Forgotten Hearts: Dunblair Ridge Series Book One

by Sloan Archer

  Harrison swore to Cash that, had he even had the slightest inkling that Roy’s casual betting had morphed into a full-blown addiction, he would have told him about it straightaway. Cash was inclined to believe him, since the two had formed a steady acquaintanceship over the years. He come to trust Harrison’s word as much as he’d trust his own.

  The ranch hand had also been providing Cash covert updates about Roy since Cynthia’s passing. It was nothing that betrayed privacy, as Harrison had made it clear from the start that there were limits to the information he was willing to deliver about his employer. This had only made Cash trust Harrison more, since it showed that he had principles.

  The news Harrison supplied was straightforward and pertained to banal subjects like Roy’s general health and the status of the ranch, information Cash could have easily gathered for himself after spending a day or two nosing around town. Cash never asked why the ranch hand kept delivering the information—always free of change and never with any expectation of compensation—but he was grateful that he did. Harrison seemed to understand that Cash and Roy still loved each other despite being estranged, even if that love was shown through gritted teeth. Cash wouldn’t have been too surprised to learn that Harrison was also delivering news to his father about him.

  Cash had been startled by his father’s appearance when he’d first returned to the ranch. What had once been a robust cowboy had morphed into a walking skeleton. Roy hadn’t lost any of his surliness, despite his fragile condition. He’d taken one look at his son, who’d developed into a tall, broad-shouldered man over the years, flapped a hand and said, “Oh, hell, what are you doing here?” Roy tended to be brusque whenever he was feeling emotional, so Cash took the harsh welcome as an indication that his father was glad he’d made the trip.

  Cash had initially assumed that it was the cancer that had deteriorated his father to such a wretched state. Harrison later offered clarification in private: Roy, distraught over the death sentence the oncologist had provided him, had taken up drinking rye whiskey as an extracurricular activity. Harrison explained that he’d initially been baffled as to why his boss had suddenly started hitting the bottle, since it was so utterly out of character. He’d figured that Roy’s drinking was only a phase, a knee-jerk reaction to a cancer scare. What lead him to assume such a thing was the way Roy had downplayed his illness, claiming that it would require only minor treatment. It wasn’t until Harrison later learned the true state of Roy’s cancer—over three months after doctors had delivered the grave news—that he realized the situation was dire.

  As if the sight of his dying father wasn’t distressing enough, Cash learned exactly how in the red the Axton Ranch accounts were once he hightailed it down to All West Lending to bring down his wrath—how could they have taken advantage of a dying man like that? However, after speaking with well-meaning employees like Duncan Keenan, Cash’s anger quickly turned to bewilderment. As Duncan had explained, everyone Roy had dealt with at the institution had cautioned him against excessive borrowing at the bank. They similarly warned him against large cash withdrawals. But, at the end of the day, it was Roy’s money to do with whatever he pleased. It would have been illegal to refuse him based on town rumors.

  What upset Cash more than anything was the way many of Roy’s so-called friends had taken advantage of him. Roy’s gambling addiction had grown so out of control toward the end that he’d begun placing bets against almost anything: high school football games, the amount of fish an acquaintance would catch in a single day, how long a barfly could stand on his head. Roy probably would have kept going, had he not run out of money. All the accounts had been depleted—checking, savings, retirement—the ranch being the only thing left in the Axton name.

  Had it not been for Harrison’s loyalty and continuous hard work, the Axton ranch would have been lost long ago. Cash had downsized to the best of his ability by selling what little equipment they had on the ranch that was not absolutely necessary to keeping things running. He’d also dismissed minor employees Roy had taken on over the years, Harrison being the only exception. Like a sinking ship inching its way toward harbor, Cash had very little money left over each month after paying the bills—but he did keep afloat. Somehow, he always managed, though he was never quite able to escape the nagging awareness that he was just one missed payment away from going under.

  Cash left All West Lending feeling worse for wear and in desperate need of comfort. To alleviate his stress, he tried to think of a silver lining within the clouds. Immediately, he thought of Vanessa—how she was now just a door away from his own property—and suddenly he didn’t feel so bad.

  Maybe, just maybe, things would be alright after all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Vanessa cursed when she looked at the clock and saw that it was 7:30 p.m. As usual, she was running a few minutes behind, mainly because she was having difficulty deciding what to put on. What did women wear to go out in Dunblair Ridge? She wished she’d pumped Donna for such information, she of the sexy puppy dog t-shirts.

  Ultimately, it came down to two choices: a curve-hugging raspberry-colored dress paired with strappy sandals, or a dark pair of skinny jeans paired with a nice low-cut black top and bright-colored heels. She’d opted for the latter and accessorized the ensemble with a sleek black leather clutch, an understated pair of diamond stud earrings (a Christmas gift from Greg the year prior, though she could hardly fault the diamonds for their giver), and a few gold bangle bracelets. She wore her hair loose and wavy.

  The mere act of getting dolled up had made her feel volumes better—it was amazing what a little lipstick and hair tousling could do for a girl’s outlook. She would need to remember this the next time she felt downtrodden after spending a few days schlepping around the house in yoga pants. That, and to make a point of actually leaving the house.

  Her heart shot to her throat when she heard a knock on the front door. She really hoped that it wasn’t another stranger stopping by to offer condolences. She didn’t have the time for rushed pleasantries.

  It wasn’t a stranger, it was Cash. When she opened the door, his mouth fell open and he said, “Wow, you look great!”

  I’ve still got it, Vanessa thought, giddy. “I’m going out with some girls.”

  “You already made friends? That’s great.”

  Vanessa shook her head. “It’s kind of a blind date—but with a group of women. The mother of one of them set me up. I think you know her, Donna McCarthy?”

  “Sure, sure. Donna’s a nice lady. But I know her daughter better, Violet.”

  Vanessa suddenly felt ridiculously jealous. “Oh yah?”

  “We went to the same high school, though she was a couple years below me. You’ll love her. She’s super nice, owns a restaurant downtown—it does quite well, especially when the tourists start rolling in.”

  This made Vanessa feel better. She had lots of butterflies fluttering around her stomach due to her impending outing with a bunch of strangers—female strangers. Women could sometimes be unfairly cruel to one another, and she hoped this wouldn’t be the case with Violet and her friends. It’d be nice to have some ladies to socialize with. She was already feeling lonely, and she hadn’t even been in town that long.

  Still, her self-esteem took a massive hit. A prosperous business owner? She imagined that the rest of Violet’s friends were probably also go-getters, since successful people tended to stick together. Vanessa knew this because she used to be one of them. Exactly how big of a loser were they going to think she was once they learned that she was unemployed? She hadn’t even thought about what she’d say when they asked. In-between gigs but actively looking sounded like the sort of b.s. excuse a middle-aged bassist dude in a garage band would use when friends and family questioned if he was ever going to get a real job. Guess she’d better figure out a cover story fast—or at least find a creative way to spin her firing in a more positive light—since “They thought I was embezzling” probably wouldn’t cut i
t.

  “What time are you meeting them?” Cash asked.

  “Sometime between eight and eight-thirty.”

  “It’s getting close. You aren’t driving there, are you? Because, if you are, you won’t reach downtown until next week,” Cash teased with a wicked grin. “I saw you, uh, ‘driving’ today. What were you doing, five, ten miles per hour?”

  Vanessa burst out laughing. It felt good being teased, familiar. “I’ll have you know that it was more like fifteen. And, no, I’m taking a taxi, which should be here any minute. There’s no Uber in Dunblair Ridge.”

  “Then I’d better tell you why I’m here so you can get on with it. Just wanted to let you know that I’m free all day tomorrow, so I can help you with your renovations. I’ll come over in the morning, if you like?”

  “That’d be great!” she said. “But maybe not too early. I’ll probably have a couple drinks tonight.”

  “How about ten, then?”

  “Perfect. But you could have just texted me, you know.”

  “Sure, but then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you looking so pretty,” Cash said, his eyes twinkling.

  Was he flirting? “I bet.”

  “Wait a sec. How are you getting home tonight?”

  Vanessa frowned. “Uh, I’m guessing the same way I got there.”

  “A taxi?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. Was she missing something?

  Cash shook his head. “No way you’re going to get a taxi driver to take you way out here late at night. It’d be hard enough for you to find one even if you were staying near downtown.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. You’re not in New York anymore.”

  “Oh, great. What am I supposed to do now?” she said in a panic. “I’ve already got the taxi coming, and I told Violet I’d meet her, so I can’t cancel going out—”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll come and get you.”

  “Won’t you be asleep by then?”

  “I would if it were a work night, but since I’ll be away from the ranch tomorrow . . .”

  Vanessa didn’t want to put Cash out, but she really didn’t have another choice. “You sure you don’t mind? I’ll give you taxi fare.”

  Cash shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just give me a call about twenty minutes before you’re ready to be picked up and I’ll head down.”

  Cash left so that Vanessa would have a time to finish getting ready, though he needn’t have bothered. The taxi showed up shortly thereafter.

  Vanessa was pleasantly surprised by how happening downtown was. She had the taxi driver drop her off at the far end of the area, which was compact, so that she could do a little sightseeing as she walked the two blocks to Snowies. She’d arrived a little early, so she had a few extra minutes to spare.

  The streets were lined with cute little shops that sold items like artwork, jewelry, handmade soaps, and stationary. They were closed by this hour, but she got a look at a few of the price tags through the window. The items were reasonably priced (reasonably priced compared to New York, that was), particularly for a tourist town. There were also clothing boutiques, hair salons, and a few specialty cafés that sold gourmet coffee and elegant desserts. She could get used to a place like this, she thought. If she were only staying.

  Which she wasn’t.

  She also saw a flower shop with a large arrangement in its window that offered an interesting contrast of rugged and delicate: crisp white calla lilies and pink peonies mixed with branches of Douglas fir and what looked like Spanish moss. It was all bunched together in an oxidized copper vase. Vanessa had a hard time tearing her eyes away from it; it was both haunting and beautiful.

  As she neared Snowies, it dawned on her that she had no idea what Violet looked like. She got lucky and spotted the group right as she walked in—it had to be them, since they were the only pack of women clustered together around a tall round table. Vanessa inwardly thanked herself for opting to wear the toned-down jeans outfit in lieu of the clingy dress. She was a smidge overdressed even as she was, mainly because of her sparkling accessories and expensive designer handbag. Though it was apparent that the women had made an effort to get dressed up, their outfits were far more paired down. They wore jeans as well, plus simple jewelry that, while still fashionable, was made from less expensive materials like wood, silver, and beads. Vanessa considered sliding the gold bangles from her wrists and stuffing them in her clutch, but then one of the women stepped back from the table and waved at her as if they were old friends.

  “Hi! Vanessa?”

  Snow Princess was the first thought that popped into her head. The woman was petite—no taller than five-feet-two—with icy blue eyes, naturally colored platinum blonde hair (sometimes, you can just tell) that fell to her shoulder blades, and pixie-like features.

  Vanessa waved back. “That’s me! Violet?”

  “Yep.” She eyeballed Vanessa’s clutch, which was cradled in the same arm that she was wearing the gold bracelets. “So glam, aren’t you?”

  For an awful moment, Vanessa thought that she being mocked for being so dressed up, but it was obvious that Violet had only meant to pay her a compliment. “I try,” she smiled.

  “My mom wasn’t kidding—you are gorgeous!” She linked her arm through Vanessa’s hand and led her toward the table. “Here, come meet everyone. And then let’s get you a cocktail.”

  There were three other woman seated at the table. Two had bright, fruity-looking drinks and another had a glass of wine. In front of the empty seat was a fizzy glass of what looked like champagne, which Vanessa assumed was Violet’s. Their drinks were nearly full, so they mustn’t have been there long.

  Much to Vanessa’s delight, none of the women dissected her appearance with a catty once-over. They all offered her a friendly smile as they introduced themselves: Zoe Larkin, Meadow Silva, and Meredith Chamblin. They called their waitress over so that Vanessa could order the same champagne cocktail as Violet.

  They asked her the standard questions that most people do when they meet somebody new to the area: What brings you here? Where did you come from? How are you liking the town? The fact that they’d asked such questions suggested that they were unaware of her inherited farmhouse situation. Perhaps there were less people gossiping about her than she’d previously suspected. The women made sympathetic sounds when she mentioned Jeanie’s passing. Vanessa in return asked the group her own politely generalized questions.

  She learned that Zoe had, like Violet, grown up in Dunblair Ridge and was a librarian. She’d met Meadow, a romance author on a meteoric rise, through work. Meredith Chamblin, the only married woman in the group, owned a flower shop.

  Vanessa’s mouth fell open when she learned that Meredith owned the same place that she’d seen the beautiful flower arrangement—that she, personally, had been the one who’d designed it. Meredith modestly thanked Vanessa when she told her how moved she’d been when she’d seen it, that the arrangement was like a work of art. The other women also chimed in with their own compliments.

  Vanessa felt that Meadow’s background was closest to her own. She’d originally come to Dunblair Ridge from Los Angeles with the intent of staying on just long enough to finish the historical romance series she’d been penning. But then she fell in love with the place—and its significantly lower cost of living—and decided to stay on and buy a home after she sold her series to a publisher for a hefty sum. Vanessa was curious what the sum was, but understood that it would be tacky to ask. Zoe leaned over and whispered “a million-two” loud enough for the whole group to hear. They all grinned, pleased that their friend was doing so well.

  Violet McCarthy, as Vanessa already knew, owned a restaurant in town. “But not just any old restaurant,” Meadow said. “The most popular restaurant in town.”

  “Second most popular restaurant in town,” Violet corrected, a sentiment the group poo-pooed.

  “But still the one with the best food,” Zoe pointed
out.

  “Nixon’s out-sells me by a mile,” Violet said matter-of-factly.

  “Like you need any more business, anyway.” Zoe said to Vanessa, “Honestly, she’s a rock star! Guess how old she was when she started running the place—twenty-eight!”

  “Twenty-nine,” corrected Violet once again.

  Zoe flapped a hand and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Whatever. My point is that she’s amazing. I mean, who buys a restaurant at twenty-nine? I swear she never sleeps.”

  “Hah, I don’t,” smiled Violet.

  Vanessa was bowled over by the group’s comradery. The women had each other’s backs in a way Vanessa had never seen. They went out of their way to offer support and elevate each other’s self-worth, quickly stepping in with a rebuttal whenever one of them tried to downplay her own achievements. It was so different from the cutthroat relationships she had back home, where the value of a “friend” was contingent upon the connections they had or even their appearance; it was a never-ending competition of who had better designer clothes, made more money, or had the best-looking mate. It was evident that her new friends in Dunblair Ridge couldn’t care less about any of these things. They were, Vanessa realized, a team.

  They extended Vanessa the same kind courtesy when the subject of her job came up. In the taxi, she’d cooked up a longwinded explanation about how the economy was suffering a downturn in New York, how the job market was unstable for those in her industry, etcetera-etcetera. Yet, when it came time for her to do the explaining, she opted for simplicity. “I was recently laid off from a large financial services firm in New York, Jersaw & Morris.” The women cooed sympathetically.

  Violet surprised her by saying, “I’ve heard of them, I think. A friend mine from my university days had talked about applying there after he got his econ degree. I don’t know if he ever did. Hank Michaels—does that ring a bell?”