The Rancher's Homecoming. Cathy McDavid
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loose shoes.”
“Is there a farrier in town?”
“I did most of the shoeing for High Country.”
“Any experience with cattle?”
“My grandmother raised me. She ran near a hundred head.”
Will was looking better and better by the minute. He also knew the mountain trails.
“You’re not by chance good at cross-country skiing?”
“Have all my own gear.”
Well, well. “Anything you can’t do?”
“Cook.”
That made two of them. Lyndsey had already complained about breakfast and lunch.
Sam pushed his hat back and grinned. “You by chance in the market for a new job?”
“You offering me one?”
“I need a livestock foreman and someone to supervise the trail rides. Take guests on guided skiing excursions in the winter months. I’m thinking you have the experience.”
“Okay.” Will started toward his truck. His dog, resting in the shade of a bush, sprang instantly to its feet.
“Is that a yes?” Sam called after him.
“You need something in writing?”
He laughed. “We’ll talk details when you get back.”
“Fine by me.”
Sam decided he liked the Gold Nugget Ranch’s first official employee. The female guests were bound to like him, too, though Sam suspected Will would keep to himself.
Pressed for time, Sam went over to the corral and checked on the horses. Several bunched at the railing for a petting. The rest stared at him as if wondering why they hadn’t been given any pellets.
“When your buddies arrive.” He patted an overly eager black-and-white paint that could easily break through the railing if he weren’t so docile. “And when I figure out what exactly I’m going to use for a feed trough.”
By all accounts, there’d been no horses on the ranch since The Forty-Niners ceased production. He’d considered himself lucky to find that old water barrel in the barn.
There must be something else kicking around he could use. If not, he’d ask Will. The man struck Sam as being the resourceful type. And there was always the feed store.
He was halfway to the barn when a rusted-out sedan pulled into the ranch and stopped, the exhaust spewing a cloud of gray smoke when the engine was cut. Seconds later, a woman with an assortment of children spilled out of all four doors.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Mr. Wyler? My name’s Irma Swichtenberg. These here are my children.”
The tallest, a teenager, tugged nervously on her hair while the shortest, a toddler, snuggled a stuffed toy.
“What can I do for you?” Sam asked.
“Miss Hennessy sent me your way.”
“Annie?”
“No, sir. Fiona. I worked for her. At the inn. Housekeeping. She said you might be looking to hire someone.” The woman swallowed nervously. “I’m a hard worker. Honest and dependable. Carrie watches the little ones for me so I won’t ever miss a day.” She placed a hand on the teenager’s shoulder.
Sam could see Irma Swichtenberg was a proud woman and that asking for a job didn’t come easy. For all he knew, she single-handedly supported her small family. Judging by the shape of their worn clothes, she was at the end of her resources.
“How good a cook are you?”
“Passable.”
“The place needs a lot of cleaning. Been empty awhile. And I’m hardly the neatest person. My daughter’s worse.”
“Not much I can’t handle or won’t.”
He believed her.
“I really need a job, Mr. Wyler. I’ll work cheap.”
Sam had made a promise to himself to help the people of Sweetheart and that included providing employment for as many of the locals as possible. That aside, he’d have hired Irma anyway. He liked and respected her that much.
“No need to work cheap. I’ll pay you a decent wage.”
When he named the rate, Irma’s hands flew to her mouth. “You’re not joshing me, are you?”
“Can you start in the morning? 8:00 a.m.”
“I’ll start now!”
“That’s not necessary.” He chuckled. “We’ll decide on your schedule tomorrow. Might only be part-time until we’re ready for guests.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wyler.” She rushed toward him, grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “I’m grateful to you.”
“My daughter and I are the ones who are grateful to you. Otherwise, we might starve or be buried alive in a mountain of dirty clothes.”
She smiled shyly, displaying slightly crooked teeth. “I’ll see you at eight sharp.”
Something told him Irma would be here at seven forty-five. “Looking forward to it.”
Gathering her brood, she hurried them to the car as if afraid Sam might change his mind.
Unlikely, he decided. So far, he was more than pleased with his staff. And he had Fiona Hennessy to thank.
If she and Annie weren’t so determined to rebuild the inn, he’d hire Fiona to manage the Gold Nugget. He needed someone trustworthy, competent and with her vast hospitality experience. Someone whose skills would allow him to be a long-distance owner.
Sam made his way toward the barn in search of Lyndsey. She’d been in there the entire time with Porky and Daffy. A few good meals had made all the difference to the kits. They were active and curious and had already figured out their long, sharp claws were perfect tools for scaling the sides of a cardboard box.
They were also kind of cute, Sam had to admit, with their little button noses, whiskers and black face masks.
Lyndsey had moved them into an old wooden crate until the cage arrived. She couldn’t be a more attentive and devoted caretaker. Sam was proud of her. And worried. He tried not to think about how she’d take losing the kits when the time came.
She was just where he’d left her, sitting cross-legged in the center of the barn floor. Sunlight poured in through cracks in the wooden walls, painting a pattern of stripes on her and the crate beside her.
“Hi, Dad.” She cradled Daffy, the smaller of the kits, in her lap, his front paws balanced on her towel-covered forearm in the manner the vet had instructed. Daffy lustily drained a bottle of kitten formula.
“How’re they doing?” Sam asked.
“They like the canned cat food!” Her face radiated delight.
“Dr. Murry says they’ll eat almost anything.”
“They licked it off a spoon.”
Sam’s earlier concern returned. “They didn’t bite you, did they?”
“Oh, Dad.”
He took that as a no and breathed easier.
“Grandpa said he can’t wait to see them.”
“Lyndsey, sweetie.” He reached for her. “You—”
She stiffened and pulled away. “Don’t say we can’t take them home.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Withdrawing