A Ranch to Keep. Claire McEwen
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joked. “Like old house disease? I didn’t know about that.”
“You know what I mean!” Jenna giggled down the line and Samantha could tell she’d stopped turning. “Like that mouse disease, the hantavirus? Or tetanus from old rusty nails.”
It was Samantha’s turn to laugh. “Okay, Jenna, I’ll watch out for mice and nails.”
“And weird people. You might get some real crazies out there. Hermits, unibombers, survivalists.”
And gorgeous cowboys, Samantha added silently to her friend’s list. “I’ll watch out for them, too.”
“Tell me more about...oh, wait, don’t tell me more. Mr. and Ms. Miserably Engaged have just arrived.”
“There’s not much more to tell anyway.” Samantha answered untruthfully. “We’ll talk later. Don’t get in the middle if they start brawling.”
Samantha felt so much lighter when she hung up the phone. Jenna and her silly humor were exactly what she needed, and what this house needed. It had gone too long without the life and laughter it had sheltered when Grandma and Grandpa were alive.
Samantha looked around the room. She’d free the furniture first. There was something magical about uncovering the familiar pieces, the worn upholstery emerging like the faces of old friends. It really was a comfort to be in the place that Ruth had loved so much.
Being so sentimental wouldn’t help though, Samantha chided herself. The reality was, she’d have to sell this place. There was no way she could keep up this ranch and take care of all these acres. She could barely keep her apartment in San Francisco livable. Better to think of this trip as a way to have some closure. As a way to somehow say goodbye.
Samantha willed herself to be practical. If she spent the rest of the afternoon working hard she could get the kitchen, downstairs bathroom, downstairs bedroom and living room clean by tonight. Tomorrow she’d pull some of the boards off the windows and then she’d have a nice space to live in until she figured out what in the world she was doing here.
Grabbing the rest of the old canvas, she threw it out in the backyard, watching the clouds of dust and memory billow and scatter, disappearing into the high mountain air.
* * *
SAMANTHA WIGGLED the old ladder to the left, then back again to the right, trying to get it stable against the wall of the house. It tipped toward her, and she shoved it back again. When it hit the wall, dirt showered down and carpeted her face, sticking in her hair and eyelashes.
“Ugh!” Samantha spat out what she hoped was just dust and blinked her eyes. She’d been sweating and the dirt added one more layer to the film on her skin. She wiped her face on the shoulder of her T-shirt and for the tenth time that morning wondered why she felt such a strong need to take on this house herself. There was no reason not to hire someone else to do it...in fact that would make the most sense, and leave her free to spend her days here hiking and exploring. But the answer came back, as it had ten times already. This was her grandma and grandpa’s house and she was responsible for it.
Yesterday she’d cleaned until midnight, and the entire downstairs gleamed. It felt satisfying to see the results of her work and good to use her hands.
She’d headed into town early this morning and found a pair of work boots—she was still coming to terms with their lack of aesthetic appeal—gloves and a crowbar, and had returned to the ranch ready to tackle the boarded-up windows so she could let in light and fresh air. She’d finished the lower windows on this side of the house, so next up were the ones on the second floor.
Samantha looked up and the top of the ladder seemed to disappear into an ethereal distance. Her heart sped up in an anxious dance and her breath came with a shudder. She hated heights. Hated ladders. Especially spidery, rusty, rickety ladders leaning up against old houses.
“Come on,” she muttered to herself. “You can run a national ad campaign. This ladder is nothing to you.” She wished she believed her own pep talk.
Taking a deep breath, she tucked the crowbar under her arm and put a foot on the ladder. So far, so good. The metal frame was cool and damp under her sweaty hands as she began to climb. Up and up, shaking hand over shaking hand, trying to ignore the quivers and groans of the rungs, until she was at second story window level. Gripping the sill with white knuckles, she looked down and the ground spun beneath her. Quickly she leaned her head against the wall, trying to compose herself and fight the dizziness.
When the spinning slowed to a gentle rotation, she gingerly lifted up her head and moved far enough back from the wall to position the crowbar under the first board. It looked old and rotted, and sure enough, it yielded easily to her prying. So easily in fact that it popped off and slammed into her arm before it fell to the ground, hitting the ladder with a resounding thud on its way down. The ladder moved with the impact and Samantha let out a yelp as she scrabbled for the windowsill, trying to steady herself.
“You okay up there?” The deep voice that rose from the foot of the ladder made her jump again. She gripped the sill even more tightly as she slowly turned her head and looked down.
There was a cowboy hat about ten feet below her. A cowboy hat set on broad shoulders. Jack Baron. Why had he decided to pay a neighborly visit now? “I’m fine, thanks,” she called down, trying to sound like she climbed huge ladders on a daily basis. “I was just wondering when you’d show up and startle me, again!”
Jack was looking up at her and she saw those slate-blue eyes, lit by mischief, glittering with humor. His lips were curled into a lazy smile that flashed a dimple onto a cheek with a day or so of stubble on it. “Startled you, huh? I was afraid for a moment there that I was going to have to catch you!”
“No catching necessary.” She knew she sounded annoyed, but her heart was still racing, whether from nearly toppling over or from his sudden arrival, she couldn’t be sure. “Can I help you with something?”
“Well, it looks like I might be able to help you with something, Frisco. Why don’t you come on down here and let me take a turn with that crowbar?”
She didn’t want to acknowledge the relief Jack’s suggestion sparked in her. Especially when he was obviously assuming that she was incapable of a simple task like this. “That’s okay. I’ve got it!” she called down to him, forcing her mouth into what she hoped was an easy smile. She turned a little more to see him better, suddenly aware of the awkward nature of her position on the ladder, and the view of her that, by the expression on his face, he appeared to be enjoying.
“Well then, I’ll just stay here and hold this ladder for you. You don’t look too steady up there.” His voice was like amber, warm and spiced and traced with laughter.
“Jack, I don’t need help. Thank you for coming by and offering, but I’m sure you have work that I’m keeping you from.”
She thought she’d dismissed him but he just stood there, then let go of the ladder and strolled to the fence a few yards away. “Well, why don’t I just stay here a few minutes, until you get the hang of it?”
“Oh no, please, you don’t have to.”
He said nothing, just hoisted himself up on the top bar of the fence and sat there.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked in disbelief.
“Not at the moment.” He smiled at her pleasantly.
“Fine, suit yourself.” Knowing she sounded a bit like a peeved child, she turned toward the ladder. Well, he was still as gorgeous as yesterday, but he was evidently a bit of a chauvinist. She didn’t appreciate all his worry. She thought of her work in San Francisco. People there knew that she could handle pretty much anything the world threw at her, including some rickety old ladder. But, if he had nothing to do today but watch her pry boards off her windows, that wasn’t her problem. She turned toward the wall again, and wedged the crowbar underneath the next board, pulling with what she hoped was a professional flourish.
*