A Reunion For The Rancher. Brenda Minton

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       Chapter Two

      As much as Carson loved living on this ranch in Texas Hill Country, some mornings he’d just as soon put it on the market and move to the city. Or to another country. This was one of those mornings. He’d been up since well before daybreak, and he’d heard nothing but problems and complaints since he set foot in the barn.

      The hay they’d bought from Iowa hadn’t showed up, there was an outbreak of pinkeye and someone really needed to do something about the wild hogs that were tearing up a section of field at the back of the property where the hills were steep and a creek supplied water. Carson poured himself a cup of coffee, raised a hand to the young kid about to ask what he needed to do, since it was his second day on the job, and walked out the back of the barn to watch the sun come up over an autumn landscape.

      He sighed as he sipped about the worst coffee in history. For a brief moment he could forget wild hogs, pinkeye, drought and cattle thieves. For that moment, as he watched the sun come up, he knew God existed and he knew that as bad as things could look, somehow they always worked out in the end. For a man who sometimes felt as far from God as he could get, maybe that was getting somewhere.

      The door creaked open. He sighed and turned to face that kid again. Ron? No. Rolland? Rick.

      “Can I help you, Rick?”

      “I just thought I should tell you that gray mare of yours looks like she’s got a tendon problem. I’ve doctored her the best I could, but I think she might need a vet. And...” The kid let out a breath as if that was how he filled himself with courage. “Someone got into the trophy case. This back door was open when I got here.”

      “Trophy case?” Why would anyone want trophies that were thirty years old?

      “There are a few empty spaces and some belt buckles missing.” Rick cleared his throat on that news. “I’m sorry.”

      “I’ll take a look. I can’t imagine anything of value. Just dusty old trophies. Keepsakes, mostly.”

      “Maybe the silver?”

      “I guess a few of them might have silver.” He followed Rick inside. “Did Larry and Gayla show up to take that gelding and the other mare to the show in Houston?”

      “Yes, sir. They left last night. Larry wanted to get them there a few days early, give them time to settle in before the event.”

      That’s why Larry was his trainer. The couple was invaluable. They trained, they were able to hit shows and rodeos he couldn’t, and they were dependable.

      Rick, just eighteen, tall and wiry with a shock of wheat-colored hair, led him to the tack and trophy room. He pointed to the trophy case, his face a little pale. Carson stepped close, surveying the loss. It wasn’t much, a few trophies, mostly sentimental. Why would anyone want trophies? He shook his head. And then he noticed that his mom’s trophy, won at a national finals event, was gone. He hadn’t paid much attention over the years, but he didn’t want that piece of his history gone.

      And why would anyone want it? The only thing he could think was that someone wanted to mess with him, maybe show him they could take what they wanted. They’d made it personal, taking those trophies.

      He walked out, left that room, left the barn and headed for the house. Rick didn’t follow him. Fortunately no one asked where he was going. He didn’t really know.

      His gaze settled on the house, a museum of a place in Georgian architecture that his grandfather had built. Columned porticos extended from each side of the house, those massive porches devoid of warmth or furnishings. Rose gardens ran wild because he didn’t really care. It was the one thing he’d let go, those flower gardens. They represented his only rebellion against his father’s legacy.

      Carson took care of business. He took care of the ranch. He maintained the family reputation and standing in the community. He didn’t like roses, so if something had to be neglected on a ranch this size it was going to be the flowers.

      As he climbed the steps of the front porch a car shot up the driveway, coming to a quick stop in front of the detached garage. He nearly groaned when he saw who it was. His sister, Jenna, five years his junior, and never one to take the family name seriously, jumped out of her little car and reached in the backseat. When she emerged she had her son by the hand. They were both dark haired and dark eyed, and the little boy looked tired.

      Jenna looked on the verge of some kind of breakdown.

      “Here.” She pushed her son’s hand into his.

      “What?”

      “I can’t do this. I need a break. Just a few days.”

      “He isn’t a...” Carson looked down at the little guy and bit back every foul word he wanted to say to his sister. Her child wasn’t a puppy. He wasn’t something you handed off, like secondhand toys or clothing. He was a person with feelings.

      And little feet that shifted back and forth as the boy squirmed and looked increasingly more uncomfortable.

      “Head for the bathroom, Brandon.” Carson opened the door for the five-year-old. The little boy shot past him and into the house.

      “He’s СКАЧАТЬ