by Ann Roth
* * *
MRS. YANCY, THE sixty-something grandmotherly widow Sarah had rented a room from, seemed glad for the company. When Sarah returned from putting her things in the bedroom up a narrow set of stairs, her temporary landlady showed her around her colorful house, pointing out treasures she’d collected. She liked primary colors and flowers, and the fabrics of the drapes and furniture were filled with both. An eclectic selection of pictures and wall hangings decorated most of the wall space, and knickknacks crowded every available table and windowsill.
The woman herself was just as bright and energetic, and a whole lot friendlier than Clay.
But Sarah wasn’t going to think about him—even if she was still reeling from that kiss. A kiss every bit as potent as the ones she remembered.
What really rattled her, though, was that she’d enjoyed every moment of it so much. The hard strength of his arms, the delicious press of his mouth...
“The washer and dryer are behind those corded doors,” Mrs. Yancy said just before they entered a modest but homey kitchen. “You’re on your own for lunch and dinner, and if you want to cook your own meals, feel free to use the kitchen. You will get breakfast every morning. I hope you like eggs and biscuits. I didn’t know if you drank coffee or tea, so I stocked up on both.”
She clasped her hands at her ample waist, as if anxious for Sarah’s approval.
No one had cooked for Sarah in ages, and she relished the thought. “Eggs and biscuits sound delicious, and I’m a coffee drinker.”
“So am I, but if you decide you want tea, there’s a sampler box in the cabinet above the stove. Which reminds me—for groceries, head to Spenser’s General Store, about seven miles up the highway. You’ll find just about anything you might want there, including prepared food. If you’d rather eat out, Barb’s Café is right next door to Spenser’s. It’s our only real restaurant, and the food is excellent. We also have pizza and fast-food places.”
Sarah mentally stored away the information.
“If you have questions about anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” Mrs. Yancy continued.
Maybe the woman had known the Beckers. “Have you lived in Saddlers Prairie long?” Sarah asked.
“Almost twenty-five years. After John and I married, I moved here from Ely, Nevada. He was my second husband. The first one didn’t work out.” Briefly, her smile dimmed. “I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Ely.”
The woman jumped subjects like a leaping frog. “No, I haven’t,” Sarah said.
“It’s on the east side of the state. I met John when he came through town, offering insurance policies to ranchers. His home was Saddlers Prairie, so this is where we settled.
“At first, it seemed awfully small—even smaller than Ely. I didn’t know a soul besides my husband, and with him out and about, selling insurance to ranchers all over the West, I was afraid I’d get homesick. But the folks around here reached out to me, and in no time, I felt as if I’d lived here all my life. John’s been gone eight years now, and my friends here treat me like family. I’ve never spent a birthday or holiday alone.”
Now that Ellen was gone, Sarah wondered how she’d spend the holidays. Not that she didn’t have friends, but they had their own families.
“This sounds like a very special place,” she said. Even though Mrs. Yancy had arrived in Saddlers Prairie after the Beckers had sold their home, you never knew. “Did you by chance ever meet a family named Becker?”
The widow glanced at the ceiling, thinking, and then shook her head. “Not that I recall. But why don’t you join me over coffee and the oatmeal cookies I baked this morning, and I’ll think on it some more.”
At the mention of food, Sarah salivated. In the anxiety and excitement over seeing the house where the Beckers had once lived, her appetite had all but vanished, and she hadn’t eaten much breakfast or lunch. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.
Minutes later, she was sharing the kitchen table with her talkative landlady, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of chewy cookies.
“You never said why you’ve come to Saddlers Prairie,” Mrs. Yancy said.
“One reason is to do research for an article on ranching in eastern Montana.”
“I had no idea you were a writer.” She looked impressed. “It’s about time somebody sang the praises of Saddlers Prairie. I enjoy reading magazines. Which one do you write for?”
“I freelance for several.” Sarah listed them. “One of the editors who buys my pieces thought an article on ranching would appeal to her readers. I love the idea, and since I wanted to look around here, anyway, I happily accepted the assignment. I hope to meet with successful ranchers, but also those who are struggling, so that I can paint a realistic picture. Anything you can share about Saddlers Prairie will be a big help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You say you also want to look around town?”
“That’s right.” Sarah saw no reason to hide the truth. “I was adopted, but I recently learned that I was born in Saddlers Prairie.”
“No kidding. I know just about everyone. Who are your kin?”
“They don’t live around here anymore, but their last name is Becker—Bob and Judy.”
“The people you asked about.”
Sarah nodded. “They may have left the area before you arrived. I know they sold their house here about twenty-nine years ago.”
“There are folks in town who’ve been here longer than that. Someone will surely know the family you’re looking for.” Mrs. Yancy sipped her coffee. “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”
“Would you?” Fresh hope bubbled through Sarah. “I really want to know the kind of people I come from.”
“I understand.” The landlady looked thoughtful. “Over my sixty-six years of living, I’ve learned a few things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge a secret. “One of the most important, which my John taught me, is that who you are matters more than your people or where you came from.”
Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed. “I still need to know,” she said. “If you were standing in my shoes, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. I wish I could help.” She looked genuinely sorry.
“You already have,” Sarah said. “By listening to my story.”
Clay had listened, too, with just as much interest.
She wished she could stop thinking about him. When she’d dated Matthew, she’d all but managed to forget Clay, and she wasn’t about to waste her time pining for him again.
If only he hadn’t kissed her.
A long and very thorough kiss that had stolen her breath and chased away her common sense. For those few moments, she’d been right back where she was three years ago, caring too much, too quickly for a man who couldn’t be trusted.
“—know a few ranchers around here who fit what you’re looking for and would love to be interviewed for your article,” Mrs. Yancy was saying. “If you want, I’ll give you names. There’s a pen and paper in the catch-all drawer under the phone.”
As soon as Sarah returned with the writing supplies, the woman rattled off the names, addresses and phone numbers of two ranchers. By heart.
“You’ll definitely want to contact Dawson Ranch,” she said. “Adam and Drew Dawson own about the most successful ranch around. Now the Lucky A Ranch isn’t as profitable, but Lucky Arnett is a good man with plenty of stories about his life as a rancher. I don’t want you to get writers’ cramp so I’ll save the rest for later.”
Smiling at the little joke, Sarah flexed her fingers and traded the pen for her mug. After months of grief and anger, Mrs. Yancy’s warmth and friendliness were like a balm to her parched soul.
“Wait—there is one more person you might want to talk with,” the older woman said. “He’s a celebrity with
star power the world over, and he’s chosen Saddlers Prairie as his new home. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—his name is Clay Hollyer.”
Sarah almost choked on her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I know Clay. I interviewed him for an article a few years ago.”
Mrs. Yancy looked both impressed and curious. Not about to answer any questions about that time, Sarah hurried on. “Funny thing. Earlier this afternoon, when I first arrived in town, I stopped at the house where the Beckers used to live. The man who bought it from them still owns it, and I hoped to talk with him. It turns out, he doesn’t live there. He rented the house to Clay.”
“I know that place, and I know Ty Phillips. He runs the lumber company outside town, and has for years. I don’t think he lived in that house for long. Shelley wanted something brand-new, and after they married, he custom-built her a real nice home. Right now, they’re in Europe, taking a long-overdue vacation.”
“That’s what Clay said. So that house has always been a rental?”
“Since I’ve lived here. Mind you, Ty hasn’t always been able to find a renter. From time to time the place has stood empty. Even so, he’s managed to keep it in pretty decent condition.
“Back to Clay. He just bought the old Bates Ranch, a neglected ranch on the other side of town, and renamed it Hollyer Ranch. The main house there was in particularly bad shape, and he had it torn down. Now he’s building his own custom house and working on plans to start up a stock contracting business.”
Clay had mentioned building a house but hadn’t said a word about buying a ranch or beginning a new career. But then, Sarah hadn’t asked. His life seemed to have changed drastically from the spotlighted fame of before.
“I’m not sure I know what a stock contractor is,” she said.
“Those are the folks who supply stock—bulls, steers and horses—to rodeos around the country. A good business for a man who knows his bulls, as Clay does, wouldn’t you say? You should probably interview him, too.”
Oh, that would go over well. He’d probably slam the door in her face—or worse. Sarah managed a smile. “Thanks for the lead, but I’ll stick with ranchers who’ve been in business for a while.”
Chapter Three
As always, Clay awoke around 4:00 a.m., a good hour and change ahead of the birds. He’d had a bad night, and rolled over and tried to fall back into dreamland. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate, and thoughts buzzed in and out of his head like pesky gnats.
Groaning, he flipped onto his back. Before the accident, he’d always slept like the dead. Now, no matter how late he turned in or how tired he was, he woke up at this ungodly hour.
Propping his arms behind his head, he stared up into the darkness. And thought about Sarah. That kiss.
He still couldn’t believe she’d shown up at his door with her story and those big eyes, or that he’d let her in. If she’d just gone away when he asked her to. She’d had to ruin everything by stubbornly insisting she wanted to see the attic.
He wasn’t about to let her up there and wasn’t about to check it out himself, either. Not even to erase her pleading look. With his leg in the sorry shape it was, climbing a ladder would be agony.
Did she have a boyfriend? Probably, and if he found out about that kiss, he’d go ballistic. Clay would.
In any event, it had done its job, chasing her away. There was only one little problem—Clay hadn’t figured on the restless energy and hunger that kiss had stirred up, making him want what he had no business even thinking about. Sarah, naked under him, flushed and passionate.
He scoffed. Like that would ever happen. She thought he was a player.
“I’m no player,” he insisted into the silence. “I’m a straightforward guy who likes women.” What the hell was wrong with that?
Before he’d started winning bull-riding contests and making serious money, he’d even worked at building a solid relationship with the thought that it might lead to marriage. Denise had been too impatient, though. She’d wanted to get married right away, and when Clay wasn’t ready to commit, she’d walked. Same issue with Hailey, and a couple of years later, with Cara.
After striking out three times, Clay had finally figured out the problem. He’d been infatuated with his girlfriends, but nothing more. Not counting his mom, sister, aunt and grandmothers, he’d never loved a woman, and probably never would.
So he dated casually. He never led a woman on, always admitted up front that he was interested in having a good time, period.
“If that makes me a player,” he muttered, “then so be it.”
Sarah hadn’t even paid him the courtesy of checking out the facts. God knew where she’d gotten the cockeyed idea that he went around lying to women and breaking hearts.
Her article had brought a whole host of women to his door, most of them interested in grabbing some of his fame and money for themselves. Jeanne had been the worst of the bunch. She was cute and seemed nice enough. Clay had dated her on and off, making sure she understood that their relationship was casual and that he was dating other women, as well. She didn’t seem to mind.
Then a few hours before what turned out to be his last rodeo, after they hadn’t seen each other for a good six weeks, she’d shown up and announced that she was pregnant and he was responsible. Having always used protection, Clay had his doubts, but Jeanne swore that he was the only man she’d been intimate with.
It was not the kind of news a man needed to hear before a nationally televised bull ride with a six-figure purse. As upset and distracted as Clay was, he should’ve backed out of the event. He didn’t. Not because of the money, which he didn’t need, but because of his fans. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.
No wonder the bull had tossed him.
While he was still recuperating in the hospital, he’d insisted on a paternity test. No surprise there—he wasn’t the father.
Grumbling and out of sorts, he swung his legs over the bed without thinking—and paid for it. Swearing, he massaged the knots around his knee until the pain eased and carefully stood. His leg muscles were painfully tight, but thank heavens, not quite as tight as yesterday. Aspirin and rest had definitely helped.
While the coffee brewed, he pulled out the blueprints for the house and looked them over. After making the decision to buy the shipwreck of a ranch across town and rent the house he was in now, he’d hired a construction crew to renovate the ranch’s outbuildings and an architect to help him design his house. Now that the old one was gone and the builder had broken ground, Clay enjoyed reviewing the plans and checking on the progress.
Four bedrooms and three-and-a-half baths seemed a lot for a man who didn’t intend to have a family. Clay had always wanted kids, but he couldn’t see having one without a wife, and he wasn’t about to marry without love. Even if his mom kept dropping hints—make that blatant suggestions—that now that he was thirty-four it was time to settle down.
Before long, the caffeine worked its magic. Clay shoved to his feet, stowed the blueprints and headed for the large detached garage behind the house, which was insulated and had electricity, making it the ideal place for physical therapy.
After being shackled to a leg cast for what seemed an eternity and spending months in a wheelchair, his leg was in sorry shape, and laboring to rebuild his strength was not fun. The repetitive efforts the physical therapist had taught him taxed his leg muscles until they burned.
A hundred times over the next hellish hour, Clay wanted to quit, but he kept at it. Determined to get back to normal, or as near normal as possible, he sweated, grunted at and cursed the weights and pulleys, all the while knowing that without them, the muscles that had deteriorated would never regain their strength.
To think that two months after the accident, his doctor had wanted to amputate above the knee. Clay had refused. In the past eight months he’d made a
mazing progress, graduating from the wheelchair to crutches to a cane to none of the above, blowing his orthopedist’s socks off.
“And I’ll keep blowing your mind, Doc,” he’d stated, to psych himself up.
By the time he showered, dressed and ate, it was just after six o’clock—the start of a typical rancher’s workday. As of yet, he didn’t have a crew, but now that the barn and outbuildings were renovated and the foreman’s cottage and crew trailers were clean, he’d posted an ad on Craigslist for experienced ranch hands. He didn’t own any stock yet, either, and time hung like a weight around his neck.
Feeling lost and as a rudderless boat, he wandered to the hallway that held the attic door. Until yesterday he’d never even considered going up there. May as well test the leg, and while he did, look around.
With the help of a stepladder and several colorful oaths, he gritted his teeth against the pain and grasped the rope pull. The thing resisted coming loose but Clay yanked hard, and the door swung down.
He unfolded the attic ladder and climbed up, pausing after each step to rest his leg. The usual attic greeted him—a musty-smelling, dingy space, cold from the chilly morning air. A lone window caked in grime and a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling were the only sources of light and barely illuminated the area.
In need of a flashlight or a bulb with higher wattage, he headed back down, ignoring his leg. In no time, he was screwing in a new bulb.
Light blazed over the room, revealing old lamps, a faded armchair and other junk, everything blanketed with dust.
He almost missed the footlocker in the corner. Shoved against the wall, it was partially hidden under a musty throw. Clay unfastened the clasps and tried the lid, gratified when it opened with a soft creak.
Papers and whatnot almost filled the cavity. The 16 Magazine on top caught his attention. Duran Duran posed on the cover, flashing ’80s-style hair and clothes—something a teen girl would like. The date on the cover was January, 1982, which was when Tammy Becker had lived here.
