Claire McEwen - A Ranch to Keep

Jack covered the last yards of the trail with big strides and stepped with relief onto his own property. His old wooden barn, stripped of paint long ago by the harsh mountain weather, was a welcome sight. He was ready to get back to his own world. It might get kind of lonely at times, but it was far simpler and a whole lot more peaceful.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARK’S TEXT READ delayed—20 mints. Samantha smiled, despite the rising annoyance that he was keeping her waiting even longer. Life Savers? Peppermints? She thought it was kind of cute that despite being addicted to his smartphone, Mark had never really mastered texting shorthand.

She looked around the coffee shop where she’d been sipping her cappuccino and sighed. Just one more hazard in the bumpy road of dating her boss.

They always tried to leave work separately and meet up somewhere a safe distance from the office. Tonight he’d given her the thumbs-up about a half hour ago and she’d closed up the file she’d been working on, said good-night to a few colleagues who were working late, and headed nonchalantly out the door. She didn’t think anyone at work suspected, which was pretty miraculous considering that she and Mark had been dating for over a year now.

As much as she cared for Mark, sometimes she wished she hadn’t fallen for her boss. All the required sneaking around lost its romantic mystery after the first few months, and now it just felt like extra work sometimes.

Samantha stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the gray-green water of San Francisco Bay. The steel towers of the Bay Bridge rose beyond. At least they’d picked an espresso bar with an inspiring view for their rendezvous. And the cappuccino was fabulous. Organic, of course, with the “artisan, micro-roasted” beans ground just before the sleek barista made the coffee, and the milk was fresh from a farm just thirty miles north of the city. This was the Ferry Building in San Francisco after all; the old terminal had been converted to an enormous farmers market, and a mecca for politically correct diners.

She might make fun of it a bit, but she loved the space, with the sky-high ceiling, the warehouse feel and the bay visible through every window. Plus, where else could you get your caffeine with a “coffee-compatible edible,” as the sign above her boasted?

Glancing again at Mark’s message, she calculated the time until he got here. It took about five minutes from their office to the street below, if the elevator was its usual slow self. And it took another ten minutes to walk from there, which meant that Samantha had at least thirty-five minutes to kill. She could answer emails on her phone, but she hated the inefficiency of poking away at the microscopic keyboard when she knew she could get the same message written in a fraction of the time on her computer. Wishing she’d brought her laptop, though—she hadn’t thought she’d need it on a date—she decided to go for a walk.

The damp wind hit her the moment she stepped out the door and onto the waterfront walkway. When she’d first moved to San Francisco she’d been so frustrated with the wind. The fog was always blowing in or out of the bay, and whenever she went out, she always arrived at her destination windblown and messy. After a year or two it occurred to her that this was a trademark of San Franciscans. They blew through doorways with coats pulled around them, hair flying over their faces, looking like they’d been somewhere exciting and perhaps a bit treacherous. It was part of the mystique of living there. At least this is how she consoled herself when she arrived somewhere and glanced in a mirror to find her hair standing on end and her cheeks and nose bright pink from the wind.

Wrapping her wool coat tightly around her and tucking her purse carefully under her arm, Samantha headed south toward the Bay Bridge, savoring the scenery. Treasure Island and the East Bay hills beyond hadn’t yet been engulfed by the incoming fog and were lit up with the last bit of sunlight. Dodging joggers, cyclists and even a few salsa dancers with a boom box, Samantha took in the view and tried to keep her mind in the present—enjoying her adopted city that had come to feel like home, and looking forward to finally spending time with Mark. But her mind wouldn’t be still, her thoughts slipping back to the weekend, to the ranch and to the way she’d felt when she’d been near Jack Baron.

Maybe it was his eyes, she mused. No one had a right to eyes that blue, or that compelling. There’d been a happiness about him, too, a contentment that radiated, as if he was exactly where he wanted to be in life. That was something she definitely wasn’t used to. Most people she knew were fairly happy, but they were always reaching for something more...a promotion, a relationship, a vacation, or the mastery of a new hobby. Jack didn’t seem to be reaching. Just enjoying.

It occurred to her that Grandma Ruth had been content like that, and her grandfather as well. She suddenly remembered something Ruth had said a few years ago, on what had turned out to be her last visit to San Francisco. They’d been sitting in a Union Street café near Samantha’s apartment, taking a rest from window shopping and watching the weekend crowds stroll by. Ruth had taken Samantha’s hand across the table, patting it gently. “You’ve chosen a beautiful city to live in, Sammy,” she’d told her. “But I look at these people going by, pushing their designer baby carriages, walking their beautiful dogs, with cups of fancy coffee in their hands, and I worry about you. All these people have so much, but no one looks very happy to me. No one ever seems satisfied here.”

At the time Samantha had teased her grandmother. “Happiness is overrated, Grandma,” she’d replied. “In San Francisco it goes along with a lot more, with accomplishment and with living well and doing things the right way. You can see why my perfectionist self fits in so well!” They’d laughed at the truth in that and Ruth had said no more about it.

Now it occurred to her that maybe Ruth had left her the ranch in an attempt to give her the type of happiness she’d enjoyed throughout her own life. But if the core of that happiness was contentment, then how could Samantha Rylant, vice president at Taylor Advertising, ever achieve that on a ranch in Benson? How could she possibly be satisfied living out in the middle of the mountains?

Samantha felt a stab of guilt at the realization that she wasn’t going to be able to fulfill Ruth’s dream for her, that she was very likely going to have to sell Ruth’s beloved ranch.

But Ruth must have also understood that Samantha had a different dream, one with a different type of happiness—more ephemeral maybe, more based on career and accomplishment. With that came a little less contentment perhaps, but wasn’t it a lack of contentment that drove people to keep striving and achieving more?

Her phone jangled and she grabbed at it, startled out of her thoughts.

Mark’s voice sounded annoyed. “Samantha, where are you?”

Surprised, she immediately turned around and started back. “Mark! I’m so sorry. I went for a walk while I was waiting. I guess I lost track of time!” Lost track of time? That wasn’t normal for her. She mentally kicked herself, and Jack Baron, for proving to be such a distraction, even from so many miles away. “I’m on my way back now.”

“Well, it’s getting really late,” Mark complained. “We’re going to miss the movie at this rate.”

His accusing tone grated but she tried to keep her voice pleasant. “Mark, I apologize for not being there when you arrived, but I’m also not the only reason we’re running behind. How about we just get dinner and we can see the film another time?”

With a sigh he agreed and hung up. Samantha shook her head. The male ego astounded her. True, she wasn’t at their meeting place, but he’d kept her waiting an hour. She dialed the restaurant to change their reservation for the second time that evening and was relieved when the host said that it wasn’t a problem. It was hard to even get into the popular waterfront eatery, with its divine Vietnamese-Californian cuisine.