Ann Roth - The Rancher She Loved

Slipping on oven mitts, she launched into a monologue about her bird feeder and the types of birds that visited. Her words barely slowed as she pulled the biscuits from the oven and deftly transferred them to a basket.

Sarah didn’t mind the chatter, as long as she didn’t have to participate. She needed a moment to sip her coffee and get her mind up and running. Thankfully, Mrs. Yancy seemed content to carry on the entire conversation by herself, reminding Sarah of Ellen.

Her mother was the last person she wanted to think about right now. As angry as she was about the lies, she missed Ellen dearly. If only she were still around and they could argue and cry and talk through this whole mess and move on...

Abruptly Mrs. Yancy’s chatter died. “You look sad, dear.”

“I was thinking about Ellen—my mother. She died six months ago. Do you need help with breakfast?”

“No, but go ahead and grab a plate from the cabinet and dish up your eggs and bacon at the stove. I’m sorry about your mother. Were you close?”

Not as close as Sarah had thought. “Most of the time,” she said.

“It’s good that you put off the search to find your biological mother until now. This way, your actual mother can’t get upset at what you’re doing.”

Having filled her plate, Sarah sat down at the table. “How could looking for my biological mother possibly have upset Ellen?”

“It just can.” Mrs. Yancy didn’t say another word until she brought over the biscuits and her own plate and sat down across the table. She let out a sigh. “I was terribly upset when my son decided to search for his biological mother.”

Sarah masked her surprise. Had Mrs. Yancy also kept the truth from her son, and if so, what were her reasons? How had he discovered the truth? Those and a thousand other questions came to mind, yet as open and easy as her breakfast companion was to talk to, Sarah didn’t know her well enough to ask such personal things. “Does your son live in town?” she asked, settling for a harmless enough question.

“Sadly, no. Tom lives in Billings with his wife and their three kids. He’s a good son. I visit them several times a year, and they come here now and then, but we don’t see each other nearly often enough.”

She turned her attention to her breakfast for a few moments before continuing. “He was twenty when he decided he wanted to reunite with his biological mother. She lives in Albuquerque. I’m embarrassed to admit this now, but at the time, I worried that he’d choose her over me. My John assured me otherwise, but all the same, I lost many a night’s sleep.”

Sarah had never even considered such a possibility. “How did it all work out?” she asked.

“Tom’s biological mother was thrilled to hear from him. She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen and knew she wasn’t ready to give him the stability and family he needed, but she’d always wanted to know him. She’d gone on to college, where she met her husband. They have two children—Tom has met the entire family.

“From time to time they talk on the phone, and once in a while they see each other, but I’m the one Tom visits on Mother’s Day. He says I nursed him when he was sick, hollered at him when he needed it and helped him with his schoolwork, and that makes me his real mother.”

“I never even thought about any of that,” Sarah admitted. Now that Mrs. Yancy had opened up, she felt safe asking a question. “What made Tom decide to find his biological mother? Had he just found out that he was adopted?”

“Heavens, no. We talked about that from the time he was old enough to understand—even before then. We always celebrated his adoption day with a cake and presents. He just wanted to meet her.”

Sarah chewed a forkful of eggs, then voiced her own question. “How did your family celebrate your adoption day?”

“We didn’t.” Ducking her head from the woman’s questioning look, Sarah slathered a biscuit with jam.

Comprehension, then sympathy dawned on Mrs. Yancy’s face. “Your mother never told you.”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t even know if it was a closed adoption. I couldn’t find any paperwork. I just wish I knew why she kept something so important from me.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

Whatever they were, Sarah would never know. She hoped Tammy Becker could shed some light on the matter.

“Your biological mother probably doesn’t know your actual mother’s reasons for keeping the adoption secret,” Mrs. Yancy said as if she’d read Sarah’s mind. “She probably never met your mother.”

“No, but they may have exchanged letters.”

Sarah hoped. She hadn’t found any, but her mother had been a no-nonsense woman who liked a tidy house. She’d never been the type to save things. Or maybe she’d simply disposed of any correspondence so Sarah wouldn’t accidentally find it. But then, why leave the birth certificate in her safe-deposit box?

Sarah wanted answers, needed them, in order to make sense of things. So that she could at least gain some insight into why her mother had kept the adoption a secret.

“Are there any family members you could ask—grandparents or cousins?” Mrs. Yancy said.

“No.”

“What about friends of your parents?”

“I asked my mother’s best friend, her church friends and the women from her bridge club. Not a single person knew that I was adopted. My parents moved to Boise when I was a baby, and I guess the subject never came up.”

Another baffling shock Sarah couldn’t get over. Keeping such a huge secret from even your most trusted friends seemed unimaginable and beyond comprehension.

Why?

The question reverberated through her head as it had for months, making her crazy with the what-ifs that circled right back to the original question.

Why?

Weary of that dead-end question, she broached a different subject. “I thought I’d call the Dawson brothers and Lucky Arnett today and set up interviews. I’m also planning to explore the area. Should I get a key so that I don’t have to bother you with my coming and going?”

“No need—I never lock my door. Well, that’s not quite true. When I leave town, I do.”

Clay Hollyer kept his door locked. Sarah remembered the loud click of the deadbolt as he slid it back. “Even in quiet, safe Boise, we lock our doors,” she said.

“Here, most of us don’t. Although there are people who lock their doors for one reason or another.”

No doubt, Clay didn’t want any nosy reporters walking into his house. Which was exactly what he’d taken her for.

“The Tates, my next-door neighbors, started locking their door last summer.” Mrs. Yancy dived into a comical story of the time Mr. Tate’s unwanted relatives showed up and made themselves comfortable while the couple was out for the day. Which led into a story of another friend’s cow, which somehow figured out how to open the gate to the back garden.

In no time, the amusing stories pushed all thoughts of Ellen from Sarah’s mind.

She laughed and let out an inward sigh of relief. When the meal ended, she was still smiling.

* * *

AFTER BREAKFAST, MRS. YANCY refused Sarah’s offer to help clean up. “You’re a paying guest, and you’re not supposed to do the breakfast dishes,” she said. “But you can sit and keep me company awhile longer.”

Mrs. Yancy suggested places to see in the area. Sarah was at the table, jotting down notes, when her cell phone rang.

Private caller, the screen said, and she almost let it go to voice mail. But she never had been good at ignoring calls. What if an editor with a blocked number was calling about an assignment? She picked up. “This is Sarah Tigarden.”

“It’s Clay.”