Graham’s first sight of the James Hill Ranch was an eye-opener.
It looked like a small town itself, maybe a dozen buildings. What it did not look like was the middle of nowhere. All of Graham’s expectations evaporated like a puff of morning mist. Where had he gotten the idea that Uncle Gus lived in some kind of remote hunting and fishing cabin?
Gus met him as Graham got out of his SUV. Gus Montano looked older than Graham remembered, but he moved like a man in good physical condition. Maybe weathered was a better description than old. His uncle was weathered, a stereotypical cowboy. Uncle Gus wore a cowboy hat and spoke with a Texas drawl. When he was a very young man, he’d left Illinois for a two-year stint in the army and had never returned, except for Christmas every even-numbered year. He’d lived in Texas for at least forty years now, so that accent sounded as authentic as his hat looked.
Graham shook hands and thanked him for the job. Gus got misty-eyed and pulled him into a hug and told him how much he looked like his mama, Gus’s little baby sister. You’ve got the Montano look, boy, always did. A hug—when was the last time Graham had been hugged by another man? It was disconcerting, being treated like some kind of prodigal son. Graham had to readjust his thinking yet again. He wasn’t being treated like a shiftless drifter who was getting bailed out by a blood relative. Gus was genuinely excited to have him working here.
Being men, Gus and Graham soon turned to talking about Graham’s vehicle. “I’ve heard about these,” Gus said, opening doors and checking it out.
Graham stood steady, a good Marine, when he wanted to jump out of his skin as he watched his uncle unknowingly erasing traces of Emily. Gus opened doors, thumped the seats and ran his hand over the center console, and Graham tried not to feel the loss of the last of the floral shampoo and vanilla lip gloss that he’d spent a hundred and twenty miles believing still clung to the leather.
“You’ve got a real nice ride here,” Gus said approvingly.
He sounded like Emily; it must be a local thing, that real nice ride. Graham gave his uncle the keys and let him drive the SUV to the bunkhouse, Graham’s new home.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay in my house, now? The offer stands. Plenty of room to put a roll-away in the living room.”
That was where Graham had gotten the idea that his uncle lived in a small cabin. “I’m sure, but thank you.” He slung one seabag over his good shoulder and carried the other in his hand.
His uncle grabbed a towel. It was still soaking wet. It was amazing, really, how much water Emily’s hair had held. Her braid hadn’t dried much at all by morning.
Gus said nothing, until he grabbed a second towel. The tags were still on the third one. “What the—where do you buy wet towels?” Since Gus was chuckling, Graham chuckled, too. Don’t ask me anything.
It didn’t deter his uncle. He picked up the last towel and made a show of looking at the cargo area’s light. “This vehicle has a shower in it, too?”
What excuse was there to have wet towels? Graham fell back on the facts. “Nah, I went swimming.”
“In January?”
He had a reputation to protect: Emily’s. Word got around in a small town. He wasn’t going to confess to any pond’s polar bear club. He hated to lie, but it was for a good cause. The best cause. Her cause. “The hotel had a heated swimming pool.”
Gus piled all the towels into one arm and grabbed the comforter. Graham heard Emily’s voice as she’d wriggled out of her mummy wrap to include him. It’s mostly dry.
Gus led the way toward the bunkhouse, shaking his head. “I guess youth isn’t wasted on the young. Someone at your hotel left a few strands of long hair on this here wet comforter. Hope you didn’t leave any broken hearts in the city.”
“Only my own.”
His uncle scrutinized him from under the brim of his cowboy hat.
“Just kidding. Really.”
Not kidding. My heart’s gone.
The girl who had taken it had left long hair on his comforter, and his uncle had too damned sharp of an eye. Now if Graham asked his uncle if he knew a local girl named Emily Davis, it’d be too revealing. Damn, damn, damn. He was going to have to wait for the right time to drop her name.
He followed his uncle into the bunkhouse. It was a distinctly male space. Graham scanned left to right. Checked the corners. Clear.
A billiards table, overstuffed armchairs grouped a little haphazardly around a TV, and a basic kitchen made up the common area. His bedroom was private and simple, an extra-long twin bed and a desk, the only unoccupied room in a hallway of six identical rooms. It reminded him of barracks. Three months of solitude would never be found in barracks.
Graham looked at the bed and knew he’d never bring Emily here. He’d have to find a hotel on the edge of Austin that really did have a heated swimming pool.
“You can unpack later, son. Let’s go get your signature on this contract. Now, I usually sign ’em, being the foreman, but since you’re my nephew, it’ll be better if one of the owners signs. The only owner on the property right now is Trey Waterson. I’ll introduce you.”
“Trey. Do I know that name?” He followed Gus on foot back toward the barns. No wonder the older man seemed to be in good shape. Just going from building to building around here was going to add miles of walking to Graham’s day. He’d need no more gym workouts to offset air-conditioned days of immobility spent tied to a desk.
“His name was out there, a while back,” Gus said. “Trey was a big football star in his college days. Oklahoma Tech. Quarterback. Heisman candidate his freshman year.”
“No sh—no kidding? That’s got to be it.” Except something about the name had made Graham think of Emily, not football. The Oklahoma Tech connection made him think of Emily, maybe. Or maybe it was because Emily was pretty much all he could think about. He needed to focus on the here and now to meet his new boss, who was outside near a split rail fence.
Trey Waterson had all the size of an NFL star. Graham didn’t normally look up when he talked to another man. That was a novelty. They were probably the same age, but Trey owned the place, and Graham had no problem with rank structure after eight years in the Marines, so when Gus walked him over to introduce him, Graham shook hands and said, “Mr. Waterson.”
“Call me Trey. You go by Benjamin?”
“Graham.”
“All right, then. Gus tells me you’re a veteran. Thank you for your service.”
Graham didn’t know how to respond when people said that. Sure, you’re welcome for me being the one in the vehicle that flipped when that roadside bomb detonated. The shoulder sucks, but other Marines got it worse, so I can’t complain.
Graham nodded and hoped that would suffice. He knew people meant well when they thanked him, but it was the kind of thing he’d hoped to avoid out in the middle of nowhere. He’d left Chicago expressly so he wouldn’t have to pretend like he was sociable in any kind of group, yet here he was, forced to deal with the polite conventions of society even on a cattle ranch.
The two men seemed to think a nod was plenty. No further questions or comments. That was good.
They started walking toward one of the barns. Graham fell into step with them. It was a little bit like walking with John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, the stereotype was that realistic. Since Graham didn’t know anything about the real West, he watched Gus and Trey. They did the same kind of alert scan that had become second nature to Graham in the military, only these men were looking at the buildings in general, maybe the sky at the horizon, too, and checking out the horses in a pasture in particular.
Horses. Graham hadn’t expected there to be so many, a couple dozen of them, grazing on the other side of that split rail fence. They were impressive in their size this close. Their musculature under their brown and black coats looked as sleek as any horse he’d ever seen on television or a racetrack, but this close, he could appreciate the power these animals must be able to produce when they worked. They weren’t working now. They swished their tails or took a few steps as they nosed around the ground, but mostly, they just looked peaceful. Patient.
Ah, Emily. This was the type of place where she felt like she belonged. Here, and in the front seat of his SUV. The back seat. My arms. She belongs in my arms.
“You ride?”
Trey’s voice jarred his attention away from the horses. “Haven’t tried it.”
“Gus did say that, now that you mention it.” Trey shook his head a little, like it was incredible a grown man hadn’t saddled up a horse in his life. Same attitude as Emily, male version. “You know cattle?”
“Never touched a cow.”
Trey seemed amused by that one. “If you make it to roundup, you’re gonna touch a thousand of ’em and probably wish you hadn’t.”
Trey eyed him another moment as they walked. Graham returned the look with a level gaze. He didn’t know squat about ranching, but if the military had taught him anything, it was that a person could do just about anything they had to do when they really had to do it. Vault fences, jump out of planes, go days without sleep, apply a tourniquet and drag an unconscious buddy half a mile in hundred-degree heat until the helicopters came. Whatever one had to do.
They walked into one of the barns. Left to right, check the corners. This place would be a nightmare to clear of enemy personnel. Every stall could hide ten men.
Gus’s office was a walled-in space off to the right. The contract was waiting on his desk.
“You know how to change motor oil?” Trey asked, taking off one of the leather work gloves he wore.
“Yes.” Finally, a yes.
Trey signed his name on the contract, tossed down the pen and put on the glove again. “We’ve got two ATVs due for oil changes. Since you’ll be riding those while you learn which end of a horse means business, you might do the changing yourself. We keep ’em in the shed that’s closest to the house.”
Graham signed his name on the dotted line.
“After that,” Trey said with an actual smile, “you gotta shovel some manure.”
Graham settled for a nod. After all, he was the one who’d be doing the actual shoveling. “Understood. That’s the way most jobs go.”
“Welcome aboard.” Trey smacked him on the shoulder. Luckily, on the good shoulder, because the man did not play. If Graham hadn’t been a Marine, he had no doubt these cowboys would have him facedown in the dust. Graham swallowed his oof and did not stumble forward from the impact. Semper fi, gentlemen.
Trey turned to leave. “Gus, I’m heading into town for the rest of the day.”
“Right. Good luck with those building permits. Hope Rebecca’s job interview goes well.”
“She’ll be just fine as can be.”
Graham froze. It was another Emily phrase, this time spoken with the exact same amount of Texas drawl. The exact same inflection. He looked at Trey again. No resemblance, none at all. Emily would have to be an extra-tall woman, or Trey would have to have a slender build. Emily’s eyes were dark. Trey’s were light.
Luke was the cousin who ran Emily’s ranch. She’d talked about Luke a lot. Luke was going to hire a new hand. But there was a brother—owned a third of the land—hadn’t bothered to come home for ten years, not until Luke’s wedding just weeks ago. The brother’s name, had she mentioned it? Trey had sounded so familiar when Gus said it.
Graham looked at the contract. Trey had signed it James Waterson III. Right—this ranch owner was Waterson, not Davis. Trey himself looked as hard-core cowboy as Gus did. He wasn’t a man who’d been out of ranching for ten years. This was a million-dollar cattle operation, not a family ranch.
Graham hadn’t just taken Emily’s job.
* * *
“Gus, I’m here to take that job.”
Emily looked herself in the eye as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and braided her freshly washed hair. She was feeling calm after her nap and her shower. She just needed to practice her opening line. Once she spit it out, all the rest would flow.
“Gus, I’m the new hand Uncle James needs here on the ranch.”
For working cattle, Emily usually parted her hair in the middle and made two braids, one on each side. That was easy to do, and it kept all of her hair out of her face and off the back of her neck from dawn to dusk when she chased down stragglers as they drove the herd to the far hundred. Now she looked in the mirror and worried that it made her look too young.
She undid the braids and started over. One braid straight down her back would look more mature.
One braid to the side was for bed. After midnight, it had been for Graham.
For Graham, who was on her team.
Graham, who believed in her.
She took a breath and looked in the mirror. She could do this. She deserved this job. And she would call Graham tonight and tell him she’d gotten her job and her new place to live, so he didn’t need to worry about her. He was out in the middle of nowhere, but maybe the satellite gods would be kind and bounce her signal to his phone. She wanted to hear his voice.
“Gus, let’s talk about where I fit on the James Hill.”
That would work, because she did fit on the James Hill. Gus had practically raised her to be part of the James Hill. She finished her braid, gathered up last night’s clothes, stopped in the mudroom to stomp on her boots and put everything back in her truck. It was time to walk to Gus’s office. This was it.
She looked around, but there was nobody else at the house, so she took out the Marine Corps jacket and, one more time, buried her face in it. He was coming back for her. Someday.
She wished someday wasn’t three months away.