Buch lesen: «The Rancher's Lullaby»

For Avery Blythe.

You light up the world.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Warm air swaddled Lisa Rose as she stepped from Pickin’ Strings onto the sidewalk. She dropped the heavy key ring into her purse. The unfamiliar weight tugged uncomfortably on her shoulder. At the corner of Park and Parrott, she squinted into a sun so bright it sapped her energy and was slowly washing the color out of her favorite denim skirt. She frowned as her heel sank into the black asphalt when she stepped off the curb. In the month since her arrival in Okeechobee, she hadn’t gotten used to heat that turned pavement into a sticky mess by ten in the morning. She wasn’t sure she ever would. Not that it mattered, she thought with a shrug that sent the beads and chains around her neck jingling. Her stay in south Florida was only temporary. By this time next year, she’d have her act together again. Literally and figuratively. Till then, she supposed there were worse places to rebuild her shattered dreams than in a small town with a tree-lined square. Tugging her boot free, she kept moving forward.

On the other side of the main street, she straightened the pewter cuff at her wrist. She ran her free hand over the thick hair that, in a nod to August’s sweltering heat, she had braided before heading out this morning. She separated a bright yellow flyer from the stack in her shoulder bag.

“Put me onstage, and I’ll gladly step to the mic, but is this absolutely necessary?” she whispered. As a performer, she’d never cared whether the venue held fifty people or five thousand. But this—oh, how she hated hitting the bricks, shaking down every business in town. It smacked too much of the early days when she’d been so hungry for a chance—any chance—that she’d have sold her soul for a record deal. Back then, she’d gotten a break or two. Peddled her songs to stars who’d performed them at the Grand Ole Opry. But here she was. Thirty-two and on her own again, looking for a different kind of break.

She took a calming breath. There really was no other option. If she expected a good return on her investment when she sold the music store later this year, she had to get Pickin’ Strings on solid financial footing. Which meant drawing customers into the shop. Squaring her shoulders, she assembled the smile she’d worn in front of a thousand different audiences and stepped into The Clock Restaurant.

“Good morning! Table for two?” A perky teen glanced into the space behind Lisa as if she expected another person to materialize out of thin air.

“Just one,” Lisa managed before the arctic blast that poured out of overhead vents hit her face. In an instant, the moisture that clung to her skin evaporated. Goose bumps rose across her bare shoulders. She struggled to keep her smile in place while she cast an envious glance at the hostess’s snug white sweater. Locals carried jackets with them, even when the outside temperatures and humidity hovered near three digits. It was a practice she’d adopt—and soon. She shivered and asked, “Is the manager or owner available?”

“No, ma’am.” The young woman’s helpful expression dimmed. From a bin, she took a single set of silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. She paused, reluctance playing across her smooth features. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. I’m new to the area and wanted to introduce myself.” Lisa relinquished her hold on the flyer. The girl was too young, too unsure of herself to be of any help. “Maybe you’ve seen my shop, Pickin’ Strings. It’s just up the street.”

“Can’t say as I have,” the hostess answered, turning. She hustled past one empty table after another. Finally, she plunked down the silverware at a booth near a set of swinging doors.

Lisa gave the less-than-desirable location a second glance. Across the aisle, a preschooler with dark curls dawdled over pancakes. An older woman seated at the table juggled a baby on one shoulder. Decked in blue from head-to-toe, the infant aimed a toothless grin her way, but Lisa averted her eyes. She brushed her fingers over her own all-too-flat tummy and slid onto her seat, her focus determinedly fixed beyond the window where traffic clogged the main thoroughfare.

“My name’s Genna. I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you something to drink, honey?” A waitress slid a plastic-coated menu onto the table.

“Coffee. With cream.” Lisa eyed the faded red uniform. She tugged a flyer from her purse. “If you could show this to the manager, I’d like to put it up in your window.”

The welcoming sparkle faded from Genna’s eyes. “I’d just be wasting your time and mine. Things are kind of dead ’round here till the snowbirds come back in November.” She gestured at the near-empty restaurant. “You might want to hang on to your ads till then.”

Lisa let the hand holding the paper slowly sink to the worn Formica tabletop as her idea of turning a quick profit on her investment took another hit. She’d heard some version of the same story everywhere she’d stopped this week. Though winter residents crowded the sidewalks and shopped the stores from November through March, most businesses barely took in enough to make their payroll during the rest of the year.

Disappointed, but not wanting to let it show, she summoned a cheery, “Well, thanks, anyway,” and pushed the menu aside. Eating out was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not until the music store produced a steady income.

She probably should have chosen a different location, a different town, but she’d taken one look at the empty storefront in the heart of Okeechobee and known it was the right place. She’d seen the stained ceiling tiles and threadbare carpet as a challenge to overcome and plunked down most of her available cash. Her creative juices stirring, she’d rolled up her sleeves and gone to work. But the place was in worse shape than she’d thought, and her savings account had issued a dying gasp as she stripped and painted dingy walls, replaced tired displays with new shelving and created a soundproof room off to one side. To stock the shelves with guitars and fiddles, mandolins and banjos, she’d been forced to borrow against her next royalty check. She’d crossed her fingers, hoping to turn a tidy profit at the grand opening.

She shook her head. Scheduling the event on the same weekend as a nearby rodeo had been her first mistake. She’d sold one—exactly one—inexpensive harmonica during a grand opening that wasn’t very grand. Since then, foot traffic had been abysmal. Which left an ad in the Okeechobee News as the only way to drum up business. She searched the bottom of her purse until she found a pen. Flipping the flyer over, she began sketching. The waitress had refilled her cup and the ad was nearly complete by the time Lisa heard the baby cry. Before she could stop it, her midsection clenched in a familiar way that had nothing to do with downing several cups of acidic coffee on an empty stomach.

“I have to gooooo,” the dark-haired cherub at the table across the aisle insisted.

Glancing up, Lisa spotted the woman in the booth uncapping a baby bottle. Tiny creases in sun-darkened skin deepened as the fussing infant in her arms lunged for it. “Can you hold on a while longer? Just until I give LJ his bottle?” she asked the girl. “I’ll take you as soon as he’s finished.”

“I have to go now, Gramma.” Squirming, the child shifted on her booster seat.

Apologetic blue eyes met Lisa’s inquisitive glance. “Sorry,” the woman mouthed.

“Oh, they don’t bother me,” Lisa lied. She gave herself bonus points for summoning a sympathetic “Looks like they keep you busy.”

Sighing, the grandmother tucked a strand of gray hair behind one ear. “I don’t know what possessed me, offering to bring both of them with me this morning. Guess I forgot what a handful two little ones can be.”

“I have to go-have-to-go-have-to-go.” The little girl clambered down from her seat and darted into the aisle.

“Bree Judd, you come back here this instant!” Panic flared across the grandmother’s face. She tugged the bottle from the baby’s mouth. Feet kicking, the boy sent up a protest.

The kid had a good set of lungs, Lisa thought as angry wails filled the restaurant. She clenched her fists while she fought every tick of the second hand on a clock whose sole purpose was to remind her that she was running out of time.

At the other table, the grandmother popped the bottle back into the baby’s mouth. He instantly quieted. “Gramma” cast an anxious look over her shoulder, but Bree had rounded a corner and disappeared. Her arms weighted with the baby, the woman edged awkwardly toward the end of the bench seat.

“Hold on. I’ll get her.” Lisa slipped out of her booth. She slid the flyer with the ad onto her neighbor’s table. “I’m Lisa Rose,” she said before she took off across the restaurant after the little speedster. The door to the ladies’ room banged against the wall as Bree dashed inside. Lisa caught up and lingered near the sinks while the girl attended to business. Minutes later, a much calmer version of the child emerged from a stall.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” Lisa reminded Bree when she started for the door.

The child managed a perfect scowl. “I can’t reach.”

“Do you need help?” Lisa’s heart lurched when dark curls bounced as an elfin face aimed a trusting look her way.

“Mommy lifts me.” Bree retreated to the sink, where she waited to be held up.

“O-kay,” Lisa breathed, regretting the decision to get involved. She shoved her bracelets up her arms and, thankful for the strength that came from years of lugging sound equipment from one venue to another, hefted the headstrong waif to the sink without holding her close. It didn’t matter. Simply lifting the child loosed an old familiar ache that spread through her chest. She’d tried so hard to have a baby, and look what it had gotten her—a busted marriage and an empty womb. Would she ever have a little girl or boy of her own? She blinked aside a stray tear and hummed beneath her breath while Bree washed up.

“Ready to go back now?” she asked, handing the girl a paper towel from the dispenser mounted too high for little arms.

“Uh-huh.” Bree nodded.

Lisa lagged behind while the girl scooted back the way they’d come. By the time she reached their booths again, Bree had climbed back into her seat. “She helped me,” she announced, grabbing a cup with a plastic cover. “She’s nice and she has pretty bracelets.” She drank from the straw.

“Thanks.” A worried frown on the grandmother’s face dissolved. “I’m Doris Judd. I guess you’ve met my granddaughter, Bree. And this little one here—” she nodded at the baby who sucked vigorously on the near-empty bottle “—this one’s the newest member of the Judd family. We call him Little Judd. LJ, for short.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Seeing as Doris’s arms were full, Lisa didn’t bother shaking hands. “I’m Lisa Rose,” she repeated. “I’ve opened a music shop on Parrot. Have you heard of it...Pickin’ Strings?”

“Can’t say as I have, but...” Doris nudged the flyer with one elbow. “It says here you used to be in the band called ’Skeeter Creek. Not with them anymore?”

“No.” Lisa let a breath seep between her lips. “I got tired of spending eight months on the road each year. It was time I found someplace to call my own.” There was more to the story, of course, but little ears and complete strangers didn’t need to hear it.

“You were still with them when they played at the Barlowe place last spring?”

Lisa nodded. Usually an appearance like the ranchwarming would have faded into a blur of one-night gigs. By spring, though, her marriage had crashed and burned and, along with it, her hopes for a baby. Suddenly tired of everything about her life, she’d started looking for a place to hang her hat until she got back on her feet again. She’d landed in small-town Okeechobee.

Doris continued. “I was in Atlanta and missed it, but people around here are still talking about that party...and the music.”

Finished with his bottle, LJ’s eyes drifted closed. Doris shifted the baby to her shoulder and patted his back. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to travel the way you have. I’ve lived most of my life on the Circle P Ranch. My late husband, Seth, he managed the place. It’s a job that’s been handed down from father to son for four, going on five, generations.”

“Must be nice to have those kinds of roots.” Lisa gave the woman a smile she didn’t have to fake. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “People think being up onstage is all glitz and glamour. To be honest, it’s a hard life. But it’s the only one I’ve ever known...until now. I haven’t been here long, but I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of waking up in my own bed every day.” Or watching the sunlight filter through the same set of curtains each morning.

Still, waking up alone, doing everything on her own—it took some getting used to. Six months had passed before her bare ring finger felt natural without the thin gold band. The one she’d tossed into the first lake she’d come across after discovering Brad in bed with the band’s backup singer. In another six, waking up alone would feel normal, too.

Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face, because Doris said, “I’m sorry. I’ve been rude. Won’t you join us?”

“I wish I could. But I need to open the shop in a few minutes.” Despite the difference in their ages, something about Doris told Lisa they could be friends. “Some other time?”

A suntanned arm nudged the flyer again. “I see you’re holding bluegrass jams on Tuesday nights. That ought to draw a crowd.”

“You think?” Lisa brightened. “I was hoping to attract more customers with these flyers, but...” She let her voice trail off. But business wasn’t exactly booming.

“Tell you what. We have a good-size crew on the Circle P.” At Doris’s shoulder, LJ expelled a healthy burp. “Why don’t you come on out and have supper with us tomorrow? It’ll give you a chance to talk to some of the boys about coming into town Tuesday nights. Supper goes on the table at six sharp.”

More disappointed than she had a right to be, Lisa shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t close the shop till six.”

“Come for dessert, then. It’s the least I can do to repay you for lassoing this little one and bringing her back to me.” Doris nodded to the child, who pushed bites of pancake through syrup. When Lisa wavered, she said, “You might as well say yes. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Lisa’s standard refusal died at the cheery look in Doris’s blue eyes. What was one evening? She certainly didn’t have anything better to do, and the prospect of making a new friend was too appealing to ignore. Especially since, by the time she closed Pickin’ Strings, freshened up a little and made the half-hour drive to the ranch, the children would certainly have gone to bed.

* * *

GARRETT JUDD SWERVED onto the long, empty stretch of highway. He bore down on the pedal, pushing the truck until it rattled and swayed. Barbed wire and fence posts sped by so fast they blurred into a seamless stream. The steering wheel pulled to one side as his tires hit a tiny dip in the road. Garrett held his breath.

Was this finally it?

Would they find his waterlogged body when they pulled his truck from the deep drainage ditch that ran alongside the roadway? He whistled through clenched teeth when the wheel straightened of its own accord. Swallowing bile, he slowed marginally for the turn into the Circle P Ranch.

A cloud of dust filled his rearview mirror as he flew down the graveled drive toward the main house. He eased his foot off the gas only when he neared a large dirt lot surrounded by riding pens, barns and outbuildings. Aware that a ranch hand could emerge from the barn at any second, Garrett mashed the brake. Dirt spewed from beneath the tires as the vehicle came to a shuddering stop in front of a sprawling cedar house. Throwing the truck into Park, he jumped from the front seat. He took the steps two at a time, barely registering the drop in temperature as he stepped onto the wide front porch.

Never locked, the doorknob turned easily in his grasp. Garrett swept his Stetson from his head and stepped across the threshold. He relaxed slightly when no one called to him from the leather couches that provided ample seating for both family and paying guests. Intending to grab a snack and disappear out the back door before anyone noted his presence, he hustled across the hardwood floors.

In the long hall that led to the kitchen, he pointedly studied his boot tips rather than the dozens of photographs that lined the walls. Not that it did any good. From the earliest images of his ancestors working the land and its cattle to the most recent photo of his brother Hank’s wedding, he knew every picture by heart. Some folks might have thought it odd that so many Judds were captured in the history of the Parker ranch, but ask anyone from either side and they’d say it was only natural. The two families had been intertwined ever since the first Parker hired the first Judd to manage the acres of flat land that stretched from one horizon to the other. Still, afraid he’d catch sight of his dad or see Arlene’s smiling face peering out at him from the photos, Garrett kept his eyes down, his focus averted.

“Garrett. If you’ve got a minute...”

Halfway to the kitchen and relative safety, he stumbled to a halt. He pivoted, his heart sinking as he spotted Ty Parker standing in an office doorway. All too aware that he’d gotten caught skulking through the house, Garrett straightened his six-foot-three-inch frame.

“Yeah?”

“The fall roundup is just around the corner. It’s time we made some plans for it.”

“What’s the rush?” Garrett hiked an eyebrow. The roundup wasn’t for nearly two months yet, and the ranch hands knew the drill. Hadn’t they been gathering the Parkers’ herd of prized Andalusian cattle every year as far back as anyone could remember? “I was on my way to get a bite to eat.”

“And disappear out the back door till everyone turns in?” The frown lines at the corners of Ty’s mouth deepened. “I’ve been trying to catch you for three days, but you’re always in a hurry to go someplace else.”

“What can I say?” Garrett shrugged. “There’s never much downtime on a spread the size of the Circle P.”

Maybe it had been easier when fence lines marked the end of the Circle P’s property at Little Lake. But Ty had expanded their holdings, adding another thousand acres and leasing several additional sections. Between that and opening many of the ranch’s activities to outsiders—tourists who paid good money for the privilege of playing cowboys for a week—the list of chores required to keep things running smoothly had more than doubled. Which wasn’t the only reason Garrett made himself scarce. It wasn’t even the main one but, as excuses went, it was the best he had to offer.

When Ty’s gaze continued to pin him to the wall, Garrett took a breath. He met Ty’s unwavering stare. “Sorry. Sure, Ty. What can I do for you?”

Unease trickled down his spine when Ty gestured him into the office. It deepened when the man who’d been his best friend ever since they were in diapers together closed the door behind them. Was he about to get fired? If so, he’d be the first Judd to get handed his walking papers in...well, forever. He swallowed and propped his Stetson on one knee as Ty took his place behind the scarred oak desk. For a moment, the owner shuffled papers. Staring up from them at last, Ty drummed his fingers on the desk.

“Everyone knows what an awful time this has been for you. We’re all glad you came back home from Atlanta after...” Sympathy swam in Ty’s eyes.

Garrett brushed a speck of dirt from his jeans. In the ten months since the funeral, he’d grown tired of the sympathetic looks, the understanding gestures. He waited while a thick silence filled the room. It dragged on until Ty cleared his throat.

“Even with your mom helping out, I don’t know how you’ve managed. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Sarah.” The owner’s gaze drifted to the door, where it lingered. “But no matter what you’re going through,” he said, his focus honing in, “I have a responsibility to our guests and employees. And I’m hearing things I don’t like much. That you’ve been hard on the men. That you’re takin’ chances. I know you well enough to know that’s not like you, so I have to ask...have you been drinking?”

“What?” Garrett shifted in his chair. He hadn’t gotten drunk, hadn’t even sipped enough rotgut to get a buzz. Not since the days immediately following Arlene’s funeral. At the thought of his late wife, though, the empty spot in the pit of his stomach burned. Garrett rubbed his fingers along the edge of his Stetson. “I might pour two fingers if I can’t sleep at night. But never at work. And never, ever, if I’m going to get behind the wheel.”

“Good to know.”

“As for the men, I don’t ride ’em any harder than I did my students.” Twice he’d been nominated for Teacher of the Year, but he’d lost interest in teaching high school while gravediggers were still shoveling dirt over his wife’s casket. “I thought you wanted to talk about the fall roundup,” he said, trying to shift the focus off him.

“Right, right. Just know that, if you need anything, someone to talk to—someone to yell at, even—I’m here for you. We all are. Your mom and your brothers, too.”

And how would that help? Ty and Sarah Parker had never experienced his kind of loss. Garrett prayed they never would. As for his mom, she and his dad had spent forty-plus years building memories together, while he and Arlene had their whole lives ahead of them when hers had been cut short. Too short. Two of his four brothers had found love, not lost it, during their stints as managers of the Circle P. That left the twins, Randy and Royce. But even if they hadn’t been in their twenties and too young to grasp the concept of losing a wife in childbirth, they were on the other side of the country—in Montana—till the first of the year.

A tightness he’d grown accustomed to worked its way across his chest. Deliberately Garrett took a breath. “Look, I’ve got Dad’s notes. I’ll go over ’em, and if I’ve got any questions, we can talk, but I really don’t expect any problems. There’s been a roundup on the Circle P since long before you and I were born. The men and I, we know the drill.”

“Things have changed now that we’ve got paying guests.” Ty leaned back in his chair. “It takes more time, preparation...everything. We can’t have too many people ridin’ herd on one cow, so we’re gonna have to break into groups. You’ll need to think about which ranch hands are responsible enough to take charge. And then there’s supplies. We have to lay in enough food and beverages, make sure the cooks know about any special dietary requirements and the like.”

Garrett let his brow furrow. “How many people are we talkin’ about?” When he was a kid, roundups had been family affairs involving the Parkers, the Judds and a few ranch hands. But Ty’s efforts to draw wannabe cowboys to the ranch had saved the Circle P from bankruptcy and turned it into a thriving concern.

Ty consulted his notes. “A family from New York—Jake and Melinda Brown and their two daughters, Carolyn and Krissy—signed on this morning. That brings us to thirty guests. That’s pretty much all we can handle. We’ll leave a skeleton crew here at the homestead. Everybody else—another thirty or more—will come on the trail with us.”

Garrett whistled. Taking sixty people on a week-long trek through the wilds of south Florida was a big undertaking. No wonder Ty was concerned. He set his hat on the chair beside him and leaned forward. “Anything in particular I should start workin’ on now?”

“Well, there’s the horses. It won’t do to put an inexperienced rider on, say, Ranger.” Ty’s stallion had a temperamental streak. “Our guests fill out a questionnaire when they register. I’ve got those right here...somewhere.” He thumbed through several stacks of paper before he found the right folder and handed it over.

Garrett scanned blanks filled in by a fifty-year-old stock broker from Boston with no riding experience whatsoever. “Shadow’ll be right for him,” he suggested.

With one guest down and twenty-nine to go, he brushed a shock of dark hair out of his eyes and settled down to work. Once each rider had been matched with the right mount, he and Ty coordinated the side trips and other events. A fishing expedition paved the way into a fish fry. Ty added steak to the menu on the night of the posthole digging competition. He scratched chicken off the list the day a group went bird-watching in the ’Glades. They were still at it when a knock at the door interrupted them.

“Come in,” Ty called.

Garrett took advantage of the break to glance at the clock on the wall. He blinked in sudden awareness that two hours had passed since he’d been shanghaied into the owner’s office. Guilt clawed at him for going so long without giving his late wife a single thought.

“Ty, I have the bills and receipts from today’s trip into town.” Stepping into the office, Doris handed a sheaf of papers to the owner. Her forehead creased as she spotted Garrett, and she folded her arms across a wrinkled shirt that sported a damp, whitish spot on one shoulder. “I was just getting ready to feed LJ his supper. Unless you want to do it?”

As hard as he tried, Garrett couldn’t entirely ignore the signs of fatigue etched into his mother’s face. Her pale blue eyes had taken on a watery look in the months since Arlene’s death. Yellow tinged the strands of once-white hair that, these days, often escaped her signature braid. Well past retirement age, she had no business serving as a full-time mom to his little boy, even if she had raised five sons of her own. But the alternative—holding LJ, playing with him, feeding him and changing his diaper—was more than Garrett could handle. He swallowed a wave of fresh guilt and said what he had to say. “We’re kinda busy here, Mom.”