The Rancher's Second Chance

by Davalynn Spencer

  The strange directive soared above her thoughts.

  “Lord, what does that mean?”

  The kittens sat for a rare moment, staring at her, then trotted away to play with the dust ruffle.

  The gnawing in her stomach interrupted her musings and demanded snicker doodle bread and milk. Pleased with the way the bread had turned out, she finished the remains of the first small loaf and wrapped the second in another layer of foil. Eli said Garcia would be back today. She could take it by as a welcome home gift.

  Flimsy excuse.

  She wanted to see Eli and the longing surprised her. Things weren’t as they once were, and she needed to accept that fact. But still, a neighborly gesture wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?

  Would Eli take it the wrong way if she stopped by?

  She changed her clothes and plopped into the porch swing, determined to get a handle on her emotions. The golf cart waited at the pond, the sprinklers spread their glittering arcs and the familiar pastoral scene settled her nerves.

  “It looks the same, Lord, but I need You to give me fresh eyes. Help me not to dwell on what was, but on what is. Help me see the new before me.”

  She moved to the railing and leaned against the rough wood. A metallic-green flash darted in and hovered at the hanging glass bulb. The tiny bird dipped a long thin beak into the ruby water, and zipped to the other side for a refill. A rival swept in and the two sparred and parried like miniature swashbucklers.

  Unable to contain her laughter, Laura wondered where the hummingbirds nested. How did they know a new feeder hung from the porch after the house had stood empty for so long?

  “Do you have internal radar?” she asked the duo.

  Movement drew her eye to a white pickup easing down the central ranch lane. The golf cart motored out from under the oak by the pond, looped around the apple orchard and sped toward the tractor shed. The muted thud of a pickup door and Goldie’s excited barking told her Garcia was home.

  * * *

  “So I see you did not break your neck in the round pen.” Garcia’s wide smile belied the sarcasm in his raspy voice.

  Eli returned the man’s grin and adjusted the patch. “Came close.” He gripped Garcia’s hand in their usual greeting and slapped him on the shoulder. “How was the wedding?”

  Garcia shrugged and tipped his head. “Tamales, enchiladas.” He patted a pouch above his belt. “What can I say? It was good, no?”

  Eli laughed and held up the stringer. “No appetite for fried fish?”

  “I did not say that.” Garcia lifted a duffel bag from the truck bed and headed for a small house tucked into the trees. “I am an old man. A small siesta and I will be ready for your fried fish.”

  “Yeah, you’re old and I’m the governor of California.”

  Garcia waved a hand in dismissal and Eli continued toward the main house. Goldie followed, temporarily rejuvenated by the excitement.

  Garcia had been around for as long as Eli could remember. He’d stayed on through droughts and bad markets. Worked sometimes for nothing because there was nothing to pay.

  Yes, he was old. And he was family.

  Eli cleaned the fish outside under a free-standing spigot, took the fillets inside to bag in plastic and stuck them in the refrigerator. Then he scrubbed the smell from his hands. Goldie trotted through the kitchen and into the family room where she dropped onto a braided rug in front of the fireplace. A long sigh signaled an oncoming nap and Eli sat down at the desk to do paperwork.

  The big rolltop desk was older than him, Garcia and Goldie all put together, and had been in the ranch house when his granddad bought the place. A wooden swivel chair with worn arms complained when he leaned back.

  Eli pushed a hand through his hair and stared at the ledger book. He needed to do another head count. Last week two more calves vanished. He doubted that coyotes were to blame because they don’t eat bones. A lion? Maybe. But he’d found absolutely nothing resembling a carcass. Those babies had simply disappeared.

  Now that Garcia was back, they could split an all-night watch. It’d be hard working all day and half the night, but they had to figure out what—or who—was getting the calves, and Goldie was no more watchdog than that fish in the refrigerator. He looked at the old dog, paddling her feet again and thought of Laura and their so-called chance meeting at the oak.

  If it hadn’t been for Goldie, Eli wouldn’t have had the courage to walk out there. He huffed out a snort. He had what it took to rush a nest of insurgents, but no guts at all when it came to Laura Bell.

  The black eye patch hadn’t repulsed her, but she didn’t know the whole story yet. She might not be so friendly once she learned it.

  A knock on the back door surprised him and he glanced at Goldie who kept right on dreaming. Garcia wouldn’t knock.

  He’d left the back door open, and on his way through the kitchen he saw her beyond the screen door. She stood in cutoffs, a tank top and tennis shoes, with something in her hand.

  “Come in.” Eli pushed the screen open as she stepped aside.

  Laura held out a foil-wrapped loaf with a smile. “I tried a new bread recipe and thought you might like to try it, too.”

  “Perfect timing.” He led her to the kitchen and set the bread on the counter. “I’m frying fish for a late lunch. Want to stay and see Garcia?”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, I’d like that. If you have enough.”

  “I’ve got plenty. Caught a big bass this morning.”

  She stood near the stove, fingers tucked in her shallow pockets, taking in the kitchen. “Hasn’t changed much.”

  “No need. Everything still works.”

  She moved to the table and ran a hand across the plastic cloth. “This is different.” She looked at him. “Wasn’t it blue checks?”

  “Good memory.” And your eyes are still the color of cold root beer. He tugged on his patch. “How ’bout something to drink?”

  “Do you have root beer?”

  Caught in his daydream, he felt warmth crawl up his neck. “Sorry, fresh out. Iced tea or water.”

  Her fluid laughter that spilled so readily in their childhood flowed across the space between them. She pulled out a chair.

  “With sugar, please.”

  He wanted to ask how things went at the chapel, but that would let her know he’d been watching her and predicting her movements. Not a good idea. He filled two glasses with ice, added sugar to hers and poured cold tea into both. Then he leaned against the counter and took a long sip.

  “I went to the chapel today.”

  He choked on the first swallow.

  Laura watched him—wide-eyed like the filly—waiting for him to catch his breath. “You all right?”

  “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine.” He sleeved his mouth and looked around for napkins. In the drawer. Right. He laid a couple on the table and took the other chair.

  “I expected you and your granddad to walk in and sit in the back row,” she said. “Silly, I know, but it’s an ingrained reaction. Last time I was there, you did.”

  She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took another drink, then set the glass on the table, both hands wrapped around it as if holding herself down.

  “I haven’t been there in quite a while.” He cleared his throat. “Not since I got back.”

  A question arched her brows.

  “From Afghanistan.”

  “When was that?”

  Here we go. “Two years ago.”

  She didn’t question him further, but took another drink and looked out the window above the sink. He knew from her low vantage point she’d see only the higher hills northeast of the ranch, and the branches of the cottonwood. Not her hilltop.

  “It was hard,” she said. “Going back, I mean. Too many
memories.” Her eyes shifted to his. “The preacher is nice enough, and he invited me back, but I don’t know if I can.”

  Now it was his turn for a puzzled look and she read it.

  “It’s weird, you know? So much is the same and yet it isn’t.”

  Goldie’s nails clicked against the hardwood floor as she trotted into the kitchen. Laura’s features softened when she saw the old dog, and she leaned over to hug its neck. Goldie rested her chin on Laura’s bare knees and swept the air with her tail.

  “I know what you mean,” Eli said. “Like Goldie. She’s the same but she isn’t.”

  The screen door slapped.

  “Mija.” Garcia’s scratchy voice pulled Laura from her chair, and she ran to throw her arms around his neck.

  “Ah, mi Lorita, you are all grown up.”

  The man’s black eyes twinkled with pleasure and he kissed Laura soundly on each cheek.

  “It’s so good to see you.” She hugged him once more, then took another glass from the cupboard and filled it with iced tea. “I brought you something.” Her gaze flickered to Eli and she added, “Both of you. I baked it last night.”

  Eli gave his chair to Garcia and brought one in from the dining room.

  “So you have come to visit your vaqueros?”

  Laura laughed. “Si, abuelito.” Taking her seat, she leaned her arms on the table, across from the man she’d always called grandfather. “But I’m not here to visit. I’m here to stay.”

  Garcia drank long and hard, his eyes closed. Then he set the glass on the table and looked at Laura with a tenderness Eli suspected the man reserved for his recently married granddaughter.

  “It is good.” He nodded and a wide smile brightened his wrinkled face. “May you look down upon this rancho with the eyes of heaven.”

  Eli stared at the floor and darkness edged his vision. He doubted that heaven saw anything. It was the only point he and Garcia had ever argued over.

  The silence stretched, as if the others waited for him to comment. He refused. Rising with his glass, he set it on the counter and dug out a large cast-iron skillet.

  Chapter 7

  Laura felt the tension snap between the two men. It surprised her, knowing the deep affection they held for each other. Something had happened to change one of them, not physically, but deeper. And she doubted that Garcia had changed.

  While Eli dipped and breaded fillets, Garcia rubbed Goldie’s side with his boot and talked about his granddaughter’s wedding. Laura listened with an occasional smile as she sliced her small loaf, set the table and concocted a green salad with what she could find in the refrigerator.

  Begging a silent blessing on the ancient buttermilk dressing, she tossed it into bits of wilted lettuce, soft tomato and dull bell pepper. Sweet bread, a pitiful salad and fried fish didn’t exactly make a balanced meal, but it would have to do.

  Another awkward moment hung over the table when Laura laid her hands in her lap and bowed her head. At the silence, she glanced up to see Garcia watching Eli and Eli cutting into his crisp fillet. As head of the house, Eli made no move toward prayer, so she picked up her fork and tried the salad. A quick peek at Garcia brought a sly wink from the older man’s dark eyes and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.

  Goldie sat perfectly still next to Eli’s chair, more alert than Laura had seen the dog so far. Somber eyes followed Eli’s fork from plate to mouth and back again, but the jaw remained tightly clamped. No whimpering, begging, or drooling.

  Eli cut the end from his fillet and pushed it to one side. His gaze slid to Goldie and his mouth hitched and threatened to smile.

  “What brings you home, mija?” Garcia sliced a bite from his fish.

  “Mama died and I decided not to sell the property.” She sipped her tea and wiped her mouth on a napkin. “I’m going to give it a year, hopefully do some substitute teaching in Spring Valley.”

  The old man’s dark eyes seemed to read all she hadn’t said, and she felt tears pushing against her eyes. This wasn’t the time or place, and she dropped her gaze to the hideous plastic tablecloth and tried to imagine who had picked it out.

  “Home is bien. It is good to have you back.” He nodded twice, picked up his glass and looked at Eli. “So, how many last week?”

  How many what? Laura watched an unspoken conversation play across the men’s features.

  “Two.”

  Garcia winced, but just barely. Had she not spent years watching his dark, crinkled face, she wouldn’t have caught it. His familiarity comforted her as much as the old scarred tree, but she sent up a silent prayer to see what was new. Her eyes drifted to his still-thick hair and she noticed the white at his temples. Elsewhere a few bright strands marked the deep black in striking contrast, unlike the fading brown she’d seen on Mary Travers.

  Eli continued eating and didn’t elaborate, so she inquired. “Two what?”

  He slid a glance her way and the icy anger chilled her bare skin. How could he change so quickly from warm and friendly to cold and distant?

  “Calves. Two calves. That makes ten we’ve lost this year.”

  Still, she didn’t understand. “Lost?”

  “Si. It is not coyótes,” Garcia intoned with the Spanish pronunciation. “Other than the two-legged kind.”

  Laura thought of snakes. “Someone’s stealing your cattle?” Skeptical, her gaze passed from one man to the other. Cattle rustling went out with the Old West, she’d thought. Did people still do that in the technological age?

  Eli tossed the saved fish portion to Goldie who caught it in midair. Garcia grinned and mumbled something in Spanish. Eli pushed his plate back and planted his forearms on the table.

  “We’ve had a bright moon the past few nights so I think we’re due for a late rise tonight. I want to post a watch.” He addressed Garcia. “You up to half a night?”

  Garcia nodded. “It will be hard to see them in the dark, but I will try.”

  Eli grinned, but it wasn’t pleasant. “I’ve taken care of that.”

  Garcia’s eyes glinted like polished onyx. “So, we will see them after all.”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  “No.” Eli’s sharp answer and the snap of his head set Laura back against her chair. He must have noticed, for his stony features softened as he considered her. “This is dangerous. Whoever’s out there is taking a chance at getting shot. I don’t want you in the cross fire.”

  A cold hand gripped her stomach. “Shot? You’d actually shoot someone?”

  “No, mija, he will not shoot them. He will shoot near them. To let them know he sees.”

  Laura wasn’t so sure. The look on Eli’s face said otherwise.

  He held her with his cold, blue gaze. “Do you have any idea what it costs me to lose a calf?”

  She shook her head and stared back.

  “Anywhere from four hundred to seven hundred a head, depending on the market price. Multiply that by ten. I can’t afford to lose any more.”

  “Can’t you call the authorities?”

  His lips curled into a snarl. “They already know. They’re watching for my brand at the sale yards. But good thieves can run a brand—burn in a line or two to change it. Out of the county, and farther south across the border, people look the other way.”

  “This is true, Lorita. This is a hard time for many.”

  She swallowed and felt suddenly extravagant with her Mercedes, knowing what Derek had paid for it. In cash, no less. She straightened and raised her chin. “My offer still stands. You know where to find me.” She scooted back and gathered the plates. “I’ll wash, abuelito, if you dry.”

  “I’ll get it.” Eli stood and picked up the fish platter and salad bowl.

  Laura refused to be pushed around by him, even if th
is was his house. She was his equal now, not a child. “You cooked. We’ll clean.”

  She faced him squarely and silently dared him to argue. Regret flashed briefly in his expression, then he set down the dishes and strode out the back door.

  She let out a heavy sigh as the screen smacked the doorframe.

  “Is it really that bad, Garcia?”

  “It is bad, si. But there is more.”

  Surprised by the older man’s willingness to talk, she faced him and leaned against the sink. “What is it?”

  Garcia scooted his chair back but remained seated. “He thinks he is a half man.”

  Horrified, she stared.

  “When he returned from fighting, he returned without all of himself.”

  “You mean his eye? He thinks he’s half a man because he lost an eye?” The Eli she’d grown up with would never have let that slow him down.

  “No.”

  She hugged her waist and thought back to their first meeting. “I noticed he leans a little to the right.”

  “He has no left foot.”

  Garcia’s stark explanation caught her in the chest, and her hand flew to her mouth. “I had no idea. I heard whispers at my mother’s funeral that he’d been wounded, but I didn’t know how badly.” She turned to fill the sink with hot water and dish soap and hide her eyes.

  “But he’s whole, can’t he see that? He’s a whole man, strong and capable and...well, capable.” She wanted to say caring, but his behavior at the table gave her pause.

  “It is his heart that is cut in half, mija. Not his body.”

  At Garcia’s words the throbbing returned to her chest. She shoved both hands into the hot soapy water, hoping the distraction would ease the pain.

  Garcia brought the glasses and serving bowls to the sink. As Laura washed each dish, he took it from her, held it under running water and dried it with an ancient towel as thin and frayed as her emotions. When they finished, he laid a calloused hand on her shoulder.

  “I see that you, too, have a wound, Lorita. You are missing something—like the boy from your childhood. Perhaps you can each fill up the other.” He patted her lovingly. “But only God can heal el corazon. And our friend is not willing.”