Melinda Curtis - The Rancher's Redemption

“Welcome home,” Ben muttered, walking around a knee-high weed bending over the sidewalk. He stopped in front of the steps of a white clapboard shack, which had probably been built over a hundred years ago when the town had been founded. “Traffic was gridlocked, it was impossible getting out of Bozeman.” That was like saying traffic in the Mojave Desert was bumper-to-bumper.

Overexaggeration. Hyperbole. Sarcasm.

It was completely lost on Rachel. She spun on her high heels without so much as a roll of her eyes.

Reluctantly, Ben followed. It took him two tries to get the front door closed behind him. The building had settled, and the doorframe was no longer plumb. He slammed it home, earning a dry, “Really?” from Rachel.

“Really,” Ben said airily. “You should run a planer on that door.” And think about practicing law elsewhere.

The narrow, rectangular building was divided into two offices and a waiting area with a black couch that was so old it had butt impressions in the cushions. The building’s hardwood floor was worn to the nails that kept it in place and there was a crack in the ceiling plaster that spoke louder of foundation issues than the ill-fitting front door.

Everything about the office screamed struggling law practice, from the receptionist’s bare desk to the unread magazines perfectly fanned on the coffee table.

Rachel settled behind a large oak desk in her office, which had a clean blotter and a few neat, low stacks of paper.

By contrast, when Ben had left his office at Transk, Ipsum & Levi, his credenza had piles of depositions and his desk had been buried in briefs and court filings.

Ben paused in the doorway to Rachel’s office, assessing his adversary for any apparent weaknesses other than inadequate resources.

Rachel was still easy on the eyes, and still favored suits that lacked the sophistication and designer cachet most of his female opponents in New York wore into battle. Joe Calder was probably behind the closed door of the other office. He had to be ancient. When they’d met in court five years ago, Joe had shuffled into the courtroom slower than a turtle in deep sand.

Beware! Remember the tortoise and the hare, boy.

Well, this hare had won the last go-round, but not without a bit of finagling of the racecourse.

That’s what lawyers are supposed to do, boy, bend the law.

Ben ran a hand over his hair. “Where’s Joe?” He leaned back to see if the other office door was opening. “Will he be joining us?”

“Joe died last winter.” Rachel’s tone indicated she didn’t think she needed Joe. “He left me the practice.”

It looked like Joe hadn’t done Rachel any favors.

Ben dusted off the seat of a chair across from her before he sat down, but his gaze never really left Rachel.

They’d known each other since kindergarten, both raised as ranch kids on bordering properties. His grandfather hadn’t much cared for the Thompsons and hadn’t encouraged a friendship.

Ben had targeted Rachel in dodgeball in the fifth grade, because she wasn’t much of an athlete beyond being able to ride. She’d asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance in the seventh grade, but they’d both been awkward about it, because what did you do with the opposite sex when you were almost thirteen? When Ben was fourteen and in high school, he had the answer to that question, but he’d moved on to dating Rachel’s best friend, Zoe Petit. Back in the day, Rachel and Zoe were always made-up and dressed-up, looking like they went to school in a Beverly Hills zip code.

After Ben graduated law school, he and Zoe had made wedding plans. Rachel had been Zoe’s maid of honor—meaning she was supposed to stand up at the altar, smile serenely and hold Zoe’s bouquet while the preacher said his words. Instead, Rachel had stood up to Ben in the church aisle, smiled like she wanted to kill him and then told Ben that Zoe had run off with a wealthier Blackwell—Ben’s grandfather.

Kind of made it hard to look at Rachel’s pretty face after that.

Today, Rachel wasn’t so put-together. She’d straightened her blond hair, but missed a long lock on the side. The eyeliner beneath her left eye was heavier than the line beneath her right. And the pink blouse beneath her navy suit jacket was wrinkled with a stain near the neckline. He wasn’t so principled that he didn’t take a little pleasure in seeing how far the mighty had fallen.

“Lookin’ good, Rach.” Ben ran a hand over his hair once more. Behind her on the credenza was a picture of a baby, a cute one as babies went. Round face, big brown eyes, a thatch of blond hair. Brought to mind another baby and another court case. Ben didn’t let his gaze linger. He gave Rachel a peacemaking smile and reached across the desk to shake her hand. “Is that another one of your sister’s babies?”

“Still the charmer, I see.” Rachel’s fingers were small and cold. They convulsed around Ben’s hand before she drew back, rubbing her palm over her skirt as if he had germs.

No surprise in that handshake. As adults, the Blackwells and the Thompsons were about as friendly as the Hatfields and the McCoys.

Ben flattened his smile out of existence. Best get to the point. “I hear there’s an issue over river water rights.” That’s why he’d returned to Falcon Creek. At his twin’s urging, not his grandfather’s. Big E had apparently gone on drive-about in his thirty-foot mobile home and wasn’t taking calls.

For centuries, ranchers in Montana’s high country had been fighting over water rights. Water nourished crops. Crops fed cattle. Cattle was sold to pay bills. Limited water meant skinny cattle, small herds and limited income. Permission to divert river water for agriculture or to communities was determined in court and by the state water board, and was based on several factors, including historical use and legal precedent. Properties and towns were assigned allotments and priorities. Those in first position had first rights to river water even if they were farther downstream. Ben and Big E had won the first position from the Double T five years ago with a slick piece of legal wrangling that should be iron-clad.

“The Double T has decided it’s time to revisit your rights.” Rachel opened a thin manila folder. “I’ve done some research with the water district and it appears the Blackwell Ranch hasn’t been using their allotment of water, which— as you know— means the claimant with secondary rights can divert more river water. And the ranch with second rights— as you know— is the Double T.”

She’d done research?

Ben was surprised, but not worried. This was Rachel Thompson. She used to copy off his test in Mrs. Whitecloud’s science class. There’d be no competition here. He’d graduated from Harvard and practiced law in New York City. Rachel had graduated from the University of Montana and only ever practiced in Falcon Creek.

Rachel thought she could break the deal Ben had drawn up five years ago? Not on her best day.

He gave her a pitying smile. “I haven’t seen your brief yet, but—”

“I have a copy for you here, along with Exhibit A, the Blackwell Ranch’s year-to-year river water usage.” Rachel handed Ben a few pages, a challenging spark in her brown eyes.

For the first time since arriving in Falcon Creek, Ben felt like doing more than muttering.

He sat up straighter and scanned the brief. But his mind was chugging along an unpleasant train of thought. Both ranches relied on the river for water. The Blackwell Ranch also had rights to an underground reservoir, although it was their practice to use aquifer water only if the river was low. But there was a third player in the water game. Decades ago, the Falcon County Water Company had won legal access to the metered pumps monitoring river water use on both ranches, claiming someday the community’s needs might supersede theirs.