by Carol Grace
After a bumpy ride back to the house, she saw he'd arrived ahead of than and was standing in front of the house staring at the front porch. If she hadn't noticed it before, she saw now that he was a real Western man, his body all angles and planes, his face shadowed by his broad-brimmed hat so that it was impossible to see the expression in his eyes.
She walked up to him, her hands in her pockets, wondering how the place looked to him. If he knew Pop, he'd probably been here before, and if he'd been here before he'd probably seen it in its heyday.
He stared at the sign over the door. "What does Rustic Hills Retreat mean? What are you retreating from?''
I'm not retreating from anything. I'm offering people a retreat to the peace and quiet of the country, the solitude of the prairie, to a kind of renewal of the spirit " She took a deep breath. Once she got started on the purpose of the ranch she had a lot to say, but one of the women interrupted her.
"We're going in for some coffee, okay?"
She nodded without taking her eyes from Quincy's suntanned face. "It looks a little run-down in spots," she said, following his gaze to the pen the cattle had broken through that morning. "But I have made improvements, a hot tub and... would you like to see the new bunkhouse?"
"Why not?"
He walked with her to the two-story building behind the main house. He'd taken his hat off and the sun shone on his face, highlighting his straight nose, wide mouth and firm jaw. He was tall, towering over her five feet ten inches. She opened the door of the bunkhouse, wondering what he'd think of the new carpeting, the walls painted a pale yellow. Preceding him into the bunkhouse she told herself firmly that it didn't matter what he thought. She was on her own now, making her own decisions, subject to no one's approval.
"Is this where the ranch hands stay?"
"There are only two left, Rocky and Curly. They're out mending fences these days. We were losing cattle. But when they're here, they stay in the old blacksmith's cabin."
"How do you manage?"
"The guests do the work, or they will as soon as we get organized. You know how guest ranches work, don't you? We've been written up in several newspapers. I've even got a waiting list. Not everything works perfectly, of course...." She didn't mention the water heater breaking down, or the cook quitting, or the one woman who'd left before she'd even unpacked.
"Of course not," he said absently after a long silence during which his eyes took a tour of her body. Suddenly she was conscious of the smudges of dirt on her sweater and the tear in her jeans. She thought she saw a look in his eyes that said she wasn't up to the challenge. He wasn't the only one who thought that. But she'd show him and everyone else she could run this ranch and make a go of it.
She returned his scrutinizing look. He was attractive, if you liked the weather-beaten look, the eyes with a down
ward tilt, the spare frame that probably made women want to bake hot biscuits for him. He obviously belonged on a ranch, somewhere. Where, he hadn't said. He hadn't said much of anything. Just asked questions.
While she was studying his wide, expressive mouth and gray eyes, he reached out and removed a piece of hay caught in her hair. She gasped at the unexpected gesture. There was a strange look in his eyes. What was he thinking about? He snapped the piece of hay between his fingers, breaking the tension between them.
"Actually, I'm looking for a job," he said.
Her eyes widened. "Here?"
"Why not?"
"I told you there are only two hands and that’s because I can't afford to hire any more. I wish I could." She didn't say that even if she could afford to hire someone, it wouldn't be him. He had too much of everything—looks, confidence and know-how. "If you want to work, you could try the other ranches around here. You shouldn't have any trouble. You seem able-bodied enough." That was putting it mildly. Yes, he was able-bodied, and then some. She wished he'd take his able body and head down the road. She didn't need this kind of a distraction and neither did the other women who were her guests this week.
"You've had experience?" she asked to fill the silence. Smooth, Abby. Did one ask Clint Eastwood if he'd had experience?
"Some. Sure you couldn't use me here?"
Her mouth fell open in disbelief. What did she have to do, spell it out for him? "I'm sorry," she said.
Sorry? She couldn't be more sorry than he was. She didn't know it, but she was sitting on his land. It wasn't her fault. She'd bought it from his ex-wife free and clear, not knowing it wasn't hers to sell. Oh, Corinne had had power of attorney. He'd given it to her when they'd called up the reserves for the Gulf War and he'd had to go. He'd been standing there in the middle of the Sahara Desert, the sun
beating down on his head and the sand stinging his eyes when he'd got the check and the divorce papers.
"Well, thanks for the tour," he said. "I'll go say hello to Pop."
"You'll find him in the shed over by the barn. That's all his now." She held the screen door open for him and he turned toward the barn. She watched him go, relief flowing through her body like warm honey. She hadn't realized how tense he made her until he disappeared around the corner of the old building. She hoped he understood why she didn't have enough money to hire more help. If he knew anything about ranching, he'd know how hard it was to make it pay.
Her gaze drifted to the tall grass in the distance. Either people hated the prairie, thought its endless, tall, undulating grasses boring, or they read between the lines, finding beauty in the dense stands of bluestem, wild rye and prairie larkspur. She was in the latter group and she thought Quincy was, too. Fine, let him stay among the tall grass, but somewhere else, far enough so that she wouldn't run into him.
She turned abruptly and went to the kitchen entrance, banging the door closed behind her, unable to shake the image of his broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs as he strode away from her. She had a ranch to run, guests to feed, and she couldn't afford a distraction.
The kitchen committee was waiting for her, three new arrivals from Chicago, oohing and aahing over the huge, old, cast-iron stove and the walk-in freezer with sides of beef hanging from hooks. This was what he didn't understand, the cowboy who knew everything, that with volunteers-guests who'd come to get in touch with nature—she didn't need a cook and so many ranch hands. That was not to say, however, that the women would be content to stay in the kitchen for very long.
"When do we learn to rope?" one of than asked, "and will it be from that big, tall hunk I saw outside?"
"We don't actually do much roping here," Abby explained, handing out bunches of spinach to wash and drain. "We move cattle in different ways. I'll explain it to you after dinner." She cracked fresh brown eggs into a bowl. "It’s in my lecture on cow psychology."
"What about breaking wild horses?" a fresh-faced young woman asked eagerly. "Is that what he teaches?"
"No, he doesn't," Abby said firmly, cutting chunks of butter into the flour. "That man doesn't teach anything. Our horses have already been broken and they're ready to ride. Tomorrow we'll saddle up and round up the cattle for inoculations. But there are always regular chores to be done, too, like gathering eggs, putting out feed and mending fences. I'll pass out sign-up sheets later."
Abby was glad to see they looked reasonably enthused by the lineup of activities she proposed. She'd never advertised breaking horses or roping cattle. She didn't know where they got those ideas, probably from the movies, or from men like Quincy McLoud who looked like he could do them all with his eyes closed. She fluted the crusts in the glass pans and preheated the ovens. Then she looked out the window above the sink and wondered if he'd left yet.
Quincy rapped on the door to the shed and Pop yelled at him to come in. When the older man looked and saw who it was, he sprang from his cot in the corner with an exuberance that belied his age and his arthritis and pumped Quincy's hand enthusiastically.
"By God, I had a feeling in my bones you'd turn up one of these days," he said, his grin showing the gold toot
h in the middle of his mouth.
"It's either your arthritis or ESP," Quincy said. "How are you doing?"
Pop waved his hand around the shed at the whitewashed walls and a new, extra large TV in a cabinet on the far wall. "Can't complain," he said. "Where ya been all this time, anyway? I been looking for ya ever since the war's been over. Shortest damn war I ever seen."
"Seemed long enough to me," Quincy remarked, taking his hat off. "I didn't exactly feel like coming back when it was over. Not after what happened. So I've been working for other people. Here and there. Until one day I couldn't take it anymore. Not until I at least saw the Bar Z again."
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Read another book by Carol Grace
Lonely Millionaire
Chapter One
Wallpaper paste dripped onto Mandy Clayton's hair and her arms ached from holding them over her head. When the phone rang, she was on top of the ladder in the upstairs bathroom. Dropping her roller, she scrambled down the narrow rungs and ran downstairs.
"Miramar Inn," she said breathlessly into the phone.
"How's business?" her sister asked.
"Terrible. How was your flight?"
"Awful. Complete meal service for three hundred and fifty in two hours. Lecherous old men and crying babies. And you know that pilot I told you about?"
"The one with midnight blue eyes who invited you to his room for a game of Trivial Pursuit?"
"It was pursuit all right, but it wasn't trivial, and he's married. I hate this job. For two cents I'd quit and work for you."
"That's all I could afford to pay you," Mandy said, "and you'd be bored silly. You wouldn't meet any eligible men, either. They don't come to bed and breakfasts unless their wives or girlfriends drag them."
"I wish I had someone to drag to one. By the way, has my latest Yukon Man come yet?"
"I think so."
"Could you go get it and read me some of the personals? It might cheer me up.''
"Laurie, I've got wallpaper paste all over my hands. You don't want me to smear it all over those gorgeous men, do you?"
"I'll wait while you wash your hands. I've got a twelve hour layover."
Mandy set the receiver down and went to wash her hands, muttering to herself that she didn't have twelve hours to kill, that someone might be trying to call right now and make reservations for one of her two lovely rooms overlooking the ocean in scenic Moss Beach, California.
Returning with magazine in hand, Mandy riffled quickly through the pages, skimming past bare-chested men flexing their muscles and flannel-shirted men with bulging biceps chopping wood until she came to a half-page ad with no picture at all.
"Here you go," she announced. "In big, huge letters— 'LONELY MILLIONAIRE seeks sensuous, understanding lady with good math skills to help me count my money.'"
"That's him, that's the one," Laurie said gleefully. "Tell me more."
"Well, he's a mining engineer who lives a million miles from nowhere. Are you sure that's what you want?"
"Not me. You. This one's perfect for you."
"Oh, no, he isn't. Leave me out of this. I have no interest in men. I thought you knew that."
"I know that one man told you he wasn't ready to make a commitment and that turned around and made one to your best friend. But that was three years ago. It’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start thinking of others. Others who are stuck in the wilds of the Yukon, a zillion miles from nowhere. Think of how much one letter would brighten this poor—I mean, rich man's lonely days."
Mandy stared at the ad. "You realize that this whole thing could be a joke, don't you?" she asked.
"If it is a joke then you've found a man with a sense of humor. Come on, just one letter. I dare you."
Mandy took a deep breath. She never could resist a dare. From the time Laurie dared her to jump out of the apple tree when she was ten and she broke her wrist to the time her sister had dared her to jump off the high dive at the high school pool and she'd smacked her stomach so hard it had left a red mark for days. Every one of those dares had turned out badly, and yet she still couldn't resist. There was something of the daredevil left in the thirty-two-year-old woman that she'd thought was long gone. But this time there was no danger of getting hurt, she told herself. The chances were this "Lonely Millionaire" would be deluged with letters and never write back.
"Okay," Mandy said. "You know how to get to me. But just one letter. That's all."
"Of course," Laurie said soothingly. "And while you're at it, you ought to take out an ad in Yukon Man yourself. For the inn, I mean. I bet those guys are always looking for a good place for R and R.''
"That’s a thought," Mandy said.
"A good thought. Now don't forget to write the letter."
When Laurie hung up, Mandy went back up the stairs to try to make the wallpaper stick to the wall. She wanted to finish before a guest checked in, but so far she had no reservations. Instead the bedrooms stood forlorn and empty, with their handmade quilts and starched damask curtains fluttering in the ocean breeze. If she were on R and R, she would come home, she thought, pausing in the doorway to admire the tiled fireplace already laid for a cozy fire, the padded window seats and the stacked bookshelves.
She was glad Laurie wasn't there to see her staring off into space. She might think Mandy was feeling sorry for herself. But why should she be when she had everything she wanted right here, a wonderful old house and a beautiful view?
She'd put the past behind her. She didn't need a man in her life, and if she did, answering personal ads was not the way to find one. She wished Laurie realized that. Those ads were written by weirdos, psychos and out-and-out liars. But she'd accepted the dare and she wouldn't back out now. One letter and that was it.
But the summer was foggy along the coast and Mandy had very few customers. She wrote her letter and to her surprise got one back almost immediately. Lonely Millionaire didn't sound like a weirdo, he sounded intelligent, funny and interesting. So interesting she wrote another letter and then another, until she found that she was looking forward to the mail with breathless anticipation.
The man was not only a rugged outdoorsman who could handle the Arctic weather and difficult living conditions, he seemed like a sensitive, caring kind of guy who sometimes expressed himself so beautifully it brought tears to her eyes. Other times he was outrageously funny and flippant and made her laugh out loud.
Lonely Millionaire's real name was Jack Larue and he was serious about looking for a wife. In fact, Mandy had the feeling he might possibly be considering her as a candidate ... but she knew better than that. She'd been through that, through the hope and the disappointment, and she'd never let herself hope again. Still... if ever she did love again, it would be someone like Jack.
* * *
Fall came and the fog lifted and Mandy went back up the ladder in the bathroom to attack the wallpaper again. She closed the bathroom door and turned on a rented machine from the hardware store. Steam filled the air and the wallpaper dutifully began to curl around the edges. She picked up the scraper and hacked at the wall with a vengeance. Somewhere in the distance there was a knocking—no, a pounding on the front door.
Her pulse quickened. Could it be...? Was it possibly. .. ? No, it couldn't be a guest, it must be the meter reader. She turned off the steamer, closed the door behind her and ran down the wide, varnished stairs to the front door.
"Coming," she called, sliding the last few feet on the soles of her cotton espadrilles and flinging the door open. It was... Miracle of miracles, it was a guest. No meter reader ever wore a bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses. She gave him her most dazzling smile, and he took off his glasses and stared as if she were a ghost appearing out of nowhere instead of a frazzled woman who was just breathless from running down the stairs.
She ran her damp palms down the sides of her jeans. Suddenly she was aware of h
er hair, steamed into a mass of frizz, her huge shirt stained with goo and her old blue jeans ripped at one knee. No wonder he was staring. He was wondering if he'd come to the right place. In the brochure she'd been photographed in a long skirt and a hand-knit sweater, looking calm and gracious. She cleared her throat and opened her arms.
"Welcome to Miramar Inn," she said. "I'm Mandy Clayton."
The man took a step forward. "Any vacancies?" he asked in a voice as deep as limestone.
Any vacancies? Did the tide come in every day?
"Why, yes, I think so. Something overlooking the ocean.. .actually, everything overlooks the ocean. Would that be all right?"
"Sounds good."
"For how many nights?"
"I'm... not sure. Could I let you know on that?"
Mandy smoothed the wrinkles in her jeans, wishing she'd had time to slip into something more hostess-like, wishing she sounded more professional and not so desperate, as if he were the first guest to appear in weeks, which he was.
"Of course."
She held the door open for him and he followed her inside to the living room, where he signed his name in her register—Adam Gray. Then she invited him to have a cup of coffee in the kitchen, where he stared out the window at the dark blue sea beyond the cliffs.
"Nice view," he observed. But his gaze left the ocean and shifted to her oversize shirt, her snug-fitting jeans and her untidy hair. She stood perfectly still and held her breath. A shiver ran up her spine despite the warmth of the sun streaming in the window. She wanted to say something, but her lips were numb. It was the shock of finding an unexpected guest on her front steps after all this time, she told herself firmly; and not the fact that he was the best looking man she'd seen in months, maybe ever.
