His Ranch Or Hers. Roz Denny Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ the sound of an engine, she glanced toward the private lane. Not recognizing the big black Chevy pickup sporting off-road tires, she assumed her nemesis had arrived.

      The man who emerged from the pickup—newer than Gramps’s old Ford by at least a decade—looked to top six feet by a couple of inches or so. Bareheaded in a snowstorm, his dark hair was cut military short. He did wear boots and a far-from-new bomber jacket with some insignia patches sewn on the left side. The US flag stood out. It was hard not to notice that his shoulders were broad, but as he strode toward her she detected no sign of an injury to his left side. He walked straight as a telephone pole, a thirtyish guy in perfect shape. So if the VA had put him back together, they’d done a bang-up job.

      He stopped a foot or so from her. “Hi. I’m Zeke Maxwell. You must be Myra, Eric’s sister.”

      She lost track of a few seconds as she gazed up into warm dark brown eyes fringed by to-die-for long, thick eyelashes. Caught assessing him, Myra fumbled worn gloves out of her jacket pocket. That gave her a moment before answering as she bent to retrieve one from the snow-covered ground. “Is Zeke a nickname?” she asked, blurting out the question Jewell had asked yesterday.

      The man wrinkled his nose. “Ezekiel. A family name that got passed down through generations. As twin A in a set, I drew the short straw. I still haven’t forgiven my mother, so you don’t want to call me that.” He pivoted in a slow circle, dusting snow off his head as he took in the house, barn, sheds and corral before circling back to examine Myra from head to toe. “Why are we standing out here in the weather? I could use a cup of coffee and a fire to warm up.”

      “The house is unlocked. Coffee’s in a thermos by the pot. I’m heading out to drive the cows and yearlings down from the foothills into that enclosure.” She stabbed a finger, which he followed without moving his head.

      His right shoulder rose slightly then fell. “Give me a minute to grab a hat and gloves from my truck and I’ll join you.”

      “Being from Boston and all, do you even ride? Do you need me to saddle your horse?” she drawled.

      “Unless you give me a nag, I won’t hold you back.” He spun on a heel and stalked back to his pickup.

      Myra tugged on her gloves, flipped up her jacket collar and stomped into the barn. She should probably apologize, but really, if he thought one ran a ranch sitting by a fire drinking coffee, the Flying Owl would be in shambles before spring thaw.

      Marching to the back of the barn, she led Cayenne, a sorrel mare, out of her stall and had the saddle on and cinched as Zeke appeared in a Boston Red Sox ball cap. His ears were gonna freeze, but he’d learn. “You get the black gelding,” she told him. “His name is Ember. Saddle’s on the rack. Bridles are on the wall peg.” She took one down and settled it over the sorrel’s head.

      He flashed her a glance, as if he had something to say, but then yanked up the saddle, smoothed the blanket over the gelding’s back and settled the saddle as easily as if it were an everyday occurrence. Same with the bridle.

      In silence they left the barn. Zeke mounted while Myra closed the barn door, then she, too, swung into the saddle.

      Zeke let her lead. As they moved from a trot into a canter, he pulled alongside. “Feels like we’re in the middle of a snow globe. Is snow usual this time of year? Will it last? At supper Eric said the weatherman predicted mountain snow. Your dad scoffed.”

      “The almanac shows it could last a few days. It’s early. As a rule, the first snowfall is late September or early October. If this is a harbinger of what’s to come, it could wreck winter-wheat crops.”

      “Do you raise and sell wheat, too?”

      “Ranchers raise, cut and bale wheat, grass and alfalfa for cattle feed. Lose a crop and you either have to buy grain at outrageous costs or sell stock you can’t afford to feed at a loss.” It was plain he didn’t know diddly-squat about ranching. Maybe Jewell was right, maybe he’d opt out. She wasn’t a fan of feeding the greater herd by hand this early in the season. But if it made him leave, she’d say, let it snow.

      They reached the foothills where her stock huddled in a cut between the hills that blocked the windblown snow. Myra rode past them, uncoiled her rope, swung it around and yelled “Hi yi yi” several times. Startled, the animals bolted away from the noise.

      “What do you want me to do?” Zeke called.

      “Watch for stragglers. Make noise to bring ʼem back into the fold. I see some have my neighbor’s brand. We’ll take them in. He can collect them when it’s convenient. Hank Watson runs the Bar W. He’s kindly volunteered to truck my yearlings—uh, your yearlings—to market shortly. If you see the slant R brand, that’s Dave Ralston, your other neighbor. He’s a good guy to know. He rents out his baler. A ranch this size can’t afford to buy one.”

      Zeke bobbed his head.

      Myra noticed he rode well, and he brought in a number of strays as they rode down the hillside and made their way to the large enclosure. Subconsciously she’d hoped he’d screw up.

      As the ranch came into sight through falling snowflakes, Myra raced ahead, hopped off Cayenne and opened the gate.

      Without asking, Zeke hung back and drove the cattle through.

      “Phew,” he said, swinging down to help Myra shut the gate. “I see they’re pawing up the snow to get to grass. Good they know to do that.”

      “Yep. The snow is slacking some, but we still have to take hay out to the main herd. We’ll go put our horses up, hook the big tractor to the flatbed and load up twenty or so bales.”

      “Okay.”

      Myra couldn’t help but notice he sounded unsure. Maybe she should let him stop for coffee. On the other hand, if she kept the pressure on, by nightfall he could give up.

      “Just unsaddle Ember. I’ll brush both horses down and feed them later. We need to get the hay distributed while it’s light.”

      Again Zeke followed orders.

      Myra fetched the tractor and hooked up the flatbed. Backing the trailer into the barn, she climbed a ladder to the hayloft and began tossing down large bales.

      “Do you need assistance?” Zeke asked, squinting up at her.

      “You could straighten them on the trailer. If I don’t have to do it at the end of pitching off twenty bales, it’ll save us time.”

      He stepped up on the trailer and that was the first time Myra noticed he greatly favored his left arm. She heard him grunt as he hefted the heavy bales one-handed. For someone her size—and at five-seven she wasn’t petite—moving bales took knowing how to leverage the weight. Obviously it was the same for a man with an injured arm. She debated telling him to leave the stacking for her, after all. But she didn’t want to insult him. When she left, the work would all fall on him unless he hired help. Maybe he had a disability pension that would help cover costs. She and Gramps hadn’t had extra money to work with.

      “I’ll drive the tractor this time because I know the route,” she said once they were ready. “You can sit on the bales. See, I’ve fitted one like a chair so you won’t bounce off.” She’d thought Zeke might laugh, but he had begun to look weary. And a dense fog had settled down, covering the mountains.

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