Montana Hearts: Her Weekend Wrangler Read online

  She whirled around, and for a split second she was confused by the fact Ryan was still several yards away. Then she and the filly bonked heads and the blow knocked her off her feet.

  “Bree!” Ryan called, running through the gate.

  He stopped up short when the mare spun and kicked her hind legs. Then the mare and filly bolted away from him. Bree watched the scene in a daze, and for some reason it made her laugh.

  Ryan ran toward her and scooped her into his arms. “Are you all right?”

  “The filly’s hardheaded.”

  “Yeah, well, so are you.” He carried her out of the paddock and closed the gate. Then, setting her back on the ground, he knelt beside her and waved his hand in front of her face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two.” She raised a finger to the pain centered on her forehead, felt a large lump, and winced. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  “You’re always pretty. But for a moment there I thought you were going to end up in the hospital like your dad.”

  He thought she was pretty?

  Ryan gave her another look of concern. “Would you like an ice pack?”

  “No, but—­” Her hands flew toward her neck.

  “Does your neck hurt?”

  Bree shook her head and glanced at the ground around her, then toward the corral. “The filly stole my scarf!”

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” Ryan promised.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “That scarf is special.”

  She marched toward the filly, and when she reached out to take the embroidered teal material from its mouth, the young horse thought she was playing a game. First she darted this way, then that. Bree chased the foal around her mother twice before she got close enough to lay hold of the garment. When she did, the midsection was moist with slobber, but at least it hadn’t been chewed. After a good washing, it would be as good as new.

  “I guess I don’t have to worry about your fine motor skills,” Ryan teased when she came back across the field. “That was quite a show.”

  Heat rose in her cheeks as she closed the gate behind her, but she was still too fired up to care if she’d looked like a fool or not.

  “There’s no way I’m letting that stubborn foal think she can outrun me,” Bree said, waving the scarf in her hand. “She has to learn that I’m in charge and that if I say, ‘Drop the scarf,’ she has to drop the scarf. She can’t run away from me like that. She needs to learn some manners.”

  “So does the mother. I’m sorry,” Ryan said, and he looked sincere. “Forget I ever asked you to work with them. I’ll send the horses back to my aunt and tell her she’ll have to find someone else to train the filly.”

  “No. I’m doing this,” Bree said, her voice hard.

  Ryan hesitated, gave her a wary look, then stuck out his hand. “We have a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  Bree put her hand in his to seal the agreement with a handshake. Then she noticed a large, ugly, yellow, purple, and black bruise with a red pinch line running through the middle on Ryan’s bicep.

  She gasped. “Is that a bite?”

  Ryan nodded and lifted the sleeve of his T-­shirt higher to expose the full extent of the damage. “The mare hates men. You don’t, do you?”

  The question caught her off guard. “I don’t do what?”

  “Hate men?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  Ryan smiled back at her. “Good. One man-­hater on the ranch is enough.”

  Chapter Four

  MIDAFTERNOON THE FOLLOWING day, Ryan turned the tractor around in the field he was tilling for the second planting of hay. The Tanners’ midsize cattle ranch, named the Triple T, covered 2,125 acres and fed nearly six hundred and fifty Black Angus cows and required constant upkeep of the grounds, fences, and calving facilities. However, whenever Ryan had a chance, he still preferred training and working with the horses.

  His mind was on his aunt’s mare and filly when he spotted his mother walking from the house, waving her arms to get his attention. Must be urgent. She never called him in from work unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Her lips moved in rapid succession, but he couldn’t hear her speak over the roar of the tractor. Had something happened to Aunt Mary? He brought the tractor to a lurching stop, cut the engine, and jumped off, planting his feet in the soft ground.

  “The school called,” his mother said when she caught up to him, out of breath. “I was out feeding the horses when the phone rang, but they left a message.”

  “And?” Ryan asked.

  “Cody was sent to the principal’s office—­for fighting.”

  Cody? His quiet, mild-­mannered son, who did as he was told and never voiced a complaint unless forced to eat broccoli? Ryan gave a slight shake of his head. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Mr. Sidwell wants you to come in.” His mother pressed her hands against the floral apron tied at her waist, her forehead creased with concern. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No.” He imagined Cody fistfighting to defend himself against bullies and he drew in a deep breath. “I’ll handle it.”

  A half hour later Ryan arrived at Fox Creek Elementary and strode along the popcorn and pizza scented hall toward the principal’s office, a place he knew well from his own childhood. Not that he’d ever picked a fight, but he’d joined in when his buddies needed help. Fortunately, the school principal he’d once known had retired two years ago and Joe Sidwell took his place.

  Yep, this time Ryan could walk into the office with a clean slate, without the worry of prejudice against his son.

  Ryan saw Cody hunched in a chair in a corner of the room with his head down. He looked small. Then again, so did everything else in the building where Ryan and his brothers had all learned their ABC’s. The walls were narrower, the aisleways shorter, the drinking fountains lower, the secretary at the front desk . . . okay, well she looked pretty much the same.

  “Mr. Sidwell’s expecting you, Mr. Tanner.” Her scornful tone hadn’t changed any either. The bony, white-­haired woman who had worked at the school forever motioned him toward the principal’s connecting door. “Go right on in.”

  Instead, Ryan crossed over to his son and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Cody. Want to tell me what happened?”

  He screwed up his face like he’d eaten a sour apple. “Some kid stole a paper from my desk and wouldn’t give it back.”

  “And?” Ryan prompted.

  Cody didn’t answer, but looked up at him with large, guilt-­stricken eyes.

  “Look, I’m gonna straighten things out with the guy in there,” Ryan said, nodding toward the principal’s quarters in the back. “Then we’ll bust you out of here, okay?”

  Cody’s lower lip trembled with an almost smile. “Okay.”

  Ryan tousled the top of the boy’s head and, ignoring the doubtful look from the ancient corpse eyeballing his every move, went in to see the principal.

  “Mr. Tanner,” the mustached man behind the desk greeted him. “Glad you could make it.”

  Ryan nodded, then shifted his gaze to the gray-­haired woman in the red sweater seated a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

  His former mother-­in-­law smirked. “When the school couldn’t get ahold of you, they called me.”

  “Thank you, but I’m here now,” Ryan said, placing a hand on the back of her chair. “You’re free to go.”

  “Just like that?” Mrs. Owens countered. “You think you can dismiss me before I hear why my grandson was in a fistfight? He’s my family, too.”

  And how he wished she wasn’t. Ryan clenched his jaw as he took a seat beside her, and turned back toward the principal. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  Mr. Sidwell cleared his throat. “Cody took a
swing at another boy—­”

  “Who?” Ryan demanded.

  “Mitch Wyllie.”

  “Bill and Aimee’s kid?”

  The principal nodded. “When Cody punched him, Mitch twisted around and cut his lip open on the edge of a desk. His parents had to take him to the hospital for stitches.”

  Mrs. Owens gasped. “Aimee’s in my book club at the library. What am I going to say to her the next time we meet?”

  Ryan bit back a retort and instead focused on the issue at hand. “Cody said the other boy stole his paper.”

  The principal handed him a pink piece of construction paper with Cody’s name on it. “They made Mother’s Day cards a ­couple weeks ago, but Cody never took his home. Mitch pulled it out of Cody’s desk and said something Cody didn’t like.”

  Ryan grimaced, dread pouring into his gut. “Like the fact Cody doesn’t have a mother?”

  “He did have a mother,” Mrs. Owens spat ungraciously.

  “But she’s not with us anymore,” Ryan amended.

  “And whose fault is that?” she demanded. “She’d still be here if you hadn’t drive her away.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. She left us.” Ryan scowled as memories of the past surged forward. Memories of the day Gail said she was going shopping and never returned. “She left us,” he repeated, his voice raw. And she didn’t just leave; she left behind a note. A scribbled line on the bathroom mirror written in bright red lipstick saying she didn’t want to be married. Oh, and she didn’t want to be tied down with a child either. Ryan jerked his gaze away from his ex-­mother-­in-­law in time to see the principal raise his brows. Ryan looked him straight in the eye, willing him to understand. “She left us.”

  “Can I make a suggestion . . . in front of your mother-­in-­law?” the principal asked.

  “Ex-­mother-­in-­law,” Ryan corrected with a nod. “Cody’s mother and I divorced.”

  “Perhaps some counseling might help?” Mr. Sidwell offered.

  “Cody doesn’t need counseling,” Ryan retorted.

  The principal folded his hands and eyed him skeptically. “Have you considered getting some counseling for yourself?”

  “No. Neither one of us needs any counseling. We’re fine.”

  “Are you?” The principal shook his head. “Because you don’t sound ‘fine.’ In fact, I’m wondering if Cody is picking up on your anger at home and that’s the reason he’s lashing out in school.”

  “I’m sure that’s what it is,” Mrs. Owens agreed. “Cody is such a sweet boy. It’s not his fault he has a father with a temper. My daughter Gail said he yelled at her all the time, and then—­God bless her—­she had all she could take.”

  “I do not have a temper! Gail left because—­” She had a lover. Ryan swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue. As much as he’d like to say them, he’d never forgive himself later if he slandered Cody’s mother in public.

  “My poor daughter was so distraught she couldn’t think straight,” Mrs. Owens said with tears welling up in her eyes. “She hated leaving her son, but she couldn’t live with this man anymore and moved to the city. And she got hit by a bus!”

  Ryan knew the upcoming anniversary of her daughter’s death always drove her a little crazy. In fact, the doctor had recently given her meds to calm her down and help her cope. But enough was enough. Jumping up from his seat he pointed toward the door. “Mrs. Owens, you will excuse us now.”

  The principal offered her a tissue as he escorted her to the door. Glancing behind her, she gave Ryan a cold, glassy-­eyed glare.

  Mr. Sidwell closed the door behind her and sat back down. “I’m well aware that Cody’s mother is . . . not here. However, that is no excuse to hit another boy.”

  Ryan opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but then an unsettled queasiness spiraled up his spine. Maybe he was right. Maybe Cody wasn’t the one at fault. Maybe it was him. He should have talked to his son about his mother’s absence a long time ago, but Cody never asked for much detail and then . . . after a while, it just seemed easier not to say anything at all.

  Big mistake. Gail had inflicted pain in every direction and his inability to help his son cope had only made things worse. Now he not only had to have the “talk,” but he had to make sure Cody knew right from wrong.

  “Don’t worry,” Ryan told the principal. “Cody will apologize.”

  BREE WISHED SHE had a full month to interview employees, but the first guests were expected to arrive in ten days. She had to find a work crew for the ranch before then. At the beginning of the week Bree placed ads on the internet, in the newspaper, and had posted a Help Wanted sign in the window of the general store and on the bulletin board at the post office. Then she hung a third one inside the Fox Creek Café. By late Wednesday she’d been pleased that a handful of ­people had called inquiring about the positions available, and Bree, assisted by Sammy Jo, set out to interview them.

  “What are your names?” Bree asked, studying the identical sixteen-­year-­old twins who sat on the opposite side of the office desk from her.

  “I’m Nora,” said one and glanced at her sister. “And she—­”

  “I’m Nadine,” said the other in a bubbly voice as she bounced around in her seat. “But I’ll answer to Nora, and she’ll answer to Nadine if you mix us up.”

  Bree hesitated, then gave the slim, ponytailed brunettes a slight nod. “Good to know.”

  Nadine smiled. “Yeah, right? Because imagine if you called out Nora’s name and I didn’t answer and you fired me for not listening? Then I’d never get my nails done.”

  “Nails?” Bree shot a questioning glance at Sammy Jo, who shook her head to signal she had no idea what the girl was talking about either.

  “I was just saying to Nadine that we needed a job so we can afford to get our nails polished with pretty designs,” Nora explained. “Like you see in Trendy Teen magazine.”

  “That’s when we saw your Help Wanted sign in the window of the café,” Nadine said, her blue eyes gleaming. “It was like a real sign. Like—­”

  “A sign like we were meant to do this!” Nora cheered. “We were meant to have trendy nails after all!”

  Bree’s mouth fell open as she stared at the pair in disbelief. Did someone send these two comediennes over as a joke?

  Sammy Jo shook her head and laughed, then leaned in close and whispered, “The guests might think they’re cute.”

  “They do seem to have a lot of energy,” Bree conceded.

  “I think they’ll lighten the mood around here,” Sammy Jo said, still grinning as she straightened in her seat.

  “Yeah, right, you think?” Nadine asked, her eyes wide.

  “Does that mean we’re hired?” Nora added.

  Bree’s head spun from the way the girls ping-­ponged their answers back and forth, finishing each other’s sentences. But maybe her friend was right. Maybe the twins would add some comic relief around the place. And what other choice did she have? No one else had applied for cabin cleaning. Maybe the twins could also do some work in the kitchen and serve meals in the dining hall, which would save her ma and grandma a lot of trouble.

  “All right,” she told the girls. “You’ve got the job.”

  “Yes!” Nora and Nadine shouted in a unified squee. “Score one for the Walford twins!”

  This time Bree couldn’t help it. She had to shake her head and laugh, too.

  Nora and Nadine let out another squeal of delight as they left the office, eliciting a groan from Bree’s father in the other room.

  “No loud noises,” he shouted. “My head still needs to heal and every little sound echoes in my skull and gives me a headache.”

  “Yes, Dad.” Bree sympathized with his head injury, but the fact he continuously raised his voice louder than anyone else within a ten-­mile radius made her think he wasn�
��t suffering as much as he let on.

  Sammy Jo curled her fingers into claws and pantomimed a growling grizzly, making Bree smile as she opened the door to let in the next applicant.

  The few who were interested in becoming ranch hands had seen better days. One gangly man looked like he hadn’t eaten a meal in several weeks. Another looked too heavy to lift his plump body up into a saddle. And one woman with a queen complex told her outright that she’d help the guests saddle up, but she wouldn’t be cleaning the stalls.

  But without any further options, the best having already been hired elsewhere for the season, Bree took what she could get.

  Sammy Jo walked beside her as they made their way down to the corral.

  “I’d be more than happy to pitch in when I’m around during the week,” her friend offered. “I can lead trail rides, give horseback lessons, and help herd cattle.”

  Luke dipped his brush into the gallon of wood stain he’d been using to spruce up the outside of a nearby guest cabin, then glanced her way and grimaced.

  “What’s the matter with that?” Sammy Jo demanded, hands on her hips. “You don’t think I can herd cattle?”

  Luke’s jaw tightened, and without a word he turned away.

  “You can,” Bree whispered. “But Luke can’t.”

  “Are you saying he’s jealous?” Sammy Jo asked, an incredulous expression crossing her face.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Bree glanced at her younger brother, the one they used to tease because life had always been so easy for him. If a cow was lost, he’d find it. If a horse spooked, he’d hold on until the animal slowed. If dared to race, his motorcycle would cross the finish line first every time.

  Sammy Jo winced. “I shouldn’t have said anything. How could I be so insensitive?”

  “Because you’re used to Luke . . . well, being Luke. We all are. But since he’s been back . . . all he does is mope. No one knows exactly what to say to him.”

  “I can’t imagine not being able to ride,” Sammy Jo said, a note of sympathy creeping into her voice.