Читать книгу Rancher For The Holidays - Myra Johnson, Myra Johnson - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe end of the road—that’s what it felt like for Ben Fisher.
Not literally, of course. Alpine, Texas, was some seventy or eighty miles from the Mexican border. Touristy chic in a Western, high-desert kind of way. Big Bend country, seasoned with the flavor of Mexico.
An interesting town, and a place Ben truly enjoyed visiting. He and his older brother, Aidan, had spent many summer vacations pretending to be cowboys and exploring their aunt and uncle’s ranch outside town.
The only problem this time? A prolonged stay in Alpine, Texas, was not on Ben’s current agenda.
Or it hadn’t been until two weeks ago, when a memo from the Home Tech Revolution CEO changed the course of Ben’s life.
He paused in the shade of a bright blue awning and gazed unseeing into a shop window along Holland Avenue. He’d already browsed through several gift shops, art galleries and specialty boutiques, none of which piqued his interest. Mucking stalls and hefting hay bales might be more therapeutic, but between Aunt Jane’s concerned glances and Uncle Steve’s penchant for handing out unwanted advice, Ben had needed to get away from the ranch for a while.
Except he’d slightly overdressed for a leisurely walk around downtown Alpine. When sweat threatened to soak through his maroon polo shirt, he decided to step in out of the September heat. As he pushed open the shop door, a blast of chilly air raised goose bumps on his arms. He dodged a string of jangling brass bells, but one managed to slap him in the forehead anyway.
“Ouch.” He rubbed the spot as he nudged the door closed with his elbow.
“Sorry.” A young woman appeared from the back of the shop. She wore a dark blue apron over jeans and a T-shirt, her straight auburn hair pulled into a ponytail. “The bells are a new addition. Guess I didn’t consider my taller customers.”
At barely six feet, Ben didn’t consider himself particularly tall for a guy. He arched a brow. “You usually cater to munchkins?”
“This time of year, yes.” The woman was almost Ben’s height, even in her sneakers. She nodded toward a nearby counter, where a placard announced an upcoming after-school photography class for children. “I take it you aren’t here to enroll your child?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I don’t have any kids. I’m not even—” Ben clamped his teeth together and forced an apologetic grin. “Truth is, I just stepped inside to cool off.”
“Oh.” She sounded so disappointed that Ben almost wished he did have a kid to sign up for her class.
Almost. Marriage and family remained way down his list of priorities—and would until he got his career back on track.
Barely disguising a sigh, the attractive proprietor stepped across the room and reached up to straighten a poster-size framed photograph of a little girl climbing onto a school bus. A long, black braid swung down the child’s back. The photo had captured the girl as she peered over her shoulder with a wistful, world-weary smile.
Only then did Ben take a serious look at his surroundings—another art gallery. More accurately, a photography studio. A few cityscapes and landscapes were displayed, along with portraits of children and teens, family groups and wedding parties. Typical professional photography fare.
But as he browsed the wall where the picture of the little girl hung, Ben felt as if he’d stepped into another world. These photos captured real people doing everyday things. Kids swatting at a piñata. An elderly woman knitting. Two boys playing catch. And most of the subjects appeared to be Hispanic.
He stepped closer. As a promotion manager—okay, former promotion manager—he knew more than a little about photography and composition. Whoever snapped these pictures had talent. He slid his gaze to the young woman. “You take these?”
She offered her hand. “Marley Sanders, at your service.”
“Ben Fisher. Pleased to meet you.” He noted her confident grip. If he still had his job back in Houston, he’d have wasted no time asking for her portfolio so he could present it to the ad team. “Even if I don’t have a kid to sign up, is it okay to look around?”
“Be my guest.” Marley looked at her watch. “For fifteen minutes, anyway. I’m closing at four so I can get to a meeting.”
“Ah, a woman with an agenda. Okay, I’ll hurry.” Hands in his pockets, Ben moved along the wall, each photograph more impressive than the one before. “Are these for sale?”
“Sure!” An eager response if Ben had ever heard one. She cleared her throat. “I mean, yes, anything you see here is available for purchase. I also have a number of photos on display at various businesses around town, so if you don’t see anything you like—”
“I see plenty I like.” Ben studied a photo featuring a bright red portable building shaped like a barn. The double doors stood open, and inside a young Hispanic mother with a baby on her hip perused shelves lined with canned goods and other grocery items. He doubted this woman ever shopped at Home Tech Revolution. He glanced at Marley over his shoulder. “Interesting subject. Is this somewhere around here?”
“It’s a little town called Candelaria, about ninety miles west.” A faraway look darkened her dusky brown eyes even more. Anticipation? Concern? Ben couldn’t tell. “Most of the photos in this group were taken there. It’s a special place.”
“Must be, if you’ve spent so much time photographing it.”
“It’s not just the town. The people are amazing—” The chirping of a cell phone interrupted her. She slid an iPhone from her back pocket. “Hi, Pastor. On my way right now.”
Ben started toward the door. “Guess you need me to clear out.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Watch out for the—”
Too late. As Ben pulled open the door, the brass bells bounced off and beaned him again.
“Oops.” Behind him, Marley tittered. “I really need to shorten those things.”
“Or up your liability insurance.” Shooting her a wry smile, Ben stepped onto the sidewalk. “Nice meeting you, Marley Sanders. You do good work.”
She wiggled her fingers in a tentative wave before locking the glass door behind him. Pointing at the dangling string of bells, she mouthed, Gone tomorrow. Promise.
He gave her a thumbs-up and decided a brief stay in Alpine might be exactly what his bruised ego needed.
* * *
Wow, nice guy. Except why couldn’t he have been a nice dad enrolling his kid in Marley’s photography class. She needed at least four more registrants just to break even. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was go to her father again for another infusion of capital. His subsidies were always secret, naturally, since Missouri State Representative Harold Sanderson had a reputation to protect.
Exactly why she’d moved a thousand miles away to Alpine, where no one knew her as anyone but Marley Sanders.
How many years had she worked to make it on her own, to prove to herself and her parents that she could live a responsible, productive, meaningful life? Her messed-up past was marred by lousy high school records and too many appearances in juvenile court. But the one mistake that finally brought her to her knees was a tragic auto accident that left Tina Maxwell, her one true friend, in a coma for six weeks.
With so much going against her, Marley had had no choice but to let Mom and Dad pay her way through college. She’d chosen Sul Ross State University in Alpine because of its remote West Texas location, then fell in love with the area and the people and decided to stay.
During her college years she became interested in photography. After she graduated, her father continued to send money while she got her studio up and running. But income remained sporadic, and more than once her father had not so subtly suggested she might want to switch to a more lucrative career.
That is, if he contacted her at all.
Time to stop dwelling on the past. She couldn’t change it anyway, so the most she could hope for was to live purposefully in the present and try to make a difference.
And make her business profitable enough so she could stop depending on Daddy’s money.
Maybe the nice Mr.—what did he say his name was? Fisher. Maybe Mr. Fisher would come back tomorrow and actually buy one of Marley’s photographs. He sure seemed interested. Even looked as if he could afford her prices, judging from his designer-label polo shirt and neatly pressed khakis.
Oh, and the trendy haircut. Short but spiky, like one of those intentionally messy movie-star dos, and an interesting shade of light brown mixed with hints of sun-kissed blond. His hair color looked natural, but Marley knew plenty of women who’d pay their stylists big bucks to get such attractively subtle highlights.
Yep, the dapper Mr. Ben Fisher was definitely an out-of-towner, and since not many locals actually bought her stuff, all the more reason she needed to rely on income from her commercial photography and children’s classes.
After flipping around the Closed sign in the front window, Marley turned off the lights, ditched her apron and headed out the back door. She jogged to the small parking lot at the end of the alley, then climbed into her ancient green Honda Civic and drove across town to the church.
By the time she sidled into the library and found an empty chair at the conference table, Pastor Chris’s Spirit Outreach meeting appeared to be well under way.
“Glad you made it, Marley.” Pastor Chris tapped a pen against his legal pad, which was propped on the edge of the table. “We’re discussing ways to step up our outreach efforts.”
Marley’s friend Angela Coutu, seated across the table, spoke up. “Which isn’t easy, considering the size of our congregation. We’re doing all we can.”
“We could do more,” her husband, Ernie, said. “I’d like to see us affiliate with an organization like Big Bend Assistance Alliance. They’re doing amazing work in the cities where they’re active.”
Marley tapped her nails on the tabletop. “Too bad they don’t have a branch in Alpine.”
“I hear they’re looking into it,” Pastor Chris stated. “But it’ll be after the first of the year at the earliest, and we’ve still got two Candelaria trips to organize between now and Christmas. We need to think about fund-raising, getting supplies together and rounding up volunteers.”
Straightening, Marley folded back the cover on her tablet computer. “We’ve got the next work trip covered for volunteers, right?” She had really wanted to go along but couldn’t break away from the studio that week. At least she could look forward to the trip the week before Christmas, when several college students from a Texas Tech campus ministry would join them.
Discussion continued, and with the work trip details finalized, the committee talked more about their Christmas plans for Candelaria.
Running a hand across his crew cut, Pastor Chris checked his notes. “The Texas Tech group will be doing some fund-raising on campus between now and the end of November, and the director’s counting on seven or eight students to sign up for the holiday mission trip.”
“That’ll be a big help.” Marley typed the number 8 and a question mark next to “visiting mission team” in her planning list. “I think we should consider a major fund-raiser of our own, though. I want to give those kids and their families a really special Christmas.”
Judy Jackson, a silver-haired retired teacher, flipped backward through her spiral notebook. “In the past, we’ve done things like car washes, pancake breakfasts, and church-wide garage sales. Those are all fine and dandy, but if we want continued support from the community, we need to come up with something original.”
An hour later, the Spirit Outreach committee had tossed out several ideas for possible fund-raisers, none of which the entire group could agree on. Some were too complicated, others too corny, and by the time Pastor Chris adjourned the meeting, Marley’s frustration level had reached its peak. She’d grown so fond of the little town and its people, and all she wanted was to put an end to the haggling and do something tangible to help.
Pastor Chris walked Marley out to her car. “Hang in there. You know how committees work. We’ll eventually get this figured out.”
Marley answered with a smile and a shrug.
“How’s your class sign-up coming?”
“Not good. I’d hoped for some return business from kids who took my summer classes, but I guess they lost interest.”
“September’s a busy time for parents. Maybe they’ll get around to it once the kids settle into their school routines.”
“Maybe.” Marley didn’t feel optimistic. She opened her car door and tossed her shoulder bag and tablet case across to the passenger seat. “Oh, well, if the class doesn’t happen, I’ll have more time to get ready for Candelaria.” She gave a heartless laugh. “Not to mention I’ll be saving money on utilities.”
Pastor Chris leaned against the fender. A concerned frown creased his brow as he squinted against the afternoon sun. “You doing okay? Financially, I mean?”
Marley shrugged. “I’ll make it.” She climbed into her Civic, wincing as heat from the black vinyl upholstery penetrated her jeans. “Let me know when the next meeting is, Pastor. In the meantime, I’ll work on the list of craft supplies the ladies asked for.”
One hand braced on the door frame, Pastor Chris fixed Marley with a pointed stare. “Track your expenses, okay? We’re taking up a special offering every Sunday this month, so we can reimburse you out of the donations.”
“I will, I promise.” Marley couldn’t afford to do otherwise, but she looked forward to the day when she could give more than just her time and talent to the cause she cared so much about.
* * *
“Ouch!” Ben was beginning to wish he’d worn a crash helmet for his trip into Alpine.
True, he should have taken the last dip a little slower. Uncle Steve had warned him the ranch road didn’t offer the best driving conditions for Ben’s low-slung cherry-red Mustang convertible. Rubbing his head with one hand and gripping the steering wheel with the other, he eased off the accelerator. On this washboard of a road, speed was not his friend.
The western sky had darkened into breathtaking shades of purple, gold and magenta by the time Ben pulled up next to his uncle’s stone-and-cedar ranch house. Stepping from the Mustang, he glimpsed Uncle Steve watching from a front-porch rocking chair.
“Thought I might have to send out a search party.” His uncle moseyed down the porch steps. “Have a good day exploring the city?”
City? Houston was a city. Dallas was a city. Ben might even call Abilene a city. As for Alpine... Ben shrugged. “Looks pretty much the same. Except maybe even more artsy-craftsy than I remembered.”
“The artist community does bring in tourists.” Uncle Steve motioned Ben to one of the rockers. “Aunt Jane’s fixing supper. Want an iced tea while we wait?”
Nothing sounded better. Even with the Mustang’s windows shut tight and the A/C set to recirculate, Ben’s mouth tasted as if he’d swallowed dirt all the way from town. While his uncle went inside to fetch a glass, Ben settled into a rocking chair and gazed toward the rugged mesas and distant mountains stretching across the horizon. He could already feel a difference in the air temperature as the sun slipped lower. One extreme to the other.
Just like Ben’s life.
The screen door banged, and Uncle Steve passed Ben a frosty tumbler of iced tea before returning to his chair. “Jane says fifteen more minutes. We weren’t sure when you’d get back.”
“You didn’t have to wait. I’m used to fending for myself.” Ben tossed back a big gulp of tea and let the coolness wash the dust from his throat. He liked Aunt Jane’s special blend, with hints of mint and citrus and sweetened just right.
Uncle Steve looked askance at Ben’s khakis. “Son, when are you gonna get yourself a regular ol’ pair of blue jeans? You go around dressed like a city slicker and folks around here are liable to laugh you straight back to Houston.”
“I have jeans.” Ben’s reply sounded whiny, even to his own ears. He rocked harder. “Just haven’t unpacked them yet.”
Glancing toward Ben’s dust-coated Italian loafers, Uncle Steve snickered. “Might want to get yourself some boots, too.”
The rocker stopped. With a barely suppressed grin, Ben slowly swiveled his head toward his uncle. “Yes, sir. Let me know when you’re through criticizing my wardrobe.”
A moment later, Aunt Jane pushed open the screen door. “Chow’s on the table, boys. Y’all come on in and wash up.” She patted Ben on the shoulder as he stepped through the door. “Don’t pay that old coot any mind. It’s nice to have a man around here who shows a little class.”
“Thanks, Aunt Jane. And for the record, I think you’re one classy lady.” He tweaked one of her platinum curls before following her to the kitchen.
Unfortunately, Uncle Steve was right. Here at the ranch, Ben’s casual-Friday slacks and Ferragamo loafers were the height of impracticality. He’d noticed the pretty photographer eyeing his attire as well—probably seeing dollar signs and hoping he’d snap up one of her photos.
If she only knew how fast his bank account was dwindling. Not that he was anywhere near destitute—he’d been careful to sock away hefty chunks of his salary into savings—but with no idea how soon he’d be employed again, he couldn’t afford to be frivolous.
Ben took the chair at the opposite end of the table from his uncle and breathed in the zesty aromas of homemade enchiladas, Spanish rice and cheesy refried beans. “Wow, Aunt Jane, you could open your own restaurant.”
She laughed as she refilled Ben’s iced-tea glass. “Honey, I’ve got my hands full riding herd over your fool of an uncle.”
“Pass me your plate, boy,” Uncle Steve said, reaching across the table, “and I’ll serve you up some grub.”
Aunt Jane’s enchiladas tasted as good as they smelled. She hadn’t skimped on the jalapeños, either. Ben was no stranger to hot-as-you-can-handle Tex-Mex, but by the time he’d polished off a third helping, he could almost feel the smoke pouring from his ears. He huffed and puffed and fanned his mouth. “Anybody got a fire extinguisher?”
“Milk’s the best thing.” Laughing, Aunt Jane rose and took a glass from the cupboard.
As soon as Ben gulped the ice-cold milk, the pain subsided. He patted his full belly and leaned back. “I mean it, Aunt Jane. With you as chef, we could go into the restaurant business and make a mint.”
Both his aunt and uncle chuckled and shook their heads, and Ben didn’t have the guts to tell them he was half-serious. He desperately needed to come up with some kind of plan to jump-start his stalled career. Nothing in a million years could have prepared him for getting laid off from his dream job. Just proved how naive he was, assuming a thriving brick-and-mortar chain like Home Tech Revolution was immune to the growing trend toward internet shopping.
After helping with the dishes and putting away leftovers—barely enough for someone’s meager lunch, after the damage Ben had done—Ben collapsed on the leather sofa in the great room and kicked off his loafers. While Uncle Steve flipped satellite channels on the big-screen TV, Aunt Jane pulled out some kind of yarn thing to work on. The quick action of her fingers mesmerized Ben.
He raised on one elbow for a better look. “What are you making?”
“It’s a baby blanket.” Aunt Jane’s eyes sparkled over her silver-rimmed reading glasses. “We have a ministry at church where several ladies knit afghans, prayer shawls and the like for people who have a special need or could just use something soft and comforting in their lives.”
“That’s nice.” He wasn’t really sure what a prayer shawl was, but then lately he hadn’t had much practice with prayer. These days he wasn’t on very good terms with God.
“This blanket’s for a sweet young mom in Candelaria.”
It was the second time today Ben had heard the name. He pictured the photo of the mother and child selecting food items in the little red barn. He sat up again and planted his feet on the floor. “You wouldn’t by chance know the photographer in town with all the pictures of Candelaria.”
“Marley?” Aunt Jane looked up with a smile. “She’s a doll. And so dedicated to helping the families out there.”
Uncle Steve turned down the TV volume. “Did you find Marley’s gallery while you were in town?”
“Yeah, I happened upon it. She’s really talented.”
Aunt Jane and Uncle Steve exchanged glances, then nodded as if sharing some secret communication. Uncle Steve grinned at Ben. “Son, we just might have some ideas to put you to work while you’re here.”
Ben didn’t know whether to be grateful or scared. Then the possibility of seeing Marley Sanders again took hold, and he felt the first twinges of anticipation he’d experienced in weeks.
