Читать книгу To Trust A Rancher - Debbi Rawlins, Debbi Rawlins - Страница 8

Chapter One

Becca Hartman’s heart pounded. Today was the start of a new phase of her life. One where she’d have the time to give her son dinner and put him to bed every night, instead of just checking in on him after he was already asleep. It felt like the best gift she’d ever been given, and she didn’t want to screw it up.

She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to remember the last time she’d worn a dress. The second it hit her, she wished she hadn’t tried so hard. It had been her grandfather’s funeral. Two years ago. She’d rushed back to Montana but had almost missed the service. Grams had taken one look at her and cried for an hour straight.

Oh, God, Becca couldn’t think about that now. She smoothed a wrinkle on the blue dress, then dabbed on some lip gloss. Satisfied that she looked presentable for the first day in her brand-new position, she went to the kitchen.

Noah sat at the table in his booster seat, making designs in his cinnamon-topped oatmeal.

“Hey, sweetie. What do you think about you and me celebrating my promotion tonight?” Becca opened the fridge and brought out the orange juice. “Pizza sound good to you?”

He was too quiet.

Reaching into the cupboard for a glass, she glanced over her shoulder. “Noah? Did you hear me?”

Making a face, he stuck the wrong side of his spoon into the cereal.

“What’s wrong? You love oatmeal.”

“I want bananas.”

“I’ll pick some up after work,” she said. “For now, you eat it like that, okay?”

From the window, she saw Isabella coming up the crumbling cement walkway, sidestepping the neighbor kid’s rusty bike. The relief that swept Becca was more proof she was far too anxious over her new job. The woman hadn’t been even a minute late in the four years she’d been watching Noah.

“Mommy?”

Becca turned a smile on him.

A glob of oatmeal hit her chin. She gasped, looked down and watched the goop slide down the front of her dress.

Noah broke into peals of laughter.

People always said the twos were terrible. Yeah, well, four was no picnic either.

Although, as a rule, Noah was a very sweet little boy. It was usually after he’d spent time with Amy that he acted out like this. She spoiled him terribly, all because she felt guilty for abandoning him. And then, consistent with their longtime friendship, Becca was left to clean up the mess.

“Noah?” She grabbed a paper towel. “Why did you do that?” She heard Isabella’s quick knock, then the door squeaked open, but Becca kept her eyes on him as she dampened the towel. “Noah? Answer me.”

He bowed his head and shrugged his thin shoulders.

Isabella quietly set her tote aside. Becca sure hoped the woman knew a trick to get the stain out, or she would have to wear the only other dress she owned. The black one, stuffed far, far back in her closet.

Her stomach rebelled at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” Noah mumbled.

“You must never do that again. Do you understand?” Becca waited for his nod. “Now, aren’t you going to say hello to Señora Rios?”

He looked up with a tentative smile. “Hola, Señora Rios.”

Señora came out garbled, and Becca had to stifle a grin.

Isabella ruffled his hair. “Mmm, I smell cinnamon,” she said. “Better hurry up and eat your oatmeal before I do.”

Noah giggled and shoveled a big spoonful into his mouth.

“They’re making you wear dresses now?” Isabella joined Becca at the sink and took the paper towel from her.

“No one said I had to.” Becca gladly handed over the task before she made a mess. “I’ve never worked in an office before so I thought I’d go all out for my first day.” She worried her lip. “Pants better be okay. I can’t afford to buy new clothes.”

“I bet my daughter has some things that would fit you, if you don’t mind secondhand.”

Becca smiled. If she did, she wouldn’t have a couch or a dresser, or much of anything, really. “You don’t mean Lydia...”

Nodding, Isabella used a tiny drop of dish detergent to rub out the cinnamon smudge below Becca’s collarbone. “Sure I do. What’s she going to do with a closet full of size sixes?”

“She’d be crazy to give up anything.” Becca guessed most of it was designer stuff. “She’ll lose the pregnancy weight.”

“No, she won’t. And now she’s pregnant again.”

“Well, you must be thrilled. Another grandchild for you to spoil.”

Isabella snorted but couldn’t help looking pleased. “There you go, good as new,” she said, stepping back and inspecting her handiwork. “Don’t worry if you have to stay late. Just call and I’ll feed him his dinner.”

“Thank you. I’ll try not to be past five thirty, and I can always call Amy to come over...” Becca trailed off as she looked into Isabella’s kind, knowing eyes. Amy was about as reliable as a broken watch.

“I pray for her,” Isabella said, lowering her voice and glancing at Noah. “Maybe one day she’ll surprise you.”

Becca nodded. No prayers had helped so far, just like no amount of Becca’s determination had managed to bring Amy to her senses. First, it had been Derek who’d gotten his hooks into her, and later, so had the drugs. But Isabella was a devout, churchgoing woman, and who knew, maybe her prayers carried more weight.

Noah slammed down his empty cup. “More milk.”

Becca gave him a warning look. “Is that how you ask?”

“Please.”

“And no more slamming your cup,” Becca said, turning toward the fridge.

Isabella had already opened the door. “Go. Don’t miss your bus. I’ll take care of Mr. Cranky Pants,” she said, the last of it loud enough for Noah to hear. It always made him laugh.

“What would I do without you?” Becca asked, giving the woman a quick hug.

“You’d do just fine.” She smiled and patted Becca’s cheek. “That little boy is very lucky he has you.”

Becca was the lucky one, she thought as she stepped back to let Isabella pour his milk. Isabella had been a social worker and was at the hospital the day Noah was born, had been there when Amy had asked Becca to take care of him. Isabella was the only other person who knew about their complicated situation, but even she didn’t know everything.

With his dark hair and blue eyes, Noah didn’t resemble Amy or Derek, and sometimes it was very easy for Becca to forget that he didn’t belong to her. She had no parental rights whatsoever, but Noah was hers in every other sense.

It hadn’t been Amy who’d changed his first diaper or stayed up all night with him when he was sick. It had been Becca. From day one, she’d bought his crib and bottles and pretty much everything else he’d needed. Not easy on a waitress’s tips. But she’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

As for Derek, he hadn’t once acknowledged the child, which was a true blessing. The guy was scum. An abuser. And every time Becca pictured her beautiful, bright-eyed friend the day she and Amy had left Montana for the neon lights of LA, Becca wanted to cry.

Amy was a mere shell of the person she used to be. Her skin was sallow, her green eyes dull and lifeless, and it seemed she could only muster a smile for Noah these days. Every time he asked Amy about the bruises and she made up a different excuse, it broke Becca’s heart.

Ironic, really, that Amy had fled Blackfoot Falls to escape her abusers and then run straight into the arms of an even more sadistic man. Actually, it wasn’t ironic. Becca knew better because of all the reading she’d done and the pamphlets she’d collected. It was a vicious cycle—one only Amy could break, if and when she was ready.

The knowledge didn’t make Becca feel any less responsible. After all, she’d helped Amy get to LA.

She hurried to the bathroom for a tissue and to check her makeup. Getting emotional wouldn’t do her any good. This promotion was a big break for her. The money, the hours, everything was finally falling into place. In a year, two tops, she hoped to have saved enough to get them out of this crappy neighborhood.

After grabbing her purse off the dresser, she stuck her head into the kitchen. Isabella was standing at the sink, humming, looking like a ray of sunshine in one of her flowery handmade dresses. Noah was still eating, his head bent over his bowl, as he intermittently hummed a few bars along with Isabella.

He looked happy.

Seeing him like that was all it took to brighten her day. She couldn’t possibly love him more if he were her own child. But he wasn’t, and she hoped with all her heart the day never came that she’d be forced to give him up.

Which could happen if Amy ever got clean... Though of course that was what Becca wanted for her friend. She did. Anyway, Amy would never keep them apart.

* * *

RYDER MITCHELL SAT in the dirt in the middle of the corral, waving the dust away from his face, ignoring the hooting and hollering of the three troublemakers who’d convinced him to show Toby the finer points of breaking a horse—one that was supposed to be used to a saddle.

“Hey, boss, let me give you a hand.”

Ryder ignored that, too...until he heard the applause and realized Lance was being a smartass. The other two hired men, Toby and Bear, were leaning against the corral railing with him, still laughing.

“Yeah, that’s right, keep it up. Better hope some other sucker springs for your beer.”

That wiped the smirks off their faces.

“Oh, come on now, we’re just having some fun,” Lance grumbled.

“Not all of us,” Ryder muttered and pushed to his feet.

Shaking his head, Wiley snatched Ryder’s dusty Stetson off the ground and handed it to him. “You ain’t hurt, are you?” the foreman asked in a quiet voice.

Ryder shook his head. “Just my pride.”

“Sure you didn’t break your check-writing hand with that stupid stunt?” Wiley asked, loud enough for the horses in the pasture to hear him.

Wiley ignored the kid as he glanced toward the house. “Does Gail have their paychecks? I can go get them from her. Unless they’re still in your office.”

The bunkhouse door slammed, giving Ryder a few moments to think it over. Otis, who did the cooking for the men, hobbled outside, using his arm to block the late-afternoon sun as he joined the other men at the railing.

Ryder looked back at Wiley. The poor guy had developed a thing for Ryder’s mother. Gail didn’t have a clue, and he doubted Wiley would ever act on his feelings. The man had been a friend to Ryder’s father until he’d died three years ago, and Wiley had started working for the family long before that.

In his mid-fifties now, he had some gray at his temples and in his sideburns. But he was as lean and muscled as any of the younger men who worked under him. He was also honest and hardworking. Gail could do a lot worse...once she finished grieving. It sure would help if his flaky sister called more often. Better yet, Amy needed to pay their mom a damn visit once in a while.

It was coming up on Thanksgiving—maybe she’d surprise them. Yeah, he wouldn’t take a dollar bet on that happening.

“I’m not sure where I left the payroll,” Ryder said finally. “If you don’t mind, check with her.”

“No problem.” Wiley took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair as he headed toward the house.

The truth was, Ryder didn’t know how he’d feel if the two of them ever got together. He wanted to see his mom happy again, though. And if Wiley could bring a sparkle back to her eyes, well, who was Ryder to judge?

Hell, he had no business having an opinion, period. He hadn’t been able to make his own marriage work. Clearly, he was better at ranching.

He looked around, filled with a bone-deep sense of satisfaction. The main barn had been completely overhauled, and next, he planned to reinforce and repaint the barn behind the stable, which now had a new roof. As did both the calving and equipment sheds.

Over the winter, they’d have to move the north fence line since he’d just bought another seven hundred acres from Alvin Medina. By staying focused and investing well, Ryder had the cash to get a good deal. And he still had enough money to do more remodeling in the house.

So far, he’d made the kitchen and family room easier to navigate now that his mom used a cane and sometimes a walker. She’d always enjoyed cooking, up until the day his dad had passed. Since then, she’d lost interest in most of her hobbies. But now, with all her new, high-end appliances, she’d been trying out different recipes like she used to.

“You were joking about the beer, right, boss?” Toby said, pushing his long hair out of his eyes. “It’s a tradition. You buy us a case every Friday.”

“So now you expect it?”

“Well, yeah.”

Ryder just shook his head. “I think Wiley put it in the barn fridge.”

Toby grinned. “Sweet.”

Watching him walk toward his pal, Bear, something occurred to Ryder. “Hey, Toby.”

He stopped, turned. “Yeah, boss?”

“How old are you?”

Looking sheepish, Toby hesitated. “I’m not leaving the property. Just playing cards in the bunkhouse tonight.”

Ryder sighed. “How old?”

“Almost twenty-one.”

Almost.

Well, hell. Basically, he’d been buying beer for a minor. He wondered if Wiley knew. With Ryder away on business so much, Wiley had a better handle on what was going on. “What about Bear?”

“Oh, he’s twenty-three.”

Ryder slapped the Stetson against his thigh, sending up a cloud of dust. “Look, even if you have only one beer, you and your truck don’t leave the property. Got it?”

“I swear I won’t, and my birthday’s in six weeks, so I’ll be all legal and everything.”

Nodding, Ryder headed toward his office. Not that he’d admit it, but he’d been drinking beer since he was eighteen. Just on weekends, along with his college roommates. None of them had been the type to get too drunk or do anything crazy. It had been a rite of passage, a part of the college experience and nothing more.

It puzzled him that he’d suddenly thought to ask. Toby had been working for them for about five months. And at over six feet, with a husky build, he could easily pass for mid-twenties.

Ryder was the problem. Some of the newer hires were beginning to look young because he felt old. Arguably, at thirty-two, he should be in his prime. But in the ten years since graduating from college, he’d been married, divorced, lost contact with his only sister, buried his father, had been consoling his mother and had nearly doubled the size of the family ranch. So yeah, he felt like he’d already lived two lifetimes.

He heard the front door and glanced toward the porch. His mom had walked out with Wiley. Wrapped in a coat that was too warm for the relatively mild November air and leaning on her cane, she waved at Ryder. Wiley stood beside her, looking uncertain and helpless.

Ryder understood completely.

Maybe he was wrong about the attraction. Maybe Wiley was just plain worried about her like Ryder was. They hadn’t talked about it, but Gail hadn’t been the same since his dad’s death, and anyone who knew her would have to be blind not to see how much she’d aged.

As if the tragedy hadn’t been enough, one of their neighbors had been taken by cancer a short time later. Shirley Hancock and his mom hadn’t been particularly close, but the woman’s granddaughter, Becca, was the little hellion who’d dragged Amy off to LA with her. Though as it turned out, Becca had been much better about keeping in touch with her grandparents, who’d shared everything with the Mitchells. But after they’d passed, news of Amy had dried up.

Ryder stopped midstride and redirected his steps toward the house. Toward his mom.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, probably because he’d been too damn focused on expanding the ranch and doubling profits. But maybe it was time for him to take a little personal trip.

And drag his selfish baby sister back by the scruff of her neck.