The Rancher's Prospect. Callie Endicott

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       CHAPTER THREE

      A WEEK LATER Tara walked down an aisle at the grocery store, selecting spices. The restaurant food in Schuyler was tasty and certainly “indigenous,” but she was ready to vary things up with her favorite dishes from the countries she’d traveled to. Not that there was a huge selection of exotic ingredients available, but she could make do. Cooking was often a question of style as much as content.

      It would also be good to experiment with recipes off the internet. In fact, she was ready to try anything to occupy herself. She was accustomed to working regular hours and maximizing her free time to see everything possible in the places she lived. In Schuyler she didn’t have a job, and her sister had long shifts at the medical clinic. Montana scenery was stunning, but nobody could spend all day, every day, just looking at the beautiful vistas.

      Before long she’d realized she would go stark raving crazy without something more to do. Fortunately, that was changing since word had gone around Schuyler about the kind of work she did. More than once she’d heard, “I understand you do bookkeeping and organize stuff.” It was a simplistic description of her professional skills, but that was okay. She needed to occupy some of her time and didn’t mind trimming her fees to fit her new environment.

      Today Tara was going to talk with a prospective client out in the country. His lawyer, Vanta Cooper, had contacted her, explaining that ill health had necessitated bringing in outside help. When she’d heard the name, Walt Nelson, she had immediately agreed, remembering him from the hospital.

      Rather than use GPS, she studied a local map and memorized the route to the Boxing N. Shortly before two she pulled up next to a small building with a sign that identified it as the office.

      “Good to see you again, Tara,” Walt said as he limped forward to meet her. “When you mentioned records management at the hospital, it gave me the idea of having you work in my office here. My lawyer’s office said they’d track you down.”

      “I’m glad they did, Mr. Nelson,” she agreed with a smile.

      “Call me Walt. You mind if I call you Tara?”

      She smiled. “Not in the least.”

      “Come see the disaster zone.”

      He led the way into the building’s main room and Tara knew what Vanta had meant when she’d said that “paperwork isn’t Walt’s favorite occupation.” The chaos was obviously a long-standing condition. Papers were everywhere, and it was unlikely the ancient desk to the left had ever seen a computer.

      But the room was pleasant, with windows that provided gorgeous views of rolling ranch land as well as the gardens around the house. On the right were comfortable chairs, a small sink, refrigerator, stove and coffeemaker. Plainly it was more than an office; it was also a gathering place, though she didn’t know whether it was for employees or friends.

      “I don’t suppose what we need done here is like your work in Paris,” Walt continued. “It may seem ridiculous to you.”

      “I don’t think anyone’s business is ridiculous,” she told him honestly. “Your needs will be different from the records management systems used by an international corporation, but I wouldn’t expect that on a ranch.”

      He peered at her, his faded eyes looking sad. “How did you like working in Paris and all those other places you’ve lived?”

      Realizing he wanted more than a pat answer, Tara thought for a moment before responding. “There is nothing quite like living among people who grew up in a different culture. What’s automatic for me may not be for them, and vice versa. It’s an adventure.”

      Heaving a sigh, Walt settled into one of the easy chairs. “So you’re a Magellan of the modern age.”

      “I don’t have much to keep me anchored in the United States, that’s all.”

      “The ranch was my anchor...perhaps my prison, as well.”

      The last words were mumbled, and Tara wasn’t sure she’d understood him correctly. She sat quietly while his eyelids drooped; she wasn’t in a hurry and he looked tired. After a few minutes, he shook himself and sat forward.

      “My apologies. It’s those blasted pain pills the doctor gave me. But I won’t need them much longer. I’m set on that.” His voice was grimly determined.

      While she knew she might be romanticizing the moment, Tara suspected she was seeing the grit made legendary in movie Westerns, except this wasn’t two stylized hours on celluloid. It was the real thing.

      “I’ve got to check on a new foal,” Walt said, lurching to his feet. “Go ahead and poke around. Vanta explained you work as a contractor, setting your own hours and such, which is fine with me. If you don’t want to tackle such a mess, СКАЧАТЬ