by Emma Sutton
Pulling the radio from my belt, I hold it up, pressing down on the push-to-talk button. “I’m up here at the main house. Give me thirty.”
“Go again,” Mason says, meaning he didn’t hear me.
“I’m at MJ’s for a meeting,” I articulate. “I’ll be down in thirty.”
“Copy that.”
I round the corner from the living room to the empty kitchen to find metal bowls and a few measuring spoons laid out on the granite countertop. “Mary Jo?” I call again, her absence now starting to spook me.
Mary Jo is the mother figure of the Ranch, always taking care of others over herself. I’ve been working for her for fourteen years now, ever since Chuck hired me as a ranch hand, one of the lowest on the totem pole. But even then, as a high school graduate, Mary Jo always made me feel like I was one of her own sons. It’s not until Chuck passed that she confided in me, asking me to step up as Ranch Manager. As much as the new responsibilities made me feel unfit, I couldn’t say no to her.
“In here,” a strained voice finally says from the great room.
Crossing the kitchen threshold, I follow the voice.
“You know, for years I’ve wondered if this was Charles’ way of giving me a life with which he could be content leaving me.” Mary Jo stands with her arms crossed in front of her, her silver hair tied into a barely-there ponytail. She sways back and forth, her gaze pointed up to the wall where nearly a dozen pictures hang in various-sized rustic Barnwood frames.
My walkie talkie spews a string of static followed by another question— one not meant for me— from someone I don’t immediately recognize. I silence the thing by dialing the volume down. I’m honestly a little struck by what kind of situation I’m walking into finding Mary Jo so suddenly nostalgic. “Why’s that, MJ?”
She turns as if she’s just now realizing my presence. She stands a good foot shorter than me and wears a flowy white long-sleeve summer shirt that makes her look like she should be along the coast somewhere, maybe sailing the Atlantic. Smiling soft, she pivots back and meets me, pressing her shoulder into my arm as she points up at the photographs on the wall.
“These are all my babies up here, Walker. You know I don’t have children, but that’s what you are to me— all of you. You’re my kids.”
I study the photographs along the wall. Most everyone I recognize from them having worked on the ranch in some shape or form. Ella and Drake pose in their wedding day attire amid a sea of white blooms. Bronson and Laurel hold hands as they kiss on the gazebo backed by the sunset over the lake. Taylor and Hayley jump as high as they can on Lone Oak Hill with all of the ranch staffers, including me when I was only a young ranch hand, us making silly faces behind them.
“All the love this ranch has seen over the past forty years. Coming and going in the form of weddings, engagements, first loves, lasting goodbyes,” MJ says, moving a trembling hand across the space between her and the wall. “All of my workers deserve to find a love like that. And when they do, they deserve the best wedding possible. Which is here at the ranch, if that’s what they want.”
Not able to stop a smile from gripping me, I rub a palm over my jaw and nod.
“You know, Charles and I married in his parent’s dilapidated barn,” she says as if she forgets she’s told me this story a hundred times. But I suppose that’s how you know it means something to her.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s a special thing you two had.”
“I like to think that love follows us, Walker. What Charles and I had was rare. Or at least it felt that way. And I know love found here can be just as rare, if not even more unique.”
It must be bad, I suddenly find myself thinking.
Whatever it is she called me up to the main house to meet about this afternoon has her waxing all kinds of poetic. But even after these fourteen years working for her and Chuck— and then just for her— I know she lives with her heart on her sleeve. And so it is that her worries are usually surrounding new employees and whether they’ll be a good fit, the passing of former staff, or how the animals are being treated on her land.
Knowing first-hand that all the animals are doing just fine out there right now, I smile and turn to face her. “How bad is it, MJ? What’s got you twisted up?”
“Oh, honey. I don’t mean to worry you.”
“Care to fill me in? How’d your meeting with Henry go last week?”
She contorts her hands in front of her and shakes her head. “Dreadful. I don’t know how much longer we can make it here,” she says, staring up at me.
My own smile slipping into a concentrated scowl, I scratch the back of my head. “You serious, Mary Jo?”
She swallows and chuckles. “In all these years of you knowing me, am I ever serious?”
She’s right— I’ve never known her to be severe with her words. She’s always playful, joking, the concerned but spirited mother figure of the ranch. She’s like an angel plucked right from the beyond, a brilliant piece of Heaven here on Earth. In fact, I’ve only seen her completely somber on one occasion, and that was at Chuck’s funeral.
“No, ma’am. Serious isn’t your thing. But you do sound it right now.”
“Well,” she sighs. “I am. But there’s no need to upend the whole world over it. We have financial trouble, and we’ll get back on track. I just need you to know where my heart is.”
I force an empathetic smile so she knows I’m here for her.
“Don’t give me that look, Walker. It’s the same story. Just a different person telling it this time.”
“Alright. Well, tell me what I can do.”
“What you can do is try this bread I made. Tell me how you like it. It’s a new recipe,” she says, turning on her heel as she pads back over the carpet and onto the hardwood floor.
Taking in the photographs on the wall one more time, I follow her into the kitchen where she grabs a serrated knife from her wooden block by the stove.
I’m not hungry, but I can count on a single hand every time I’ve left this house without being coaxed into eating something she’s cooked up. In fact, I’ve learned to not even fight her on it lest I feel like spinning my wheels for a few rounds.
“It’s olive oil, rosemary, and honey.”
I hear the knife carve into the crusty bread as I meet her on the tiles. She butters the slice and hands it to me.
“That’s a beautiful loaf,” I say, nodding at the oak cutting board where the rest of it sits, steam still rising from where she’d just cut into it.
“You’re a dear. Can I pour you some lemonade? It’s fresh.”
“No, ma’am. But thank you. I’m headed to Field E looking for Mason.”
She folds her hands in front of her and presses her lips together. Her eyes droop, the dark bags under them now seeming a lot more prominent than they had just last week.
Unsure of whether it’s just the lighting in the kitchen that make sher look so forlorn, I furrow my brow. “Mary Jo, do you have any numbers for me?” I ask in a last-ditch attempt at getting her to spill how bad off we are. If she’s bringing up finances after all these years, something has to have changed. “Or any figures you want me to look at,” I add after another bite of the hearty, moist bread.
Her eyebrows knit causing a sea of wrinkles to surface on her forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s just embarrassing,” she says, batting a weak hand in the air.
“Listen, you have nothing to be worried about, Mary Jo. That’s a promise. Whatever trouble we’re in, we’ll get ourselves out of it. If you want me to take a look, I’d love to. That way I can know what we’ve got to do to get back on the good foot.”
As if my poor attempt at whittling the truth about the ranch from her after three full years has finally worked, she nods. “Yes. You’re right, Walker. I don’t know why I try to carry all this alone. Besides, I could use a fresh set of eyes. You wait here just a minute.”
I scarf down the rest of my slab of bread as I realize just how hungry I’d been having
skipped out on lunch today to start cattle work earlier than normal on a Thursday.
Tipsy finds her way back to me, probably smelling the fresh buttered bread I’ve just devoured, and winds her way around my boots again, her tail tracing something pretentious onto the legs of my dirt-stained jeans. Looking around, it’s only now that I realize Mary Jo’s dogs must be free running the farm. But it’s such a hot June day that even Sophie, my sidekick and four-legged best friend in the form of a hyperactive Border Collie, had even opted out on the ride from the cattle barns to the main house. She probably figured it best to hang out near where Mason and August were working the watering hose while she has the chance.
MJ shuffles back into the kitchen with a thick beige folder and lays it on the counter. When I lean against the cool granite, I feel a rush of relief until I open the folder and see the word OVERDUE written in red ink with lines pointing to a figure. Undoubtedly, it’s Henry’s handwriting.
“This is dangerous,” she says. “These numbers don’t add up to me still, and I can’t get ‘em to work right. But Henry promised. You know I trust him. All I know is we’re in the red again this year.”
Again?
Not wanting to seem dumber for the wear, I nod and study the top paper, trying my best to make sense of it. Flipping to the next page, I see last years’ figures which was also in the red but, at least, nearly breaking even.
After studying the next few sheets, I close the folder and connect with her. “Apparently we’ve been going downhill for a while now,” I say, trying not to look too astonished. Forcing a neutral disposition, I clear my throat. “How long did Henry say we have before we can’t recover?”
“Long enough. Until the fall.”
“Well,” I say, trying to remain void of any alarming emotion. I don’t want her to know how delusional her equation is. “If we can sell this next herd of cattle for a good turn during July or August, then we should be fine,” I say, running a hand down the back of my head. “We’re making tweaks here and there across the ranch, too, but I’ll make sure things are tightened up as much as possible. In the meantime, I’ll throw on my thinking cap.”
MJ nods and folds her arms back in front of her. “Thank you, Walker. It’s been weighing on me for months now. But I just didn’t realize how poorly we were doing. It seems without Charles around, I’ve let everything go.”
“You should’ve told me sooner.” I narrow my eyes at her.
“I know. I’ve let you down.”
“Don’t say that, Mary Jo. We’ll get us out of this, alright? I just don’t want you worrying.” I take a deep breath and shove my hands in my pockets.
“That’s hard not to do,” she says with a shy frown as Tipsy mews and hops her front legs onto MJ’s knee. She bends as best she can and picks the sassy feline up, cradling her in her arms. The cat’s orange hair immediately starts sticking to her shirt, but she pays it no mind. “But I trust you, honey.”
I nod and tip my hat at her. “Thank you for the bread. It was tasty,” I say, turning, about to head back to the door.
“Walker,” she says, planting a warm hand on my forearm. Her fingers feel cool and thin against my skin. “We can’t let this place go just yet. There are too many more memories to be made here on the ranch. I’m not ready for that to be over and done with. This was Charles’ pride and joy.”
With a single nod of my head, I agree. “We’re nowhere close to being done, MJ. We’re just getting started, alright?”
Chapter Three
Hattie
“Hold still, Sophie,” I whisper in a slow, soothing voice, squatting down next to the Border Collie as I work to inspect her coat with worried fingers.
The dog lets out a vulnerable whine as she turns her head back to her hind end and cowers near where Mason’s parked his ATV.
“What’d you get yourself into, huh?”
It’s not long until I find that her silky chocolate brown hair is matted around a few burrs toward the undercarriage of her back legs.
“Oh, wow,” I say once I understand what I’m looking at. Working the hair as much as I can, careful not to pull too much on her skin, I try to coax the burrs free of her fur. But to no avail, my attempt is hardly working.
“I’ll have to see if MJ has some scissors so we can fix you up. Are you thirsty?” I ask Sophie, now noticing how hard she’s been panting. She probably ran here from clear across the ranch— at least a few acres down the line.
She cocks her head as if she understands me and then saunters the few feet over to where Mary Jo keeps a fresh watering trough for the roaming dogs and cats that come and go on her land. Sophie laps up water like she’s never tasted it before until the screen door slams, frightening her.
Hard footsteps descend MJ’s front porch, and I know instantly that it’s not her gait. Wherever Mary Jo goes, she treads lightly and carefully. In fact, whenever she goes without her charm bracelets, she’s quiet as a church mouse and can’t help but sneak up on you without intent.
Expecting Mason, I’m instead met with Walker. The same Walker I’d come to despise just a few hours earlier for terrorizing Oreo with his loud truck over at the riding ring.
“How’s that twenty percent coming?” he asks with a grin as soon as he hits the bottom step.
“It might be going a lot better if I didn’t have to free your dog from these burrs myself,” I say, pushing past him for the front door. “Is MJ in there?” I ask without expecting a response.
She wanted me to come by with the detective’s results about my birth mother, and while I don’t exactly know the conclusion, I do have a strong inkling. Besides, I want to put her mind at ease that, regardless of the results, there is, at the very least, an outcome this time. That’s more than I could have hoped for in my own lifetime.
“Mary Jo?” I call her name as I step into the house. I immediately hear dishes clanging against the farmhouse sink as I whisk past the sitting room and into her kitchen.
“Howdy there, honey. I’d hug ya, but my hands are wet.”
“I’m sweaty anyway,” I beam. “You have any scissors handy? Sophie got tangled up with some burrs.”
“Oh, ouch. Sure. Should be right over there,” she says, pointing to the outermost left kitchen drawer, her arm, up to her elbow, soapy with bubbles.
Pulling open the drawer, I sift through the random contents, paper clips, magnets, pens, and thumbtacks until I find the pair of Fiskars. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. Did you hear anything?” she calls behind me.
“I did, but I’m just not sure what yet,” I tell her before racing through the screen door and back down the steps. As soon as I reach Sophie who’s now laid on her side in the shade by the water trough that sits in front of MJ’s bed of flowers, I find Walker sawing away at her hair with his Crooked River pocket knife.
“Hey, stop,” I say, instantly wincing. Not wanting him to accidentally cut the poor dog, I squat down which brings me to eye level with Walker. I hold the scissors out. “Here.”
“I’ve got it,” he grunts, haphazardly running the knife where Sophie’s long hair meets the burrs.
“Please don’t butcher her.” I pat Sophie’s wagging tail where she lays in the grass. “Just use these,” I say, thrusting the scissors out to him in a quiet form of desperation, not wanting his knife to slip and poke her— or worse.
Ceasing his sawing, Walker sets his face into something of an amused smirk as he opens his empty, calloused palm.
Carefully pushing the shears into his hand, I’m completely caught off-guard when he wraps his fingers around the scissors, catching my own fingertips in his rough grip. The moment of connection startles me and sends a heavy flickering current whizzing between us like the voltage on the backup generators. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage when he shifts his gaze to my lips. Suddenly recoiling from his grasp, I furrow my brow.
Walker’s brandied browns pierce me like they’re staring straight into my tormented soul u
ntil he shakes his head with a chuckle. I watch him as he turns his attention back to working the burrs out of Sophie’s hair, but I can’t peel my eyes from his profile. It’s his strong jawline, the curve of his smug lips, and the heat-irritated skin that hides underneath his week-old scruff that makes my cheeks grow hot.
“Did you feel that,” I whisper, the physical blow of our connection so much that I can’t stop the words from leaving my mouth.
“That there is a labor of love,” he happily hums, his eyes still focused on the dog.
Love?
I furrow my brow and clear the confused passion from my throat. “What?”
“My barber job. Didn’t need these things at all,” he beams, holding the scissors back out to me. The freed burrs sit in his other palm as he turns his face back to me with all the wild wonderment he can muster.
Huffing loud enough to scare Sophie back up onto her feet, I seize the scissors from him and pop back up, now completely annoyed by this human being who acts holier than thou as I’ve only been trying to help his dog.
When he stands and meets me above eye-level, overlooking me by a few inches, I can’t help but see a turn in his expression— something darker and more meaningful. “How long you been out here?” he asks, turning a blind eye to the front porch windows.
I can only assume he’s checking to see if I’ve eavesdropped anything he was in there saying to MJ. “A few minutes. I saw Sophie irritated on my way in and stopped to help. What are you doing up here anyway? Don’t you have cattle to herd?”
“I do. And what are you doing up here?”
“I guess the same thing you are,” I say.
Walker scoffs and shoves one of his wide hands into one of his jean pockets, the Wranglers fitting him just tight enough for the view of him from behind to stir something inside me. “Oh, I assure you,” he says with a raised eyebrow. “We’re not doing the same thing up here.”
“Well, I don’t know what you were doing, but I came up here to talk to MJ.”
