An Unlikely Rancher

by Roz Denny Fox

  “Name’s Barney Fisk, ma’am. Nam vet. I don’t know squat about ostriches, but I reckon I can learn.” He smiled down at Andee and remarked on her bear.

  Based solely on that and the fact he had kind eyes, Jenna took a paper out of her purse and jotted down her address. “I’ll be home by three if you’d like to drop by and see what the job entails. The job will be four hours a day, in the morning. If that suits you, I’d need to see references.”

  Bobbing his head, the man tucked the paper into his shirt pocket. “Ostriches are just big turkeys, right? My pa raised turkeys in Oklahoma. I put in time wrangling those birds.”

  “The work’s probably similar,” Jenna said, feeling better knowing the man wasn’t clueless about farmwork. “We’ll see you later. Come on, Andee, we have another stop to make before lunch.”

  Out in the hot sun again, Jenna put on her sunglasses and made sure Andee did the same. “I’ll unlock the car and you get your coloring book to work on while we go to the bank. It’s so hot, I hope your crayons didn’t melt.”

  “Why would they melt?” Andee asked.

  “Crayons are like the cheese I put on your grilled-cheese sandwiches, which melts in the heat.”

  Andee laughed. But her laughter died when she found the tips of her new crayons were soft and one or two stuck together. “They’re icky.”

  “Not too bad. I think they’ll firm up in the bank’s air-conditioning. We’ll have to remember not to leave them in the car.”

  Andee’s lower lip drooped. “I don’t like living here. When can we go home to Auntie Melody’s?”

  Jenna stopped at the door to Bank of the Desert. “This is our home now. We’ll adjust.”

  They had to.

  “You and Cubby have a seat.” Jenna gave Andee the coloring book and crayons and directed her to one of three chairs in the small lobby. The whole bank was minuscule compared to the one on the base.

  Looking around, she didn’t see a place to sign up to speak with a banker, so she went up to one of two teller windows. “I’m new in town,” she told the elderly woman. “I’d like to speak to a loan officer.”

  “That would be Mr. Hart, our vice president. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Vice president? I only need to apply for a loan,” Jenna said.

  “He wears many hats,” the woman—Sharon, her name tag read—responded, coming out from behind the counter to knock on a door with the gold plaque reading Franklin Hart, Jr. Vice President.

  A balding man threw open the door. He had on cowboy boots and a plaid shirt with a bolo tie.

  “He’s not wearing any hats, Mom,” Andee said loudly.

  “Shh, honey. That’s a figure of speech.” Jenna spoke in a low voice. The banker was studying her; she hoped she still looked okay—loan-worthy. He beckoned her inside, so she reminded Andee not to stray. “I’ll leave the door open so you can see me and I can see you, okay?”

  Andee plopped down across from the door and opened her coloring book.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Franklin Hart said as he offered Jenna a straight-backed chair, then rounded his desk to pull out his. He flashed her a polished smile.

  “I’m new here,” she said, glancing back to make sure she could see Andee. “Jenna Wood. I bought Oscar Martin’s property.”

  “Ah, yes. The ostrich farm.” The man picked up a gold pen.

  “Plus a rental home in town,” Jenna added, extracting her folder from the tote. “The air-conditioner compressor quit and a local repairman for the air company said it can’t be fixed, which is why I need a loan.”

  “Do you bank with us?”

  “Not yet. My husband was in the military, so we banked on base. I want to open an account here and move my funds.”

  Franklin Hart opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of forms. “Where’s your husband? Is he overseas?” he asked as he scribbled Jenna’s name on the form.

  “He’s deceased.” Jenna hoped her voice hadn’t wobbled as she’d said it.

  The banker put his pen down and looked as if he wanted to say something but was at a loss as to what that might be. A man not accustomed to expressions of sympathy, then.

  She let him off the hook and opened the folder. “I’m the sole owner of the ranch and rental, which by the way is occupied. Mr. Martin asked to be cashed out. That took most of my savings, which is why I need a six-thousand-dollar loan for the broken air conditioner.”

  The banker leafed through Jenna’s folder. “You have no income, Mrs. Wood. No credit history in your name and no track record for your ranch.”

  “I...uh...” Jenna fidgeted. “I only just moved in. On page two it shows how much income Mr. Martin made each month. That will be my income.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t tell you how many ranchers go belly-up in their first year, and you have zero experience. Come back after you can show me a year’s spreadsheet of income versus outgo.”

  “Next year?” Jenna squeaked. “Aren’t the properties I own free and clear enough collateral?”

  Mr. Hart stood, closed her folder and handed it back. “Ours is a small, independently owned bank. We’ve remained solvent for forty years by not accepting iffy old farms and small area homes as collateral. But I hope you’ll let us serve as your personal bank.”

  Jenna thought his smile would have melted butter as he showed her the door.

  “I’m...sorry about your husband,” he said.

  Her stomach was so tied up in knots, she barely managed a civil thank-you.

  Where was the next closest bank? Would all loan officers see her as a poor risk? What did she own that she could sell for enough cash to buy an air conditioner so Flynn could move back to his rental?

  “You were gone a long time, Mommy. Me ’n Cubby are hungry.”

  “Cubby and I are hungry,” Jenna said automatically.

  “You, too? Goody.” Andee gathered her bear and coloring items.

  Numb, Jenna tucked Andee’s coloring book and crayons into the tote bag with her documents that apparently spelled out her lack of net worth. Not for the first time in a few short days, she found herself bordering on tears.

  Outside, Andee tugged her sleeve. “That bad man drove by.”

  “What bad man?”

  “The one you sent away from the ostriches. He doesn’t like us.”

  Assuming Andee meant Don Winkleman, Jenna opened the café door and assured her daughter that he was no one they needed to worry about.

  * * *

  FLYNN SAT OUTSIDE the VA clinic nervously tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Beezer whined and hopped over into the front seat, where he pushed his nose into Flynn’s ear until Flynn rubbed his head. “You’ve no idea how much I want to skip this appointment, fella.”

  Beezer pawed at Flynn’s shirt.

  For about the hundredth time he checked his watch. He opened his door and the dog gave a bark as he jumped to the ground.

  Pets were allowed in the waiting room. Flynn knew that some dogs had been to war and some were medical service dogs. He also knew that a few guys freaked out before their exams and their dogs calmed them down.

  Flynn hadn’t suffered a head injury. He didn’t have PTSD. And he never used to have high blood pressure. For him, Beezer was just great company.

  Unrolling Beezer’s leash, Flynn clipped it to the collar. Still, he didn’t rush to the door. He was fine with letting Beezer sniff bushes that lined the wide walkway. Faced with the glass door at last, Flynn sucked in a deep breath and went in.

  From the number of seats filled, he figured the doctors were backed up. One other dog sat at the feet of a bearded man. That dog, a yellow Lab, rose when it saw Beezer.

  “Sutton, ten o’clock appointment,” Flynn told the re
ceptionist. She was the same woman who’d checked him in both other times. A Native American with warm eyes, she smiled at Flynn and acknowledged Beezer with a dog treat.

  “We’re running behind,” she said. “You have time to go downstairs for coffee if you’d like.”

  Flynn felt his anxiety building. “Thanks, but I may go out and walk around.”

  A woman dressed like a nurse emerged from another door. She called out a name and the man with the yellow Lab collected a cane and painstakingly got up.

  Flynn took Beezer and left. He meandered a walkway bordered by cacti and stopped to look at a sculpture depicting the seals of all military designations.

  The minute he set foot back in the waiting room, he felt his heart rate jack up. It was stupid. He’d faced combat missions on less adrenaline than this.

  At his last visit the doc had said he’d thought a couple of pieces of shrapnel were working their way to the surface. The surgeon at Bethesda had told him it could take several years.

  He sat and picked up a well-read auto mechanics magazine. Beezer dropped down at his feet and buried his nose in his paws.

  Not overly interested in the magazine, Flynn’s attention was drawn to a new group coming in the main door. A woman assisted a tall man who teetered on a prosthetic leg. One shirtsleeve also hung loose. The woman steadied him and tried to keep a child in check.

  Something in the cut and color of her hair combined with her age reminded Flynn of Jenna. The girl was probably a year or so younger than Andee.

  Beezer got up, whined plaintively and scratched at the floor.

  “Easy, boy.” Flynn tightened his grip on the leash. “She’s a cutie, but not your new friend.” As if the dog realized his mistake, he flopped down again. The couple and child made their way to empty seats across the room. The woman went up to the reception desk and presented a sheaf of papers.

  Flynn’s thoughts reverted to Jenna and how she’d fare hiring an employee. And at the bank. He knew Frank Hart from elementary and middle school. Before their freshman year Frank’s parents had pulled him out and sent him to a private school. He used to brag that he no longer needed to associate with dumb farm kids.

  If he’d had to borrow from Hart’s bank, Flynn wouldn’t have bought the airpark. Luckily, his loan had gone through a military credit union.

  Flynn had heard Frank, now a member of the country club and all, had grown more class conscious than ever. Flynn imagined the guy fawning all over a pretty newcomer like Jenna Wood.

  He tossed aside the magazine and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  The owner of the yellow Lab came out from his exam, collected his dog and left. But it seemed as though another hour passed before the harried nurse called his name.

  Flynn sprang up. “Would you watch my dog?” he asked the receptionist. “His name is Beezer.”

  “I remember,” she said and ruffled his shaggy fur. “We got along famously last time, didn’t we, boy?”

  Beezer raised a paw, making her laugh.

  Flynn fell in behind the fast-moving nurse with squeaky-soled shoes. He heard moaning coming from one room. His throat suddenly felt bone-dry.

  “Change into a gown,” she said. “I’ll be back to take your vital signs and set up for minor surgery. Are you having any problems?” She glanced up, pen poised over his chart.

  Flynn shook his head and she disappeared before he could produce the flight-physical form he had folded in his pants’ pocket. Oh, well, he’d give it to the doctor if the nurse said his blood pressure was okay. Kicking off his boots, he shed his shirt and pants.

  Man, he hated these gowns. He hated everything about exams now. Once his flight status was renewed, he’d quit coming here until next licensing.

  A different nurse swept in. She checked his temperature and clipped his forefinger with a pulse meter. Without a smile or a single word, she wrapped his arm with a BP cuff and donned a stethoscope. Her eyebrows drew down over the bridge of her nose and Flynn panicked, fighting to breathe.

  “Are you on blood pressure medication?” she asked, unwrapping his arm.

  “No. I can’t take it and pass a flight physical.”

  She scribbled in his chart, unclipped the pulse meter and bent to remove a surgery pack from a drawer, unrolling it on the counter. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

  “Wait, what did it register?” Flynn called as she started to leave. He tugged at the too-tight neck of his gown.

  “Too high,” she said. “Dr. Warner will prescribe a med.”

  The door snicked shut and Flynn’s body jerked. Moments later the iron-haired doctor strode in, his white coattails flapping.

  “What’s with your blood pressure, son? You feeling extra stressed lately?” He had Flynn lie back, and he retook his pressure. “Still high,” the doctor announced. Adjusting his glasses, he inspected Flynn’s knee and thigh.

  “Not until I got here,” Flynn muttered, making the doctor crack a smile.

  “Big, tough flyer like you afraid of me snipping out two little bits of steel?” The surgeon washed his hands, opened a pair of surgical gloves and put them on.

  “No,” Flynn responded haughtily.

  The doctor selected a scalpel from the surgical pack on the counter. “Both pieces of shrapnel are so near to breaking through the skin, I prefer doing this without a local anesthesia. Two little cuts and they’re out. Save you an extra hole in your hip from a fat lidocaine needle.”

  “Go for it.” Flynn clenched his teeth. He was more concerned about his elevated blood pressure. He shut his eyes when the doctor snapped on a bright surgical lamp with his elbow. Flynn barely had time to suck in a breath when he felt a sting and heard metal striking a plastic basin pressed against his thigh. The doctor dabbed the spot and made a second cut. That pain was worse and it took longer before Flynn heard a second clink.

  “I see one more lump. It’s still too deep. Come back in four weeks. I can probably get it then. With luck that’ll be the end of it.”

  Flynn nodded.

  “Lie still. The nurse will be in to dress these spots and bring you a prescription. I want you on a BP medication. You may have essential hypertension, which can go as fast as it came on, but unless it does, you need it controlled. If you start feeling light-headed on the pills, drop by and have your pressure checked.”

  Flynn slid his arm out from behind his head and fell back on the table.

  Four more freaking weeks hammered inside his splitting head.

  His license ran out at the end of the month. He had to lower his blood pressure fast or he could kiss teaching goodbye.

  Kiss flying goodbye.

  The thought was crushing.

  Moments passed and yet another nurse whipped into the room. She put on gloves, swabbed his upper thigh with something cold that brought tears to Flynn’s eyes. Then she put pressure bandages on both sites. “They shouldn’t bleed much. Starting tomorrow, trade these dressings for regular bandages. Use those for a couple of days, especially when you shower.”

  He looked up at her. “After the—”

  “No, in the shower. You don’t want the wounds getting wet. Oh, here’s your prescription. The doctor said he explained that if the meds make you light-headed, come in. I know you fly. Dr. Warner said to have you ground yourself for now.” She delivered the news with a sympathetic smile.

  “Sure,” Flynn said, levering his torso up on his elbows. The pain had faded somewhat.

  “Your wounds look great compared to many we see.” The nurse discarded the swab and recapped the bottle. “Stop at the reception desk and book a follow-up.” With that she hurried out.

  Flynn felt as though he’d been flattened by a steamroller.

  * * *

  ANDEE WAS IN her room asleep and Jenna was sitting in
bed looking up banks and pawnshops on her laptop when she heard the kitchen door open. Her boarder didn’t stop in the kitchen, but she heard his measured tread on the stairs and the padding footfalls of his dog.

  She felt surprisingly comforted knowing man and dog were in the house for the night.

  Removing her reading glasses, she set them aside with the laptop. As someone used to living alone, just her and Andee, for long stretches of Andrew’s deployments, this feeling of relief ought to be alien. Especially since she’d chafed all afternoon and evening, worrying about Flynn’s return and his wanting to know what had transpired at the bank. The most logical way to get the money for the new AC was to ask Melody and Rob for a loan. But their help would surely come with all sorts of pressure to give this up.

  She had no idea how much Andrew had paid for her wedding rings, but the diamonds weren’t small and they were set in platinum. She’d planned to give them to Andee.

  The water shut off upstairs. After a few minutes all sounds ceased.

  She turned off her bedside lamp.

  * * *

  A NOISE JOLTED Jenna awake. The room around her was black. She listened, wondering if she’d dreamed it. But no, there it was again. It sounded like a kitchen cupboard closing. Then the fridge. Her bedside clock told her it was ten past midnight. Jenna reached for her robe and slid into her slippers. Andee had left most of her glass of milk at dinner. Maybe she’d woken up thirsty and remembered her mom had put the glass in the fridge.

  She stepped into the hall and saw that the light over the sink was on.

  Jenna hurried down the hall, rounded the corner and stopped dead when faced with Flynn Sutton at the sink. He was dressed only in dark blue boxers. Backlit the way he was, every sculpted muscle in his upper body stood out as if carved in stone.

  “Sor...sorry to interrupt,” she stammered, words sticking in her throat.

  Flynn whirled from the window over the sink, spilling a glass of water and then quickly grabbing some paper towel to wipe it up. “I came down to see if you had aspirin or something. I didn’t bring any with me.”