The Rancher's Second Chance Page 4

  “Do you think I should invite Eli to go to church with me?”

  The littermates arched their backs and sashayed around each other, then slammed together in mock battle.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  The troops followed her to the laundry room where she stuffed her new sheets into the washer.

  “He wasn’t wearing a ring the other day,” she told Pete. Or was that one Re-Pete? “So I don’t think there’s a Mrs. Eli Hawthorne.” Not that a missing ring meant anything. She added detergent and turned the setting to hot water. “But cowboys don’t always wear rings, you know.”

  The kittens launched against her feet.

  “In their line of work, a ring could cost them a finger.”

  Or a heart.

  She thumbed the fourth finger on her left hand and dropped the lid on the washer.

  At least the appliances worked.

  She shut the kittens in the laundry room with a scoop of cat food and fresh water, filled a glass with ice and ginger ale, grabbed her laptop and went outside to settle on the front porch swing. She’d not planned ahead very well, and her needs didn’t come to mind until they came into view—or failed to. Like a small table next to the swing. She set her glass on the porch floorboards and opened her laptop to check her e-mail. A whinny floated up from the ranch and she looked down on the neat rectangular sections, dirt lanes and white ranch house that had been in Eli’s family for generations.

  Would he go to church with her if she asked him?

  When they were kids, Eli and his grandfather had attended most Sundays, slipping in the door after the singing was over. She’d annoyed her mother by repeatedly looking over her shoulder until Eli arrived. Then she’d thumb through the hymn book during the sermon and look for rhyming words to write on a paper tucked in her Bible.

  The golf cart rolled into view and pulled her back to the present. A dog barked. It must be a ritual. Eli and Goldie were headed for the pond.

  From deep inside an empty aching place, temptation rose to lead her running down the hill. Her memory squeezed between the fencing and raced to a small white rowboat banked at the pond. Closing her eyes, she dipped a bright blue paddle in the water while Eli leaned back and crossed his skinny legs on the center bench. He linked his hands behind his head, and a smug look of authority smeared his face. He always made her row. It was his boat, he said, and that was how she paid her way—by rowing. She sighed and opened her eyes in time to see him lift Goldie from the cart.

  A heavy engine rumbled up the hill, and she hurried around front as the furniture store van made the tight turn into her driveway. The truck backed up to the yard, and two men carried in a plastic-wrapped mattress and box spring. She had them place the box spring in the frame and lean the mattress against the wall. Two minutes later they headed back down the hill.

  She pulled off the plastic, spread a crisp red dust ruffle across the box spring and dropped the mattress in place. As she opened the laundry room door, the kittens escaped in a furry blur and darted through the house and under the new ruffle. She transferred the sheets to the dryer and set the timer for thirty minutes.

  In the meantime she’d start the snicker doodle bread recipe she’d found online. Ever since her costly trip to the boutique, her taste buds had been screaming for the unusual treat. She loved snicker doodle cookies, especially when they were chewy, just a bit underdone. Hopefully, her bread would taste as good as Mary’s had smelled.

  The recipe promised enough for two loaves. If it turned out well, she’d take one to Eli tomorrow afternoon. The invitation to church could wait. At least until she knew where he stood.

  * * *

  A lonely cry stabbed the night. Laura rolled over in the wash of moonlight and looked out on the surrounding hills. Within seconds Pete and Re-Pete leaped onto the bed and pushed beneath her pillows.

  “You scaredy cats.” She pulled their trembling bodies against her own and lay listening to the coyotes’ eerie song. A long pause, and then a chorus of yips and yowls. The pack had made a kill. She shivered and hugged the kittens closer.

  The loaded shotgun stood in the nearest corner, a silent ally if she needed it.

  Remembering other full-moon nights, she slipped from the bed and into the living room. The pond lay like a silver shell in a vast dark sea, shimmering as if it glowed from within. An owl called nearby and the coyotes sang again.

  “O Lord, it’s all so beautiful. So strange yet familiar.” She hugged her elbows and sighed. “How did I ever survive all those years in the city?”

  Chapter 5

  Spring Valley Chapel shriveled beneath an overgrowth of pines, eucalyptus and flowering shrubbery. Laura parked her roadster at the far end, away from any dripping trees. What happened to the groundskeeper?

  The little A-frame church had once drawn brides from all over the state with its red stained-glass Rosetta above the altar and quaint knotty-pine interior. From the looks of its neglected condition, Laura doubted that any woman would choose it for a wedding site now.

  The same ancient wooden pews offered familiar seating and she stepped into the fifth row back from the front, grateful for new cushions that softened the encounter. To her surprise, the small sanctuary filled quickly. A fair-haired man with kind eyes and a guitar led the congregation in contemporary worship songs that Laura knew. Following an opening prayer and the offering, the same man took his place behind the podium.

  Laura fought an absurd compulsion to look over her shoulder for Eli and his granddad. She forced her thoughts from the childish habit and opened her Bible. What scripture had the pastor mentioned?

  “Above all else, guard your heart.”

  The preacher looked right at her.

  “For it is the wellspring of life.”

  She lowered her eyes and turned to Proverbs. Fine job she’d done protecting her heart.

  The empty ache throbbed in her chest and she envisioned the old oak tree, scared and vacant. Hollow. The pain intensified, sharpened, burned through her chest and scorched her lungs. She pressed a hand against her ribs and struggled to catch her breath. O Lord, help me. I don’t want to make a scene.

  “Are you all right?” a woman near her whispered.

  Laura smiled and nodded, willing her lie to mask the truth. The lady reached over and patted Laura’s leg, then returned her attention to the front. Laura refused to look up. She knew the pastor was watching her, knew he saw the gaping hole where her heart should be. She had to get out.

  During the closing prayer, she squeezed past the woman and her husband and hurried outside to a bathroom she remembered at the back of the building. Grateful to find it, she locked the door and leaned against the sink taking long slow breaths. How humiliating. This had never happened anywhere. What was going on?

  Automobile engines came to life and she listened as people left the parking lot and turned onto the main road. She could outwait them, make her escape after everyone left. On second thought, someone might notice her car and come looking for her. She had to leave immediately.

  Standing tall, she scrutinized herself in the narrow mirror. No mascara smudges. Other than a deathly pallor, she thought she looked okay. She splashed cold water on her cheeks, dried her hands on a paper towel and stepped outside.

  A quiet peace hugged the chapel grounds and she walked around the front to find an empty parking lot. Maybe she’d pulled it off after all. As she passed the double front doors, one opened and the young pastor stepped out. She stopped abruptly, as if caught stealing the offering.

  His easy smile revealed perfect teeth. “Good to have you visit us this morning.” He offered his hand in greeting. “I’m Alex Berger, the pastor here.”

  She took his hand. “Hi. Laura Bell.”

  She clutched her Bible against her ribs and he glanced at her
left hand.

  “I used to attend here as a child.” He doesn’t need to know that.

  “Well, I’m glad you returned.”

  With a polite nod she stepped away and continued toward her car.

  “Come back.”

  She stopped.

  “Next Sunday. Come back next Sunday. We’d love to have you again.”

  Embarrassment burned the back of her legs and arms, and she threw a forced smile over her shoulder. “Thank you.” Sprinting would be rude, so she ordered her feet into a slow, methodical stride.

  She backed out and eased past the chapel while Berger locked the front door. He turned with a cheerful wave, and she nosed onto the road and around a curve before shoving her foot on the gas pedal and shooting away.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning Eli glanced at the hilltop, connected the rolling sprinkler to the hitch on the quad and glanced again. The bullet waited next to the house. Why didn’t she park in the carport at the other end?

  He was late. Water should have been on the pasture before the sun evaporated nearly ten percent of it. He pulled the sprinkler into a neighboring pasture, unhitched and drove back for the next one. At the power surge, the sprayers coughed to life, building up pressure to send a gleaming arc over the thirsty ground. Within twenty seconds they pulsed at a steady rate, the heartbeat of the property.

  Red-winged blackbirds trilled from cottonwood trees shading the ranch’s central lane. The quad popped in and out of those long shadows as Eli returned to the barn. He switched to the golf cart, loaded a hay bale and drove to the feeder pen where a half dozen dairy calves crowded the fence. The ranch always bought bull calves from a dairyman friend, fed them out as steers and sold them later in the year. He hooked the bale and tossed it over. Sweet, dusty air swooshed up as he turned his head to the right and sneezed.

  Still there.

  At the south pasture where Lady H grazed with her foal he checked again.

  No movement outside the house. The car waited.

  He slipped between the pipes and talked his way to the mare, hoping her steady temperament would rub off on the baby. She snorted softly against the grass and swished her tail as he stroked her neck and withers. The filly angled away, wide-eyed and wary.

  “Show her how you trust me, Lady.” Laying his left arm over the mare’s rump he walked around to her right side. Her ears rotated, one following him, the other tracking her foal. “It won’t be long,” he said in a soothing tone.

  Lady lifted her head and whiffled her grassy breath against his chest, then returned to grazing.

  He squeezed back through the fence, drove to the barn and found Goldie asleep on her pad. At the touch of his hand she opened cloudy eyes, struggling as if to remember. Then she pushed herself up and thumped her tail with a quiet woof.

  He filled her dish with soft food, gave her fresh water and headed to the house for his tackle.

  A quick glance confirmed it. Still there.

  The back porch screen door popped behind him and a sudden caffeine craving drove him to the kitchen. Garcia would be back sometime today. None too soon. He could use the company.

  “Since when do I need company?” he asked the window over the sink that framed a perfect view of Laura’s hill. The car hadn’t moved.

  What was it about Laura Bell that drew his curiosity to the hilltop? Longing crawled into his gut, a boy’s unanswered prayers stuck on replay. He snorted. “Finally she’s back and here I am, half a man.”

  The irony of his self-inflicted judgment soured in his stomach. He started the coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Running his hand across the plastic cloth, he recalled the old blue checkered fabric his grandfather had used until it fell apart. He easily envisioned a scrawny girl in the other kitchen chair, honey-brown legs dangling above the floor, eyes the color of cold root beer.

  The coffeepot hissed out a final drop and his stomach knotted.

  He filled a travel mug, gathered his tackle box and pole from a long wooden table on the back porch and strode down the steps, across the lawn and into the dirt lane toward the barn. He refused to look back.

  He would not look back.

  He looked back.

  Over the top of the house and right of the massive cottonwood, he could see the empty spot. The car was gone.

  He stopped.

  His heart double-clutched and he checked his watch. Time for church.

  The pole balanced in his fingers as he waited. Any minute the silver car would shoot out between the two granite boulders at the bottom of the S-curve and jet into the long stretch past the ranch.

  As he watched, an old red pickup rattled by. Travers, a neighbor farther up the road. Eli’s fists clenched around the pole and his mug. Had he missed her? Did she slip by while the coffee perked? No. He would have heard her shifting gears for the straightaway.

  A meadow lark called from the pasture behind the ranch house, and the car eased through the gap more slowly than he’d expected. It cruised past the ranch, out of sight, and geared down for the T at the end. The engine faded to the west. Toward the chapel.

  He hadn’t been back since Afghanistan.

  At the barn he found Goldie resting on her pad, her food half-eaten.

  “Come on girl. Time to taunt the geese and catch a fish.” Her eyes blinked open and followed him as he set his gear on the front seat.

  “Yeah, I know. Good thing I’m such a great fisherman.” He bent to lift her to the cart’s back deck where she sat and barked. He powered out of the barn and took the familiar lane over the ditch, past the orchard and out to the oak that shaded the pond. A familiar squawking floated over the water, and a fat black and brown goose scuttled toward the tree.

  It wasn’t the fishing he enjoyed so much as sitting by the pond with a purpose. Which was fishing. Eli baited the hook and tossed it in, thinking how Garcia would appreciate fried fish tonight when he got home.

  Goldie shuffled along, yapping at the gander. The goose seemed to understand and waddled a step or two ahead, shaking its tail feathers and squawking just enough to keep the old dog in the game.

  A tug on his line drew Eli back to his supposed mission and after a little coaxing he reeled in a good-size bass.

  “Where have you been hiding all this time?” The large fish would feed both himself and Garcia. He hooked it on a stringer, dropped it over the bank, leaned back in the cool grass and closed his eyes.

  A soft breeze played across his face and soon a subtle rocking lured him toward sleep. Laura rowed them across the pond and he peeked beneath heavy lids, watching her lean into the oars, a concentrated frown bunching her slender brows. She pulled the oars in and they drifted. For hours they drifted, in and out of light and dark, and he teased her and called her a ding-a-ling. How could he not with a name like Bell? She opened her mouth and whined, tight and high like a wrapped up engine...

  He opened his eyes, sat up and rubbed his neck. A not-so-distant motor roared into earshot, dropped off, then steadily accelerated. He couldn’t see the road from the pond, but he knew that engine. In about fifteen seconds, Laura would drop one gear as she hooked the bottom of the S. He hoped. The blind double curve at the top was bad enough, but combined with a heavy foot and a sports car, the curve could be deadly.

  He held his breath and waited to hear the bullet shoot out the other side and climb the hill. Something had put lead in her foot today. The sermon? People she hadn’t seen in a dozen years? From the way she took the climb it sounded as if she was either mad or running scared.

  A latent defensiveness crept into his arms. A yearning to protect, defend. He scanned the hill behind Laura’s place and locked on Ken Pennington’s house wedged between striking gray granite monoliths. A glint of light sparked and disappeared. Field glasses?

&
nbsp; Eli’s pulse kicked up and the palms of his hands itched. With the right scope he could knock that spec out with a single shot.

  He turned back to the pond and took a deep breath, concentrated on slowing his heartbeat. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t follow that thinking. He shook his head and tugged at the patch. An internal warning system flashed in the void that once held his right eye. What was the issue? Himself, or Ken Pennington?

  Chapter 6

  Laura’s hand shook as she fumbled with the key. Pete and Re-Pete whined through the glass and she feared they’d dash outside.

  “Get back!” She stomped her foot as she twisted the knob and they darted into the living room. Frantic, she turned the lock and leaned against the door, fear thudding in her chest. What was happening to her?

  Be reasonable. Think this through.

  Two black-and-white faces peeked around the corner.

  “I’m sorry.” She slid to the floor and held a hand out as the kittens warily made their way over. Satisfied that she wouldn’t crush them, they threaded through her knees and purred their tiny welcome.

  “God, what’s wrong with me?”

  She felt like the new kid at school, terrified of not fitting in, or being ridiculed. But she did fit in—this was her childhood home.

  Except it wasn’t.

  She looked around the kitchen and through the archway into the living room. The house was structurally the same, but smaller. The rooms offered the same glorious valley view, but they were emptier. She had tried to regain what the twelve-year-old Laura had lost, and she realized she couldn’t. She was choking through the trauma of separation and loss all over again.

  Memories and reality were not the same thing, and she’d been foolish to think she could go back to how things were before she moved away. Before Mama died. Before Derek.

  She stood and straightened her khaki skirt, smoothed her blouse and pushed her hair from her eyes.

  Rise on the heat.