Wrangling the Rancher Page 9

  “Miss Evans. Mark Roberts, US West Bank.”

  “Good morning.” Taylor’s heart was beating faster. His voice did not hold even a hint of “I’m sorry, but...”

  “I know this is short notice, but are you available for another meeting tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I’m free all day.”

  “Excellent. If we could meet at three o’clock, that would fit everyone’s schedule.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you. See you then.”

  Somehow Taylor kept her feet firmly on the ground—probably because Cole was heading in from the fields and she didn’t want to be caught doing a happy dance. But she did a quick twirl after shutting the door behind her. Max raised his head from the bed, then stretched and went back to sleep.

  Second meeting...it had to be that they were offering her the job. Worst-case scenario, round two of the interview process. She reached for the phone to call Carolyn, then remembered that her friend was at work, so she fired off a text instead.

  Taylor started pacing the rustic floorboards. If she got this job, then that would be the start of her upward climb. Her journey back to her old life. Proof to everyone that when Taylor Evans was faced with failure, she didn’t break—she bounced. It had been a long, slow bounce, but a bounce all the same.

  Taylor brewed a pot of tea, settled in her chair and started perusing rentals in the Eagle Valley. The problem with living in an area that was rapidly gaining in popularity was that housing was tight. New apartments and condos were being built along the lake at the center of the valley, but those prices were too rich for Taylor’s new budget, and the moderately priced housing was at a minimum.

  No. It was close to nonexistent, unless she wanted to rent a single-wide trailer on a small lot on the outskirts of town. If she did that, she may as well stay on the farm...for longer than four weeks, that is.

  Taylor set her tablet aside and got to her feet, feeling as if she needed another long run. But running wasn’t the answer. She had to come up with a way to convince Cole to let her stay on the farm without involving her grandfather. Definitely without involving her grandfather. In addition to not wanting to add to his stress, that remark about standing on her own two feet still stung.

  She’d made mistakes in her attitude toward Cole. No doubt about that. And now she needed to fix things. Mend fences.

  Start fresh.

  The big question was how.

  * * *

  COLE HAD JUST gotten out of the shower when a knock sounded at his door. He glanced at the watch he’d left on the counter beside the sink. Seven o’clock. What did Taylor need at this hour?

  He thought about ignoring the knock, but it came again as he struggled to pull his jeans up over damp skin. Best to deal with her and get it over with.

  When he got to the kitchen door, still buttoning his shirt, he found Taylor waiting on the porch with a small cake pan in one hand and a notebook in the other.

  Had he missed a memo?

  Taylor held up the pan, which smelled heavenly. “Peace offering,” she said simply. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

  He almost said that he didn’t know they were at war, then rethought his words. “Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  He gestured for her to come into the kitchen, and she did, walking past him to set the pan on the table.

  “What do you want, Taylor?”

  “I want to renegotiate.”

  “Renegotiate what?” As far as he knew they’d yet to negotiate at all.

  She pushed aside his stack of mail and spread the notebook on the kitchen table. “Look at this.”

  He looked, and all he saw were columns of figures. “Okay...”

  She rubbed the back of her neck as if it were stiff from a night of heavy mathematics, then gestured at the book. “Last night I crunched numbers. Based on the salary mentioned during the interview—”

  “Did you get the job?” If so, he was buying a celebratory bottle of whiskey.

  “I have reason to be optimistic.”

  Good reason, he hoped.

  “If I stay here for six months, I’ll be in a better position to resume my life.”

  “Let me see if I understand this...you want to stay for free in the buildings I’m renting.”

  “You aren’t using the bunkhouse.”

  “I could be.”

  She let out a breath, and he could almost see her counting to ten. “Why,” she asked slowly, “can’t you give me a break?”

  “Because you expect it.”

  “No,” she said carefully, “I don’t.”

  “Yeah. I think you do. I think you’ve spent so much time focused on your needs and your achievements that you expect everyone else to be, too.”

  “And you came to this conclusion because of the rotten-floorboard incident?”

  “I guess it started when you tried to bully me out of the house I rented.”

  “You are more suited for the bunkhouse.” Her voice began to tighten, but she seemed to catch herself. “You grew up on a ranch.”

  “And I’m renting this ranch...farm. You invaded it. I let you. But only while you were out of work. That was the deal, and I don’t want to renegotiate.”

  “This is a big farm. Do you have some kind of complex about being alone?”

  “Yeah. I do. I’m still recovering from my last job, dealing with the rich and famous.”

  She gave him a long, slow look. “By rich and famous I assume you mean spoiled and entitled.”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “And you also mean me.” He didn’t respond. Taylor was nothing if not sharp, and now she was sharp and angry. Blue fire sparked in her eyes.

  “You judgmental prick.” She jabbed a finger at his chest as she spoke, and he automatically caught her hand and held on, stopping her in the middle of the second jab. Taylor yanked her hand free and took a step back. Just one, probably so it didn’t appear to be a full-fledged retreat. “You’ve given as good as you’ve got, Cole. It’s like you’re taking out all your previous job frustrations on me.”

  “Maybe so. But if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be able to do that.”

  She smiled up at him. “I can take it if you can.”

  “You won’t have a chance. You stay longer than four weeks, I’ll charge you rent.”

  She picked up her notebook and the pan. “We’ll see about that.”

  A moment later she was gone, leaving only the delicious aroma of the coffee cake she’d brought to bribe him with.

  He should have eaten first and argued later.

  * * *

  COLE HAD DECIDEDLY mixed feelings as he pulled off the highway onto the road leading to the Bryan Guest Ranch, which had simply been the Bryan Ranch until Miranda gained control of the outfit.

  The operation would have scraped by, as older ranches do, having good years and bad, but Miranda had wanted more, and by converting one of the ranches into a ritzy guest ranch and leaving the smaller sister ranch as a pseudo-working ranch where guests could enjoy “authentic” ranch life, she’d essentially tripled their incomes.

  Cole didn’t have a problem with that. He had a problem with the way Miranda had set herself up as queen, and after her husband died, she became unbearable. The guests loved her because she catered to them. The workers, those that weren’t in her pocket anyway, despised and distrusted her. If not one of the chosen few, she could draw you into her inner circle one day, then viciously attack you the next. You never knew which Miranda you were getting, but odds were if you were on salary, you were going to see her scary side.

  Her relationship with Cole had been different from the rest of the staff, since he was family and she needed him. That didn’t slow down her p
assive-aggressive attacks, but she didn’t hit him with them full on as she did the other employees. Jancey was another matter. Yes, she was family, but Miranda didn’t need her in the same way she needed Cole. After she started college in the fall, Jancey would work only summers and that was mainly because of her stubborn determination to stay on the family ranch. “I won’t let her chase me away from home,” she’d muttered the last time they’d discussed the matter. Cole wished her well, because Miranda had succeeded in chasing him away from home. For now anyway.

  When he hit the fork in the road with the expensive carved wood signs, one pointing to the Bryan Guest Ranch and the other to the Bryan Working Ranch, he took the right, heading for what would never feel like home again.

  Jancey came out of the house wearing her canvas coat and worn jeans that were at least two sizes too big. Raiding what was left of his closet, as she’d done since she was in junior high. She pushed her thick blond braid over her shoulder and leaned against the newel post, waiting for him to park.

  “Nice jeans,” he said as he got out of the truck. “And they seem so familiar.”

  She looked down at the washed-out denim, then back up at him, a smile lighting her eyes. “If you can’t keep track of your stuff, then it’s fair game.”

  “I think you hide my stuff.”

  “Only when I need a comfy pair of work jeans.” She came down the steps, and they walked together toward a corral where several calves were milling around. “Sure you’re up for this?”

  “Yeah. Not a problem. I can work in the feedings around my other chores.”

  “Good, because my duty schedule has become so unpredictable, it’s hard to get here when I need to be here.”

  “How many days until you go back to school?”

  “One hundred and twenty-two.”

  “You’ll make it.”

  “I know. I know, but I’m getting a little sick of being on call after hours. Miranda keeps sending people to get me for horse emergencies. Want to know how many of them are real?”

  “She’s trying to show you who’s boss.”

  “Or just being herself.” Cole put a hand on the back of her neck, and she leaned her head into his arm. “You left the ranch because of her, right?”

  He frowned down at her. “I have to earn a living, and I couldn’t work for her anymore.” Their ranch was the working ranch, but the operation was so small now that it couldn’t support them, and their cut of the guest ranch wasn’t enough to see them through rough times. They’d both had to work for the family business and draw a paycheck.

  “But you didn’t leave because you hated the ranch.”

  Cole took hold of his sister’s shoulders and turned her so he could see her face. “Are you starting to hate the ranch?”

  First she looked surprised, then adamant as she said, “No. I don’t.”

  They loaded the calves in the trailer, as well as a yearling heifer that would be delivered to a couple in the Eagle Valley later in the week. After having a sandwich together, Cole headed back to the farm still thinking about his conversation with his sister.

  He had a feeling that she was one short step from telling Miranda to shove it, as he had, and she couldn’t do that while three calves had counted on her for sustenance. He hoped she did it now. They’d still have their ranch, but since it was part of the guest ranch structure—the working ranch where guests participated in cattle drives and brandings and soaked up ranch ambiance—Miranda would have to send crew members from the guest ranch to do the chores and such.

  The setup of the family operation was convoluted, having started as a handshake deal between two brothers trying to increase cash flow. As the business grew, things were put in writing, made official. Cole’s uncle had owned his physical ranch, and Cole’s dad had owned his, but the operations were combined into one entity, and decisions were made by agreement between owners. Fortunately for Miranda, operations were in place and smoothly running by the time her husband died, because Cole wasn’t certain at this point if he’d call a fire truck if he saw her house ablaze.

  * * *

  SINCE SHE’D LIVED alone and worked crazy hours in her former life, Taylor hadn’t realized how much she depended on easy access to the advice of friends. On the one hand, she was glad that no one was close enough to see where she was living. Compared with the beautiful simplicity of her former apartment, this place was...the words an abomination occurred to her, but she reminded herself to be grateful. On the other, she couldn’t get together with Carolyn or Paul or any of her peers over dinner or drinks and hash out the best course of action.

  In this case, however, the best of course of action appeared to have been laid out for her by one annoyingly uncooperative guy. She was leaving the free-rent situation, so there would be no building of the nest egg. She’d be living paycheck to paycheck, which was something she’d never done before, and it frightened her.

  She shouldn’t have sunk so much money into attempting to pay off student loans ahead of schedule. She should have saved more, but she’d stupidly felt bulletproof.

  Cole was right. She hadn’t encountered many failures in her life, and she’d had a sense of false security until the layoff.

  Bottom line, she was going to have to scrape by on half the salary she was used to, while living in a city she didn’t want to be in. Even accounting for the difference in the amount of rent paid, she was going to be one disaster away from withdrawing money from her IRA and invoking stiff penalties.

  Taylor spent the rest of the morning devising a careful budget, crossing off items she could live without, calculating state taxes and federal withholdings, possible insurance premiums, factoring in a strict 10 percent savings margin. At the end of the month, she’d be about three dollars to the good, but it was better than her current situation.

  She might still be trapped in Montana, but she would be standing on her own two freaking feet.

  She showered, put on a superfine wool dress—the simple lines of which belied the amount of money she had paid—checked her shoes for scuffs, and stuffed what she needed into her small handbag. She also buffed up her leather carryall that served as a briefcase to carry extra materials to the meeting. A slim watch, silver earrings, a little makeup and she was good to go.

  Taylor checked her reflection, shaking her head at the sad tan walls and the sheet pinned over the window that showed behind her. Maybe it was good that Cole so adamantly refused to let her stay for six months. She needed to get away from this dismal setting.

  “I’m on my way, Max.” The cat rolled over on his back and yawned—a sure sign that he was wishing her good luck. “Thanks, big guy. I’ll bring you back some tuna.”

  * * *

  COLE SLOWED AS he approached the driveway and swung wide to accommodate the gooseneck trailer. It was growing close to dusk, and Taylor’s lights were on. Soon, if all went well, he’d drive home and the bunkhouse would be dark. He’d walk around his farm and not wonder if he was being watched. He wouldn’t have people getting him out of the shower at seven in the morning. In other words, he would be living the life he’d intended—a gloriously solitary life where he solved no one’s problems but his own.

  He backed the trailer up to the gate of the newly restored corral and opened the gate so that it came to rest against the side of the trailer. He secured it, then unlatched the trailer door. As he started pulling open the door to form a narrow chute into the corral, the heel of his boot caught a piece of half-buried wire protruding from the ground. An instant later the yearling heifer, sensing freedom, hit the door hard, hitting him in the face and knocking him backward as she bounded out into the corral. Cole’s knee twisted sideways as he went down, and he fought to break his fall by jutting out his hands instead of shoulder rolling as his football coach had taught him. And he felt the nasty snap in his wrist as his weight hit soli
d ground.

  He scrambled to his feet, but not in time to put the trailer gate back into position to contain the animals in the corral. He twisted sideways as the heifer blasted past him, out of the corral and into the driveway, the calves close behind her.

  They disappeared around the house, and Cole took a slow, limping step. Pain shot through his knee—a familiar feeling since it wasn’t the first time he’d sprained it—and his wrist...he had a bad feeling that his wrist was toast. That was when he realized that he was bleeding.

  Shit. Years and years of ranching and he’d been done in by a heifer and three leppy calves—which couldn’t be allowed to escape out onto the county road. Bad for them, worse for drivers.

  Cole started toward the bunkhouse as fast as he could go, holding his injured wrist against his abs and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain in his knee, cursing with each step.

  “Taylor!” he shouted as he got closer to the bunkhouse.

  He waited, panting a little, then continued around the side of the house to her door. He started pounding. “Tay-lor!”

  She jerked the door open just as he was about to pound again. “I need your help.”

  “You think you can insult me and then expect me to run to your aid—” Her words stopped abruptly and a look of horror formed. He reached up to his forehead and discovered where the blood was coming from.

  “This is serious,” he muttered.

  “Who did this to you?”

  He ignored the question. “I need you to run to the end of the driveway and close the big gate. Now.”

  She sucked in a breath, and just when he thought she was going to argue, she brushed past him and literally started running. He limped toward the middle of the driveway, trying to see if the cattle were still on the far side of the house. Once the gate was closed, Taylor jogged back to him. Before she could demand answers, he said, “And the gate to the field. That one needs to be closed, too.”

  She gave him a pained look and went on her way. Cole shut his eyes, barely able to believe the way this was all going down. But at least Taylor was cooperating. He’d half expected some kind of a stubborn standoff, but no. She’d closed gates without demanding explanations—which gave him time to try to think of one that would allow him to save face.