Temporarily Texan

“A garden used by settlers to provide herbs, fruit, vegetables and beauty.”

“Dammit. I need a cattle expert.”

“Well, the last place I want to be is on a cattle ranch. I’m looking for old roses and tomatoes, daisies and berry bushes. Ranching is against everything I believe.”

“Then you are definitely in the wrong place.”

“What did I just say?”

He turned away and looked up at the dingy popcorn ceiling. “Well, we’ll go call the association and get this straightened out.”

“Sure. There’s probably a simple explanation.”

“The cattle guy is probably in the next town, wondering why there’s an old garden and no stock.”

“Right. And the person who needed my help is probably wondering why the man on their doorstep knows more about feed than seed.”

“Okay then. Let’s get this cleared up.”

She followed him out of the gloomy guest bedroom, relieved she wouldn’t be staying there for two weeks.

TROY SETTLED BACK IN THE desk chair and willed himself to be patient. “I know I’m not the person who requested the expert. I’m the brother. Cal Crawford is in the military, in Afghanistan. That’s Calvin P. Crawford IV for the record. He contacted you via e-mail and requested a cattle specialist to come out to the Rocking C in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.” He’d told this story already, to the receptionist. Sweet girl, but she hadn’t been helpful, either. “The expert showed up today, right on schedule, but she’s a gardener, not a cattleman.”

“Mr. Crawford, we don’t send out gardening experts. Everyone who’s a member of the Farmers’ and Ranchers’ Society deals with livestock and related issues.”

“I know that, but I’m telling you, the person who is here knows nothing about cattle. Do you have a record of Raven York? She’s from New Hampshire, for crying out loud!” Hardly cattle country.

“Let me check.”

Troy wedged the phone between his shoulder and neck while he listened to bad elevator music. He hoped they remembered he was on hold. While he waited, he booted up the computer but then remembered that there was only one phone line in the house, and he was currently using it. He couldn’t get on the Internet to check his e-mail via the antiquated modem and that increased his frustration level.

Dammit, he understood why Cal thought Troy needed help. He hadn’t lived on this ranch—on any ranch—for a long time. But any number of neighbors could have come to his aid, as they’d offered since he’d been back to the area. He’d seen them when he went into town, although he didn’t have much time to socialize. He had three ranch hands who worked according to Cal’s instructions, but they didn’t have the training or experience to run a ranch on their own. They couldn’t make decisions about breeding or culling the herd, or changing feed or buying hay if needed.

The elevator music stopped. “No, we don’t have a record of Raven York as a member or a paid consultant. Are you sure that’s her name?”

“I didn’t ask for ID, but that’s what she said.”

“She’s not from our association. Maybe she was sent by someone else.”

“Any idea who would send a Yankee vegetarian animals rights lover to a Texas cattle ranch?”

“Er, well, no.”

“Have you ever heard of the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens?” Troy asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

Troy scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “Is there anyone else at the office we can check with?”

“Yes, but he’s on the phone right now.”

“There’s just the two of you?”

“This isn’t a big association. To be perfectly honest, we’re a little old-fashioned.”

Join the club, Troy felt like saying.

“We specialize in the general farm and ranch, whereas a lot of the groups are more specific to a breed or a type of operation. We support the family ranch and do our best to keep the traditions alive.”

That sounded like something out of a brochure, but Troy didn’t point that out, since he was in marketing himself. In his real job. When he wasn’t getting a headache on his family ranch. Thankfully, his assistant back in Fort Worth was handling most of the day-to-day duties, and Troy could advise via phone or e-mail when necessary.

“I know. We raise Herefords, and our father was a member, and my brother since our dad passed away. But I’m more interested in the specific request my brother made. He asked for a ranching expert. He’s paid dues for years and all he’s gotten so far is a bimonthly magazine. We need help, and we need it now.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford, but I don’t see any request. I’ll have to talk to Mr. Sam Goodman, the general manager, but he’s still on the phone. I’ll give him the information you told me and we’ll see what we can find. He’s been running this association since the 1970s, and he has a terrific memory.”

For someone who’d been working at the same job for the past forty years and is probably past retirement age, Troy wanted to add. “Just get back to me as quickly as possible. Ms. York wants to find out where she’s supposed to be, and I need to locate my ranching expert before the end of the day.”

“We’ll sure do our best.”

Troy gave the man the numbers for his cell phone and the ranch phone, then hung up. He’d detected no sense of urgency, despite the fact it was Friday afternoon. He doubted Mr. Goodman or anyone else worked over the weekend.

“Any news?” his non-cattle-expert asked from the doorway of the office.

“No. I called the association in Bellville. That’s a little town northwest of Houston. They’ve never heard of you and the person I talked to didn’t have any record of Cal’s request. Hopefully, the senior guy will know something, but he’s busy.”

“Is it a big association?”

“No.” Of course not. A big association would charge a lot more money and would not have a list of retired volunteers who took on assignments for peanuts. A big association might have a list of top-notch consultants, but they would charge thousands of dollars for helpful advice. Troy really didn’t think the person Cal had asked for could save the ranch, but dammit, it had been Cal’s decision. Troy felt as if he owed it to his brother to try this approach…first.

“If I could use your phone, I’ll call my contact at the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens. It’s a small group, too, but maybe we’ll have more luck getting answers.”

“Good idea.” Troy handed her the ancient phone that had sat on the desk for at least thirty years, then got up from the chair and stepped aside. “Have a seat. I’m going to grab a soft drink. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I have some water.”

She probably didn’t drink soda anyway. She was around average height, a little on the slim side, but not that two-hour-on-the-StairMaster trim that he observed in some other women. In Fort Worth, he often saw artificially plump lips, small noses and hollow cheekbones. They didn’t look all that real, especially when combined with large breasts on skinny women. Raven York seemed natural, as if she never thought about her looks, just her comfort.

But, heck, what did he know? And why was he spending any time thinking about it, since she’d probably get her answer and be gone by sundown.

RAVEN DIALED THE NUMBER OF the society that was working with the heritage homestead back home. They were a small group located in Florida, but had some excellent members who were willing to help with research and restoration. The project near her New Hampshire farm was especially important because there wasn’t another authentic homestead like it open to the public in her area. Schoolchildren would really benefit from seeing a working homestead from their ancestors’ era.

As soon as the phone-answering system kicked on, Raven started to worry. She dialed the director’s extension, and listened to a slightly feeble voice on the recording.

“This is Mrs. Margaret Philpot. I will be out of the office on Friday afternoon and all weekend visiting my grandchildren. I should be back in the office late Monday or Tuesday. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Oh, no! “Mrs. Philpot, this is RavenYork. You sent me a letter and instructions about coming to Brody’s Crossing, Texas, to the Rocking C ranch to document a historic homestead garden. I’m here, and the owner of the ranch knows nothing about a garden. As a matter of fact, he was expecting a cattle expert! Please, we’re trying to figure out how this mix-up happened. Call us back as soon as possible.”

She gave Mrs. Philpot the number of the ranch, which was neatly typed on the round insert in the middle of the old black phone. “Please, let her call back soon,” Raven whispered, crossing her fingers.