The secret ranch, p.1
The Secret Ranch, page 1
The Secret
Ranch
Hillary Tiefer
The Secret
Ranch

Histria Fiction
Las Vegas ◊ Chicago ◊ Palm Beach
Published in the United States of America by
Histria Books
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Las Vegas, NV 89166 USA
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Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Edition
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024948860
ISBN 978-1-59211-559-4 (softbound)
ISBN 978-1-59211-567-9 (eBook)
Copyright © 2025 by Hillary Tiefer
Chapter One
Bodega Bay, California, 2006
From the wide window in her living room, Jean Warner watched the white surf washing the sand and the light glistening on the water like so many diamonds, but this beautiful scene couldn’t still the fluttering of her heart. Soon the journalist would arrive to interview her about her past. The journalist had told Jean she wanted to write an article about a soldier in the Women’s Army Corps who intercepted enemy codes during World War II.
For years, Jean couldn’t mention the war part of her past to anyone. She received no acknowledgment: no public ceremonies, no friends patting her on the back, no family members looking upon her with awe and admiration. Silence — those at Two Rock Ranch took an oath and they kept it for decades, even after the secret work became declassified in the seventies. That oath was so well-instilled in her that even now, telling her story seemed treasonous. But that wasn’t the part she dreaded telling.
“It’s a perfect day for your special guest, Jean,” said Lorraine, her faithful housekeeper. She smiled, showing a gap in her mouth where a tooth belonged. Jean had known her for years — way back when she had been a pretty young girl with long shiny brown hair. She recently put on weight and dark roots ran through her blond hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail with a rubber band. Her stomach bulged from her pink t-shirt with a sequined Las Vegas written across it that she wore over sweatpants — comfortable for cleaning, as she once explained.
“Yes, the journalist will have a nice drive up here from San Francisco,” Jean said. “And the wind has cleared away the fog.”
“Everything’s done, Jean. Coffee’s all ready to brew. I kept the Danish in Saran wrap on your nice china platter, and I left out dishes and silverware. So, sweetheart, you’re all set! And you look lovely.”
Jean laughed at the compliment — so far from the truth. Her face was covered in wrinkles, with a tissue-paper texture and a splattering of brown spots. Her cheeks were sunken and pouches sagged under her eyes. She never was beautiful — as her mother often informed her.
Lorraine had done her best to set Jean’s thin strands of white hair in rollers and then comb it into a style of fuzzy curls, which Lorraine then spritzed with hairspray. She also helped to pick what she claimed was Jean’s best outfit: a white cotton eyelet blouse over a blue madras plaid skirt. The finishing touch was Jean’s mother-of-pearl earrings. Jean knew she was no judge of these things, so she was like a child acquiescing to her mother’s choices. Lorraine had lifted the zipper of the skirt because for some foolish reason it was in the back. It hadn’t been long ago — just two years — since Jean’s husband, Doug, had done this for her.
The classy journalist no doubt would think the clothes years out of fashion but perhaps she’d give some allowance for Jean being eighty-five.
Lorraine hugged her. “I hope she picks you and then you’ll be a celebrity — written up in Bay Life. I read that magazine in the dentist’s office. Who’d have figured you, Jean, has a past some hotshot lady journalist might want to write about.”
“Don’t get too excited. She’ll probably choose one of the other women.” The journalist, who had introduced herself on the phone as Meghan Delaney, explained to Jean that she would be choosing for her article one woman among six who had been at the Army station at Two Rock Ranch. “She’s interviewing a bunch of us before she decides who she’ll write about. I’m sure the others will all have way more to say about their pasts.”
“You must have something to tell her since she’s bothering to drive up here from San Francisco.”
Jean again turned to the window to watch the soothing ocean beyond the bay. Suddenly, water shot up like a geyser. A whale announced itself, and because this was August, it was probably a humpback on its way to Alaska. Sometimes a whale would leap out of the water, arching its great torso, then dive in again. A memory flashed through her mind: on a beautiful day in May a few years earlier, she and Doug had stood on the rocky promontory of Bodega Head, watching one then two then three gray whales putting on a show for them. Those darn tears still came uninvited, but she sniffed to fight them back. She turned to Lorraine. “It has to do with my war experience — something I couldn’t say much about for many years.”
Lorraine placed her hands on her hips. “Are you telling me you were a spy? I never figured you for a spy, doing cloak and dagger stuff. There’s an awful lot of danger in that line of work.” She cocked her head at Jean. “I’m always surprised at what I learn about people. I thought I sized you up over the years as just a sweet little lady.”
“I did spying of a sort — intercepting our enemies’ messages they’d send by radio.” Even saying this much felt like an offense.
“Jean, you must be two people in one! Well, I hope to read all about it in the magazine. I don’t suppose that journalist lady will want to do an article about my past: how at age fifteen I got pregnant, then became a single mom and cleaned houses to make a living and still do at age forty-one.”
“You never know.” Jean laughed but realized there was pathos in everyone’s story and it was worth telling — but maybe not her own story. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be the one she chooses to write about. I’m not quite the right person.”
“You don’t think enough of yourself, Jean.” Lorraine scanned the room: the upright piano, now with the sole purpose of displaying family photos, the sofa, wing chair, coffee and side tables, and the antique oak cabinet. “The house is spic and span, so I guess I’ll be going.” She kissed Jean on the cheek. “I hope she picks you, sweetie.” She gathered her vacuum and pail, filled with rags and cleansers then left.
Gussie McPherson had no qualms about dwelling on the past and telling her story. She had already been interviewed and soon afterward had called Jean. “The girl is as young as my granddaughter and real stylish and clever,” Gussie had said. “I hope she chooses me, Jean. I can still remember a whole lot about our experience. I suppose you do, too, and I know you have a lot to tell. I suppose LaDonna and Alice do, too. What do you think? Who should it be?”
“Did she say she’d stick to the work we did and not pry into our personal lives?”
“She wants more than that. It’s a human-interest story — as she put it. She wants a personal, in-depth account for her magazine.”
“You sound awfully enthusiastic,” Jean had said. “So if you’re willing to provide her with a personal story, I say she should choose you.”
Jean wasn’t as forthcoming about the past as Gussie. She’d tell the journalist she wanted to stick to her experience in the military — that’s all. Then the woman would thank her but tell her she wasn’t interested and that would be that.
Nevertheless, her palpitations increased as the time approached for the journalist to arrive. She took deep breaths to calm herself. And she told herself she’d not allow the sophisticated journalist to uncover the deeply buried life she experienced during the war.
Chapter Two
Grants Pass, Oregon, 1942
When Jean Kimball came home to Grants Pass during her Christmas break from the University of Oregon in Eugene, she wondered if she’d return in January for her last semester before graduating. She was studying to be a high school French teacher even though the idea of standing in front of a class of high schoolers terrified her. When she had seen a group of women in military uniform at the Eugene train station, she felt envy and wished she could be among them.
She made her feelings known to her best friend, Gloria, on the Saturday before Christmas. They were bundled up in their wool coats and scarves on their way to J.C. Penney’s to buy presents for their mothers. Despite the war, the town did its best to make the Christm
When they approached the Army recruiting office, she grabbed Gloria’s arm and said, “Stop, take a look at that.” Jean pointed to the big poster with a portrait of a woman in uniform and a furled American flag behind her. In big bold letters above her were the letters WAAC and beneath her, the sentence, “THIS IS MY WAR TOO!” Jean was being beckoned. “Gloria, what do you think of me quitting school and joining the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps? I want to contribute to the war effort.”
“It sounds crazy to me, and your folks will have a fit,” Gloria said with powdery breath. “I know of a better, easier way to help our troops. Dance with them! There’s going to be a spectacular Christmas Eve dance at Redwood Hotel tonight. They’ll have a swell band.”
“You’ll enjoy going,” Jean said as they resumed walking. “That’s your way of doing your patriotic duty. But not mine.”
“And why not yours?”
“I’m not up for a dance, Gloria.”
“Don’t you want to meet a fella?”
“Sure, but this isn’t the time.” She couldn’t imagine a worse time — when attachments inevitably led to heartache. War meant casualties and some of those boys at that dance wouldn’t come home.
Not that she thought any of them would take an interest in her. She was no beauty, which upset her mother because Jean was her product, after all. “I’m sorry to say, Jean, you don’t got my looks,” her mother once said, shaking her head while assessing her daughter as if she were an inferior portrait on the wall. “You didn’t get my blond hair or my pretty face. I don’t mean you’re ugly. You’re a spitting image of your Grandma Vivien, who was nice-looking in her day. Only you don’t do a thing with yourself.” After that pronouncement Jean had left for her bedroom and cried on her bed.
“We should meet boys now while they’re still around,” Gloria said.
They approached the family business, Kimball Bros. Hardware and Second-Hand Furniture, with a storefront window framed with red and silver tinsel. It was on the bottom floor of a two-story brick building on the street corner, beneath the Odd Fellows meeting hall on the second floor. They entered to say hello to Jean’s father. This was his Saturday to work — he took turns with her Uncle Bert. She was glad to see the store crowded. They had struggled to keep it open during the Depression, but it was then that Uncle Bert had the smart idea to include used furniture — about all people could afford back then.
Customers were buying last-minute items for Christmas, which her uncle and father sold: rolls of tinsel, packages of tree ornaments, wreaths, and evergreens that they had purchased from a tree farm to re-sell in the store. They always knew how to adapt to the times. Now during rationing and limits on hardware, they repaired old lawnmowers and bicycles and sold them as well as used hammers, wrenches, and screwdrivers. But during spring and summer, the store stocked up on garden rakes, shovels, hoes, spades, and sacks of vegetable seeds for Victory Gardens. They also sold canning supplies, and in the front window was a poster with a picture of a young woman holding in her arms several Mason jars with metal lids filled with various fruits. On top of the poster in capital letters she announced, “OF COURSE I CAN!” And below, “I’m patriotic as can be — And ration points won’t worry me!” Her family’s business had boomed all summer. Now people wanted Christmas decorations and shovels for snow.
The two men also managed to find an area toward the rear of the store for the upholstered sofas and armchairs. Not that they could take much pride in their merchandise: some of these sofas sagged where people sat for years, and many of the coffee and side tables showed nicks, water rings, and cigarette burns. Yet they managed to sell them.
Up front by the counter, Jean met the new employee they had hired. Now that her brothers and cousin, Louie, were in the military, the store needed help. She didn’t recognize the woman so that meant she probably wasn’t a local. She was busy with a line of customers. She seemed to be a good choice, attractive, in her thirties, with brown hair in a smooth roll above her forehead, the rest pulled back and tied with a big white bow.
Jean spotted her father with Harry Duncan, the shoe store owner, by the trees. She was going to leave because he was so busy, but he waved her over and said, “Let me introduce you girls to Estelle.”
Estelle was taking payment from their librarian, Margie McIntire, who held a shovel. Estelle looked up and smiled at them, and Jean’s father gave the introductions. She had big brown eyes with long lashes, heavily blackened with mascara. She wore a bright red sweater decorated with a green rhinestone Christmas tree pin. Jean said she was glad to meet her and would have engaged her in conversation to be sociable but for the line of impatient customers. Gloria, obviously anxious to go, smiled when Jean turned to leave.
“I don’t want to go alone to the dance,” Gloria said as they walked toward J.C. Penney’s. “You’ve got to come with me for my sake. Maybe then I’ll stop hurting over Lester.”
“Hasn’t it been a year already since you two broke up?”
“Yes, but it hasn’t helped me any that I’ve seen him lately strutting around town in his Navy blues with Gladys Ripley clinging to his arm. The only cure is for me to meet someone else and … and I can’t show up at the dance alone. No, I can’t just stand there by myself.”
Jean’s reserve of excuses was thinning. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry but I have no dress.”
Gloria opened the door of J. C. Penney’s. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”
“I can’t be spending my money on a dress.” Jean entered the department store into glaring light from the many pendant lamps in rows across the high ceiling. A huge Christmas tree covered in red and green ball ornaments was central to the room and tinsel lined all the glass counters. “Besides that, I don’t know how to dance. I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“All you have to do is follow along with your partner — he leads. It’s a cinch, Jeanie. Just kick your feet and sway your hips. Let’s take a look at the dresses. You don’t have to buy any.” She headed for the heavily shellacked stairs, but Jean grabbed her arm to stop her.
“First I’ve got to buy my mother a present. I couldn’t sleep at night thinking about what to get her. I’ll try the scarf counter and hope I can find something to please her.”
“That’ll be the day — there’s no pleasing her.” Gloria still held a grudge against Jean’s mother. Four years earlier, Gloria had come to their house to show off her pretty crepe prom dress and Jean had thought she looked gorgeous. Jean worked hard to submerge her jealousy of her friend — no one had asked her to the prom.
This no doubt upset her mother. She barged into Jean’s bedroom and her eyes floated over poor Gloria, then finally focused on her dress. “Who do you think you are, wearing a dress that practically shows your whole bosom? Did your mother even see you in it? It’s like a sign telling all the boys how cheap you are!” Gloria’s lips turned into a snarl, and had she been a dog she’d have bitten Jean’s mother. She had stormed out of their house and slammed the front door, making the chandelier in the dining room rattle.
Jean and Gloria approached a counter with a glass display case. Behind the counter stood the saleswoman, looking prim in a black dress with a white lacy collar. A featureless and naked half-manikin on the counter displayed an array of colorful scarves. More were neatly folded in the display case. “How can I help you, ladies?” she asked with trained politeness.
Jean turned to Gloria. “So what would you pick?”
She fingered through the various scarves, scrutinizing each one. “Hm, I haven’t quite found the right one.” Then she grinned. “This scarf should work.” She removed it from the manikin and laid it on the counter. “This is perfect for your mother. She’ll love it.”
It was crass, with a shiny bronze border and a print of big orange poppies emerging from fat green leaves. Jean feared Gloria was using this hideously designed scarf to revenge her mother. Still, she had to be tactful. “It’s a bit too loud.” She stared into the case.
