Wrangling The Rancher

“I’m inspecting the equipment. So far, so good.” If all went well, he’d be seeding the fields he’d leased from Karl along with the house.

“Keep me in the loop. I miss the place. And if Taylor calls again, give her my cell number.”

“Are you going to call her?” Personal question, but Cole was curious.

“I’ll try. A lot of the time she doesn’t answer but gets back to me when she can. I’ve kind of given up on being the one to reach out.”

That smacked of family drama, and Cole was not a fan. He’d had enough family drama, which was why he was no longer managing the family ranch turned guest ranch. Drama sucked. “Gotcha.”

“She’s a good kid, Cole. Just busy.”

Too busy to answer her grandpa’s calls? That kind of behavior was flat-out wrong, but again, family drama. Cole wasn’t going to get sucked in.

“Any other relatives I should know about?”

“Taylor’s the only one other than my sister, and you know her.”

“That I do. Tell her hi for me.” Cole hung up and then crossed the kitchen to the cast-iron pan he’d left heating on the stove. Karl had moved only a small amount of stuff to Dillon because he didn’t believe the move was permanent. That meant the kitchen was still well stocked with pots and pans and cooking needs. As near as Cole could tell from what was left behind, Karl was probably closer to camping than actually occupying his new home next door to his sister while she dealt with her husband’s death. Whatever, Cole had the farmhouse until Karl decided to move back to Gavin, which made life easier on him. When he’d left the family guest ranch after the last blowup with Miranda, his crazed step-aunt, he hadn’t owned much in the way of house gear. He’d lived in what was essentially a larger guest cabin on the ranch property, ate most of his meals in the guest facility and cooked as little as possible. He planned to continue that trend, but he could handle steak and store-bought macaroni salad.

He’d just set his steak square in the middle of the cast-iron pans when he heard a knock on the door. Surprised, since the farm didn’t get that many visitors, he crossed the kitchen, opened the door and found himself face-to-face with two deputy sheriffs.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

One of them met and held his gaze while the other looked past him into the room as if expecting to see a trail of blood or stacks of stolen cash.

“We’re checking on the whereabouts of Karl Evans. Are you Mr. Evans?”

Karl’s granddaughter had called the cops on him. Well, at least she cared enough to do that—or maybe she didn’t take kindly to not getting what she wanted. Whatever the circumstances, Cole was fairly certain that the deputies knew that he wasn’t Mr. Evans. “I’m Cole Bryan. I’m leasing the place from Mr. Evans.”

“Do you know how to get in contact with Mr. Evans?”

“Just got off the phone with him, so I can give you his number and his sister’s number in Dillon. Neither of them are any good at answering their phones, but you might get lucky.”

Neither deputy smiled. “Do you have identification?”

Cole jerked his head toward his wallet that sat next to his keys and sunglasses at the end of the counter. “I do.”

“Get it, please.”

Cole did as the other deputy dialed the number Cole had provided and stepped out onto the porch. The first deputy inspected Cole’s driver’s license.

“You’re close to expiration.”

“Yes.”

He held the license out and waited for his partner to finish his call. Cole was thankful that the guy had gotten through on the first try.

“Do you have a copy of the lease agreement?”

Cole glanced over his shoulder at his steak that was starting to snap and pop in the hot skillet. “I do. Can I turn that down?” The deputy nodded and Cole stepped over to the stove and flipped the steak, the cop watching him as if he was going to use the piece of meat as a defensive weapon.

After he carefully put down the fork, he pulled the towel off his shoulder just as the second deputy came back into the kitchen and gave his partner a nod.

“Do you need to see a copy of the lease?” Cole asked.

The deputy who’d made the phone call shook his head. “Mr. Evans established his identity as well as yours to my satisfaction.”

“Good to know.”

“Sorry to intrude on your evening.”

“Not a problem,” Cole said. “I, uh, assume that you got a call from Mr. Evans’s granddaughter?”

“She requested a wellness check, yes.”

“Sorry you guys had to come all this way.”

“It’s our job.”

It was also a five-mile drive that could have been avoided if...whatever her name was...had called her grandfather every now and again. Cole went back to the steak. Hopefully the granddaughter was now satisfied that Karl was safe and sound. She’d call him more often after this scare, and all would be well.

* * *

TAYLOR WAS HOT—the angry kind. Nothing like driving through the night for eight hours, stewing, to get the blood up. By the time she hit the Montana border, she’d reached a decision. She was going to see her grandfather, but first she was stopping by his farm to meet the guy who’d somehow talked him into leasing not only the land, but his house. That didn’t sit right with her.

In fact, there wasn’t one thing about this situation that seemed right. Her grandfather had sworn he would never leave his farm. Taylor’s aunt had tried to get him to Dillon more than once, but he always refused. He’d even gone so far as to say that he wanted to be buried on his property. Yet he had left.

Taylor yawned as she pulled off the freeway onto the state highway toward the Eagle Valley. Dawn was breaking. She’d driven all night, but all night was a way of life with her. It was how she’d become the most productive member of her team. And where had that gotten her?

Her throat started to tighten. Eight weeks in and she still felt hurt, betrayed—thoroughly screwed. The business part of her said that it wasn’t personal.

That didn’t change the fact that it felt personal.

Her job had been such a huge part of her life, her identity—it was impossible not to take the layoff personally...especially when they’d kept Kent McCoy on staff. The guy did half the work she did...

Stop.

Taylor did her best, although stop was not a well-used word in her vocabulary. If anything, she pressed on, but for the last eight weeks she’d been pressing against...nothing. It was exhausting having no goals other than getting a job. Not that she hadn’t thrown herself into it—

Stop.

Think about something else...like where you’re going to live once you give up your apartment.

Arrow to the heart, that. Her lease, which was up in three weeks, didn’t allow subletting, and she certainly couldn’t afford her rent without a job. The rock and the hard place were squeezing her hard, and the thing that most angered her was that for her entire life she’d plotted and planned so that these kinds of things would never happen.

Argh.

Taylor slapped a hand on the steering wheel. What she needed was someone to talk to. Most of her Seattle friends were work acquaintances who now seemed to feel totally awkward around her. Her real friends—Roselyn and Katherine—lived on the other side of the country, working in fields unrelated to her own. She hadn’t talked to them since the layoff. It wasn’t solely a case of not wanting to share her misery—Taylor didn’t know how to share misery.