Home On The Ranch. Trish Milburn
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received a sudden infusion of oxygen. Out here he was able to remember the good times, how his younger self had wanted so desperately to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps here on this ranch. But the oppressive reality of the hoarding had been too much for Austin to handle, had robbed him of his chance to follow that particular dream.
Current reality hit him square in the chest, knocking thoughts of the past to the back of his brain where they belonged. He needed help, someone to haul all this stuff away. Because there was no way he was going to wade through everything. He didn’t have the time or the inclination.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten all day, not since the half sandwich after the funeral the day before. Needing food and distance, he stalked to his car and fled the ranch as if a wildfire were taking up the entirety of his rearview mirror. By the time he rolled into the city limits of Blue Falls, he felt like a fool. He was a grown man. A house full of junk shouldn’t make him damn near hyperventilate.
He parked outside the Primrose Café and headed inside for lunch. Once his stomach was full, he’d make an actual plan that would get him back to Dallas before he was a decade older.
Before he even made it to a table, three people stopped him to express their sympathy over his grandfather’s passing. That was both the blessing and the curse of a small town—no matter how long you’d been gone, people still remembered you.
After he seated himself and placed his order, he looked up to see Nathan Teague walking toward him, a to-go cup of coffee in hand.
“Hey, Austin.” Nathan extended his hand for a shake, which Austin accepted. “Sorry to hear about your grandpa. He was a good man.”
“Yeah, he was.” Just because Austin had gotten out of his grandparents’ house as soon as he could didn’t mean he hadn’t loved them. You could love people and still not understand them, still be at odds.
“How long you in town for?”
“Not sure. Need to get the place ready to sell. I’m actually in need of someone to haul off a bunch of junk. Who does that around here these days?”
“I’d suggest Ella Garcia.” This answer didn’t come from Nathan.
It took Austin a moment to recognize the older woman at the next table, but then he realized it was Verona Charles, the aunt of Elissa Mason, who’d gone to high school with him. “Pardon?”
Verona consulted her phone, then wrote something on a napkin and handed it to him. “Call Ella. She’ll be able to help you out.” With a smile, Verona stood and headed toward the front to pay her bill.
“You ever need to know something in Blue Falls, don’t bother with the phone directory or the paper. Just ask Verona,” Nathan said. “Sorry to run, but I’ve got to go pick up my son for a doctor’s appointment. Little booger broke his arm and it’s cast removal day.”
Austin said goodbye and was left with his just-arrived burger and fries and a napkin with a phone number. It seemed somewhat odd that a woman was running a trash removal business, but he didn’t care if it was a band of little green Martians on the other end of the line as long as they could make quick work of his mounds of garbage.
Not wanting to waste even one moment, he stuck a fry in his mouth and dialed the number.
* * *
ELLA GARCIA STRAIGHTENED from where she’d been bent over her latest creative project and took a deep breath. Not that it was particularly refreshing since the temperature was nearing triple digits. She pulled a bandanna from the pocket of her cargo shorts and wiped the sweat off her forehead for what had to be the hundredth time. She walked over to the edge of her back porch and adjusted the fan she’d placed there to point toward where she was working in the backyard.
Satisfied with the angle of the mechanical breeze, she resumed sanding the rust off an antique tractor wheel that was going to become the main piece of a coffee table for one of her customers. As she scrubbed at a particularly difficult spot, her phone rang. She tossed her sandpaper onto the top of the upturned cable spool she was using as a workbench and pulled the phone from her back pocket. She didn’t recognize the number, so she answered with her professional greeting.
“Restoration Decoration, this is Ella.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, causing her to think it might be a telemarketer. But then a man said, “Um, I’m calling for Ella Garcia.”
“Speaking.” He sure sounded tentative for a telemarketer. Man, that had to be one of the top five suckiest jobs in the world.
“I was given your number,” he said, as if he’d suddenly remembered he should say something. “I need some junk hauled off.”
“How much and what type?”
“A lot and you name it.”
Excitement sparked to life inside Ella, her imagination dancing with her innate ability to turn one person’s trash into another’s treasure. She looked at the tractor wheel, mentally calculating how much work she had left to do in order to deliver the table by the deadline. She could always catch up on sleep after the buyer picked up the table, right? If she wanted to really grow her home decor business, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to acquire some raw materials on the cheap. She could spare a few hours.
“Okay, I’ll come take a look. Can I get your name and address?”
“Austin Bryant, 345 Tumbleweed Road.”
The combination of name and address made her realize he must be a relative of Dale Bryant’s. A chill skated down her spine. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten materials that became available after someone’s death, but never before had she been a witness to the person’s passing.
“Okay, I can meet you there in an hour if that works for you.”
“Sounds good.”
On the drive to the Bryant ranch, Ella fought a queasy stomach as she tried to figure out how she’d greet Austin Bryant. Should she express her sympathy at Dale Bryant’s passing? She didn’t even know how Austin was related to him. Or would it be better to ignore the topic altogether?
As she drove through Blue Falls, she glanced at the hardware store, wondering if she’d ever be able to look at it the same again. She’d just parked on Main Street the week before, headed to the hardware store for a fresh supply of screws and sandpaper, when she’d seen the crowd surrounding someone lying on the sidewalk right outside the store’s front door. She’d still been standing with the rest of the bystanders when the paramedics couldn’t find a pulse and loaded Mr. Bryant into the ambulance. News traveled fast in a town the size of Blue Falls, so it hadn’t been long before she’d heard they hadn’t been able to save him.
But that wasn’t the kind of story you shared with a grieving relative, especially when you’d never met him before. Trusting that she’d figure out the right thing to say when the time came, she turned off Main and headed out Tumbleweed Road.
A few minutes outside town, she started watching the numbers on mailboxes. She knew approximately where the ranch was, but she wasn’t certain where the driveway sat. As she navigated a slight curve, she caught sight of the correct mailbox. The 5 at the end of the address had slipped and was hanging at an angle. Ella turned left onto the dirt and pea gravel drive that led out through scrub vegetation and a few cacti, then a line of live oak trees, their sprawling branches reminding her of octopuses.
After about half a mile, the vegetation gave way to an open area with an older house, barn, scattered outbuildings and rolling pastureland beyond. The spot felt cozy, cut off from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world. Not that Blue Falls was a metropolis, but what she could see of the Bryant ranch seemed homey and probably filled with family history, even if perhaps it needed a little cosmetic TLC. Mr. Bryant had been in his seventies, a widower and not in good health. So it wasn’t surprising that the place looked a little run-down.
She parked next to a shiny black