Montana Refuge. Alice SharpeЧитать онлайн книгу.
his wineglass. Heavy drinkers could be a problem out on the range and Tyler made a mental note to keep an eye on Red. The woman turned out to be a real estate broker from California.
“I was at a conference,” the woman who introduced herself as Meg Peterson from Sherman Oaks, California, said. “You’ve never seen so many depressed people at one place, not ever. What with this economy...” Her voice trailed off. Tyler thought she might currently live in California, but she harbored a distinct Minnesota accent. She turned to John, her hands flying as she talked.
“I was checking out of the hotel, wishing I didn’t have to go home yet,” she continued, “and then the desk clerk showed me a brochure of this ranch. Why I took off right then just on the chance the ranch would have room for another guest for a few days and discovered I was in time to take part in a cattle drive!” She nodded at Tyler’s mother. “That dear lady signed me right up. Rose is just a peach.”
“Have you ever ridden horses or been around cattle?” Tyler asked. It was unlike Rose to agree to greenhorns with so little time to evaluate their skills and give them the basics.
“I ride all the time at home,” she said. “I just couldn’t be more excited if I was going to Disneyland.”
“I know you’ll enjoy yourself,” Tyler said. He turned to Red who seemed to have fallen asleep sitting up and then to John Smyth. “You got here early this morning, Mr. Smyth. Did you find enough to do to keep you busy?”
“Call me John, please. Sure, I took a ride, saw a couple of hawks and practiced roping a sawhorse. You get the cows to stand still and I’m your man to bring them in.” As Meg Peterson laughed, he smiled at his own joke, looked at Red and shrugged. Turning back to Tyler, he added, “Rose was gracious enough to let me look through some of your old picture albums when I expressed an interest in the ranch’s history. It’s been in your family for three generations, is that right?”
“That’s right. My father’s father bought it back when it was just a cattle ranch.”
“I didn’t see any albums of that period,” Smyth said.
“There are none. A fire thirty years ago destroyed all the early records except those that we’ve been able to copy from county historical files.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes. Well, we do have lots of photos from that point on, though.”
“That you do.”
John Smyth had a scar on his chin, but that kind of suited his rugged looks. In fact, up close like this, now that Tyler thought about it, Smyth looked vaguely familiar—and slightly sinister. “Have you been here before?” he asked. “Maybe on a previous vacation?”
“No, never before. I gather the decision to turn this into a guest ranch came about fifteen years ago?”
“After my father died, my mother knew she would need to switch things up if she was going to keep the ranch long enough to hand it down to me,” Tyler said. “That’s why you guests are so important to us. We don’t make stuff up for you to do. While you’re here, you’re as much of a cowboy as you want to be.”
Meg Peterson squealed with delight.
“Did the wranglers explain the low-stress attitude we employ to manage the livestock around here?” Tyler asked. Everyone except Red nodded. “Good. The trick is to make them want to go where we want to go. You’ll get the hang of it. Be sure you get some good sleep tonight and enjoy your comfortable beds.”
“Do we come back here every night?” Meg Peterson asked.
“No, ma’am, afraid not. This is a real drive. We need to get the herd up to greener pastures.” The trip wouldn’t really take five days if that was its only purpose and everyone knew exactly what they were doing, but you couldn’t push novices too hard. Besides, it was the journey that mattered to them, not the destination.
“What about food and beds—”
“Rose takes care of the chuck wagon, right?” John Smyth said.
“Yes, Mom’s handling that again this spring. Normally we leave that duty to ’Cookie’ as the guys call him, though his real name is Mac, but he’s off in Wyoming right now. And you’ll sleep on bedrolls, but don’t worry, they come with pads and a canvas flap to keep them dry. We’ll hit the first camp tomorrow afternoon. There are tents available if you’d rather sleep indoors, but you might not want to miss calling it a day under more stars than you can imagine.”
“I’m going to be real cowgirl by the time we get back,” Meg said.
Tyler glanced at his mother’s table again. She was engaged in conversation with a returning middle-aged couple named Carol and Rick Taylor who had brought along an adult son this time around, as well as with two brothers named Nigel and Vincent Creswell, both avid fishermen.
As he stared at Rose, her glance flicked his direction and then away, a frown curling the corners of her mouth.
This time he was sure of it. She’d been looking at John Smyth. Tyler served himself a slice of ham, wondering what the heck was going on.
Speaking of food, he’d have to make sure someone took something out to Julie in her cabin. No way was he going to do it. Thoughts of her killed his own appetite, but he ate anyway and did his best to keep up his end of the conversation, pleased to find the wranglers who had joined dinner service were being their usual charming selves as well, telling stories and dishing up apple pie.
His training of new cowboys and wranglers always stressed communication skills. Every moment on the ranch was a moment of someone’s time and hard-earned vacation dollars. Guests were here to have fun and that meant making sure things ran smoothly. And thankfully, most of his hands were pretty good at it; they didn’t last if they weren’t. Truth be told, most of them got along with people better than Tyler himself did.
Dinner finally ended. One of the newest employees was a college girl studying music and she encouraged everyone to join her in the parlor for a sing-along before deep-dish apple pie and coffee were served. While the kitchen help cleared tables, Tyler took an extra plate and stacked a little of everything on it. He’d get one of the wranglers to deliver it to cabin eight.
In the kitchen he found his mother helping with the cleanup. And tucked behind the table in her old favorite spot near the fireplace sat Julie, tackling a plate of food with some of her old gusto. She flinched when she looked up and saw him.
How long had she been here? Four or five hours? But in that time, her face had acquired a little color, and the scrape on her cheek had faded. She’d found her old denim jacket, the one that hugged her breasts and nipped in the waist or had before she lost weight, and twisted what appeared to be newly showered hair into a low ponytail.
It was as if someone had turned a clock backward. She looked like his college sweetheart, like his bride, his wife. He could picture himself taking her hand, taking her back to their place, making love to her.
The knife twisted again.
“Were you trying to hide Julie away?” Rose Hunt demanded as she moved a tray of dirty dishes toward the sink. A young woman with very blond hair took it from her and as she did, a cup slid off the tray and shattered on the stone floor.
“Don’t fret, Heidi, just clean it up,” Rose said. “It’s not like it’s never happened before.” Then she turned her attention back to Tyler. “Were you ever going to tell me Julie was here?”
He set the plate of food he’d assembled aside. “Probably not,” he said.
“Why? You didn’t sign the papers yet, did you? She’s still your wife.”
“Mom, this is none of your business,” he said firmly. “Back to important things. Where is the doctor?”
“Dr. Marquis called to report he was having trouble getting out of Chicago,” Heidi said.
“He’ll