calling to see if I’m headed to Rolling Acres. I only spoke to Eric last night. I’ll be right back.”

  Zeke heard her say hello as she walked down the hall. Then her bedroom door slammed and he was left in a kitchen devoid of noise except for Orion rooting for food in his almost empty dish. Bending, Zeke rubbed the pig’s large pink ears. “Shocked her I did, Piggy Pal. It sounded like a good idea to me.” He finished his coffee, replaced the pot on the burner and put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Myra still hadn’t returned, so he went to shave. Although, if it was as cold out today as yesterday, maybe he should grow a beard. But he didn’t like them because he’d been required to have one for so long. He’d needed one in Afghanistan to blend in with locals. Not blending in could have gotten him killed. Once he separated from the military, he’d stayed clean shaven, and considered it a luxury. Passing a hand over his prickly cheeks, he detoured back to his room.

  Chapter Three

  Myra said hello, but didn’t acknowledge that she knew it was her father calling. She was still majorly upset with him. It felt right to give her bedroom door a hard push.

  “Myra, it’s Dad. Your mother asked me to call to see if you’d be home for lunch. We thought you’d be under way already.”

  Pacing around the bedroom that had been hers off and on for many years, Myra weighed her answer. “Actually, I won’t be home for lunch or anytime soon.”

  “Why? Eric said you had more snow than we did, but I saw on the morning news that the highway is clear. You shouldn’t have trouble driving.”

  “The weather has improved. But, Dad, you turned the Flying Owl over to a total novice. I can’t walk away and let the ranch fall into ruin.”

  “What do you mean? It’s not a working ranch anymore. Your grandfather told me he was trapped under a mountain of medical bills after Gram died. That’s why he sold what was left of his herd and offered a chunk of pasture to a neighbor.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told him to sell the whole shebang and come live with us, but he refused. When you went to help out, I didn’t press further. So up to now I’ve ignored your mom’s unhappiness over the way you put your career on a back burner. Frankly, with Eric in a war zone and making sure Rolling Acres stayed in the black, not needing to worry about my dad’s health and well-being took a load off me. But, honey, you can stop feeling responsible for the Flying Owl. I paid the estate tax and the last payment on Dad’s banknote. Giving the property to Lieutenant Maxwell frees us all up.”

  “You paid Gramps’s banknote? Why? I’m about to ship last year’s calves. That revenue is earmarked to cover the note and sustain the ranch until we sell next year’s calves.”

  “Come on, Myra. How many pregnant cows did Dad own? Twenty? Although I can’t fathom why he didn’t sell the lot. His asthma and arthritis were so bad when we talked shortly before he passed away, he admitted he hadn’t walked out to the barn in almost a year.”

  “He didn’t need to, Dad. I managed the ranch. I grew his herd. He had around a hundred head when I moved here. We didn’t sell any. This year I’ll be shipping almost that many calves. Our overall herd stands at close to three hundred.”

  There was a long silence. Enough for Myra to think she’d lost the connection. Suddenly her father yelped an explosive “Why am I only hearing about this now? Isn’t that something you should have told me at Dad’s funeral?”

  “You didn’t ask.” Myra crossed to her bedroom window. “As I recall, you guys were in a rush to leave and barely stayed for the reception my friend from the café in town helped prepare.”

  “I’m sorry about that, honey. You know Rolling Acres was in the middle of calving. With Eric and me at the funeral, it only left two ranch hands to handle a four-man task.”

  “You didn’t hear me say I was in the middle of calving, too? Thank goodness two of my neighbors helped out, which is what neighbors in Snowy Owl Crossing do.”

  “Honey, I didn’t call to argue. I honestly had no idea Dad didn’t sell off his herd. But I’m good with you keeping the funds from your stock sale to tide you over until you find a teaching job. Instead of staying with us, you may want to rent an apartment in Billings or Missoula, whichever city you think offers the best opportunity for you. Of course your mom and I would rather you
be in Billings. That way you can come on holidays to visit. Oh, your mom is just saying come stay over summer breaks, too, until you find some significant someone, get married and start a home of your own.”

  Myra recognized the smile in his voice that surely came from her parents’ long-standing wish for her to get married. She wasn’t in any mood to humor them. “You still aren’t hearing me, Dad. I’m not leaving here. Not yet. I love this ranch. I realize we all owe former Lieutenant Maxwell a debt of gratitude. But he knows zero, zippo, not one thing about cattle. What happens to the Flying Owl, not if but when he flounders? When he realizes he’s in over his head, I want to be here to carry on. Then I’ll do my level best to convince Nate Gooding at the bank to lend me money to buy Maxwell out.”

  “That’s preposterous, Myra. Do you have any idea what that land is worth? The property taxes alone are partly why I decided to gift the ranch to Eric’s friend.”

  “And it never entered your mind to ask if I was interested in keeping the ranch? Aren’t Eric and I the only two in line to inherit from you and Mom? I assume he’ll take over Rolling Acres. I thought this was my legacy.”

  “But...but you went to college when your brother chose the military. Before his obligation was up, he saw it was a mistake. He told us he’d be returning to the ranch. At the risk of sounding old-school, Myra, ranches belong in the hands of a competent man.”

  She’d heard this before, but it still irritated her. “I can’t believe you said that. And man though he is, Zeke Maxwell is about as far from being a competent rancher as I’ve ever seen. The one thing in his favor so far, he’s begun to see it himself. This morning he offered me a job managing the Flying Owl. At the time I wasn’t sure I wanted to work for him. Now I think I’ll stay and hope by spring our city boy tires of Snowy Owl Crossing’s isolation. Sorry, Dad, I’ve gotta run. Hank Watson is trucking our calves to market tomorrow, so I’ve a full day’s weaning ahead of me.”