Ann Roth - The Rancher She Loved

Her article had brought a whole host of women to his door, most of them interested in grabbing some of his fame and money for themselves. Jeanne had been the worst of the bunch. She was cute and seemed nice enough. Clay had dated her on and off, making sure she understood that their relationship was casual and that he was dating other women, as well. She didn’t seem to mind.

Then a few hours before what turned out to be his last rodeo, after they hadn’t seen each other for a good six weeks, she’d shown up and announced that she was pregnant and he was responsible. Having always used protection, Clay had his doubts, but Jeanne swore that he was the only man she’d been intimate with.

It was not the kind of news a man needed to hear before a nationally televised bull ride with a six-figure purse. As upset and distracted as Clay was, he should’ve backed out of the event. He didn’t. Not because of the money, which he didn’t need, but because of his fans. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.

No wonder the bull had tossed him.

While he was still recuperating in the hospital, he’d insisted on a paternity test. No surprise there—he wasn’t the father.

Grumbling and out of sorts, he swung his legs over the bed without thinking—and paid for it. Swearing, he massaged the knots around his knee until the pain eased and carefully stood. His leg muscles were painfully tight, but thank heavens, not quite as tight as yesterday. Aspirin and rest had definitely helped.

While the coffee brewed, he pulled out the blueprints for the house and looked them over. After making the decision to buy the shipwreck of a ranch across town and rent the house he was in now, he’d hired a construction crew to renovate the ranch’s outbuildings and an architect to help him design his house. Now that the old one was gone and the builder had broken ground, Clay enjoyed reviewing the plans and checking on the progress.

Four bedrooms and three-and-a-half baths seemed a lot for a man who didn’t intend to have a family. Clay had always wanted kids, but he couldn’t see having one without a wife, and he wasn’t about to marry without love. Even if his mom kept dropping hints—make that blatant suggestions—that now that he was thirty-four it was time to settle down.

Before long, the caffeine worked its magic. Clay shoved to his feet, stowed the blueprints and headed for the large detached garage behind the house, which was insulated and had electricity, making it the ideal place for physical therapy.

After being shackled to a leg cast for what seemed an eternity and spending months in a wheelchair, his leg was in sorry shape, and laboring to rebuild his strength was not fun. The repetitive efforts the physical therapist had taught him taxed his leg muscles until they burned.

A hundred times over the next hellish hour, Clay wanted to quit, but he kept at it. Determined to get back to normal, or as near normal as possible, he sweated, grunted at and cursed the weights and pulleys, all the while knowing that without them, the muscles that had deteriorated would never regain their strength.

To think that two months after the accident, his doctor had wanted to amputate above the knee. Clay had refused. In the past eight months he’d made amazing progress, graduating from the wheelchair to crutches to a cane to none of the above, blowing his orthopedist’s socks off.

“And I’ll keep blowing your mind, Doc,” he’d stated, to psych himself up.

By the time he showered, dressed and ate, it was just after six o’clock—the start of a typical rancher’s workday. As of yet, he didn’t have a crew, but now that the barn and outbuildings were renovated and the foreman’s cottage and crew trailers were clean, he’d posted an ad on Craigslist for experienced ranch hands. He didn’t own any stock yet, either, and time hung like a weight around his neck.

Feeling lost and as a rudderless boat, he wandered to the hallway that held the attic door. Until yesterday he’d never even considered going up there. May as well test the leg, and while he did, look around.

With the help of a stepladder and several colorful oaths, he gritted his teeth against the pain and grasped the rope pull. The thing resisted coming loose but Clay yanked hard, and the door swung down.

He unfolded the attic ladder and climbed up, pausing after each step to rest his leg. The usual attic greeted him—a musty-smelling, dingy space, cold from the chilly morning air. A lone window caked in grime and a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling were the only sources of light and barely illuminated the area.

In need of a flashlight or a bulb with higher wattage, he headed back down, ignoring his leg. In no time, he was screwing in a new bulb.

Light blazed over the room, revealing old lamps, a faded armchair and other junk, everything blanketed with dust.

He almost missed the footlocker in the corner. Shoved against the wall, it was partially hidden under a musty throw. Clay unfastened the clasps and tried the lid, gratified when it opened with a soft creak.

Papers and whatnot almost filled the cavity. The 16 Magazine on top caught his attention. Duran Duran posed on the cover, flashing ’80s-style hair and clothes—something a teen girl would like. The date on the cover was January, 1982, which was when Tammy Becker had lived here.

Beneath the magazine, Clay found a small, dark red journal covered in faux leather. Private diary! Stay out! T. B. someone had written. Judging by the hearts replacing periods and the looping script, T.B. was a teenage girl.

This footlocker belonged to Sarah’s biological mom. That sixth sense of hers had been dead-on.

A chill climbed his neck.

No snoop, Clay closed the lid and refastened the latches. He dragged the heavy trunk from the corner, the metal grating over the rough floorboards and his damn knee threatening to buckle.

Grunting with effort, he hugged the big thing with one arm and awkwardly made his way down the ladder. By the time he reached the floor, sweat beaded his forehead and he was breathing like he’d just gone a round with a feisty bull.

Sarah’s card was still in the hip pocket of his jeans. Leaning heavily against the wall, Clay slid it out and held it lightly in his palm. At this hour, she was probably still asleep. He’d wait awhile, and then give her a call.

* * *

AFTER A SOLID night’s sleep, Sarah felt more rested than she had in ages. She donned a robe and flip-flops and wandered downstairs in search of coffee. Even before she reached the bottom step, she smelled bacon and something baking. Still waking up, she wasn’t hungry yet. All the same her mouth watered.

Standing at the stove, dressed, aproned and humming happily, Mrs. Yancy greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Good morning. It’s going to be a beautiful day. The biscuits are in the oven.”

“They sure smell good. So does that coffee.” Sarah stretched and yawned.

“Help yourself, dear, and sit down. Was your bed comfortable? Did you have enough blankets?”

After sleeping in the twin bed of her childhood for over a year—Sarah couldn’t get herself to use the bed that had been Ellen’s—the double bed here had seemed a luxury. “Everything was great, thanks. Your neighborhood is very peaceful.”

So was Ellen’s street in Boise, but since her death, Sarah rarely slept through the night. Her friends thought she should put the house on the market and buy a condo or a cottage, something without the memories. Sarah agreed, but if she wanted a good price for the property, both the house and the yard needed sprucing up—tasks she would tackle later. “It’s not so peaceful with all those chirping birds outside,” Mrs. Yancy said. “Between the warblers, sparrows and crows, it’s impossible for a body to sleep past dawn. Not that I ever have. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”