Once a Rancher

by Linda Lael Miller

  Theft was theft.

  Ryder was a decent kid with loads of potential, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep right on screwing up, because he was also a confused and lonely kid, and with his dad so far away and his mother permanently disinterested, he was especially vulnerable.

  Well, Grace resolved for about the hundredth time since Ryder had moved in with her, if the boy was destined for a life of crime, it wasn’t going to happen on her watch.

  Except that she had only so much influence over Ryder.

  The hard truth was, Hank needed to man up, take responsibility for his son, give the kid some love and guidance. Yes, he provided financial support, but that was far from enough.

  Ironically, though, if Ryder went downhill from here, Hank would blame her, not himself.

  Did she care about Hank’s opinion? No.

  But she did care, very much, about Ryder.

  She smiled. The boy put on a convincing tough-guy act, but there was more to him, thank God. A lot more.

  For instance, she knew he was secretly feeding a stray cat that had showed up on their patio a few days ago. She’d glimpsed the poor creature a couple of times, saw that it was thin, matted and skittish. When she’d tried to approach, the animal shot into the bushes and hid there, but Ryder had fared better. He’d set out pilfered lunch meat or a bowl of milk and then wait, crouching, almost motionless.

  And the cat would come close enough to eat a few bites or lap up some of the milk.

  That image of Ryder, that display of kindly patience, gave her hope.

  Later, when she was officially off duty, she drove into town, visited the supermarket, planning to fix Ryder’s favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs. She added potatoes to her cart, then vegetables for a green salad, a stack of canned cat food, and some of the dry kind, too—along with a couple of ceramic bowls.

  Back at the condo, which was part of the resort complex, she thought about how lucky she was to have this job. It was demanding, sure, but besides her salary, she had health insurance and a decent retirement plan, and she didn’t have to cover rent or mortgage payments.

  Plus, nobody shot at her or yelled abuse simply because she wore a badge.

  She paused in the parking lot to admire the place. The condo boasted three sizeable bedrooms, one of which she used as a home office, two bathrooms, a nice sleek kitchen and a Wyoming view that faced the scenic Bliss River. She’d decorated with a few antiques she’d inherited from her grandmother—an English case clock, a pewter pitcher she’d set on the mantel, a beautifully framed and very old charcoal drawing of horses standing in the snow, their manes ruffled by the wind. She’d also splurged and bought a new chocolate-brown couch, with scarlet velvet pillows for accent.

  The low, square coffee table was new, too.

  Feeling domestic, Grace carted in her briefcase, purse and one bag of groceries. Ryder abandoned the video game he’d been absorbed in and jumped to his feet.

  “Need some help?” he asked, with a shy grin.

  “Yes,” Grace answered, pleased. “There’s more in the car.”

  Ryder rushed out the door, all legs and elbows, and when he returned, he was carrying the bag of cat kibble under one arm. The expression on his face made Grace double-glad she’d decided to cave on the adopt-a-pet question.

  “What—” he began, looking down at the heavy bag clutched to his side.

  Grace smiled, took the bags from his other hand and set them on the counter. Then she rummaged through them until she found the bowls. “I know what you’ve been up to, bud,” she said.

  To his credit, Ryder didn’t try to dodge the issue. “He’s so hungry, Grace. Scared, too. There are things out there that could get him—”

  Grace nearly choked up; she was so moved by the tenderness in Ryder’s young and so often sullen face, but she kept smiling. There are things out there that could get him.

  Was that how Ryder felt, too? Alone in a big, dangerous world?

  Probably.

  Grace swallowed hard, forcing back the tears. “There are a few rules here,” she warned. “We’ll take the cat to the vet as soon as possible. He can’t come inside until he’s been checked out. He’ll need shots and neutering, and you’re going to have to do a few extra chores around here to pay me back. I’ll buy his food, but the rest is your responsibility, Ryder—and that includes cleaning the litter box. Do we have an agreement?”

  Ryder’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You mean it, Grace? We can keep him?”

  She laughed, wanting to hug the boy, but sensing that the timing was off. So she gave him a light punch to the shoulder instead. “Did you hear anything I said just now?”

  How many times had this child been promised something and then been disappointed?

  “I heard,” Ryder said, very softly. “Thanks, Grace. I mean, really, thanks.”

  “Make sure you’re picking up what I’m saying here,” she said with mock sternness. “This is your cat, not mine. He’ll be dependent on you, and that’s a big responsibility.” She softened her tone. “Take good care of this little guy, and you’ll have a faithful friend for the duration. Can I count on you, Ryder? Can he?”

  Ryder’s voice was hoarse when he replied, and his eyes glistened slightly. “Yes,” he said, and then cleared his throat.

  He was growing up, Grace thought suddenly.

  Or just growing.

  When had he gotten so tall? She needed to take him shopping for new clothes, and soon.

  “All right, then,” she said, turning to unpack the other groceries so he wouldn’t see that her eyes were moist, too. “Go feed your cat.” A pause. This was the best conversation she and Ryder had had so far, and she didn’t want to let it go. She blinked and glanced back over her shoulder. “What’s his name, anyway? Has he got one yet?”

  Ryder’s grin practically lit up the room. “Bonaparte.”

  Definitely unexpected. Grace raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice. Any particular logic behind it?”

  “Sure,” Ryder said, plunking down the bag of kibble and opening the top to scoop out the cat’s dinner. “Napoleon Bonaparte started from humble beginnings and became one of the greatest generals the world’s ever known. And he declared himself emperor.” He took the second bowl to the sink and filled it with water. “I think that’s pretty awesome.”

  “And there’s a connection between the general and the cat because—”

  Ryder headed for the patio doors, bowls in hand, sloshing water on the floor as he moved. “I guess I just liked the story,” he said. “Look at it this way, Grace. I’ve been paying attention in history class.” He used one elbow to open the glass slider. “I told you I was going to try harder, remember?”

  Grace’s throat felt tight again. She nodded, watching as Ryder stepped out onto the patio, dropped to a crouch and set the bowls down. He turned his head to meet her eyes.

  “I didn’t want to come here,” he reminded her cheerfully. “But now I’m actually starting to like it—a little.”

  Grace chuckled.

  That was progress, anyway.

  “Bonaparte’s a great name,” she said.

  She wasn’t sure if Ryder had heard her, not that it mattered. By then, the cat had come slinking across the flagstones on the patio, too scared to get close, but too starved to stay away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE STALLION, CHARCOAL-GRAY with a black mane and tail, was the living definition of the word wild. He stood, majestic, almost a part of the early-morning sunlight blazing around him like an aura, while his harem of mares grazed nearby.

  Despite the distance, the animal seemed to know he was being watched; Slater noted the creature’s raised head and direct gaze, the forward slant of his ears, the muscles in his powerful haunches as he readied himself for fight or flight.

  Slater gave a low whistle of grudging admiration as he handed the binoculars back to his brother. “That,” he breathed, “is one hell of a horse.”

  Dra
ke’s response was a disdainful grunt. “He’s a bold son of a bitch, I’ll say that for him.” He lifted his hat long enough to shove a hand through his hair in a gesture of barely contained frustration. “I was planning on breeding at least one of those mares with that stud Tate Calder bought last year—the black one with the look of a Thoroughbred? I’ve even paid the damn fee.” The hat came off again, and Drake slapped it against one thigh to emphasize his point. With a slight motion of his head, he indicated the stallion, along with the band of prize mares, every one of them either bought and paid for by him, or bred and raised right there on the ranch. “Now, thanks to that thieving bastard out there, I’ll have to shit-can the whole idea.”

  Slater suppressed a grin. There were times when it was fine to needle Drake, and times when a misplaced word could have the same general effect as tossing a lighted match into a stand of drought-yellowed grass.

  And while Slater enjoyed a good brawl as much as the next man, he didn’t have the energy for that kind of drama. So he nodded slightly in the stallion’s direction and said, “He’s quite a specimen himself, that horse. Bound to sire some mighty respectable foals.”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed, but he was calming down. He seemed to be fighting back a grin of his own, although Slater couldn’t be sure. “You think he’s going to bring those mares over to the barn, drop them all neat and tidy, so we can see that they get proper prenatal care? Hell, Showbiz, you’ve been on the road too long if that’s what you’re expecting. Either that, or you’ve been watching too many old Disney movies.”

  Slater chuckled, took back the binoculars and scanned the horizon for the stallion and his four-legged admirers. Smiled to himself. The animal had lost interest in his observers by then, and who could blame him, with all those mares at his beck and call?

  “You get in touch with the BLM?” Slater asked, lowering the binoculars. He hadn’t watched a Disney flick recently, and while he did spend more time away from home than he wanted to, he belonged to the place as much as Drake did. The ranch was his legacy, too, and his future, in all the ways that counted.

  At the mention of the Bureau of Land Management, Drake finally cut loose with a chuckle of his own. “Yes, I called the BLM,” he replied, with terse good humor. “Let’s just say that between the wild donkeys and the mustangs, they’ve got their hands full. In other words, if we’ve lost a few fancy mares, well, in their considered opinion, that’s our problem.”

  Slater raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I reckon it is our problem,” he said. “We could get some of the hands together, saddle up and ride out, see how many of those mares we can rope and lead home.”

  Drake sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Priorities, brother. We’re missing some calves, too, so just about everybody’s out there trying to track ’em down. Not having much luck, since it hasn’t rained in a while. Whoever or whatever is rustling beef isn’t leaving any kind of trail.” He paused, looking genuinely worried now. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say we’re dealing with wolves or a big cat. In which case I’ll have to dust off one of my rifles.”

  Briefly, Slater rested his left hand on Drake’s shoulder. He knew his brother was feeling bleak. He loved animals, all animals, and he had a rancher’s respect for the natural order of things. To a hungry wolf pack or any other predator, a calf was food, plain and simple. He understood that. Still, it was his job to protect the herd.

  “Need any help?” Slater asked quietly. He had about a dozen urgent phone calls to make, and there was paperwork, too, but he’d put it all aside if Drake said the word. He was a filmmaker by trade, but first, last and always, he was a Carson.

  A rancher.

  But Drake shook his head again. “We’ll take care of it,” he said. Then his mouth formed a tired grin. “You’ve got enough to do back at your office.” He paused, gestured, the motion of his hand taking in the mountains, the range, the broad and poignantly blue Wyoming sky. “This is my office,” he said, with a note of grim pride. “Not perfect when it’s dead cold in the winter and the wind is gusting at sixty miles an hour and hurling snow in your face like shrapnel, or when it’s so hot you feel the heat shimmer up from the ground and your shirt is stuck to your body. But hey, it suits me just like being Mr. Showbiz suits you.”

  Slater nodded an agreeable goodbye and walked back toward the house, thinking Drake had a good handle on his place in the world. His brother tackled life head-on and waded right in, got things done.

  As for their youngest brother, Mace, he tended to operate by intuition.

  Slater smiled when he went up the steps and found his mother watering the plants on the wide front porch. She glanced up and smiled. Blythe Carson was still slim and youthful at seventy, wearing jeans and a loose cotton blouse, and she’d caught back her thick hair in a clip as usual. She had a natural beauty that didn’t require embellishment, but she was like steel under that soft, feminine exterior. Maybe she’d been born resilient, maybe she’d developed the quality after giving birth to three unruly sons, losing the husband she’d loved early on and, finally, inheriting a ranching business she knew little or nothing about.

  But if a challenge came her way, she pushed up her sleeves, both literally and figuratively, and dealt with it.

  In fact, his mother’s unbendable spirit was a big part of the reason he’d become interested in making historical documentaries. Those stalwart pioneers had so many stories to tell, and she represented, to Slater, anyway, how women had handled the challenges and discomforts of settling the West. It was all about the journey in his films, where you started and where you ended up, and that same strength of character—what country people called “gumption.”

  “What’s on your agenda today?” Blythe asked.

  “Work,” he said. “I offered to lend Drake a hand out on the range, but he’s got it covered.”

  “He’s always got it covered,” she said mildly. “Finds it hard to accept help—like a few other people I could name.”

  She was, of course, referring to all three of her sons.

  “Hmm. Wonder where we get that particular trait,” he said.

  Blythe made a face at him.

  He paused before opening the side door to enter the house. “Want to walk over to the winery with me later? You and Mace could give me the tour. I haven’t been over there since you added the new cellar.”

  “I’d love that. Call my cell when you’re ready. Better yet, text me.” Not usually demonstrative, Blythe reached out and touched his cheek in a brief, tender gesture of affection. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  Call my cell. Better yet, text me. Slater smiled to himself, remembering how hard it had been to persuade his mother to get a mobile phone in the first place. Now she was adept at high-tech communication. “Sounds like a plan.”

  He went into the house and through a foyer with a chandelier that should have been in a museum somewhere. The piece wasn’t original to the house, but went back much further, probably to the turn of the nineteenth century; according to family legend it came from a grand Southern hotel. A beautiful creation of flawless crystal, it seemed incongruous—and yet oddly natural—in a ranch house set among mountains and prairie.

  By now such things were part of the landscape to Slater. His family was eclectic, to say the least.

  He entered his office, formerly his father’s study. He was comfortable there, among the belongings of generations—polished bookcases and a vast collection of volumes, most of them having some flavor of the Old West. There were classics and plenty of nonfiction, a smattering of epic poetry and highbrow philosophy, but a generous sprinkling of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, too.

  Slater settled into the old leather chair and booted up his computer. As he’d expected, a slew of emails awaited him, the majority sent by various crew and staff members wrapping up last-minute details on location.

  He took care of those first, and it was, as usual, a time-consuming task.

  There was a message from the re
sort concerning the dinner and meeting he had booked that morning, confirming the date he’d chosen—still almost a month out—but it was the second email that really got his attention. He was invited, in a briskly businesslike way, to have dinner the following week with the resort manager—none other than Grace Emery herself—so they could discuss “possible joint endeavors and promotions.”

  A slow grin spread across Slater’s face as he considered, just for a moment, a few possible joint endeavors he might be able to suggest.

  I’ll be damned, he thought, smiling.

  Recalling last night’s brief and testy exchange with her, he marveled at—okay, celebrated—the fact that the lovely Ms. Emery wanted to see him again. For any reason.

  Grace had been furious at her stepson, yes, and she’d virtually forced the boy to apologize. But she’d also taken an apparently instant dislike to Slater. Now, all of a sudden, she wanted to talk business? Over dinner?

  Since there was no one around to see, Slater punched the air with one fist and muttered, “Yes!”

  Ideally, the meeting would be one-on-one. No assistants. No heads of this department or that.

  Just Grace and him.

  But life was rarely ideal.

  Warning himself to rein it in, not to read too much into the unexpected invitation, Slater printed out the confirmation for the other event, his company gathering, filed it and sent the notice to his guests, indicating the time and place—one month from this coming Saturday.

  That done, he carefully composed his RSVP to the second get-together.

  Of course the email would go straight to Grace’s assistant, someone named Meg, but surely she’d see it, too. He rested his elbows on the desk, that smile still lingering on his mouth, although most of his triumph had subsided, turning into something more fragile, like hope.

  He’d sensed, despite the bristling body language and snappy retorts of the night before, that the attraction between him and Grace hadn’t all been on his side.

  But maybe he was wrong on that score. Maybe the invitation was exactly what it appeared to be—strictly business.