Читать книгу The Rancher's Redemption - Myra Johnson - Страница 13

A sunny azure sky overhead, contented cattle grazing beside a tree-shaded pond, field upon field of bluebonnets stretching toward the horizon—in all his thirty-six years, Kent Ritter had yet to see anything prettier than an April day in the Texas Hill Country.

Until he rode out to round up a couple of strays and came upon a waiflike stranger sitting cross-legged beneath an oak tree.

His oak tree. On his land.

Facing the opposite direction, the girl didn’t seem aware of Kent’s approach. An assortment of grasses and twigs lay beside her on a multicolored quilt. She bent low over something in her lap, chin-length auburn curls falling toward her face and her fingers flying.

Not of a mind to announce his presence until he had a better idea of what she was up to, Kent pulled on his cutting horse’s reins with a whispered “Whoa, Jasmine.”

He guessed he wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought, because his visitor’s head shot up and she turned with a startled gasp. As she scrambled to her feet, whatever she’d been working on fell to the quilt. Panic filled her eyes, but her stance—fists clenched at her sides, feet apart as if preparing for combat—sent a different message: don’t mess with me!

Kent’s stomach fell straight to his boot heels. Clearly, this fully grown woman wasn’t the truant teenager he’d assumed her to be. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes suggested late twenties or early thirties—much closer to Kent’s age than he suddenly felt comfortable with, since his initial curious concern now vied with an undeniable and completely inappropriate attraction. Yep, more than likely, this woman’s appearance had something to do with the unsettling letter he’d received two days ago, the one he’d been doing his dead level best to ignore.

He clenched his jaw. “If you’re from the Juniper Bluff Historical Society, you can leave right now. This is still private property.”

“I’m so sorry.” Looking both startled and confused, the woman dropped to her knees and began gathering her things into the center of the quilt. “I was just out exploring, and I don’t know anything about the historical society. I’m actually new in town and—” Her hands shook so hard that she kept dropping everything.

First he’d jumped to conclusions, and now he’d scared the poor lady half to death. “Hey, it’s okay.” Afraid she’d have a heart attack, Kent dismounted and strode over to help. “Ma’am, it’s okay, really.”

As he drew closer, he saw what she’d been making—a basket woven from twigs and dry pasture grass. He picked it up and studied the intricate design. Blades of grass had been twisted and shaped to resemble miniature bluebonnets and woven into the outside of the basket. Between two of the flowers, a thinner, more pliable twig formed the letter A.

Glancing up, Kent found the woman standing at the edge of the quilt, arms crossed and her expression wary. He held the basket out to her. “You made this? Just now?”

“Well, yes. But not just now, exactly.” Taking the basket, she offered a guilty frown. “I—I’ve been here most of the day.”

Even if she wasn’t a historical society snoop, Kent ought to feel a lot more annoyed that a perfect stranger had been trespassing on his property—he’d chased off ignorant city kids looking to go cow tipping on a dare, hunters who’d unknowingly crossed boundaries, even a few lost hikers and trail riders. But never in all the years he’d been ranching had he come upon anyone quite like this nervous and oh-so-pretty artisan.

She tugged on the quilt, drawing attention to the fact that he was standing on the edge. Stepping off into the grass, he bent and grabbed the two corners closest to him. When all her craft supplies—bits and pieces of his pasture—were folded inside the quilt, she hugged the bundle against her chest. Her chin rose in defiance. “You really ought to put up signs. How was I supposed to know this was someone’s property?”

Kent’s jaw dropped. “Miles of barbed wire fencing wasn’t enough of a clue? How’d you even end up this far from the main road?”

Glancing around, the woman started looking panicky again. “Um, which way is the road?”

Okay, this was just too much—probably a good thing because, at the moment, Kent’s annoyance was a whole lot easier to deal with than being discombobulated by a damsel in distress. He whipped his tan felt Resistol from his head and slapped it against his thigh. “You ride?”

“Ride?”

“Yeah, ride. Because the easiest and fastest way for me to get you back to the road is if I take you on my horse.”

She eyed the big black mare uneasily. “Thanks, but I’d rather walk.”

“You realize we’re a couple miles in, right?”

“That far?” A swallow tracked up and down her throat, so thin and delicate and lovely it made Kent’s chest ache. “I must have explored farther than I thought.”

“Guess so.” He inched his gaze upward, only to find himself riveted by a pair of eyes bluer than a whole field of bluebonnets. With a rough cough, he slammed his hat back onto his head. “So. You want a ride to the road or not?”

After an uneasy glance in all directions, she peeked at her watch. “Oh, no, is it really nearly three?”

“Afraid so. That a problem?”

“Yes, it’s a problem.” She was already striding toward Jasmine. “My daughter gets out of school in twenty minutes, and I’m going to be late.”

Daughter. Which meant there had to be a dad in the picture. Wildly, that came as both a disappointment and a huge relief. Kent caught up with her at the mare’s side, and then he was the nervous one. Riding double—what had he been thinking? Sure, he could let her ride while he led Jasmine from the ground. After his three tours of duty as a navy corpsman in Afghanistan, hiking a couple of miles over rough pastureland was a walk in the park.

Just one problem, though. This walk in the park—the most direct route back to the road—covered a section of his property where he’d recently spotted a rattler’s den. The lady was plumb lucky she hadn’t encountered one while traipsing across the pastures with bare ankles and wearing those flimsy sneakers, or instead of offering her a ride, he might have been administering first aid from the snakebite kit in his saddlebag—and only if he’d found her in time.

Taking hold of Jasmine’s bridle, he brought the horse’s head up from the clump of grass she’d been munching on. “So,” he said, teeth clenched, “if we’re gonna get up close and personal on the back of my horse, we should at least introduce ourselves. Name’s Kent Ritter.” He stuck out his right hand.

She stared at it for a moment, then released her hold on the quilt long enough to accept his handshake. “I’m Erin. Erin Dearborn.”

Pretty girl, pretty name...

The sooner he got this woman back to the road and off his property the better.

* * *

When Erin decided to take a drive down a country road in search of interesting items for her basketry creations, doubling up on horseback with a perfect stranger was not how she saw her day unfolding. Served her right for her city-girl ignorance. Before parking her car along the roadside, she hadn’t passed a house for miles. The barbed wire fence? Well, those were everywhere out this way. Why should she assume it meant keep out?

The cowboy climbed into the saddle first, then had Erin pass him her quilt bundle. He removed his left boot from the stirrup and shifted his leg forward. Pointing toward the empty stirrup, he instructed, “Put your foot here, grab my arm and swing your other leg over.”

She did as she was told, and with a breathtaking burst of motion, she found herself straddling the horse’s rump just behind the saddle. The man shoved the wadded-up quilt around behind him, and she hugged it close, grateful for the space the bundle created between her chest and the lean, muscular torso in front of her. “I could have walked, you know. I’m not a wimp.”

“Uh-huh.” The cowboy’s laconic reply said he didn’t quite believe her. “If you didn’t get lost. Or snakebit.”

Her eyebrows shot up. She sat a little straighter. “Snakes? There are snakes out here?”

“This is the Texas Hill Country. Of course there are snakes.” He glanced over his shoulder with a snort. “Weather’s warming up, rattlers are getting more active—”

“Rattlesnakes?” Skin crawling, Erin drew her knees higher on the horse’s sides.

The man chuckled. “Rattlesnakes can’t fly. Anyway, Jasmine’s got a keen sense for snakes. She won’t take us anywhere near one.”

“That’s... That’s good to know.” After a couple of calming breaths, Erin relaxed her legs.

Picking up the reins, the cowboy suggested Erin might want to hold on.

“To what?”

“To me.” He reached behind and found her right wrist, drawing her arm around his waist. “I don’t bite, I promise.”

Erin didn’t have a reply to that. But when the horse—Jasmine?—began to move, holding on felt like a really good idea. The horse’s rhythmic, rocking gait reassured her, though, and before long, Erin was almost enjoying the ride—or would be, if not for the nearness of the man in front of her.

“So,” he said, “do you make a habit of wandering across private property to do your—whatever that art stuff is called?”

“It’s basketry. And no. I just thought—” She forced out a sharp sigh. What was the point of explaining? He’d just pile on more ridicule for her foolishness. And he’d be right. She had no business wasting her time on such a useless hobby when she should be getting serious about the interior design career she’d postponed so many years ago. Scary stuff, starting over after a divorce. Especially when starting over felt a lot more like starting from scratch.

“Basketry, huh?” the cowboy harrumphed. “Next time you’re looking for twigs and stuff, maybe check with the property owner first.”

“Duly noted.”

When he deftly opened a pasture gate without dismounting, then guided the horse through and closed the gate behind them, Erin couldn’t help being impressed.

Off to their right, a herd of black cattle grazed, their musky smells mingling with the earthy scents of grass and cedar. “Are those your cows?” Erin asked.

“Mmm-hmm. Minus the two still off somewhere by themselves because I got sidetracked rescuing you.”

“Look, I’m sorry, Mr...” She’d already forgotten his name.

“Ritter,” he supplied, sounding irritable. “And don’t worry about it. Road’s just up ahead. Tell me where you left your car.”

They’d come a different way from the route Erin had taken cross-country, so nothing looked familiar. Noticing a dilapidated two-story farmhouse off to the right, which she didn’t remember passing on her drive out, she decided her car must be up the road to the left.

“I’m pretty sure it’s that way,” she said, pointing. Another glance at her watch made her stomach clench. School would be letting out about now, and it was only Avery’s second day at Juniper Bluff Elementary. The almost seven-year-old had suffered enough trauma in her short life. She didn’t need to wonder if Mommy had forgotten her. “Can you hurry, please? My daughter’s going to be so worried.”

“All right, hold on.” After guiding the horse through another gate, the cowboy made sure Erin’s hold was secure before clucking to the horse.

Unprepared for the burst of speed, Erin gasped and tightened her grip around Mr. Ritter’s waist, the quilt bundle trapped against his back. They galloped past a weathered barn and onto a gravel lane that ran alongside the old farmhouse. Even as they sped by, Erin couldn’t miss the peeling paint, sagging porches and flower beds overgrown with weeds. An unexpected pang of sadness struck—this must be where the grumpy cowboy lived.

He slowed the horse to make the left turn onto the road, then picked up speed again. Seconds later, peering around the cowboy, Erin glimpsed her dark blue Camry where she’d left it parked on the shoulder. By the time Mr. Ritter halted his horse next to her car, her heart was pounding as hard as if she’d run the two miles on foot.

He swung his right leg forward over the horse’s neck and dropped to the ground, then reached up to help Erin dismount. The quilt still smashed against her chest, she backed toward her car door. “Well, um...thank you for the ride.” Deep breath. She tugged her keys from her jeans pocket and nearly dropped them before she could press the unlock button on the key fob. “I’m sorry again about trespassing, and you don’t have to worry about me ever bothering you again.”

Without waiting for his response, she climbed into the car and shoved the quilt onto the passenger seat. She could only hope she hadn’t crushed the special basket she’d been creating for Avery. After making sure the cowboy and his horse had moved out of the way, she executed an awkward U-turn. As she drove away, a glance in her rearview mirror showed the cowboy back in the saddle but watching from the same spot.

She shivered. Okay, God, what was that all about? Her first week in town and she had to run afoul of one of the residents. Not to mention having her life flash before her eyes on that wild ride. Horses were her older brother Greg’s department, at least vicariously. His daughter rode for her college team, and as CFO for the family’s San Antonio philanthropic organization, Greg had negotiated a partnership with a Juniper Bluff guest ranch to sponsor riding camps for disadvantaged kids.

But Erin, Greg and their middle sibling, Shaun, had grown up 100 percent city kids. Greg was now a successful businessman, and Shaun served as an ordained minister on the mission field. Their late father had been a highly respected San Antonio pediatrician, and their mother, also in heaven now, had founded her own interior design company. Erin had hoped to follow in her mother’s footsteps, but those career plans had short-circuited not long after she’d met Payne Dearborn.

Fresh out of med school and interning at a Dallas hospital, Payne had been on duty when Erin’s roommate at the University of North Texas tripped on the stairs at a shopping mall and broke her ankle. Erin had to drive her to the ER, where the handsome intern had asked for Erin’s number. One date led to another and another, and within a year, they were engaged. Erin spent her last semester of college planning their June wedding, and afterward her whole world had revolved around Payne.

If only someone else had been in the ER that day. If only she hadn’t given Payne her number, gone out with him the first time, fallen desperately in love with him—or, more accurately, with the idea of marrying a doctor just like her kind, caring, devoted dad. Because Payne Dearborn had turned out to be nothing like Erin’s dad. Why hadn’t she recognized the signs—if not before the wedding, then certainly before bringing a child into the marriage? As the years passed, Payne came to depend more and more on alcohol to relieve the stress of his profession. And the more he drank, the more his cruel side came out.

Nine years, a broken collarbone and entirely too many bruises later, Erin had had enough. Though Payne had never laid a hand on Avery, Erin could no longer take the chance. For both their sakes, she got out.

Brushing away an unexpected tear, she shoved the memories aside and concentrated on her driving. A few minutes later, she pulled into the nearly deserted school parking lot. As she glanced around for Avery, her heart plummeted. Surely, the little girl wouldn’t have accepted a ride from someone else.

Then the fair-haired first-grade teacher Erin had met when she’d enrolled Avery on Monday strode from the building, her hand wrapped around Avery’s. Spying her mom, Avery lit up with a huge grin. She broke free from the teacher and galloped toward the car faster than the grumpy cowboy’s big black horse.

Erin reached across to shove the passenger door open, then stuffed the quilt bundle into the back seat. “Hi, honey! Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay, Mommy.” The little girl swiped messy auburn curls out of her eyes as she bounded into the car. “While we waited for you, Miss Adams let me help her feed the gerbils.”

“Wow, gerbils—how fun!” Erin looked past her daughter to cast an apologetic smile toward the teacher now leaning in the open door. “Thank you for looking after her. I totally lost track of time.” Among other things.

“My pleasure. Avery was a big help.” With a reassuring smile, the teacher added, “And she’s doing fine. Already making friends. Aren’t you, Avery?”

“I am, Mommy. My new bestest friend is Eva Austin. She’s kind of new at school, too, ’cause she used to be homeschooled. She lives on a ranch and has her very own pony.”

“A pony. How special.” Erin returned Miss Adams’s wave as the teacher closed Avery’s door.

Apparently, just about everyone in this little Hill Country town had some connection with horses and ranching. She might have been born and raised a Texan, but her exposure to cowboy culture was pretty much limited to the TV Westerns she’d watched as a kid on the oldies channel.

What could Greg have been thinking? Her big brother had assured her that moving to Juniper Bluff could mean a fresh start, a chance to leave the past behind and figure out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. But couldn’t she have done so just as well in San Antonio, maybe rented a small apartment near Greg’s place? If she really did have hopes of launching an interior design business, wouldn’t her prospects be a lot stronger in the city? The part-time job Greg had arranged for her at a Juniper Bluff gift shop would never pay enough to support her and Avery for the long term.

And she had to take some positive action soon, while she still clung to what few remnants of self-esteem Payne Dearborn hadn’t managed to crush.

* * *

Riding out to search again for those two stray heifers, Kent hoped getting back to work would distract him from dealing with his unexpected visitor. Because she’d sure enough distracted him. And while he appreciated a few diversions at the moment, that kind he could do without.

Recalling her reaction at the mention of the snakes, though, he allowed himself another brief chuckle. He also made a mental note to ask his neighbor LeRoy if he’d come by one day soon and help him deal with those rattlers—preferably without the use of a rifle. Kent loved ranching, but he despised guns. The mere sound of them from a nearby hunting lease could evoke flashbacks from Afghanistan that made his palms sweat and his heart race.

Another reason the letter from the historical society had him so flustered. He’d worked for ten years to preserve his quiet way of life out here on the ranch—and now they were telling him this place was one of the original Juniper Bluff homesteads. And they were planning a huge sesquicentennial celebration next year and wanted to feature his property on a grand tour.

True, Kent had known the place was a fixer-upper when he bought it—but a hundred and fifty years old? That had come as a surprise. Previous owners over the years had added modern plumbing, wiring and other basic updates. With a few minor repairs now and then to keep the place livable, it had served Kent just fine. He couldn’t imagine who’d be interested in touring a run-down old house and barn.

And spending his hard-earned cash to make things presentable for a bunch of gawkers? Uh-uh. Not happening. With fewer and fewer calves being born each year, his ranching account was dropping deeper into the red. If he hoped to keep this dream alive, every penny he could put aside had to go toward a quality registered bull to replace the old fella who’d outlived his productive years.

Thanks to a recent spring storm, though, he’d had no choice but to dip into his savings to repair the leaky barn roof. Last year, it was his septic tank, and the year before, his rattletrap of a truck needed a new timing belt.

Yep, much as he loved ranch life, it was definitely one challenge after another.

He found the strays at the westernmost border of his land. Apparently, they’d discovered a weak spot in one of his pasture fences and wandered down to drink from a burbling creek running deep and fresh from spring rains. He had to do little more than wave his hat, whistle through his teeth and keep centered in the saddle as Jasmine expertly turned the heifers in the direction of home.

Once they’d rejoined the herd, Kent rode the fence line to look for any other sections in need of repair. Finding two more trouble spots, he made quick temporary fixes to hold until he could do the job right tomorrow afternoon after his shift ended at the hardware store. Supplementing with part-time work in town gave him a little extra to live on anyway.

Back at the barn, he unsaddled Jasmine and brushed her down before leading her into her stall. He tossed in a flake of hay, refilled her water pail and dumped a scoop of feed into her tray. The mare gave a nicker of gratitude and settled in for her supper.

Kent chuckled to himself. He should have it so easy.

When he walked through his back door and into his empty kitchen a few minutes later, the weight of living alone hit him like a punch to the gut. Which was crazy, because the solitary life was exactly what he wanted—no, needed. Peace and quiet and green growing things all around him. And his animals—a trusty cow horse, a couple of gentle mares he’d rescued, a few head of cattle and the sleepy old dog, who on day one of his adoption, had claimed Kent’s easy chair and relegated him permanently to the sofa.

“I’m home, Skip.” Kent tossed his dusty felt hat onto the breakfast table and stooped to pick up Skip’s food dish. “Hungry, boy?”

A thud followed by toenails clicking on hardwood announced the yellow half Lab’s lazy approach. Kent filled the dog’s dish with kibble, and while Skip munched, Kent’s gaze swept the drab walls, bare of any adornments except for the calendar his boss at the hardware store gave out to all his customers every December. The kitchen, like every room in the house—and the outside, too, for that matter—badly needed a fresh coat of paint.

Except for the couple of times a year when his folks came down from Tulsa for a visit, Kent never much concerned himself with appearances, and why should he start now? Yeah, his mom was always on his case about how the place could sure use a woman’s touch. Every visit, she’d get busy cleaning light fixtures and rearranging his badly disorganized cupboards, while Dad puttered around outside, pulling weeds or shoring up sagging porch steps.

But standing here now, and with visions of this afternoon’s pretty basket weaver playing through his mind like a video on an endless loop, Kent found himself wondering what Erin Dearborn would have to say about his bleak living conditions. She clearly had an eye for beauty, not to mention a talent for creating art from what anyone else would toss aside. He could still recall the delicate feel of the little twig basket in his hand, still picture the amazingly realistic straw bluebonnets and the dainty letter A, so perfectly formed. He wondered what the initial stood for—maybe her daughter’s name?

You can ask next time you see her.

Startled by the realization that he wanted there to be a next time, Kent pulled a quick breath of air into his lungs. Seriously? He was allowing one random encounter to make him question everything about the life he’d so carefully constructed for himself? Kent had long ago decided he wasn’t relationship material anyway, not with the baggage he carried from his wartime service as a corpsman.

Nope, this bachelor cowboy had everything he needed right here. He’d stick a frozen dinner in the microwave, and after supper, he’d fall asleep in front of the TV while his dog snored in the easy chair. Tomorrow morning, he’d get up early for chores, work at the hardware store till noon, come home for lunch and then get busy fixing those fences. Routine was his comfort zone, and nobody better mess with it.

Yep, the historical society could just find some other old house to show off.