The Rancher's Return. Carolyne Aarsen
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“Is everything okay?” Emma asked quietly.
“We’re fine,” Carter said.
When Adam saw his mother, he reached out for her. Carter felt a sense of loss as Adam’s hand slipped off his shoulder. For just a moment the emptiness had eased.
But right behind that came the pain.
“Sorry about that,” Emma said, setting Adam on the ground, then tousling his hair.
Carter couldn’t speak. How could he explain the memories that resurfaced around the boy? It wasn’t Adam’s fault he was the same age Harry was when he died. But every time Carter saw him, the reminder of his loss plunged into his heart like a knife.
He caught Emma’s enigmatic expression. As if trying to puzzle him out.
Don’t bother, he wanted to tell her. It’s not worth it.
But as their gazes caught and meshed, she gave him a careful smile, as if forgiving him his confusion.
He wasn’t going to return it. He was also going to look away. But he couldn’t.
Dear Reader,
I had a hard time finding the right emotional tone for this book, because losing a child is such a heart-rending experience. As my grandmother said, to bury parents is the normal flow of life and death. To bury a child goes against every part of our nature. She knew what she spoke about. She buried three. When I wrote this book, I wanted to be true to what a parent experiences when a child is lost and yet hold out hope that the pain does shift. The edges wear off. It doesn’t go away, but after a while you don’t mind living with the sorrow.
Eighteen years ago, my family followed the small coffin of our son out of our church and into the adjoining graveyard and watched it being lowered into the earth. The pain did ease off and the sorrow lost its bite. And through it all, our family felt the prayers of the community and the strength of God’s abiding and unfailing love.
Carter had to learn to let people into his life so that he could share his pain and, by sharing it, lose some of the burden of it. I pray, if you have suffered a deep loss, that you too will know that even in the storm, God is there, holding you. I pray you will feel the prayers of the people around you and let them hold you too.
P.S. I love to hear from my readers. Send me a note at [email protected], or stop by my website www.carolyneaarsen.com. On my website, be sure to check out the Hartley Creek Herald for news about happenings in and around Hartley Creek.
The Rancher’s Return
Carolyne Aarsen
To Richard, my partner in joy and sorrow
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge
and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”
—Psalms 91:2
Chapter One
Coming back to the ranch was harder than he’d thought.
Carter Beck swung his leg over his motorbike and yanked off his helmet. He dragged a hand over his face, calloused hands rasping over the stubble of his cheeks as he looked over the yard.
As his eyes followed the contours of the land, the hills flowing up to the rugged mountains of southern British Columbia, a sense of homesickness flickered deep in his soul. This place had been his home since his mother had moved here, a single mother expecting twins.
He hadn’t been back for two years. If it hadn’t been for his beloved grandmother’s recent heart attack, he would still be away.
Unable to stop himself, his eyes drifted over to the corral. The memories he’d kept at bay since he left crashed into his mind. Right behind them came the wrenching pain and haunting guilt he’d spent the past twenty-three months outrunning.
The whinnying of a horse broke into his dark thoughts and snagged his attention.
A young boy astride a horse broke through the copse of trees edging the ranch’s outbuildings. He held the reins of his horse in both hands, elbows in, wrists cocked.
Just as Carter had taught him.
A wave of dizziness washed over Carter as the horse came closer.
Harry.
Even as he took a step toward the horse and rider, reality followed like ice water through his veins. The young boy wore a white cowboy hat instead of a trucker’s cap.
And Carter’s son was dead.
A woman astride a horse followed the boy out of the trees. The woman sat relaxed in the saddle, one hand resting on her thigh, her broad-brimmed hat hiding her face, reins held loosely in her other hand. She looked as if she belonged atop a horse, as if she was one with the animal, so easy were her motions as her horse followed the other.
When the woman saw him, she pulled up and dismounted in one fluid motion.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, pushing her hat back on her head, her brown eyes frowning at him as she motioned the boy to stop.
Carter felt a tinge of annoyance at her question, spoken with such a cool air. Sir? As if he was some stranger instead of the owner of the ranch she rode across? And who was she?
“Is that your motorbike, sir?” The young boy pulled off his hat, his green eyes intent on Carter’s bike. “It’s really cool.”
His eager voice, his bright eyes, resurrected the memories that lay heavy on Carter’s soul. And when the woman lifted the little boy from the saddle and gently stroked his hair back from his face with a loving motion, the weight grew.
“Yeah. It’s mine.”
“It’s so awesome,” the boy said, his breathless young voice battering away at Carter’s defenses.
Carter’s heart stuttered. He even sounded like Harry. Coming back to the place where his son died had been hard enough. Meeting a child the same age Harry was when he died made this even more difficult.
He forced his attention back to the woman. A light breeze picked up a strand of her long, brown hair, and as she tucked it behind her ear he caught sight of her bare left hand. No rings.
She saw him looking at her hand and lifted her chin in the faintest movement of defiance. Then she put her hand on the boy’s shoulder, drawing him to her side, as if ready to defend him against anything Carter might have to say. She looked like a protective mare standing guard over her precious colt.
Carter held her gaze and for a moment, as their eyes locked, an indefinable emotion arced between them.
“My name is Carter Beck,” he said quietly.
The woman’s eyes widened, and he saw recognition in her expression. He caught a trace of sorrow in the softening of her features, in the gentle parting of her lips.
“I imagine you’ve come to see Nana … Mrs. Beck.”
He frowned at her lapse. This unknown woman called his grandmother Nana?
“And you are?” he asked.
“Sorry again,” she said, transferring the reins and holding out her hand. “I’m Emma Minton. This is my son, Adam. I help Wade on the ranch here. I work with the horses as well as help him with the cows and anything else that needs doing.