Three river ranch, p.4
Three River Ranch, page 4
“Don’t worry, it’s mostly clerical, filing, writing grant proposals.”
She pulled herself up to her full five-and-a-half feet. “I’m not at your beck and call.”
She glared at him and Carson felt a smile tickle the corners of his lips.
“Agreed.”
“And the guesthouse is mine?” She looked at him suspiciously.
“Yes.” He sighed. “Let’s get you moved in. Give me your keys and I’ll bring your car up, and then help you get your stuff unloaded so I can start working.”
She tossed him her car keys and turned her back, rounding the corner ahead of him. She stopped suddenly at the top of the hill and he watched the estate unfold before her. The guesthouse was small but featured a wraparound porch of treated timbers, floor-to-ceiling windows facing south, and well-tended gardens on all sides.
“Carson,” she said, and at the awe-filled tone of her voice, Carson was struck with a painful reminder of what had been—and what had been lost. Flanked by a pergola-sheltered walkway, the alfresco kitchen patio was every bit as lovely.
“Where will you stay?”
“Don’t worry, there’s a cabin out by the processing pens for the seasonal workers.” He tipped his head toward the stand of trees. “If that one’s got rats, too, well, I’ve got my tent.”
He nudged her toward the door. “Go on in, it’s yours.”
Rory disappeared inside, her dog bouncing along behind her, and Carson felt a shard of jealousy. She belonged here even less than he did.
But she seemed so happy.
…
Standing in the tiny kitchen, Rory looked about her in, delight. Someone must have loved this ranch once, to build such a snug cottage. And someone, obviously, still cared. Soft lemon-yellow walls, crisp white curtains and cornflower-blue accents. The highly polished floor looked like it was made from reclaimed planks, the nicks and marks bringing character to the rich wood tones. Two bedrooms, each with a king-size bed covered with crisp linens and deep down duvets. The place was small, but airy and fresh. And most importantly, it felt right.
Hope swelled inside her. She put a hand to her belly. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. “It’s just perfect.”
A knock sounded. Rory jumped and Mistral scrambled to her feet, barking.
“Hellooo? I hear we’ve got a new arrival.”
There, standing in the bright kitchen, stood a woman who looked just like Blythe.
“Wow,” breathed Rory. “You really are identical.”
“Now honey,” Bliss said sharply. “You and I will get along just fine as long as you remember one rule: never mention The Blight to me. Understood?”
Blister and Blight. How could she forget?
Before Rory could answer, Bliss bustled around, setting out a basket of food: bread, fruit, pastries, cheeses.
“I’m only here to check in on you, so don’t get attached. I figured I’d stock the kitchen for Carson. Don’t want his death by starvation on my conscience. But after this, you’re on your own. Where is Carson, anyway? I’ve got a piece of my mind for that boy.”
“You’re not staying? Even though Carson’s back?” asked Rory.
Bliss turned on her heel and fixed her sharp gaze on Rory. “No. Not that it’s any of your business.” Then, as if she hadn’t spoken, she went on to explain. “I’ve been here since before the boys were born, bless their hearts. I’ve put up with Derek’s shenanigans over the years. I stood by them all when Marie died, God rest her. But I’m tired of fighting a losing battle. Mitchell hasn’t been back since his father died; Carson’s only here because Derek forced his hand. This place has seen too much grief and I’ve had enough.”
“Maybe,” Rory said, placing a hand lightly on the older woman’s forearm, “things are about to change.”
Bliss’s face shifted, and Rory sensed a deep well of compassion beneath her rough exterior, a reservoir that was nearly depleted.
“Maybe,” she continued, “if the two of us stick together, we can make it good.”
Bliss eyed Rory carefully. “Something different about you. What is it? Besides the little bundle of joy, I mean.”
Adrenaline flooded Rory’s system. What secrets were written on her face?
“You’ve got the sight, haven’t you?”
Rory’s eyes widened. No one had ever twigged to her unusual gift before, but Rory knew without a doubt that the woman’s suspicions had focused with unerring accuracy. “I just listen to my intuition, that’s all.”
“Don’t pretend with me, girl.” Bliss’s entire demeanor changed, softened, opened. Suddenly, she pulled the girl to her massive bosom. “You’re staying? You’re going to be here?”
Rory could feel her shaking. The intensity of her question demanded honesty. “I needed a place to live. This felt right. Well…it didn’t at first. But it does now.”
“What did Carson say? About the baby, I mean?” Bliss held Rory at arm’s length and her gaze slid carefully past her belly to her left hand. She added gently, “And the fact that there’s no ring on your finger?”
Rory felt her face grow hot at the older woman’s recognition of her delicate situation, but she forced composure, straightening her spine. “Nothing. He hasn’t asked. I haven’t explained. Well, he’s mad that I can’t help him with the horses. Truth is, I couldn’t even if I weren’t pregnant.”
Bliss laughed. “Honey, this will be a treat. You could sell tickets to the show. And you know what? You just changed my mind. Maybe I’ll pop in now and then, keep an eye on everything. I can’t resist a mama-in-waiting, and maybe you are just the person to turn Three River Ranch on its ear.”
After unpacking a few of her things, Rory wandered out to the corrals in search of Carson, to tell him the good news about Bliss. She knew she should explain her situation with the baby, too: that she’d been engaged until the baby’s father changed his mind about marriage, fatherhood, fidelity—well, she wasn’t quite ready to explain all that. His surprise offer of free rent for clerical help allowed her to stop worrying, at least temporarily, about money, but he didn’t need to know that, either. Until she felt certain she’d made herself indispensable, she’d keep her private life private.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.
Against her better judgment, Rory pushed aside the nudge of caution. She couldn’t help wondering what was in it for Carson, but it was too late for sober second thought. She’d just have to take a chance on him.
Mistral followed after her, snuffling and snorting with joy, her shaggy black tail waving like a flag. As soon as they entered the yard, Rory could feel waves of fear rolling off the wild mare. Immediately, Mistral’s head came up, her dark eyes shining and focused on the horse. Mistral, Rory knew, also sensed that the horse was in trouble.
“Easy, Mistral, she’s afraid,” Rory said in a hushed voice. She wished she had Mistral’s therapy dog vest with her. Putting it on always seemed to let the animal know that she was on duty. But even outside the hospital setting, outside Billings, outside anything remotely familiar, Mistral appeared to know that her calm presence would soothe the creature in front of her.
Carson appeared at the barn door and Rory swallowed. He seemed to look better and better each time she saw him…while all she did was get fatter by the minute. He joined her at the far side of the fence. Stormy pawed the ground and tossed her heavy mane.
“Where are the others?” she asked, looking at the lone horse.
“They were in far better shape, so I released them.”
“But you’re keeping this one?”
“I want to make sure she drops her foal safely.” Carson’s voice was tight with worry. “She’s exhausted and underweight, but she hasn’t touched the flake of hay I gave her last night. Pellets and grain are too rich for her.”
Mistral snuffled the grass without looking at the horse, which appeared to pique the mare’s curiosity.
“Look at her, playing hard to get.” Keeping her voice soft, Rory aimed a question at Carson. “There’s grass in the paddock. Isn’t that enough?” And then to the mare, “You’re okay, Stormy. Mistral’s your friend.” Rory moved slowly, deliberately, keeping her arms at her sides, mimicking Carson as he moved along the fence closer to the mare.
“Right now, she needs more protein, for the foal. She might be on a hunger strike. Some mustangs do that in captivity.”
They were within forty feet now, and the mare was moving restlessly against the back fence, whickering shrilly and tossing her head. Rory could see the whites of her eyes clearly.
“Why didn’t you leave her with them, then? Surely the herd doesn’t fall apart just because the stallion gets shot. Isn’t there a runner-up or something, to take his place?”
Carson stopped, lifted one hand to prevent Rory from moving forward, then lightly brushed his fingers against her bare arm, his touch warm and disconcertingly close to her breast. Rory felt her pulse leap, and she discreetly pulled her arm away.
Mistral scooted beneath the bottom pole and continued to follow the fence line, sniffing the ground casually, as if she weren’t aware of the frightened horse.
“It wasn’t just the stallion, Rory.” His face was hard, blank. “Most of the herd was killed. I think a couple of mares and yearlings got away, but we haven’t found them yet. The ones you saw are the only ones we got out.”
“No.” Rory put a hand to her throat and closed her eyes. She could still feel the weight of his touch close to her heart, as if he’d opened a conduit for his memory to travel across to her. Her imagination conjured up the scene, more clearly this time. She heard terrified screams and pounding hooves, could smell the sweat-slicked horseflesh, could taste the dust-choked air. This was what the horse remembered. This was what Carson had seen.
“How many were killed?”
Carson swallowed, cleared his throat. “Thirteen that we know of. I told you, wild horses aren’t popular with everyone.”
Then he gasped and gripped Rory’s arm, harder this time. “Get your damn dog out of there!”
Mistral had moseyed—there was no other word for it—around the entire corral, going the long way along the fence line, and was now heading straight toward the mare. Unless Stormy moved away, Mistral would mosey right into her.
Rory opened her mouth to call the dog back, but before she could do so, Mistral sat down on her haunches. Her ears were back, her tongue lolling, and her long coat billowed out over her hind legs.
“Mistral’s working,” she breathed to Carson instead.
“Working? What do you mean, working? She’s going to get herself killed,” he hissed back.
“This is what she does. She’s a certified therapy dog. Look.”
Stormy had stopped pawing and pacing and was now watching the dog with avid curiosity.
“So your dog is the horse whisperer?” Carson looked at her as if she were crazy.
“Nobody’s a horse whisperer,” Rory answered in annoyance. “I’m a speech therapist. I studied psycholinguistics—the psychology of language—but mostly I worked with kids. Mistral came with me on visits to hospitals and care homes. She’s never seen a horse before, though. I had no idea she could do this.”
“Well,” said Carson, turning away, “if your dog can get my horse to eat her hay, I’ll call the Vatican.”
Rory smiled, then motioned for him to look at the animals again.
“Better put Rome on speed-dial.”
Mistral lay on her side in the sunshine, about six feet from the hay, panting heavily, her dark muzzle a wide grin. Stormy, calmer now, nosed at the flake of hay indifferently, then selected a few stalks and delicately pulled them free and began to munch.
“I don’t believe it.” Carson stared and Rory elbowed him, both of them grinning.
“I told you. Mistral’s amazing.” She turned on her heel, then glanced back over her shoulder with a smirk. “I’ll let you off the hook with the pope if you unload the rest of my stuff for me. Oh, and by the way, Bliss isn’t leaving after all.”
The dog ambled behind Rory, leaving the now-calm horse to her breakfast. Rory bent down to pat her, inordinately happy to see Carson smile. And uncomfortably aware that she’d dressed to show off what figure she had left.
“Wait,” Carson called after her. “Bliss is staying?”
“Well, she’ll keep coming in a few times a week. I suspect it’ll be more.” Rory grinned. “What can I say? She likes me. Maybe even you’ll find me worthwhile to keep around, after all.”
Carson strode back to the house, pulled out the first piece of luggage from her car, and nearly dropped it on his foot. Rory laughed at the exasperated look on his face.
“What’s in here? Bricks?”
“Nope,” she called back. “Books.”
Carson quickly transferred the last of her belongings from the back of her vehicle into the guesthouse. She couldn’t help noticing the way his legs moved smoothly beneath the worn denim, the breadth of his back, the ease with which he carried even the heaviest of boxes. Then he collected the last of his own things and disappeared.
She was grateful for the help, grateful that he didn’t seem to judge her for being a single pregnant woman. Again, she dropped her hand unconsciously to her belly, as if to shield the child from her memories of David’s reaction to the news.
Rory went inside and began unpacking her things in the second bedroom. Peeking inside the first room—the one Carson had been sleeping in, by the look of it—she found a canvas duffel bag that he’d apparently forgotten. “Come on, Mistral,” she said to the dog. “Let’s do our good deed of the day. We could use the exercise.”
Rory walked slowly up the rolling slope, pulling the crisp air deep into her lungs, looking at the jagged snowcapped mountains in the distance. She followed an overgrown path to where she thought she’d find a cabin and processing pens. Leaf litter and pine needles crunched softly beneath her sneakers, releasing their tang. In the grand scope of things, she told herself, she was lucky: She and the baby were healthy. She had her dog. Her financial stress was gone, thanks to the rent reduction. She’d landed on her feet in a beautiful place. All around her, the forest was bursting with the greens and golds of new life. It felt right. Safe.
Then a hawk screamed overhead, Mistral barked, and the spell was broken.
“Carson said no barking near the horses,” Rory said. The dog hung her shaggy head and Rory leaned down to pat her, grateful once more for her easy company.
She’d been fighting to keep the tainted memories at bay, but here in the peace and quiet, it was no use. David’s betrayal cut her to the core. Worst of all, his own guilty conscience had made him jump to the only conclusion that would get him off the hook—namely, that the child was someone else’s. As if she’d have cheated on him.
Rory McAllister was no cheater.
But that was cold comfort in the face of impending single motherhood. She fought down the familiar feeling of panic at plans scuttled before completion, her world spinning out of control and taking her with it. For her own sake, she wouldn’t have asked anything of David. She had her dignity and her independence, at least for now.
But her baby deserved more than a hardscrabble life. She’d hoped this place would be the answer she’d been looking for, and it was lovely. But it was an interim solution at best.
Mistral stopped as they reached the rise, scanning the horizon for the mare. As soon as the dog found her, she wagged her tail and ambled toward her.
“I don’t think so, girl,” Rory warned. “We’re just here to drop off this bag, then we’re going back to settle into our new home.”
She looked around for the cabin Carson said he’d be living in. She hadn’t seen it earlier, but it couldn’t be far. Then, behind a thick clump of brush, something caught her gaze. She leaned forward, squinted her eyes, and put a hand up in front of her face to shade it from the sun. Mistral growled when she saw the direction in which Rory was heading.
That wasn’t a cabin.
It wasn’t even a hut.
“Even Mrs. Fulston would have a tough time talking this one up,” Rory said, looking aghast at the jagged holes in the roof.
Weeds sprouted through the floorboards; unpainted wood nailed haphazardly to two-by-four planks comprised the two standing walls. A third wall was lying in pieces on the grass in front of the structure. A fourth had apparently been broken up into firewood, if the charred lumber piled inside a circle of stones was any indication.
Rory looked around, hoping against hope that she was mistaken, that this was not the only accommodation Carson was left with, thanks to her arrival. Nearer the corral, beneath another stand of trees, she found the rest of his luggage. Apparently he was a light traveler; the bags lying beside Carson’s tent, pitched snug and tidy, matched the one over her shoulder.
She groaned. A tent. In spring in Montana. He’d freeze to death, and she’d have to live with that.
She hefted Carson’s bag over her shoulder and marched back to the corral, glad that this trip was downhill. And glad that he hadn’t packed books.
“Hey, you found my bag.” Carson looked at her with surprise when she dropped the duffel onto the hay-strewn path.
“Yup. Found your ‘cabin,’ too,” she said. She straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “You actually intended to sleep in that scrap heap?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s a pile of firewood!” She glared at him. “And that’s being generous. It’s probably too rotten to burn.”
“I’ve always got my tent, Rory. I’ll be fine.”
“You can’t stay there. You’ll get frostbite or…chilblains…or whatever it is that makes you go blind and your fingers fall off.”
Carson’s frown wobbled, then cracked into a smile. “This isn’t Everest base camp. I’ve done this before. It’s okay.”
He was trying to be nice, and that only made it worse. “No, it’s not okay. I can’t let you do this; I can’t kick you out of your own guesthouse. There’re two rooms.”
He put up his hands in front of him. “Slow down a minute. What are you talking about?”
