The Rancher She Loved. Ann Roth
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and a whole lot friendlier than Clay.
But Sarah wasn’t going to think about him—even if she was still reeling from that kiss. A kiss every bit as potent as the ones she remembered.
What really rattled her, though, was that she’d enjoyed every moment of it so much. The hard strength of his arms, the delicious press of his mouth...
“The washer and dryer are behind those corded doors,” Mrs. Yancy said just before they entered a modest but homey kitchen. “You’re on your own for lunch and dinner, and if you want to cook your own meals, feel free to use the kitchen. You will get breakfast every morning. I hope you like eggs and biscuits. I didn’t know if you drank coffee or tea, so I stocked up on both.”
She clasped her hands at her ample waist, as if anxious for Sarah’s approval.
No one had cooked for Sarah in ages, and she relished the thought. “Eggs and biscuits sound delicious, and I’m a coffee drinker.”
“So am I, but if you decide you want tea, there’s a sampler box in the cabinet above the stove. Which reminds me—for groceries, head to Spenser’s General Store, about seven miles up the highway. You’ll find just about anything you might want there, including prepared food. If you’d rather eat out, Barb’s Café is right next door to Spenser’s. It’s our only real restaurant, and the food is excellent. We also have pizza and fast-food places.”
Sarah mentally stored away the information.
“If you have questions about anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” Mrs. Yancy continued.
Maybe the woman had known the Beckers. “Have you lived in Saddlers Prairie long?” Sarah asked.
“Almost twenty-five years. After John and I married, I moved here from Ely, Nevada. He was my second husband. The first one didn’t work out.” Briefly, her smile dimmed. “I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Ely.”
The woman jumped subjects like a leaping frog. “No, I haven’t,” Sarah said.
“It’s on the east side of the state. I met John when he came through town, offering insurance policies to ranchers. His home was Saddlers Prairie, so this is where we settled.
“At first, it seemed awfully small—even smaller than Ely. I didn’t know a soul besides my husband, and with him out and about, selling insurance to ranchers all over the West, I was afraid I’d get homesick. But the folks around here reached out to me, and in no time, I felt as if I’d lived here all my life. John’s been gone eight years now, and my friends here treat me like family. I’ve never spent a birthday or holiday alone.”
Now that Ellen was gone, Sarah wondered how she’d spend the holidays. Not that she didn’t have friends, but they had their own families.
“This sounds like a very special place,” she said. Even though Mrs. Yancy had arrived in Saddlers Prairie after the Beckers had sold their home, you never knew. “Did you by chance ever meet a family named Becker?”
The widow glanced at the ceiling, thinking, and then shook her head. “Not that I recall. But why don’t you join me over coffee and the oatmeal cookies I baked this morning, and I’ll think on it some more.”
At the mention of food, Sarah salivated. In the anxiety and excitement over seeing the house where the Beckers had once lived, her appetite had all but vanished, and she hadn’t eaten much breakfast or lunch. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.
Minutes later, she was sharing the kitchen table with her talkative landlady, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of chewy cookies.
“You never said why you’ve come to Saddlers Prairie,” Mrs. Yancy said.
“One reason is to do research for an article on ranching in eastern Montana.”
“I had no idea you were a writer.” She looked impressed. “It’s about time somebody sang the praises of Saddlers Prairie. I enjoy reading magazines. Which one do you write for?”
“I freelance for several.” Sarah listed them. “One of the editors who buys my pieces thought an article on ranching would appeal to her readers. I love the idea, and since I wanted to look around here, anyway, I happily accepted the assignment. I hope to meet with successful ranchers, but also those who are struggling, so that I can paint a realistic picture. Anything you can share about Saddlers Prairie will be a big help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You say you also want to look around town?”
“That’s right.” Sarah saw no reason to hide the truth. “I was adopted, but I recently learned that I was born in Saddlers Prairie.”
“No kidding. I know just about everyone. Who are your kin?”
“They don’t live around here anymore, but their last name is Becker—Bob and Judy.”
“The people you asked about.”
Sarah nodded. “They may have left the area before you arrived. I know they sold their house here about twenty-nine years ago.”
“There are folks in town who’ve been here longer than that. Someone will surely know the family you’re looking for.” Mrs. Yancy sipped her coffee. “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”
“Would you?” Fresh hope bubbled through Sarah. “I really want to know the kind of people I come from.”
“I understand.” The landlady looked thoughtful. “Over my sixty-six years of living, I’ve learned a few things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge a secret. “One of the most important, which my John taught me, is that who you are matters more than your people or where you came from.”
Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed. “I still need to know,” she said. “If you were standing in my shoes, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. I wish I could help.” She looked genuinely sorry.
“You already have,” Sarah said. “By listening to my story.”
Clay had listened, too, with just as much interest.
She wished she could stop thinking about him. When she’d dated Matthew, she’d all but managed to forget Clay, and she wasn’t about to waste her time pining for him again.
If only he hadn’t kissed her.
A long and very thorough kiss that had stolen her breath and chased away her common sense. For those few moments, she’d been right back where she was three years ago, caring too much, too quickly for a man who couldn’t be trusted.
“—know a few ranchers around here who fit what you’re looking for and would love to be interviewed for your article,” Mrs. Yancy was saying. “If you want, I’ll give you names. There’s a pen and paper in the catch-all drawer under the phone.”
As soon as Sarah returned with the writing supplies, the woman rattled off the names, addresses and phone numbers of two ranchers. By heart.
“You’ll definitely want to contact Dawson Ranch,” she said. “Adam and Drew Dawson own about the most successful ranch around. Now the Lucky A Ranch isn’t as profitable, but Lucky Arnett is a good man with plenty of stories about his life as a rancher. I don’t want you to get writers’ cramp so I’ll save the rest for later.”
Smiling at the little joke, Sarah flexed her fingers and traded the pen for her mug. After months of grief and anger, Mrs. Yancy’s warmth and friendliness were like a balm to her parched soul.
“Wait—there is one more person you might want to talk with,” the older woman said. “He’s a celebrity with star power the world over, and he’s chosen Saddlers Prairie as his new home. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—his name is Clay Hollyer.”
Sarah almost choked on her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I know Clay. I interviewed him for an article a few years ago.”