Twelve insensible heifers were all that stood between Ty Carrington and a delicious roasted turkey. He pulled his scarf tight against the western Idaho winds and faced the other two ranch hands. “Let’s get this done.”
“I’ll go right,” offered George, one of their original cowboys on the ranch.
“I’ve got left.” Billy was already backing his horse up to take the far curve.
“And I’ll circle from above,” Ty told them. The bite of the northwest wind should be enough inducement to get the first years down to the lower pasture quickly, but the thought of that dinner...
Roasted free-range turkey. Two kinds of stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Cranberry-orange relish. Homemade rolls. Corn casserole. Platters of meat and deep bowls of gravy, with more desserts than any spread should allow. Carrington Acres looked out for their people. His family expected an honest day’s work but took care of folks in return.
Holidays made him think.
Ty didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to ponder life’s realities unless it had to do with cows or horses.
They triple-teamed the remaining stragglers, and when the last young cow was safely tucked in on the near side of the lower field, Ty latched the first gate.
Done.
The sharp wind froze his cheeks beneath a five-day beard. Over 250 heifers that were scheduled for winter deliveries were now closer to the barns. He’d just latched the last gate when his cell phone rang. Effie Broderick’s name showed up on the screen. Effie was an old gal who lived in the tiny village of Shepherd’s Crossing. “Miss Effie.” He climbed down from his horse and began to walk her toward the front barn. “Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He didn’t say it because he cared about the holiday—he didn’t—but it was the polite thing to do. “This is a surprise.”
“I know the truth in that, Ty, because I don’t think I’ve ever placed a call to Carrington Acres before, but there’s something going on here in town, and, with Eric away, I figured you’d be the best one to handle it.”
What could possibly be going wrong in Shepherd’s Crossing? The sorry little town had sat half-empty since he’d arrived five years ago. He walked at a steady pace, letting the dun mare cool down. “What’s up?”
“Someone’s in one of the houses.”
“The houses?” He played dumb to gather his bearings because he knew exactly what she meant. When the neighboring ranch owners had recently pushed to put the town back together again, he and his brother Eric had made the decision to purchase several of the empty buildings in town. Every one of the buildings was vacant, so there shouldn’t be people in them. “Which one, Effie? And are you sure?” If someone had taken up residence in one of the foreclosed places, they’d need to move. Those houses had been bought and paid for. The thought of squatters didn’t sit well.
“Sure as shootin’,” she replied. “They’re staying in the faded green one on Harrison.”
Ty knew the house. The county had taken it due to lack of tax payment. The Carringtons had purchased it fair and square. “I’ll come straight in and check it out.”
He remounted the horse. Hadn’t he been lamenting that the mare hadn’t been exercised enough the last few weeks? A ride into town would fix that.
He told the other men where he was going and headed north. They’d have put Lady up for him and he could have grabbed the Jeep, but there was something solid about a Thanksgiving ride. He drew her to a halt near one of the old hitching posts in town, tied her off and cut across the narrow street.
Effie was right. There were lights on in the green house. He climbed the two worn steps and rapped sharply on the door. He half expected whoever it was to hide themselves because they weren’t supposed to be there, so when an absolutely beautiful young woman opened the door, Ty wasn’t sure what to trip over first—his surprise or his words. Dark hair, long and wavy, framed a classic face with high cheekbones and a perfect smile. He wasn’t sure of her heritage, but in the world of genetics, she’d got the cream of the crop. Bright brown eyes sparkled as she leaned the storm door open.
“Hello.” She aimed a soft smile at him. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so, ma’am.” He removed his tan cowboy hat and put it over his chest the way a gentleman would, except most gentlemen didn’t throw people to the curb on Thanksgiving. “I’m Ty Carrington. I’ve got a ranch outside of town.”
She nodded as he spoke.
“This house here? The one you’re in?”
“I know it’s a little rough around the edges, but we’ll make do,” she assured him. “When spring comes, Dovie and I will have so much fun making a garden. Maybe trimming the lawn, but maybe not. We’ll see.” She pulled her hoodie closer. “Would you like to come in? That wind is sharp.”
He felt funny going inside, but she wasn’t dressed for the outdoors. He stepped across the threshold. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Oh?” She shut the door and faced him. “How so?”
“This house.”
She nodded. “My aunt Celia’s place. She left it to me nearly two years ago.” Her gaze clouded slightly. “Circumstances didn’t allow me to get up here and see it until just now. But we rolled in last night with plenty of time to get settled over the winter. I was surprised that the utilities were still turned on, but grateful. I didn’t have to do a single thing except turn the key and hit a light switch. And we’ll have to clean, of course. But that’s to be expected.”
“Of course. Ma’am, it’s just that—”
“Mommy! Do we have company? Isn’t this the most special day ever?” A tiny version of the woman skipped out from the back of the house. She sported even darker hair, only hers was in twin ponytails that bounced with every movement. Dark eyes, crinkled in laughter, sparkled up at him.
“Come here, Dovie.” She picked up the little girl and faced him. “My daughter, Mary White Dove Lambert. I’m Jessica Lambert. Welcome to our home.”
“See, that’s just it.” Ty raked his hand across the nape of his neck. “I don’t think this is your home.”
She frowned. “Of course it is. My aunt’s attorney sent me all the paperwork to transfer ownership when she passed away.”
“And what did you do with the paperwork?” he asked.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The transfer of ownership. Did you sign the papers? Send them back? Pay the taxes?”
She held the little girl closer. Tighter. “Of course I did. Well, the paperwork, anyway. To the county, actually, not a place here in town. I kept copies for myself. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“No one paid the taxes on this property for over two years. The county let it go for lack of tax payment a few weeks ago. Our ranch purchased this property and several others here in town.”
“That’s impossible.”
Right now he wished it were. “Are you sure you’re in the right house?”
She nailed him with a straight-on look. “Do you think my aunt’s key would work in other doors? Or are you suggesting we broke in?”
“No, ma’am. And it’s Thanksgiving. I didn’t come by to cause any problems. But this is Carrington property, so I’m going to have to ask you to move by Monday.”
“You don’t really think that I’m going to let you turn myself and my four-year-old daughter out into the cold because of some weird county mix-up, do you?” The little girl had looked so happy to have company. Now she looked suspicious. And worried.
Great, he’d managed to distress a little kid on Thanksgiving. Had five years of running herd and avoiding people robbed him of even the slightest bit of common sense? Jessica pulled open the door. “You need to leave.”
“I will.” The last thing he wanted to do was cause a problem for her, but he understood the law. This house—no matter who she thought she got it from—was a Carrington house now. As he turned toward the door, he spotted a square wooden table beyond the living room. A tiny roasted bird the size of a game hen stood, ready to carve. An equally small bowl of potatoes sat off to the side. And peas.
That was it.
That was the sum of their Thanksgiving dinner.
Not your fault. Everything bad that happens in the world is not your fault.
He stepped outside. She shut the door firmly behind him and clicked the lock.
Lady stamped her foot, an equine message that she’d been waiting long enough for him.
He rode her back to the ranch nice and easy. If he was late for dinner, that was all right. He’d miss the praying and the thanking part of it, and they were probably all better off for that. His current brand of cynicism wasn’t meant for Thanksgiving tables. Or altars. Or pulpits. Yeah, he’d be fine to miss the thanking part.
As long as there was hot turkey and a few slices of bread, he’d make do, but when he got the mare put up and entered the kitchen, amazing scents accosted him. Sally Ann had gone the distance to make the crew a beautiful meal, but all he could think about was that Cornish game hen sitting on a worn table next to a bowl of round green peas.
And he’d just kicked her out of the house.
* * *
A good share of Jessica Lambert’s ancestors may have been relegated to a reservation, but that was in the distant past. She was a modern Native American mix and this was her house. Her place. And she was willing to take on anyone who tried to say otherwise, even unshaven cowboys sporting short, curly blond hair and big blue eyes. Clearly there was a mistake, one that she’d clear up on Monday. End of story.
“Who was that man, Mommy?” Dovie framed Jessica’s cheeks with her two small hands. “And why did he make you sad?”
“Not sad, Dovie. What rhymes with sad?” Jessica asked. She set the girl down and moved toward the table.
“Bad! Glad! Mad!” she recited, ticking off her fingers. “That’s such an easy one, Mommy.”
“Because you’re such a smart girl,” Jessica told her. “And our dinner is ready, although I need to warm up the potatoes and peas in the microwave. Let me get that done and we can pray together.”
“And then we have a Thanksgiving feast!” Dovie scrambled into one of the three chairs and waited while Jessica warmed the vegetables.
A four-year-old’s palate was easily satisfied. Anything could be a feast. As long as Jessica pushed herself to view things through Dovie’s eyes and not society’s perceptions, they’d do all right.
But what about that man? Ty Carrington? Could his ranch truly have a claim on this house?
No.
She’d done everything she was supposed to do. The fact that the county had never sent her a tax bill couldn’t be considered her fault. Yet, maybe she should have looked into it further...
Be kind to yourself. You’ve had a lot on your plate. Have dinner. Watch a movie. Talk about faith, hope and love.
She brought the potatoes and peas back to the table.
Dovie sat up straighter. She leaned over and drew a deep breath. “Doesn’t this smell so very good, Mommy?”
“Wonderfully good,” said Jessica. She sat down and took her daughter’s hand. “Let’s each tell God something we’re thankful for this year. Okay?”
Dovie, never one to shirk the limelight, nodded quickly. “God, I’m so happy with our new house! Thank You so much for it, and thank You for this good food.” She looked at Jessica, expectant. “Your turn, Mommy!”
“Dear Lord, I, too, am thankful for this sweet home. A warm fire. And, most of all, my Lovie-Dovie.”
“Oh, Mom!” Dovie giggled like she did every time Jessica called her Lovie-Dovie. So sweet. So trusting.
Jessica understood that the world was not always to be trusted. She’d learned some hard lessons, but she’d also learned when to back down and when to hold her ground.
She’d come north from the Nebraska–South Dakota border to claim this inheritance. Away from her late husband’s home and family. Away from the troubles of the reservation he so badly wanted to help. That goal had been cut short by his death over a year before.
She was a homeowner now.
And no one—no matter what they said or did—was going to take that from her.