A Rancher Of Convenience. Regina Scott
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had amassed a herd of about one hundred cows, plus eighty steers getting ready to go to market.
“Is that good?” she asked, before taking a sip of the lemonade she’d brought with her. A fly buzzed close, and she swatted it away.
“Fair to middling,” he said. “If we can get a good price, you’ll have enough to keep things going another year and pay the bank what you owe.”
That’s what she wanted to hear. She had to believe she could make a go of things, for her child.
But the bank must not have had faith even in Hank, for they sent someone to confirm her claims.
Mr. Cramore arrived one afternoon in a black-topped buggy she was surprised had made it the thirty miles from Burnet over rough country roads. A portly fellow, dressed in black with a silk tie at his throat, he hitched his horses to the rail surrounding the corral as if not planning to stay overlong, plucked a satchel off the seat and moved with solemn strides to the porch.
When she met him, he removed his top hat and bowed his head as if to give thanks.
“Mrs. Bennett,” he said in a deep, slow voice, double chins quivering. “My most heartfelt condolences. I’m Winston Cramore of the Empire Bank in Burnet. I had the privilege of knowing your husband well. He will be missed.”
She was only glad the story of Lucas’s illegal activities must not have reached Burnet, or Mr. Cramore might not have been so quick to claim acquaintance. And she sincerely doubted anyone had known her husband well, or someone would have realized his intentions.
“It was very kind of you to come all this way to talk,” she said, leading him to one of the wicker chairs on the porch. “May I offer you something to eat, lemonade?”
“Both would be welcome,” he assured her, taking a seat and perching his hat on the knee of his black trousers. He smiled as if dismissing her. With a shake of her head, Nancy went inside and fetched him the food.
When she returned, she found him pulling papers from his satchel.
“You will of course want to see the agreement your husband signed,” he said, waiting until she’d set down the plate of ginger cookies and a glass of lemonade on the table at his elbow before handing the sheath to her.
Nancy took a seat on the chair near his and glanced over the papers. The tiny lettering and legal terms were difficult to decipher, but there was Lucas’s arrogant scrawl agreeing to them all.
Mr. Cramore was frowning out toward the barn. “It appears Mr. Bennett did not have time for the improvements he’d planned before his untimely demise.”
The planks on the barn were turning a dull gray as they bleached in the sun. But she could see where someone had patched them.
“Mr. Snowden and the other hands have been working hard,” she told him.
“In my experience, cowboys seldom work hard without proper leadership,” he replied.
“I’m pleased to say my boys—er, hands—are very industrious,” she told him. Holding the papers in her lap, she made sure to sit up properly, hoping she looked like the leader of the spread.
Mr. Cramore picked up a cookie with dainty fingers and took a bite, then smiled at her. “I believe your husband had other plans, as well. Did those come to fruition?”
She could hardly tell him she had no idea what her husband had planned. He’d only think her even less competent to run the place. She glanced out over the spread, looking for inspiration. A cloud of dust appeared to be coming closer, fast.
“That’s likely Mr. Snowden now,” she said, rising and setting the papers on her seat. “I’m sure he can answer any questions you might have.” As Hank and his horse appeared out of the dust, she fled down the steps and hurried for the corral.
He reined in beside her. “Who’s your company?” he asked with a nod toward the house, eyes narrowed.
“Mr. Cramore from the bank,” she explained as Hank dismounted. Just having him here made her ridiculously glad. “He’s asking questions about the ranch.”
“Well, let’s answer them then.” He let his horse into the corral, then turned for the house. His spurs chimed as he started for the porch, Nancy beside him. As they climbed the steps, the banker rose.
“Mr. Cramore,” Hank said, extending his hand. “I’m Hank Snowden, Mrs. Bennett’s foreman. How can I help you?”
Mr. Cramore tutted as he glanced at Nancy. “A foreman, Mrs. Bennett? He’s clearly no more than a hired hand. It seems we were right in our assessment that you have no interest in running the ranch yourself.”
She couldn’t leave him with that impression. She returned to her chair, resettled the loan agreement on her lap and nodded for the men to be seated, as well. Then she leaned forward to meet the banker’s gaze.
“It isn’t my interest that’s lacking, sir,” she told him. “I know I must learn before I take on the leadership of this ranch. Mr. Snowden is teaching me.”
She smiled at Hank, who nodded. But the banker shook his head.
“Surely you see the problem, dear lady,” he said, face sagging with obvious concern. “You are relying on a man who has no interest in the future of this establishment.”
Hank stiffened in his seat. “I’ve promised Mrs. Bennett I’ll stay as long as she needs me.”
Just hearing him repeat the words made it easier to draw breath. Mr. Cramore was not nearly so assured.
“Forgive me for saying so,” he replied, “but such promises are difficult to keep when circumstances change. You would not be the first man to find it too much of a challenge to live out here.”
He was talking to the wrong man, Nancy thought. She couldn’t see Hank turning tail because times got tough. She waited for the cowboy to refute the assertion, but Hank looked out over the ranch as if taking stock of it for the first time. Had she misjudged a man’s character again?
Mr. Cramore continued, each statement like a nail in her confidence.
“And if you are as skilled as Mrs. Bennett claims,” he said to Hank, “you will certainly receive offers to improve your situation. Ranches are always looking for good hands. No, sir, I stand by my assessment. With nothing to tie you here, you are at best a weak reed on which to lean.”
Three weeks ago, she would have had a ready answer. She knew her boys. None of them would abandon the ranch willingly. But then, she’d thought herself married to a fine, upstanding man too. What did she really know about the hands her husband had hired?
What did she know about the man she’d asked to teach her?
Hank frowned at the banker, but his face was turning pale. Was he about to leave her?
“You’re wrong,” he grit out. “I’ll have a solid tie to this ranch. I aim to ask Mrs. Bennett to marry me.”
* * *
There, he’d said aloud the conviction that had been building in his heart. But it was a question who looked the more shocked by the statement. Both Mr. Cramore’s and Nancy’s mouths were hanging open. He’d sure picked a poor time to propose.
But what else could he do? The banker was obviously working up to demanding payment, or the ranch in lieu of payment. And the members of the Lone Star Cowboy League had regretfully acknowledged there was little they could do to help.
“I understand Lucas Bennett left his wife in a bad way,” Abe Sawyer had said when Hank had made the case last week at the meeting Lula May had called. “But I doubt we could raise the money needed to pay the loan fast enough to satisfy the bank, and until roundup, there isn’t a lot of extra money to be had.”
“There must be something we can do,” Lula May had argued. “Nancy Bennett is carrying her first child.