Reuniting with the Rancher. Rachel Lee
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She would probably never understand what she had done that day, but it had not only driven Cliff away, it had dashed the entire memory of that summer fling. She could not enjoy the memories of even the most beautiful or sexy moments of those weeks. All of it had to be consigned to some mental dustbin.
She had figured at the time that Martha must have known what was going on, but she’d never said a word. Now this? Maybe Martha hadn’t guessed. If she had, then there was an unkindness here she wouldn’t have believed her aunt capable of. And not just to her, but to Cliff, as well.
She sighed, pressing down memories that seemed to want to reignite right between her legs, reminding her of the dizzying pleasures she had shared with Cliff. That was gone, done for good. Over. Finished.
If only the words would settle it all in her body, which seemed inclined now to react as foolishly as it had all those years ago.
When he spoke, she felt so far away that his voice, deeper now than in the past, nearly startled her.
“I don’t mean to sound like a rube,” he said, then paused. “Hell, I am a rube. But I hear parts of Chicago can be pretty dangerous.”
“They are,” she said cautiously, wondering where he was headed.
“Did you work in those parts?”
“They’re the parts where we’re needed most, usually.”
He fell silent, and she waited. Surely he wasn’t going to leave it at that.
“You have guts,” he said, and not one more word.
“No more than the people who have to live there.”
“But you choose to be there, to help.”
She couldn’t imagine how to answer that. Yes, it was her choice, but the need cried out to her. She only wished she could provide a safer environment for those children, but the problems were huge. No one person could solve them.
“It’s partly drugs,” she said. “They encourage gang wars.”
“Like during Prohibition.”
“Yes, like that. Turf wars. Other things. Poverty grinds people down and sometimes brings out the ugliest parts of them. I just try to help kids so that they don’t get drawn into it. There’s not much else I can do to protect them, unless there’s abuse in the family.”
“It must feel thankless at times.”
She couldn’t believe he was talking to her in this sympathetic fashion. Not after the dislike that had radiated from him on their first meeting. Was he trying to mend bridges? She squirmed a little, thinking that if anyone should be trying to rebuild bridges, it was her. “Seeing just one kid make it is enough.”
“Is it?”
She had no answer for that, either. But the tension that seemed to have lifted from her just by being away for a short while was settling heavily on her. She had matters to take care of here, she reminded herself. She had to decide what to do with her aunt’s possessions, whether to rent the house—a million ends to tidy up. She couldn’t spend all her time worrying about her kids back in Chicago, not when she was too far away to do anything.
Mercifully, he dropped the subject, and little by little, she returned fully to Conard County. She wished her kids could come out here, taste life without gunshots up the street any hour of the day or night and know what it was like to live even briefly without the fear.
She sighed, twisted her hands together and reset her sights on all that lay ahead of her.
What was she going to do with the house? Her job lay over a thousand miles away. She couldn’t sell it. But renting it might lead to its ruination if she wasn’t here to keep an eye on it.
Too soon, she argued with herself. She had time. No decisions had to be made this moment. Just plant the tree for Martha and then try to find comfort in residing in Martha’s house, with all the good memories she had of her aunt.
She felt her eyes sting as she thought about Martha. The world had lost a true character and a great soul.
* * *
Cliff watched her from the corner of his eye, glancing her way from time to time as the road permitted. On a weekday, on these back roads, there wasn’t a lot of traffic. Ahead of him stretched an empty road, its only danger the potholes left behind by winter. Along either side ran fences, often hidden behind the tumbleweeds caught in them, creating a low tunnel. But in those grasses to either side of the road, he knew there were drainage ditches, invisible in the grass, but enough to cause a minor accident.
So he really should keep his attention on driving. But just as she had done all those years ago, Holly drew him. The windows were open, thank goodness, otherwise he’d be assailed by her scents, and if there was one thing he knew for certain, he hadn’t forgotten them. She still used the same shampoo; she still had the same enticing scent of femininity. Not strong, as it had been after they made love, but enough to remind him.
So here he was, stupidly walking into hell again. She’d only be here two weeks, long enough to get him all knotted up again, but completely lacking any kind of future. He hoped he had the sense to help her plant the tree and then go his way. Oh, he’d be a good neighbor and offer to keep an eye on the house when she left, but keeping an eye on a house wasn’t anywhere nearly as dangerous as keeping an eye on Holly.
He wished her thinness, her evident fatigue, would turn him off. Instead, all it was doing was turning his insides into protective mush. He couldn’t have this.
Inwardly he cussed himself for a fool, and warned himself to raise his guard. Do the minimum, stay away and turn his fullest attention to his own ranch, which had been all that had saved him all those years ago. Hard work was the answer.
Then she surprised him. She hadn’t made a single friendly gesture, but now she did. Damn it.
“How’s the ranch and business?”
Well, that ought to seem like a safe, casual question. Coming from her it felt freighted. “Okay,” he said. Then realizing how abrupt he sounded, he added, “Leasing the acreage from your aunt has been a great help. It allowed me to expand.”
“I heard cattle were getting more expensive to raise.”
“Out of sight. We’re transitioning to sheep. The wool market is still good.”
“Good.”
Clearly she wasn’t really interested in his life. If he was honest, she hadn’t been all that interested years ago, either. He might have found it easier to excuse her self-interest as youth if she hadn’t followed it up with the coup de grâce.
Then, “Are sheep more difficult to raise?”
“Troubles come in all sizes and all degrees of fuzziness.”
She surprised him with a laugh. “What a description!”
“It’s true.” He hated himself for wanting to smile. This was a demilitarized zone, not a party. “I traded one set of problems for another not so very different. The thing is, the sheep do better grazing on my land, and the wool comes every spring without me having to reduce my flock to make some money. Renewable resource.”
“I like that.”
He volunteered some more, testing her interest. “I also have a small herd of angora goats. They’re a bit more susceptible to parasites, but their wool brings a higher price, so naturally it’s more expensive to get going. Of course. So I’m growing my herd nature’s way.”
“It sounds like you have a plan.”
“I hope so. Independent ranchers are in danger of becoming an extinct species. But I’m actually doing pretty well.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, Cliff. So the sheep and goats get along well?”
“Well