The Cowboy's Return. Susan Crosby

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      “Thank you.” She opened the bedroom door.

      “Like I had any choice,” he muttered under his breath as he followed her out. He’d lived in the Red Valley forever, not counting the past three years and during college, coming home to work the ranch during summer breaks. People knew him, trusted him. It was strange not to be trusted automatically. Although, maybe he would’ve been if he’d given her his last name.

      Outside, Mitch attached a long, low trailer to the tractor and drove it up to the demolished greenhouse. The new structure she’d bought was lighter, and could be erected by one person, according to the packaging. High tunnel greenhouses had become familiar sites in farm country over the years, their Quonset-hut appearance easy to spot, their walls made of almost-clear plastic covering, a less expensive option to the old-style greenhouses.

      The three of them hauled debris all afternoon. The dog and chickens got in their way frequently, but the atmosphere was congenial. Mitch caught Annie looking at him now and then. Whether she was taking his measure as a worker or giving him the eye, he didn’t know. He just hoped she wasn’t catching him doing the same thing in return. She was physically strong, able to carry much more weight than he’d anticipated. And she was tenacious, stopping only for a drink of water now and then, making sure that he and Austin did the same.

      “What are you gonna plant in your new greenhouse?” he asked during one of their water breaks.

      “Specialty potatoes and baby lettuces. I’ll get most of my seedlings started in there, too.”

      “There’s a big market for baby lettuce?”

      “An incredible one, especially organic. And a fairly new clamoring for organic flowers.”

      “Who buys those?”

      “People who care about the chemicals being used by the big international growers, which is where a large percentage of the flowers sold in this country come from.”

      Austin piped up. “I pick off the bad bugs.”

      Mitch knew all about organic, humane cattle ranching. His family had pioneered it, one of only a handful in the country who were certified. But flowers? “No one eats flowers.”

      “Sure they do,” Annie said. “The upscale restaurants—and a lot of home cooks—use certain flowers in salads all the time. But mostly I’m talking about table flowers, not edible. Whether or not we eat them, we handle them. If a restaurant is going to all the expense and trouble to provide chemical-free food for their customers, shouldn’t their table flowers also be organic?” She drained her water bottle, set it aside, then tugged on her gloves. “My goals were taken into consideration when I applied for a federal grant for the high tunnel and got it. I want to build a standard greenhouse, as well. But first I need to prove I have enough business to warrant it. I’m not certified yet, but I’m working on it. I’ll succeed. I have to.”

      “I gathered that,” he said, then shook his head. “Flowers. Who knew?”

      She smiled, which took years off her face. “You probably don’t make a habit of decorating your dining room table with a bouquet.”

      “How’d you guess?” He set his bottle next to hers.

      “I didn’t know how successful the flower business could be. I found out by accident when I worked the farmer’s market for the first time last year. I brought a bouquet from the yard to decorate my stall. It was the first thing that sold. The next week I took along as many as I could put together. They all sold. This year I made it an official crop.” She pointed toward the back of her property. “I’ve got all that acreage out there that’s not being used. I’m thinking about having a real flower farm after I’m certified.”

      “You’re ambitious,” he said as they carried a long, unwieldy beam together.

      She nodded but didn’t add anything. The determined look on her face said more, however. He wanted to dig deeper and find out why, to understand. He’d never had to start a new venture on his own, had always known what his place in life would be.

      And had sometimes fought against it.

      He’d never struggled like Annie, although he’d often worked long, hard hours and fought Mother Nature on plenty of occasions. He’d been bone-weary, ached from head to toe and wished he was anywhere but on a horse chasing stray cattle, but he also loved it. Couldn’t imagine himself being anything but a cattleman.

      Around six o’clock, Annie went inside to make dinner. The old greenhouse was mostly taken care of, split into two piles, reusable and trash. The salvageable items would be stacked in the barn, the rest hauled to the dump.

      Mitch opened the hood of his truck, which brought Austin and Bo over to investigate. Austin climbed up on the bumper and looked inside, mimicking Mitch.

      “What’d you think is wrong with Lulu?” the boy asked.

      Mitch fiddled with various parts. “There’s some rust from sitting for so long. Could be that’s all it is, ‘cept I drove her about fifty miles before she conked out. The gas is fresh, but the oil isn’t. Know much about engines?”

      “Nope. Mom’s always mad if something goes wrong with our truck because she can’t fix it. Too many computers in it or something. She calls it a con … cons something.”

      “Conspiracy?”

      “Yeah. She’s pretty funny when she’s mad.”

      Mitch enjoyed that image for a minute. “She fixes trucks?”

      “Her dad taught her when she was a kid. She fixes everything. Or tries to, anyway. Repairmen are not in our budget.”

      The way Austin said that made Mitch smile. “Your mom seems like one mighty strong woman.”

      Austin shrugged. “She cries sometimes. At night. In bed. When she thinks I can’t hear.”

      The thought twisted Mitch’s gut tight. “Farming’s hard work.”

      “Yep.”

      “For you, too,” Mitch added, fiddling with a belt.

      “I can handle it.”

      The grown-up way the boy said the words got to Mitch as much as hearing that Annie cried sometimes. Once again, it reminded him of how simple his life had been in comparison. He’d always known there would be hearty food on the table and a solid roof over his head.

      Mitch gathered his tools and started pulling parts. He explained the function of each piece to Austin and let him handle them, showing him how they fit together to make a working unit. Bo padded over and sniffed Mitch now and then, giving him a good stare with his direct blue eyes, finally lying down between them as they worked. Then a chicken came into view, taunting him, and the dog was off and running.

      The peacefulness of the moment struck Mitch after a while. He couldn’t remember a time like it, except—Mitch swallowed around a lump in his throat. Except when he was a kid and his grandfather was teaching him how to work on the truck. It was their time, uninterrupted by chores or other demands. The bond they’d forged because of that time together never once weakened.

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