Roz Fox - His Ranch Or Hers

“Hey, hey. Careful.” Zeke grabbed her upper arm to keep her from taking a spill.

Caught between his close, warm body and the dishwasher, her breath hitched and her pulse quickened. She breathed a sigh of relief when he let go of her arm and moved aside.

Her cell phone rang. Myra recognized her neighboring rancher’s number. “Hank, hi,” she said, stepping away from the sink. “Is everything okay at the Bar W?”

“It’s good. I thought I’d check on you. I was in town picking up supplies and I heard a rumor you were leaving. I’m running trucks to market in a few days if the snow melts—and the weathermen predict it will. Do you still need space for your stock?”

Myra pinched the bridge of her nose. She should’ve known her business would be all over town. The café wasn’t empty when she talked to her friends. And gossip was a mainstay of any small town. “I... We still need a truck. I helped the ranch’s new owner trail cow-calf pairs down to our grass pasture today. Are any of the Jarvis boys home? Lieutenant Maxwell is going to need help sorting, and certainly help sending cows through chutes for vaccinating, parasite treatment and pregnancy testing.”

“Lieutenant Maxwell? Is that the soldier hero who saved Eric’s life? Your grandpa Cal mentioned him.”

“He’s one and the same. Dad gave him the Flying Owl.” She made an effort to not sound distressed.

“Hot damn! Where does that leave you, Myra?”

“I’m still figuring that out. About the Jarvis boys...?”

“Two are off at college, and I guess you didn’t hear that Gordy, the high school junior, broke his leg playing football. He’s in a cast.”

“Damn.” Myra frowned at Zeke, who’d finished loading the dishwasher and leaned against the sink cabinet watching her.

“The yearlings have to be weaned for market,” she went on. “I can do that since some of the money from the sale is slated to pay off the last of Gramps’s banknote. When will you have room on a semi?”

“Day after tomorrow. I can be there to load up by nine.”

“Okay. Oh, and Hank, I drove down a couple of Bar W heifers and calves, and a few of Ralston’s that mixed in with my herd. Working in snow I figured it’d be easiest to bring them all in.”

“Dave rented my truck for tomorrow. I’ll ask if he’ll send a cowhand over while you’re cutting.”

They reiterated a time for loading and said goodbye. Myra tossed her phone on the counter. “What was that all about?” Zeke asked.

Myra put soap in the dishwasher and started it running. “It means you’re stuck with me for a few more days at least. Unless you can pull a cowboy out of your hat. There are calves to get to market and bills to pay. Hank only charges for the gas it costs to drive from here to the stockyards. You won’t get a better deal in your lifetime. Plus, greenhorn that you are, you need to see and help with a process that gets done every year.”

“Okay. But does that mean you have to forgo finding a teaching job?”

“I told you, it’s probably too late now to secure a fall opening.”

“You did. You also offered to buy me out. Greenhorn I may be, but I’m not ready to sell. Not until I know if I have what it takes to be a rancher. Just so we’re clear, I had what it took to be a Green Beret.”

“Touché.” She opened the fridge and pulled out some fresh lettuce from the keeper, crossed the room and set it in Orion’s bowl. She rubbed his ears and the pig all but smiled.

“Is he full grown?” Zeke asked.

Myra shook her head. “He weighs about fourteen pounds. Jewell says the full-grown micromini probably ends up twenty pounds.”

“Do you have a dog to help herd cattle and the like?”

“Not now. Gramps had a beautiful border collie. Lucy gave out before he did, and he’d had her for so many years he couldn’t fathom loving another dog. He made fun of Orion when I brought him home. But it wasn’t long before I noticed him talking to the pig. And Orion liked to sit with Gramps in his recliner.” She smiled at the memory.

Zeke smiled back. “Look, if you’re not champing at the bit to get to bed, can we talk bookkeeping? I already know from listening to you speak with the neighbor that I have a lot to absorb about what goes on outside. But if I don’t understand the economics I’ll be sunk before I start.”

“It’s a boring subject, but if we brew another pot of strong coffee I’ll give you some hard facts and walk you through the software I use.”

“We’ll have to load that onto my laptop, I guess.”

“Good idea,” Myra said, dumping what little coffee remained in the old pot. Then she prepared a new one. “In the meantime, I’ll get my laptop. We can work at the kitchen table. There’s a desk in the third bedroom, but it shares space with all of my dollhouse materials and jigsaws and stuff.”

“About those dollhouses...?” Zeke’s voice trailed off, but his question hung between them.

Myra sifted a hand through her hair. “I’ll deliver the finished ones to another member of the Artsy Ladies before I leave. I don’t know what I’ll do with the half-completed projects, or the unused material and equipment. But never fear, I’ll clear everything of mine out.”

His forehead wrinkled. “I’m afraid I’m still in the dark here. Who are the Artsy Ladies?”

“Some of us formed a group to sell crafts and hopefully save the snowy owls for which the town is named. They’ve always nested in timberland running through Canada and the US. The owls are sacred to our local Native Americans, too.”

“Okay, I get that,” Zeke said.

“They’re gorgeous. Wait until you see them in flight, or in their nests if you ride up to the woods. Sorry, I’m getting off track. About the dollhouses... Our veterinarian was born and raised in Snowy Owl Crossing. She first noticed a decline in the owl population when she came home to open her vet practice. Right after I moved here to help Gramps, she organized a committee to look into securing a state wildlife refuge for the birds. It takes money to fight for anything like that. Asking for donations to buy expensive land went nowhere in a bad economy. So some of us decided to hold a Thanksgiving bazaar and all sell crafts. Profits above material costs go to fund our effort. We named our group the Artsy Ladies.”

“I counted a dozen dollhouses. There’s that big a demand for them?”

“You’d be surprised. People come from miles around to buy them and the other handmade wares.”

Zeke looked skeptical.

The coffeepot gurgled. “If the houses bug you, I’ll make time to haul them away. I’m sure someone can store them until the bazaar.”

He held up a hand. “It’s okay. I didn’t understand. Why don’t I pour our coffee while you get the computer.”

“Okay, but prepare to be bored. People born to ranching, like my dad, keep a lot of these facts and figures in their heads. As a math major, I’m different. I like spreadsheets.” She left and came back with a laptop. “Even Gramps said keeping a spreadsheet helped us not to overspend. But so you know, some years you make a profit and some you go in the hole. It’s imperative to be on good terms with your local banker, who’ll float loans to tide you over in bad years. Notes you pay back in a year when stock prices are up and you haven’t been plagued by a horrid winter or summer drought.” Myra fired up the computer just as the lights flickered.

Zeke shot a glance at the ceiling lights.

“Don’t worry, we have a generator if the power goes out. Lanterns and flashlights, too.”

He pulled a chair around to her side of the table and sat.

His body heat warmed Myra, but left her stumbling over giving him basic costs for cows, feed, bull, labor, transportation, vet and other supplies. “In a fantastic year still only eighty percent of our cows wean calves. Heifer calves weigh less than steers, which bring less money. See this column. For last year I adjusted the amount we earned in stock sales. This year I’ll do the same when we ship.” She discreetly edged her chair away from his.