Roz Denny Fox - His Ranch Or Hers

“Yes, but if you didn’t learn all the stuff you spout off the top of your head from a book,” he said, frustrated, “how is it you know so much?”

“I was born on a ranch,” she pointed out, standing to collect both of their plates. “Summers from my earliest memory I spent right here tagging after Gramps. Oh, sure, Gram taught me canning, jam making and cooking. But I learned all I’ve ever needed to know about running a ranch from helping Gramps and Dad do the work.”

“Okay, so listen. I’m having some thoughts here. Yesterday you said it’s too late for you to get a teaching job this fall. What would you charge to stay here and work for me until a math job comes your way? I can follow you around and learn what I need to know to keep this ranch running like it does now.”

The dishes clattered in the sink where Myra dropped them. She spun toward him, her mouth agape. “Wor...work...for you?”

Zeke sucked his bottom lip between his teeth then released it. “Didn’t mean to take you by surprise. I do own this ranch now,” he said gently. “If it’s a title you want, how about we call you the ranch manager until I get up to speed?”

Myra’s cell rang, and she snatched it off the counter. “It’s, uh, my dad. I’m sure he’s calling to see if I’m headed to Rolling Acres. I only spoke to Eric last night. I’ll be right back.”

Zeke heard her say hello as she walked down the hall. Then her bedroom door slammed and he was left in a kitchen devoid of noise except for Orion rooting for food in his almost empty dish. Bending, Zeke rubbed the pig’s large pink ears. “Shocked her I did, Piggy Pal. It sounded like a good idea to me.” He finished his coffee, replaced the pot on the burner and put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Myra still hadn’t returned, so he went to shave. Although, if it was as cold out today as yesterday, maybe he should grow a beard. But he didn’t like them because he’d been required to have one for so long. He’d needed one in Afghanistan to blend in with locals. Not blending in could have gotten him killed. Once he separated from the military, he’d stayed clean shaven, and considered it a luxury. Passing a hand over his prickly cheeks, he detoured back to his room.

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