Callie Endicott - The Rancher's Prospect

She was both relieved and a little depressed at the thought.

CHAPTER THREE

A WEEK LATER Tara walked down an aisle at the grocery store, selecting spices. The restaurant food in Schuyler was tasty and certainly “indigenous,” but she was ready to vary things up with her favorite dishes from the countries she’d traveled to. Not that there was a huge selection of exotic ingredients available, but she could make do. Cooking was often a question of style as much as content.

It would also be good to experiment with recipes off the internet. In fact, she was ready to try anything to occupy herself. She was accustomed to working regular hours and maximizing her free time to see everything possible in the places she lived. In Schuyler she didn’t have a job, and her sister had long shifts at the medical clinic. Montana scenery was stunning, but nobody could spend all day, every day, just looking at the beautiful vistas.

Before long she’d realized she would go stark raving crazy without something more to do. Fortunately, that was changing since word had gone around Schuyler about the kind of work she did. More than once she’d heard, “I understand you do bookkeeping and organize stuff.” It was a simplistic description of her professional skills, but that was okay. She needed to occupy some of her time and didn’t mind trimming her fees to fit her new environment.

Today Tara was going to talk with a prospective client out in the country. His lawyer, Vanta Cooper, had contacted her, explaining that ill health had necessitated bringing in outside help. When she’d heard the name, Walt Nelson, she had immediately agreed, remembering him from the hospital.

Rather than use GPS, she studied a local map and memorized the route to the Boxing N. Shortly before two she pulled up next to a small building with a sign that identified it as the office.

“Good to see you again, Tara,” Walt said as he limped forward to meet her. “When you mentioned records management at the hospital, it gave me the idea of having you work in my office here. My lawyer’s office said they’d track you down.”

“I’m glad they did, Mr. Nelson,” she agreed with a smile.

“Call me Walt. You mind if I call you Tara?”

She smiled. “Not in the least.”

“Come see the disaster zone.”

He led the way into the building’s main room and Tara knew what Vanta had meant when she’d said that “paperwork isn’t Walt’s favorite occupation.” The chaos was obviously a long-standing condition. Papers were everywhere, and it was unlikely the ancient desk to the left had ever seen a computer.

But the room was pleasant, with windows that provided gorgeous views of rolling ranch land as well as the gardens around the house. On the right were comfortable chairs, a small sink, refrigerator, stove and coffeemaker. Plainly it was more than an office; it was also a gathering place, though she didn’t know whether it was for employees or friends.

“I don’t suppose what we need done here is like your work in Paris,” Walt continued. “It may seem ridiculous to you.”

“I don’t think anyone’s business is ridiculous,” she told him honestly. “Your needs will be different from the records management systems used by an international corporation, but I wouldn’t expect that on a ranch.”

He peered at her, his faded eyes looking sad. “How did you like working in Paris and all those other places you’ve lived?”

Realizing he wanted more than a pat answer, Tara thought for a moment before responding. “There is nothing quite like living among people who grew up in a different culture. What’s automatic for me may not be for them, and vice versa. It’s an adventure.”

Heaving a sigh, Walt settled into one of the easy chairs. “So you’re a Magellan of the modern age.”

“I don’t have much to keep me anchored in the United States, that’s all.”

“The ranch was my anchor...perhaps my prison, as well.”

The last words were mumbled, and Tara wasn’t sure she’d understood him correctly. She sat quietly while his eyelids drooped; she wasn’t in a hurry and he looked tired. After a few minutes, he shook himself and sat forward.

“My apologies. It’s those blasted pain pills the doctor gave me. But I won’t need them much longer. I’m set on that.” His voice was grimly determined.

While she knew she might be romanticizing the moment, Tara suspected she was seeing the grit made legendary in movie Westerns, except this wasn’t two stylized hours on celluloid. It was the real thing.

“I’ve got to check on a new foal,” Walt said, lurching to his feet. “Go ahead and poke around. Vanta explained you work as a contractor, setting your own hours and such, which is fine with me. If you don’t want to tackle such a mess, there won’t be any hard feelings.”

“Don’t worry, Walt. I think it’s going to work out fine. Just so you know, some of the time I’ll work only mornings or afternoons, depending on my other commitments and whether my sister has the time off.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. Shake on it?”

Tara took his hand and was surprised by the firmness of his grip. She also realized that the odd sense of connection she’d experienced was even stronger than when she had met him at the hospital. He was different from the suave, cosmopolitan executives she normally worked with; there was something rough and genuine about Walt Nelson.

“By the way,” he added, “just to be clear, I’m the one hiring you, not the Boxing N.”

Not sure what the difference meant, she nodded. There could be a trust involved or something that made it important to clarify. She’d probably learn the reasons as she went along.

Once Tara was alone in the office, she began looking through various stacks and drawers, cubbyholes and shelves. There were at least fifty years of ranch records, many of them mixed up with current paperwork.

Twenty minutes later she ran across a yellowed handwritten invoice dated 1872, wherein a Zebedee Nelson recorded the sale of fifty head of cattle. The expense of the cattle drive bringing them to market was annotated on the bottom. It was a whole lot more interesting than most corporate historical records she’d seen, and as she sat studying the paper, a soft breeze came through an open window.

In Paris she’d worked in a modern high-rise, surrounded by desks, bright uniform lights and the hum of hundreds of people going about their business. This would be a nice break, at least for the time being. She had a feeling Lauren hoped she would consider staying in Schuyler, but Tara had always felt the need to be constantly moving forward. She couldn’t picture giving up her career and staying in one place.

* * *

JOSH TURNED OFF his satellite phone as he rode toward the Boxing N ranch center. He was discouraged. After two days of having a help wanted ad in the local newspaper, his only calls had been from a high school senior looking for an after-school job and a retired pharmacist who’d moved to Schuyler the previous autumn and had “always wanted to be a cowboy.”

Surely it would get better. And after he got more help on the ranch, there’d be time for some of the other things that had to be done.

A silver Toyota was parked by the ranch office, and Josh frowned. In the past, his grandfather had met his cronies there because they could smoke their cigars without bothering his wife. But Walt had given up smoking years ago, and since Evelyn was gone, he no longer needed the office as a separate gathering spot. Still, old habits died hard.

After grooming Lightfoot, Josh tiredly made his way to the foreman’s house and slumped into an Adirondack chair on the porch. But as two figures came out of the ranch office and stood together beside the car, Josh leaned forward. One of them was his grandfather; Walt’s labored pace was impossible to mistake. But the other was a woman, and even from this distance, Josh could see she possessed very attractive curves.