# His Ranch Or Hers

Roz Denny Fox

From green beret to greenhornMyra Odell’s parents have given away her Montana ranch—to a tenderfoot. Lieutenant Zeke Maxwell may have saved her brother's life, but he doesn’t know the first thing about cattle. For the sake of the ranch, Myra agrees to train Zeke, but she’s determined not to get too close.The military taught Zeke a lot of things, but ranching wasn’t one of them. Zeke is impressed by Myra’s experience and courage…but seriously distracted by her beautiful eyes. Her claim on the Flying Owl is complicated, as is her claim on his heart. Can he prove to Myra that the ranch will never be his home without her?

FROM GREEN BERET TO GREENHORN

Myra Odell’s parents have given away her Montana ranch—to a tenderfoot. Lieutenant Zeke Maxwell may have saved her brother’s life, but he doesn’t know the first thing about cattle. For the sake of the ranch, Myra agrees to train Zeke, but she’s determined not to get too close.

The military taught Zeke a lot of things, but ranching wasn’t one of them. Zeke is impressed by Myra’s experience and courage...but seriously distracted by her beautiful eyes. Her claim on the Flying Owl is complicated, as is her claim on his heart. Can he prove to Myra that the ranch will never be his home without her?

“Are you hurt?” Zeke knelt close beside Myra.

“Only my pride.” She stood, wiping wet snow from her jeans. “Cayenne’s never thrown me before.”

“If you’re sure you’re okay to ride, come on.” Zeke boosted her up onto Ember’s back. “We’ll ride double.”

“I can sit behind you,” Myra said, attempting to swing down again.

“Stay. We’ve gotta make tracks home and I want to know you’re not so woozy you’ll fall off.” He landed in the saddle behind her.

Myra tried to keep from leaning against Zeke, but snuggled between his solid thighs and cradled by his arms, she relaxed against her will.

“It’s really dark now,” Zeke said, his breath rustling Myra’s hair. “Do you think your horse will head straight to the ranch?”

“I hope so.” Myra turned slightly to look at him. Part of her liked the comfort afforded by Zeke Maxwell’s strong arms. Another part of her whispered, But he’s the enemy.

Dear Reader,

The theme idea for the Snowy Owl Ranchers books started when I read a great article in National Wildlife magazine about a study done on snowy owls in the lower forty-eight. Snowy owls used to nest only in the cold lands of the far north. The study shows these gorgeous birds are having to travel farther afield for food and nesting.

Book characters generally come to me in the night. Odd as it may sound to people who don’t write down stories that pop into their minds, the town of Snowy Owl Crossing is fictional, as are all of the people who populate His Ranch or Hers, the first of three connected books for the Mills & Boon American Romance line.

I hope readers come to love the owls as I have and also develop a fondness for folks like Zeke Maxwell, Myra Odell, and their friends and family who live and work in my fictional Montana ranching community.

As always I love hearing from readers via mail at 7739 E. Broadway Blvd #101 Tucson, AZ 85710-3941, or email: rdfox@cox.net.

Sincerely,


His Ranch or Hers

Roz Denny Fox


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ROZ DENNY FOX’s first book was published by Harlequin in 1990. She writes for several Harlequin lines and her books are published worldwide and in a number of languages. Roz’s warm home-and-family-focused love stories have been nominated for various industry awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award, the Holt Medallion, the Golden Quill and others. Roz has been a member of the Romance Writers of America since 1987 and is currently a member of Tucson’s Saguaro Romance Writers, where she has received the Barbara Award for outstanding chapter service. In 2013 Roz received her fifty-book pin from Harlequin. Readers can email her through Facebook or at rdfox@cox.net, or visit her website at korynna.com/rozfox.

I want to thank the hardworking editors at Harlequin who have so kindly shared my vision for the Snowy Owl books and others. Always to Paula Eykelhof and Kathleen Scheibling. Also to Dana Hopkins, and to Victoria Curran for whom I have written stories for the Harlequin Heartwarming line. Harlequin books across all lines are my favorite books to read.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Myra Odell parked the tractor in the implement barn and went out to the fenced acres of grass. Recent rains had greened the pasture nicely. Good. Maybe tomorrow she’d bring the new crop of young animals down to ready them for market. Her neighbor Hank Watson had offered to truck them to the stockyard before winter storms hit northeastern Montana. With August close to the end, she’d still hoped for a few more weeks of decent weather. But all morning the sky had looked ominous. She’d gotten fairly good at predicting weather disruptions. She’d grown up in this country, and for most of her twenty-eight years she’d spent summers here on Flying Owl Ranch with her dad’s parents. Three summers ago she’d come to help out Gramps, who’s health had declined after her grandmother passed away the previous year.

Rather than return to teaching high school math in Great Falls that year, she’d stayed to run the ranch she loved. Her mom fussed about it, but truth be told Myra liked cattle ranching way more than teaching. Although after losing Gramps, the loneliness took some getting used to. Thankfully, she’d made friends with neighbors and some in the nearby town of Snowy Owl Crossing. And Gramps said she was a born rancher. Which was good because Myra saw herself spending the rest of her life right here.

Stepping down from the last rung of the split-rail fence, Myra checked her watch. She could feed the two saddle horses she kept for herding cattle before driving into town to grab staples in case the Farmer’s Almanac was right about them getting an early snow. She might drop in to see a couple of her girlfriends, especially Jewell Hyatt, to ask if she had any news from the state. Their committee had put in a request to designate some local land as a snowy-owl habitat.

A waterfowl preserve was already adjacent to a nearby lake, but snowy owls nested in tall fir trees too often being logged off. The birds weren’t yet endangered, but everyone in the area who loved watching them raise their young knew the owl population was shrinking. Quite a bit just since Myra had made her home here.

The horses whinnied a welcome. Both stuck their heads over their stall doors to see if she’d brought apples or a carrot in addition to their daily rations. Today she had neither, but they made do with muzzle rubs.

She left the barn and was heading toward Gramps’s aging Ford pickup when her cell phone rang. Myra dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and was surprised to see her dad’s number on the screen. She rarely heard directly from him as he tended to let her mom or her younger brother, Eric, touch base for the whole family. Her folks owned a much larger cattle ranch off the highway that ran between Miles City and Billings. Because it was rarer still that any of the busy Odells took time to phone during a weekday, worry knotted in Myra’s stomach as she swiped the bar to answer.

“Hello, Dad? Is everything all right at Rolling Acres?” Myra heard the tremor in her voice and took a deep breath to dispel her concerns.

“Everything is fine. I have good news. Lieutenant Maxwell is here.”

“You mean the guy who saved Eric’s life in Afghanistan? I didn’t know he was out of the hospital.”

“Zeke, that’s right. He’s out of the VA hospital after an extensive stay after he saved Eric’s life.”

“Doesn’t he live on the East Coast?”

“Yup, he was renting an apartment in Boston, where he grew up. Seems his folks have retired to some island.”

“Eric told me they’d kept in contact. I recall him saying the lieutenant had to have his left shoulder and elbow rebuilt. It sounded serious. I think Eric felt some guilt because the guy got hurt saving him and the others.”

“I don’t know that he felt guilty. Certainly grateful. Your mother and I can’t thank him enough, either.”

“For sure. So what’s he doing in Montana?”

“That’s really what I called to tell you. Zeke’s friends and family have all left Boston for other opportunities. Eric thought he needed cheering up.”

“So you invited him to visit. That’s thoughtful of you guys.”

Myra’s father cleared his throat. “Actually, kiddo, your mom and I had this brilliant idea to gift him the Flying Owl. With Dad gone and you needing to get back to the job you went to college for, we dug out the deed. As co-owner on Dad’s trust, it was simple to have Don Jarvis draw up a new deed. I sent it off to Lieutenant Maxwell last month. At first we didn’t hear back and so weren’t sure he’d accept. Then yesterday he showed up to ask if it was legitimate. I assured him it is. Expensive as land is, nothing on earth can ever equal the worth of him saving Eric’s life.”

Myra’s ears started to buzz. She wasn’t sure she’d processed everything she thought she’d heard her dad say. Turning around, she sat heavily on the old truck’s running board. A sick feeling gripped her stomach and washed over her. “I...I love the Flying Owl. Wh...why didn’t you call and discuss this with me?”

“Now, honey, your mother and I know you felt obligated to stick around and help your gramps. We appreciate all you did to make his last years easier. He was a lost soul after Mom died, and I was tied down here. Like your mother keeps telling me, you’ve dedicated enough time in that out-of-the-way place. This way, you have a week or so before a new school year starts to look for teaching jobs. You deserve to get back to living and working in a city where you’ll meet young men and women your own age.”

Myra couldn’t force the plethora of objections past her constricted throat.

“Honey, did I lose you?”

“Uh, no,” she managed to rasp. She swallowed a bunch of times and swabbed at tears trickling from her eyes. She heard doors slamming in the background on her dad’s end, followed by loud male laughter. “Dad, you don’t understand—”

He cut her off. “Listen, hon, Eric and Zeke are back from riding ATVs around the ranch. Zeke’s joining us for supper, and he’ll spend the night. Tomorrow he’ll drive to the Flying Owl. That gives you this afternoon and evening to pack your stuff and take any mementos from the ranch you want. I figure he’ll arrive by noon. Maybe you’d be so kind as to give him a quick tour of the ranch. Afterward, come stay with us until you get a job offer. We haven’t seen enough of you,” he said, his tone gruff with emotion.

Myra remained at a loss for words. She loved her family. She didn’t doubt they loved her. Possibly she was partly to blame for this awful turn of events. After all, she’d never told them how much living here and running the ranch meant to her. “Sure. Bye, Dad,” she managed to whisper past a growing lump in her throat. She quickly disconnected and buried her face in her hands.

Numb, but not one to wallow in self-pity, she decided to get on with her earlier plan of going to town. If this wasn’t all a bad dream, she had friends to notify of the sudden, colossal change in her life.

As she drove the two-lane road toward Snowy Owl Crossing, gray clouds obscured the jagged tops of the mountain range she loved. With its rock-strewn mountains, patches of evergreen trees and gentle hills flattening into rich farm and ranch lands, this area had everything. She hurt to think of leaving it.

The town had a single major street lined with businesses. At one end sat a combination grocery store–post office, at the other, a very busy feed store. Myra remembered a time Main Street wasn’t paved, when she’d spent summers here as a young girl tagging after Gram and Gramps. Little else had changed about the weathered wood stores, except for a new generation of proprietors.

She parked near the coffee shop owned by the mother of one of her good friends, Lila Jenkins. Only a year older than Myra, Lila was already a widow with a nine-year-old son. Following her husband’s death, Lila had begun working part-time for her mom. She also owned a bed-and-breakfast that catered to fishermen, but she was struggling to keep it afloat.

Still discombobulated by her dad’s call, Myra hoped a strong cup of coffee would help snap her out of the pain gripping her.

As she entered the cheery, warm café, it surprised her to see a couple of her other friends seated at a back table. Jewell Hyatt, born and raised in Snowy Owl Crossing, now served as the area’s main veterinarian. Shelley Price was a few years older than the other women in the Artsy Ladies group. Her husband was a park ranger and she taught ceramics out of her home. Shelley made beautiful items for the November bazaar they all participated in to raise money for the snowy owls.

Lila emerged from the kitchen, saw Myra and smiled. But Myra’s heart sank. Saying goodbye, telling her friends she wouldn’t be able to finish her projects for the bazaar this year would be harder than she’d imagined.

Spotting her, Jewell stood and beckoned her to their table. “Gosh, Myra. Sit down. What’s wrong? You look... I don’t know, sad-eyed. Not exactly sick, but not well.”

Myra pulled out a chair just as Lila reached them. “Can I get you something? I made chocolate pie today. I know it’s your favorite.”

“Just coffee. But hurry back,” she said, sinking down on the chair across from Jewell. “I’ve got news. Bad news.” She shed her jacket as Lila dashed behind the counter to pour coffee for herself and Myra. As soon as her friend returned, Myra blurted out everything she’d learned from her dad’s call.

For an elongated moment her three friends looked stunned. Then Lila leaned over and hugged her. “Is there nothing you can do to change your father’s mind?”

Myra blinked away a sudden rush of tears. Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.

Jewell reached across the table and squeezed her friend’s arm. “Let’s think a minute. You say your dad jointly owned the ranch with your grandfather. So as awful as it seems, I guess he has a right to give the property away. Too bad you can’t just run this new guy off.”

Lila glanced at the others. “Dare she even try running off a former Green Beret? They’re tough. Plus, he saved her brother. That makes the guy a hero, right?”

Myra paused before drinking from her steaming mug. “How would I even run him off?”

Jewell clasped her own cup. “Maybe you won’t have to run him off. Didn’t you say he’s from Boston? Managing a cattle ranch isn’t like doing a bunch of sit-ups. Even if he led a squad or a platoon or whatever they call it, I don’t think that compares to keeping a herd of cattle alive during a Montana winter. What’s to say he’ll stick it out?”

Shelley, who’d been quietly sipping her tea, smiled. “That’s brilliant, Jewell. Myra, why not volunteer to stay on and help this dude like you did your grandpa? Only, you let him do all the dirty, messy chores. Get my drift?”

Myra brightened then frowned. “The folks want me to stay with them while I apply for teaching jobs. They’d probably veto any notion of me sharing a house with a stranger. Even if he did save Eric’s life.”

Lila leaned forward to stare at Myra. “You’re an adult woman. I work part-time for my mother, but she has no say over my private life.”

The others all nodded and Myra blew out a noisy breath. “You make good points. But my parents paid for my education. I never talk to Mom that she doesn’t work in how I’m wasting my time tucked away here. She likes living nearer Billings where she has access to big stores and such. City amenities we don’t have.”

“But that’s not you,” Jewell stressed. “It’s your life. And you know we’ll all be disappointed if you leave.”

“Not as disappointed as me,” Myra admitted, thinking it over. “I usually hire help with haying and branding and such. High school kids from neighboring towns or the reservation. The Flying Owl doesn’t have a bunkhouse, so Gramps never kept full-time hired hands. I suppose if I didn’t take anyone on this winter, this Lieutenant Maxwell would have to do all the worst chores himself.”

“That’s right,” Jewell said with a smile.

“But I don’t know much about him. Eric spent a year under his command. They kept in touch after they both left the service. I can phone my brother and ask if it’s safe for me to live under the same roof at least long enough to see he doesn’t ruin Gramps’s ranch.” She perked up the more she talked.

“Now you’re sounding like the Myra we all love,” Jewell said, grinning. She lifted her coffee mug and all the women did the same, touching their rims in solidarity.

Myra set money on the table for her coffee. “I need to get to Hadley’s store before it closes to stock up on a few things. Zeke Maxwell is due in sometime tomorrow morning. I’ll see how our meeting goes. Then I’ll phone one of you.”

“Zeke? Is that short for something?”

Myra shook her head as she shrugged into her jacket. “Dunno. Eric’s mentioned he has a twin brother, who travels the world hunting gems. And I think their parents retired to the Caribbean. I know he bunged up a shoulder and elbow saving Eric and other men while under enemy fire. And for that my dad gave him the Flying Owl.” She made a face.

Shelley patted Myra’s hand. “Tonight I’ll burn a candle with the hope he sees right away that he doesn’t fit in. The hard work and isolation in Snowy Owl Crossing might well be too much for him.”

“Thanks, everyone. I’d best get moving. I probably still should gather the family albums and put them in a box. And drag out my suitcases. I can’t make this visit goodbye. However things shake out, I’ll come see you all again.” She left then before the tears that sprang to her eyes could fall.

* * *

THICK CLOUDS THAT had blanketed the mountaintops for most of the previous day had blown in overnight. By 10:00 a.m. stinging snow had dusted and showed little sign of letting up.

If it continued for long, Myra knew she’d need to haul hay out to the herd. But she wanted to wait for the new owner to put in an appearance. Boy, that title almost gagged her. She had phoned Eric last night. When she’d asked if his former lieutenant suffered from any post-traumatic stress problems, he’d laughed and said Zeke was a solidly good guy through and through. Her brother asked why she wanted to know, but she hadn’t told him. Really, she hadn’t made up her mind. She’d yet to search online for teaching jobs. She felt qualified to hire on as a ranch hand, too. But with the flat economy, not a lot of ranches were advertising. At least none in the immediate area. She had checked on that.

While she could delay ferrying hay out to the main herd, she didn’t want to put off bringing the young steers down from the summer lease in the foothills. Too bad the grass that yesterday had been so green and lush was now white with snow. If need be, she could clear a few patches with her snowblower.

Donning boots, a ski hat with earflaps and a Sherpa-lined leather jacket, Myra tramped to the barn. At the sound of an engine, she glanced toward the private lane. Not recognizing the big black Chevy pickup sporting off-road tires, she assumed her nemesis had arrived.

The man who emerged from the pickup—newer than Gramps’s old Ford by at least a decade—looked to top six feet by a couple of inches or so. Bareheaded in a snowstorm, his dark hair was cut military short. He did wear boots and a far-from-new bomber jacket with some insignia patches sewn on the left side. The US flag stood out. It was hard not to notice that his shoulders were broad, but as he strode toward her she detected no sign of an injury to his left side. He walked straight as a telephone pole, a thirtyish guy in perfect shape. So if the VA had put him back together, they’d done a bang-up job.

He stopped a foot or so from her. “Hi. I’m Zeke Maxwell. You must be Myra, Eric’s sister.”

She lost track of a few seconds as she gazed up into warm dark brown eyes fringed by to-die-for long, thick eyelashes. Caught assessing him, Myra fumbled worn gloves out of her jacket pocket. That gave her a moment before answering as she bent to retrieve one from the snow-covered ground. “Is Zeke a nickname?” she asked, blurting out the question Jewell had asked yesterday.

The man wrinkled his nose. “Ezekiel. A family name that got passed down through generations. As twin A in a set, I drew the short straw. I still haven’t forgiven my mother, so you don’t want to call me that.” He pivoted in a slow circle, dusting snow off his head as he took in the house, barn, sheds and corral before circling back to examine Myra from head to toe. “Why are we standing out here in the weather? I could use a cup of coffee and a fire to warm up.”

“The house is unlocked. Coffee’s in a thermos by the pot. I’m heading out to drive the cows and yearlings down from the foothills into that enclosure.” She stabbed a finger, which he followed without moving his head.

His right shoulder rose slightly then fell. “Give me a minute to grab a hat and gloves from my truck and I’ll join you.”

“Being from Boston and all, do you even ride? Do you need me to saddle your horse?” she drawled.

“Unless you give me a nag, I won’t hold you back.” He spun on a heel and stalked back to his pickup.

Myra tugged on her gloves, flipped up her jacket collar and stomped into the barn. She should probably apologize, but really, if he thought one ran a ranch sitting by a fire drinking coffee, the Flying Owl would be in shambles before spring thaw.

Marching to the back of the barn, she led Cayenne, a sorrel mare, out of her stall and had the saddle on and cinched as Zeke appeared in a Boston Red Sox ball cap. His ears were gonna freeze, but he’d learn. “You get the black gelding,” she told him. “His name is Ember. Saddle’s on the rack. Bridles are on the wall peg.” She took one down and settled it over the sorrel’s head.

He flashed her a glance, as if he had something to say, but then yanked up the saddle, smoothed the blanket over the gelding’s back and settled the saddle as easily as if it were an everyday occurrence. Same with the bridle.

In silence they left the barn. Zeke mounted while Myra closed the barn door, then she, too, swung into the saddle.

Zeke let her lead. As they moved from a trot into a canter, he pulled alongside. “Feels like we’re in the middle of a snow globe. Is snow usual this time of year? Will it last? At supper Eric said the weatherman predicted mountain snow. Your dad scoffed.”

“The almanac shows it could last a few days. It’s early. As a rule, the first snowfall is late September or early October. If this is a harbinger of what’s to come, it could wreck winter-wheat crops.”

“Do you raise and sell wheat, too?”

“Ranchers raise, cut and bale wheat, grass and alfalfa for cattle feed. Lose a crop and you either have to buy grain at outrageous costs or sell stock you can’t afford to feed at a loss.” It was plain he didn’t know diddly-squat about ranching. Maybe Jewell was right, maybe he’d opt out. She wasn’t a fan of feeding the greater herd by hand this early in the season. But if it made him leave, she’d say, let it snow.

They reached the foothills where her stock huddled in a cut between the hills that blocked the windblown snow. Myra rode past them, uncoiled her rope, swung it around and yelled “Hi yi yi” several times. Startled, the animals bolted away from the noise.

“What do you want me to do?” Zeke called.

“Watch for stragglers. Make noise to bring ʼem back into the fold. I see some have my neighbor’s brand. We’ll take them in. He can collect them when it’s convenient. Hank Watson runs the Bar W. He’s kindly volunteered to truck my yearlings—uh, your yearlings—to market shortly. If you see the slant R brand, that’s Dave Ralston, your other neighbor. He’s a good guy to know. He rents out his baler. A ranch this size can’t afford to buy one.”

Zeke bobbed his head.

Myra noticed he rode well, and he brought in a number of strays as they rode down the hillside and made their way to the large enclosure. Subconsciously she’d hoped he’d screw up.

As the ranch came into sight through falling snowflakes, Myra raced ahead, hopped off Cayenne and opened the gate.

Without asking, Zeke hung back and drove the cattle through.

“Phew,” he said, swinging down to help Myra shut the gate. “I see they’re pawing up the snow to get to grass. Good they know to do that.”

“Yep. The snow is slacking some, but we still have to take hay out to the main herd. We’ll go put our horses up, hook the big tractor to the flatbed and load up twenty or so bales.”

“Okay.”

Myra couldn’t help but notice he sounded unsure. Maybe she should let him stop for coffee. On the other hand, if she kept the pressure on, by nightfall he could give up.

“Just unsaddle Ember. I’ll brush both horses down and feed them later. We need to get the hay distributed while it’s light.”

Again Zeke followed orders.

Myra fetched the tractor and hooked up the flatbed. Backing the trailer into the barn, she climbed a ladder to the hayloft and began tossing down large bales.

“Do you need assistance?” Zeke asked, squinting up at her.

“You could straighten them on the trailer. If I don’t have to do it at the end of pitching off twenty bales, it’ll save us time.”

He stepped up on the trailer and that was the first time Myra noticed he greatly favored his left arm. She heard him grunt as he hefted the heavy bales one-handed. For someone her size—and at five-seven she wasn’t petite—moving bales took knowing how to leverage the weight. Obviously it was the same for a man with an injured arm. She debated telling him to leave the stacking for her, after all. But she didn’t want to insult him. When she left, the work would all fall on him unless he hired help. Maybe he had a disability pension that would help cover costs. She and Gramps hadn’t had extra money to work with.

“I’ll drive the tractor this time because I know the route,” she said once they were ready. “You can sit on the bales. See, I’ve fitted one like a chair so you won’t bounce off.” She’d thought Zeke might laugh, but he had begun to look weary. And a dense fog had settled down, covering the mountains.

“Feels like we’ve landed on an alien planet,” Zeke hollered after she fired up the tractor and drove into the whirling mist.

So he did have a sense of humor. Myra tossed him a smile over her shoulder.

It took about half an hour to reach the pasture where the Angus heifers milled about on either side of a coulee. A bull stood in the brush beyond the fence. Stopping, Myra took her cutters out of the toolbox welded onto the tractor. Crawling back across hay bales, she cut one open, stood and spread hay into the draw. Big, snorting, drooling cows immediately jockeyed for access to the new hay and began to eat.

Taking his cue, Zeke snipped open the next bale and manhandled it farther along the natural trough. “Listen, this will go quicker if you drive the tractor and I do the bales.”

Taking pity on him, because Myra saw it wasn’t easy for him to do the lion’s share while favoring one arm, she said, “We can take turns. I’ll drive the length of this coulee. There’s another like it a few hundred yards over nearer the stream. We’ll catch it on the return trip. Oh, wait. Can you drive a tractor?”

“I learned to drive anything with a gas pedal and a steering wheel in the army, and we had to improvise if either of those pieces got shot out.”

She hid a grimace but nodded. It’d been over a year since her grandfather had been able to help her with any of the heavy chores. Working in tandem with Zeke cut the time by more than half what she’d thought it would take to attend to the herd.

“How many cattle did we just feed?” he asked as she broke apart the last bale.

“A hundred fifty, plus or minus any that wandered off or were taken down by coyotes. There are close to a hundred moms with yearlings that we put in the grassy pen by the barn. Those youngsters will be sold before true winter sets in. You calve in the spring, sell in the fall.”

Zeke looked around at the snow falling in earnest. “This isn’t winter?”

She rolled her eyes. “Far from it. For a Montana winter you’re talking snow too deep to trek through. Once the calves are shipped, you’ll bring the main herd down to pastures around the barn. Even then it can snow so hard you’ll have to take grain out on a sled. Every day you’ll break the ice on the water troughs.”

He hunched over the steering wheel and followed their earlier tracks back to the barn. Parking, he let the motor idle. “What next?”

“I’ll store the tractor and see to the horses. Then I’ll go in and start supper. Why don’t you go on to the house and get settled. I cleared out Gramps’s bedroom and put fresh sheets on the bed and towels in the bathroom. It’s the room to the right of the living room. My bedroom is at the back of the house. I could pack up and head out tonight, but with this storm I’d rather wait until morning.”

Zeke studied her as he took his ball cap off. “I thought maybe you’d spend a few days showing me the ropes. But we can discuss that later. Tell you what, I’ll take KP duty tonight while you finish up out here. Then we can talk, and maybe you’ll go over the ranch accounts. Your dad said you kept the books and your mom jumped in to tell me you’re a high school math teacher.”

“I was. I won’t turn down your offer to cook. It’s my least favorite chore. The kitchen is old and small, but at least everything is functional and stocked.”

“Your father mentioned the house might need some work. He said not much has been changed since he was born and raised here.”

“I like it as is. The roof doesn’t leak and the fireplace works. So do the showers.”

“Uh-huh. It’s snowing harder. How much time do you need, so I know when to have supper on the table?”

“An hour should do it.”

He tipped his cap and made tracks for his pickup.

Myra climbed onto the tractor, ratcheted up the engine and backed the trailer into its spot in the shed. She watched Zeke take two duffel bags from under his pickup’s canopy and hike on to the house.

Sighing, she went in to take care of the horses, dialing her brother on the way to inform him that due to the snow she wasn’t leaving the ranch just yet. She contacted Eric instead of her parents because she still resented how they had given away a ranch they should have known she loved.

* * *

HIS EARS STUNG from the cold as he walked into a warm house he now owned. It all still felt surreal to Zeke. Particularly since he hadn’t realized the house would be occupied by Eric’s sister. He’d spent half a day with her, but as yet couldn’t pigeonhole her. Figuring her out became more difficult once he entered this home. At his first glance around the living room, on nearly every flat surface in the living room sat dollhouses. A grown woman had dollhouses? They were all so elaborate. On closer inspection he saw not all of them were complete. Several had walls but no roofs. A few were unpainted. Taking care not to knock into any of them with his duffels, he located the bedroom Myra had mentioned. He flipped on a light switch that lit two bedside lamps. The big bed, covered with a thick quilt, looked inviting. Thankfully, the decor was neutral. No frills. Having noted ruffled curtains on some of the dollhouse windows, he hadn’t known what to expect.

Since he’d promised to cook, he dropped the bags and found the kitchen. Vintage didn’t begin to describe the space. Outdated but spotless. He didn’t see a microwave, and the stove and fridge were surely older than his thirty-one years. He opened cupboards and took stock, then peered inside the fridge. A clicking sound, like dog toenails striking the linoleum, had Zeke straightening and looking around. The noise was coming from the corner where the back door was, behind a dinette set with four chairs. A pen fashioned by baby gates held a quilt, plastic toys, metal dishes of water, lettuce and some kind of pellets. Therein roamed a pig. A pig. Small and white with gray spots. A door with a doggie flap opened onto what looked like a screened porch.

He was still shaking his head in disbelief when his cell phone rang. Plucking it from his pocket he saw his twin’s number. “Seth, buddy, where are you this month?”

“I’m back in Afghanistan. My gem contact phoned to say his men found an area of pure lapis. I flew in yesterday to have a look. He was right, and it’s rare to find lapis without occlusions, so we’re dickering on price. I got your text saying you were going to Montana. The family of one of the guys you saved gave you a ranch? Is that true, or did you injure your head as well as your shoulder?”

“It’s true. In fact, I’m there now. I spent my first afternoon hauling hay to cattle in a snowstorm.”

“You’re kidding! What do you know about ranching, dude?”

“Nothing. But Eric Odell’s sister—his folks are the ones who gave me the ranch—she’s been running the ranch. Their grandfather owned it before he died. She’s a teacher, and Eric’s parents told me she wants to get back to her career. But I had to admit, trekking after her today I saw how much I don’t know. I had hoped she might stay awhile to give me pointers.”

“But?”

“But...then I came in the house. She’s got dollhouses everywhere. Like, is it a fetish? And, Seth, I discovered she keeps a pig as a house pet. Now I wonder if she’s been tucked away in this remote spot to hide the fact she’s eccentric, to put it mildly.”

His brother laughed loudly. “If you have the deed, kick her out. Hire an old cowboy to teach you what you need to know. Seems to me you’ve stepped into a sweetheart deal. I’m envious that you get to live in wide-open spaces. Sometimes I’m so tired of eating and sleeping in hotels.”

“Take a break and come visit me. We can learn how to run a ranch together.”

“Maybe. Not for a while. I have this lapis I want, then I’m off to Tanzania. Tanzanite is getting scarce. I’ve got a friend who has staked a claim that he’s sure will yield a vein. I haven’t actually done any digging in months. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard this song and dance from you for years. You don’t want to set down roots. You’ve got the wanderlust, bro.”

“Hmm. We’ll see. It gets to be a hard-knock life. Email me pictures of your ranch. It’ll remind me what it’s like to have a home.”

“Sure. I’ll take some after this snowstorm passes. You take care. Especially in the Hindu Kush. Our forces have drawn down. It’s less safe than when you visited me there.”

“So I hear. We’ll keep in touch. Good luck with Pet-Pig Woman.”

Zeke grimaced, gave the round little pig a last glance then started fixing supper. Midway through preparations, he heard the front door open and close, and then footsteps going toward the back of the house. Then he heard water running and figured Myra had opted to take a shower. It was probably something he should have done, he thought as he found dishes and set the table. Were they really going to eat next to a penned pig? Apparently so.

It wasn’t long before Myra appeared in the doorway. She wore slippers, clean jeans and a checked flannel shirt, and her shoulder-length, tawny-gold hair fell in damp waves around a face scrubbed clean of makeup. Zeke hadn’t paid such close attention before. Framed in the doorway, she seemed younger and prettier than he recalled while she’d dragged him through a snowstorm.

“Wow, something smells good. Can I help? Oh, I see you’ve even set the table. Sorry I was so long. I took time to oil the tack. Saddles and bridles are expensive. Oiled, they hold up better in the weather.”

Zeke shook himself loose from eyeing her. “Your timing is great. Go on and choose where you normally sit. I’ll bring everything to the table.”

Myra crossed the room and pulled out a chair. Like magic, steaming dishes began to fill up the table. Her mouth dropped open. “You made scalloped potatoes and green beans with almonds?” She blinked up at Zeke as he set a basket of homemade biscuits in front of her, followed by a slice of sirloin steak he pulled out from under the broiler.

“Dig in while everything’s hot,” he said. “Oh, wait.” He snapped his fingers and turned to rummage in the fridge. “I saw butter somewhere.”

“In the top compartment on the fridge door.”

He carried the butter dish to the table even as Myra broke open a hot biscuit. “These are as flaky as my gram used to make. Mine are like lead weights. Everything looks scrumptious. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“Before I joined the military, I worked in restaurants. I also pulled my share of KP duty prior to getting into a Green Beret unit.”

“I’ll do dishes tonight, but I draft you to fix breakfast.” Her mouth was full when he shot a deliberate glance toward her pet pig.

“I’ve never had bacon or ham on the hoof, but I guess I can make do.” He smiled crookedly as he cut a slice of steak.

Her fierce glare made plain that Myra wasn’t amused.

Chapter Two

“Orion is a hundred percent pet.” Myra’s tone was challenging. “Our local vet found him when she responded to a tip about a family who skipped town in the middle of the night leaving a goat, a donkey and a young indoor pig to fend for themselves. Some call him a potbellied pig, but he’s really a micromini. Jewell knew I didn’t have a dog or cat, so she talked me into adopting him.”

“Jewell?” Zeke looked blank.

“Our vet. You’ll meet her. She takes care of animals large and small, plus she heads the committee trying to obtain a habitat for our snowy owls.”

“I see. In the developing world, I got used to seeing animals in people’s homes that you never see in the US. Really, the quilt and squeaky toys in his pen tipped me off that you weren’t raising him for food.”

“Teacup pigs and microminis are intelligent, curious, funny, affectionate, clean animals. Orion was good company for Gramps, and now me.” She paused, her fork in the air. “I expect Mom will pitch a fit when I show up at their house with him.” Myra’s agitation showed in the short, stabbing cuts she made to her steak.

“Uh, hey, I forgot to pour coffee.” Zeke rose, went to the counter and picked up the pot. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

“No.”

“Look, I was teasing about the pig. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Zeke poured their coffee and returned the pot to the burner.

She dropped her utensils and picked up her cup. But when their eyes met over the rim, Myra hurriedly averted her gaze. “Nothing to do with the Flying Owl is a joke.”

He gestured with his cup. “I...ah...don’t know a lot about cattle ranching.”

“No kidding.”

Leaning back, Zeke studied her, his expression pensive. “It strikes me you weren’t prepared to have me show up today to take over.”

Her eyes flashed. “Take over? Listen, you fixed a great meal. I want to enjoy it.”

“No problem.” He took a second helping. “I’m just getting way different vibes from you than I got from your family. Your mom went on and on about how anxious you are to get back to teaching in the city.”

Myra took more green beans, knowing she was being uncharacteristically surly. “My parents think I should be anxious. Especially Mom.” She couldn’t seem to stop resenting Zeke. But soon the only noise in the kitchen was the ticktock of the old wall clock and Orion rooting in his dish.

Zeke drained his cup and got up for more coffee. Retaking his seat, he said, “Is it safe to ask you about the ranch finances? I don’t want to cast aspersions on your dad, because he and your mother treated me really well. But did he give me an albatross? I can see the house needs work, but my brother said the land must be worth a lot.”

Myra’s heart gave a kick. She hunched forward. Had he given her an opening to lay it on thick and convince him the ranch was a dud? She couldn’t lie. It wasn’t in her. She took her time before looking him in the eye. “To my dad, who left here at twenty-five when he got married and began to build his own spread on a ranch that belonged to my mom’s parents, this has always been the old home place. As Gramps aged, he set up a trust with my dad, his only child. Were you insinuating you might want to sell?” Trying for casual, Myra took a drink.

When Zeke continued his silent regard of her, she gestured with her free hand. “I’d be willing to go to the bank and see what they’d allow me for a loan to buy you out.”

“You? I thought you couldn’t wait to get back to your teaching career.”

She shrugged lightly, not wanting to give away how badly she wanted to own this ranch. “Having lived here three and a half years, I’ve discovered I have a knack for ranching. It’s probably too late to get a teaching spot. Schools start soon.”

“I wasn’t thinking of selling. But if not teaching, what will you do?”

Myra shrugged again. “Maybe one of the bigger ranches needs a cowhand.”

Zeke toyed with his cup, then grinned. “On my drive here, on the other side of a town called Miles City, I saw a sign on a fence post. At the time it made me laugh. ‘Housekeeper wanted. Must be able to drive a tractor and work cattle.’ Maybe you’d do.”

She got up and started gathering their dirty dishes.

“So, no comment?”

“Miles City isn’t Snowy Owl Crossing. And I’d be leery of a job with that description. The term housekeeper could entail more side activities than I’d care to take on.”

“Like what? Oh...oh! I get you.” He blushed. “I’m not usually that slow on the uptake.”

It was her turn to stammer in embarrassment. “Uh, I actually meant it might mean the rancher also needed a nanny to take care of his kids.”

“Yikes! Are you kidding me?”

“No. At the grange hall it’s not uncommon to hear of some cowboy-rancher’s wife he met on the rodeo circuit finding ranch life not so glamorous after they have a couple of kids.”

“It does seem life out here might be lonely. How close is the nearest neighbor?” he asked, sliding from his chair to bring his dishes to where she stood loading the dishwasher.

“A...a mile or so from here.” Myra straightened. Their arms brushed, surprising her because she hadn’t realized he’d gotten so close. She stepped back and almost fell over the open dishwasher door.

“Hey, hey. Careful.” Zeke grabbed her upper arm to keep her from taking a spill.

Caught between his close, warm body and the dishwasher, her breath hitched and her pulse quickened. She breathed a sigh of relief when he let go of her arm and moved aside.

Her cell phone rang. Myra recognized her neighboring rancher’s number. “Hank, hi,” she said, stepping away from the sink. “Is everything okay at the Bar W?”

“It’s good. I thought I’d check on you. I was in town picking up supplies and I heard a rumor you were leaving. I’m running trucks to market in a few days if the snow melts—and the weathermen predict it will. Do you still need space for your stock?”

Myra pinched the bridge of her nose. She should’ve known her business would be all over town. The café wasn’t empty when she talked to her friends. And gossip was a mainstay of any small town. “I... We still need a truck. I helped the ranch’s new owner trail cow-calf pairs down to our grass pasture today. Are any of the Jarvis boys home? Lieutenant Maxwell is going to need help sorting, and certainly help sending cows through chutes for vaccinating, parasite treatment and pregnancy testing.”

“Lieutenant Maxwell? Is that the soldier hero who saved Eric’s life? Your grandpa Cal mentioned him.”

“He’s one and the same. Dad gave him the Flying Owl.” She made an effort to not sound distressed.

“Hot damn! Where does that leave you, Myra?”

“I’m still figuring that out. About the Jarvis boys...?”

“Two are off at college, and I guess you didn’t hear that Gordy, the high school junior, broke his leg playing football. He’s in a cast.”

“Damn.” Myra frowned at Zeke, who’d finished loading the dishwasher and leaned against the sink cabinet watching her.

“The yearlings have to be weaned for market,” she went on. “I can do that since some of the money from the sale is slated to pay off the last of Gramps’s banknote. When will you have room on a semi?”

“Day after tomorrow. I can be there to load up by nine.”

“Okay. Oh, and Hank, I drove down a couple of Bar W heifers and calves, and a few of Ralston’s that mixed in with my herd. Working in snow I figured it’d be easiest to bring them all in.”

“Dave rented my truck for tomorrow. I’ll ask if he’ll send a cowhand over while you’re cutting.”

They reiterated a time for loading and said goodbye. Myra tossed her phone on the counter. “What was that all about?” Zeke asked.

Myra put soap in the dishwasher and started it running. “It means you’re stuck with me for a few more days at least. Unless you can pull a cowboy out of your hat. There are calves to get to market and bills to pay. Hank only charges for the gas it costs to drive from here to the stockyards. You won’t get a better deal in your lifetime. Plus, greenhorn that you are, you need to see and help with a process that gets done every year.”

“Okay. But does that mean you have to forgo finding a teaching job?”

“I told you, it’s probably too late now to secure a fall opening.”

“You did. You also offered to buy me out. Greenhorn I may be, but I’m not ready to sell. Not until I know if I have what it takes to be a rancher. Just so we’re clear, I had what it took to be a Green Beret.”

“Touché.” She opened the fridge and pulled out some fresh lettuce from the keeper, crossed the room and set it in Orion’s bowl. She rubbed his ears and the pig all but smiled.

“Is he full grown?” Zeke asked.

Myra shook her head. “He weighs about fourteen pounds. Jewell says the full-grown micromini probably ends up twenty pounds.”

“Do you have a dog to help herd cattle and the like?”

“Not now. Gramps had a beautiful border collie. Lucy gave out before he did, and he’d had her for so many years he couldn’t fathom loving another dog. He made fun of Orion when I brought him home. But it wasn’t long before I noticed him talking to the pig. And Orion liked to sit with Gramps in his recliner.” She smiled at the memory.

Zeke smiled back. “Look, if you’re not champing at the bit to get to bed, can we talk bookkeeping? I already know from listening to you speak with the neighbor that I have a lot to absorb about what goes on outside. But if I don’t understand the economics I’ll be sunk before I start.”

“It’s a boring subject, but if we brew another pot of strong coffee I’ll give you some hard facts and walk you through the software I use.”

“We’ll have to load that onto my laptop, I guess.”

“Good idea,” Myra said, dumping what little coffee remained in the old pot. Then she prepared a new one. “In the meantime, I’ll get my laptop. We can work at the kitchen table. There’s a desk in the third bedroom, but it shares space with all of my dollhouse materials and jigsaws and stuff.”

“About those dollhouses...?” Zeke’s voice trailed off, but his question hung between them.

Myra sifted a hand through her hair. “I’ll deliver the finished ones to another member of the Artsy Ladies before I leave. I don’t know what I’ll do with the half-completed projects, or the unused material and equipment. But never fear, I’ll clear everything of mine out.”

His forehead wrinkled. “I’m afraid I’m still in the dark here. Who are the Artsy Ladies?”

“Some of us formed a group to sell crafts and hopefully save the snowy owls for which the town is named. They’ve always nested in timberland running through Canada and the US. The owls are sacred to our local Native Americans, too.”

“Okay, I get that,” Zeke said.

“They’re gorgeous. Wait until you see them in flight, or in their nests if you ride up to the woods. Sorry, I’m getting off track. About the dollhouses... Our veterinarian was born and raised in Snowy Owl Crossing. She first noticed a decline in the owl population when she came home to open her vet practice. Right after I moved here to help Gramps, she organized a committee to look into securing a state wildlife refuge for the birds. It takes money to fight for anything like that. Asking for donations to buy expensive land went nowhere in a bad economy. So some of us decided to hold a Thanksgiving bazaar and all sell crafts. Profits above material costs go to fund our effort. We named our group the Artsy Ladies.”

“I counted a dozen dollhouses. There’s that big a demand for them?”

“You’d be surprised. People come from miles around to buy them and the other handmade wares.”

Zeke looked skeptical.

The coffeepot gurgled. “If the houses bug you, I’ll make time to haul them away. I’m sure someone can store them until the bazaar.”

He held up a hand. “It’s okay. I didn’t understand. Why don’t I pour our coffee while you get the computer.”

“Okay, but prepare to be bored. People born to ranching, like my dad, keep a lot of these facts and figures in their heads. As a math major, I’m different. I like spreadsheets.” She left and came back with a laptop. “Even Gramps said keeping a spreadsheet helped us not to overspend. But so you know, some years you make a profit and some you go in the hole. It’s imperative to be on good terms with your local banker, who’ll float loans to tide you over in bad years. Notes you pay back in a year when stock prices are up and you haven’t been plagued by a horrid winter or summer drought.” Myra fired up the computer just as the lights flickered.

Zeke shot a glance at the ceiling lights.

“Don’t worry, we have a generator if the power goes out. Lanterns and flashlights, too.”

He pulled a chair around to her side of the table and sat.

His body heat warmed Myra, but left her stumbling over giving him basic costs for cows, feed, bull, labor, transportation, vet and other supplies. “In a fantastic year still only eighty percent of our cows wean calves. Heifer calves weigh less than steers, which bring less money. See this column. For last year I adjusted the amount we earned in stock sales. This year I’ll do the same when we ship.” She discreetly edged her chair away from his.

Seeming not to notice, he said, “Hmm. You broke even the prior year, but lost money last year. Is that typical?”

She waved her hand to indicate that it varied. “It’s better than average for a small operation. A big cattle ranch like Dad’s can run four or five years in a row on borrowed money and then have a huge windfall. In an up year you buy equipment or roof the barn. And there goes the profit.”

“At the risk of sounding obtuse, why keep on keeping on?”

She sat back and shut down the program. “I guess it’s for love of the land. There’s not much open land left. I can’t explain it, but ranching is a job that gives you a sense of freedom. Isn’t that what you fought for? I know it’s why Eric went into the army.”

Zeke reached up to massage his wounded shoulder. He didn’t answer her question.

“That’s enough lessons for tonight.” Feeling too close to him for comfort, Myra abruptly got up, closed the laptop and carried her cup to the sink. “I see it’s still snowing,” she said, looking out the kitchen window. “It’s lessened some, but not totally. So it’s time to take another batch of hay to the cows.”

“Really?” Zeke frowned.

“Snow and cold pulls weight off an animal fast. In winter or like with this early snow, it’s day and night feeding. Cattle raising is almost always a seven-day-a-week job, Zeke. There’s also night work during calving. Grab your coat, and if you don’t own a hat with earflaps, there are extras on the rack by the front door.”

Myra went to the front door and pulled on her boots, jacket and hat. She picked up a big flashlight and led the way to the barn.

Zeke, who’d had to rush to keep up, didn’t say anything until after they’d loaded the trailer again and he sat shivering on the hay. “If I wasn’t here,” he called to be heard above the tractor noise, “would you be doing this alone?”

Myra briefly glanced back. “Yes. I’ve gone solo the last two years, once Gramps’s arthritis got so bad he couldn’t take the cold.” From her companion’s pensive expression, she actually wondered if he might seriously be contemplating returning his gift. If that happened, she needed to phone her father in the morning, to be square with him. He needed to know if Zeke didn’t want the ranch that she did. She didn’t expect to be willed any part of Rolling Acres, so the Flying Owl was it for her. Eric would benefit from her parents’ holdings. Most ranches could only support one family. If one sibling had to buy out the interests of others, it put a hardship on the one left. Sometimes that person couldn’t afford to get married and raise a family.

That made her wonder if Zeke Maxwell had a steady girlfriend or even a wife stashed away in Boston or some other port of call. If so, that person most definitely wasn’t a ranch woman, or he’d have said so—wouldn’t he?

Because all things to do with Lieutenant Maxwell gave her heartburn, Myra stopped thinking about him. Instead, she concentrated on signs that told her she was still on the right path to reach the herd.

It was spitting snow when the first bunch of cows came into sight. Stopping, Myra let the tractor idle and passed Zeke the cutters. “Will you toss this mob some hay, please?”

“How much?” He rose stiffly.

“I could say as much as they’ll eat. But until we see what all is left tomorrow, we won’t know if we gave them too much or not enough. Just free a bale and scatter hay as I drive along.”

Zeke cut the first bale open. “Are these different cows than those we already fed? I thought we’d be tossing hay in the same places.”

“You should try to feed in different spots so the manure doesn’t get so deep in one area. Saves you from having to spread fertilizer around when the snow melts, plus it gives cows a clean table to eat, so to speak. If we had to have an early snowfall, this is a good area for the herd. There are plenty of draws and shrubs to shelter them from the wind. And the stream’s not in danger of freezing over. Water and feed are the two essentials. After you separate the cows from the yearlings and Hank transports them, you’ll drive these cows and the bull down to the pastures nearer the barn. I’ll try to show you those pens tomorrow.”

“When do you move them back up here?” he asked right before she revved the tractor and they headed to the next grouping of cows huddled against the biting wind.

“After these heifers drop their calves in the spring. Usually that’s March and April. I suppose I can make a chore list,” she called back to him, trying not to sound exasperated. But the man was a total novice. What had her father been thinking? Had he been blinded by the fact Zeke had put himself in harm’s way to save Eric that he gave no thought to what might befall the Flying Owl? That kind of selfless heroism did deserve recognition, but darn, couldn’t her dad have called in some markers and found Zeke a job in Billings or maybe with the Stock Association? Her grandfather and her dad had both once been officers.

Zeke remained strangely silent throughout the rest of the hay distribution. Perhaps he was too cold to talk. The snow petered out. As they drove home, the sky cleared to patchy clouds. The silvery moon popped in and out of the clouds. Those were the quiet beauties that never failed to touch Myra’s heart. She wondered what was going through Zeke’s mind. He never said a word.

It was well past midnight when she once again unhitched the trailer and stored the tractor in its shed.

Zeke broke his silence. “I’d think times like this would be when you’d want to have a dog. What if you run into trouble out there in the dead of night?”

She cocked her head and guided him to the house. Stamping snow off her boots at the door, she said, “I have my cell phone and there’s good service all over this ranch. But if you want a dog, Zeke,” she said, opening the door and shedding her hat and jacket inside, “I know Jewell would be more than happy to hook you up with a healthy pet. I can ask her to drop by tomorrow or the next day. We need vaccine for the heifers. If you want my advice, don’t let her get you a puppy. You’re going to have plenty to learn about the ranch, which won’t leave time to train a puppy.”

He nodded. “How much sleep do you get?” he asked tiredly.

Myra took pity on him because he did look beat. “I know I tagged you to fix breakfast, but how about if tomorrow I handle that? In fall and winter we eat breakfast around six. Spring and summer earlier.”

“I’ll set my cell-phone alarm. Is there a towel I can use in the bathroom?”

“Yep. And the bedding is fresh. It’s all new, actually. Courtesy of my mom. They stayed here for Gramps’s funeral.”

Zeke returned his borrowed hat to the rack, excused himself and made a beeline for his bedroom.

Myra was weary, too. Probably she was more tired for still laboring under the shocking news that she needed to turn over her beloved ranch to a stranger. To a man who, however heroic he might have been on the battlefield, was green as a gourd about cattle ranching. Going to the kitchen, she picked up Orion, whispered her thoughts to him and carried him to her room.

* * *

LATE THOUGH IT WAS, Zeke needed to shower. He hoped the sound wouldn’t keep Myra awake.

Letting hot water beat down on his back and the sore shoulder that still bore scars from his surgeries, his mind drifted. Myra Odell of the curling blond hair and somber, whiskey-colored eyes, was a dynamo. She was nothing like her sibling. When he’d acquired Eric on his combat team, the kid had been fresh-faced and kind of unsure about everything. He’d never have made a career soldier.

Zeke shut off the water and toweled dry. He thought about Myra going out in the snowy evening to load a trailer and haul hay into a stark, cloudy night. Eric hadn’t shirked any duty to which he’d been assigned, but he hated night patrol. He went out of his way to trade night duty for any number of undesirable tasks. Maybe that all stemmed from growing up feeding cattle on nights like tonight.

Checking his clothes as he emptied his duffels and hung things in the closet, he noted that while he’d brought long-sleeved shirts and knit Henleys, he didn’t own anything flannel. He made a mental note to buy flannel shirts, long underwear and a Sherpa-lined jacket like Myra wore. August had yet to end and both times he’d ridden out with her he’d frozen his fanny.

He fell into bed, wondering if he did have what it’d take to be a rancher. His twin had called this a sweetheart deal. Even he’d considered it a windfall when the papers from Jack Odell had arrived. Now he wasn’t sure.

As he lay on his back, staring up into total blackness, it crossed his mind that he could sell the cows, cattle or whatever one called them. And use his army disability pay to live out his days here rocking on the back porch he’d glimpsed. From his drive up, he could see that the mountain range behind the property held a certain gray and purple majesty.

Forget it. The still-rational part of his brain reminded him how stir-crazy he’d been during his recovery and later in Boston when he hadn’t found a job. He wasn’t cut out to do nothing. So what were his options? No clear idea came to mind because the warmth of the soft bed and the day’s unfamiliar exercise overtook him and he slid into sleep.

* * *

LIGHT POURING INTO the bedroom woke Zeke. At first he felt disoriented, until the room coalesced around him and he remembered having come to the ranch. The Montana ranch he now owned.

Even as he kicked off the covers and sat up, his phone alarm chimed. And he smelled something cooking. Sausage, maybe.

Climbing from the bed caused pain in more areas than his injured elbow and shoulder, and left him feeling as if he’d aged overnight. It had to have a lot to do with manhandling hay bales, or perhaps bouncing around on a tractor-pulled flatbed. That last trip out to the herd had been an especially rough ride.

How had he gotten so out of shape in ten months? The six he’d spent in VA surgeries and rehab, and the four he’d spent pounding the streets in Boston job hunting? Before that, he’d jogged Afghan hills carrying a loaded M16 and a fifty-pound pack.

Zeke told himself to stop being wussy. After dressing, he made the bed, and after washing his face, left his room—only to fall over Myra’s pig. The creature was chasing a rubber ball down the hall. To keep from stepping on the pig, he lurched to the side, but slammed into the door frame. It shook the house and hurt his right arm—thankfully, not his healing left one. All the same, it prompted a colorful array of swearwords.

When he regained his balance and glanced up, Myra stood in the kitchen doorway, spatula in hand.

“What in the world happened?”

“I tripped over your silly pig.”

“Sorry. I let him out to exercise when I know he can’t go outside. Will you put him in his pen? I have sausage and potatoes warming in the oven. Now that you’re up I’ll fix the pancakes.”

She disappeared from the doorway, her voice floating back to Zeke. He gingerly picked up the round little pig and was surprised when the animal snuggled under his unshaven jaw. Zeke hadn’t expected a pig to act like a puppy or for those ears to be so soft. Feeling a bit awkward, Zeke scooped up the ball, too, and did as Myra asked, carrying pig and ball to the kitchen pen, where he deposited them.

“Thanks. I’ll fill you a plate and you can wash up. I’m happy to report yesterday’s storm has passed. Can you hear the snow melting off the eaves? A weak sun is rising. Unfortunately it’ll make everything slushy and slick.”

“What’s on our agenda for today? If the snow is melting, does that mean we don’t have to haul hay out to the cows?”

“That depends on how strong the sunlight gets. There’s still grass in the hills. There’s also more shade, and the cattle may stay in the shelter of coulee brush. I’ll check to see if better weather is predicted. If so, we can take out a few cakes of protein supplement to tide them over until the grass is visible again.”

Zeke dried his hands on the kitchen towel she handed him. “Okay,” he said agreeably, taking the warm plate of food from her.

“I’ll bring the coffee carafe to the table so we don’t have to hop up and down.”

Zeke watched her dump a teacup full of lettuce, carrot and an apple slice into the pig’s heavy metal bowl before she brought her plate and the coffeepot to the table.

“Is that all you feed...what did you call him?”

“Orion. And yes,” she said, settling down after pouring them both coffee. “He’s a miniature. I’m not fattening him up for market. A pig will eat all day if you let them. Jewell said it’s no different for ones bred as house pets. He eats scraps in small portions. I have to keep his water bowl full always. And so you know, while we’re here, never give him salty treats, avocado or chocolate. That’s why I have child locks on the bottom kitchen cabinets. If he’s loose he opens cupboards.”

“I wondered about that yesterday.” Zeke looked up from his plate. “Does he sleep in the pen at night?”

“I have a dog crate in my bedroom with his night blanket.”

Zeke shook his head and tucked into his food.

“If you get a dog before I leave here, you’ll have to feed him in the barn. Orion would gorge himself on dog food, which is way too rich for a mini pig.”

Swallowing the last bit of sausage, Zeke picked up his coffee. “I’m still not clear on what all you say is on today’s agenda. I recall you told your neighbor we’d get stock ready for him to take to market. Do all ranchers work together?”

“I’ll start with basics about our community. The reservation borders town on the east. Sioux, mostly. It’s a community in itself, similar to Snowy Owl Crossing. They farm, ranch and guide hunters and fishermen. Like local ranches, the Flying Owl is a cow-calf operation. We get calves in the spring and sell them in the fall.” She paused until she saw Zeke nod as if he followed her explanation.

“Calves are ear-tagged at birth to make sure they don’t get separated from mothers. Pairs are sorted and calves branded before we move the herd to summer range. I’ve found it’s easier to keep heifers with calves to eventually be sold in an area with access to a bull so they’ll produce again. Those that didn’t calve this year spend time with a rented bull in summer. Hopefully to produce calves. That’s what’ll happen to some of the ones we fed yesterday. Have I stopped making sense? You look mystified.”

He placed his knife and fork across his empty plate. “It’s a lot to take in. Are there books that teach cattle ranching?”

“Books?”

Zeke gestured with his cup. “Yes, in boot camp we were issued technical manuals explaining much of what a new recruit needed to know.”

“I suppose there are books. Aren’t there books written on practically everything?”

“Yes, but if you didn’t learn all the stuff you spout off the top of your head from a book,” he said, frustrated, “how is it you know so much?”

“I was born on a ranch,” she pointed out, standing to collect both of their plates. “Summers from my earliest memory I spent right here tagging after Gramps. Oh, sure, Gram taught me canning, jam making and cooking. But I learned all I’ve ever needed to know about running a ranch from helping Gramps and Dad do the work.”

“Okay, so listen. I’m having some thoughts here. Yesterday you said it’s too late for you to get a teaching job this fall. What would you charge to stay here and work for me until a math job comes your way? I can follow you around and learn what I need to know to keep this ranch running like it does now.”

The dishes clattered in the sink where Myra dropped them. She spun toward him, her mouth agape. “Wor...work...for you?”

Zeke sucked his bottom lip between his teeth then released it. “Didn’t mean to take you by surprise. I do own this ranch now,” he said gently. “If it’s a title you want, how about we call you the ranch manager until I get up to speed?”

Myra’s cell rang, and she snatched it off the counter. “It’s, uh, my dad. I’m sure he’s calling to see if I’m headed to Rolling Acres. I only spoke to Eric last night. I’ll be right back.”

Zeke heard her say hello as she walked down the hall. Then her bedroom door slammed and he was left in a kitchen devoid of noise except for Orion rooting for food in his almost empty dish. Bending, Zeke rubbed the pig’s large pink ears. “Shocked her I did, Piggy Pal. It sounded like a good idea to me.” He finished his coffee, replaced the pot on the burner and put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Myra still hadn’t returned, so he went to shave. Although, if it was as cold out today as yesterday, maybe he should grow a beard. But he didn’t like them because he’d been required to have one for so long. He’d needed one in Afghanistan to blend in with locals. Not blending in could have gotten him killed. Once he separated from the military, he’d stayed clean shaven, and considered it a luxury. Passing a hand over his prickly cheeks, he detoured back to his room.

Chapter Three

Myra said hello, but didn’t acknowledge that she knew it was her father calling. She was still majorly upset with him. It felt right to give her bedroom door a hard push.

“Myra, it’s Dad. Your mother asked me to call to see if you’d be home for lunch. We thought you’d be under way already.”

Pacing around the bedroom that had been hers off and on for many years, Myra weighed her answer. “Actually, I won’t be home for lunch or anytime soon.”

“Why? Eric said you had more snow than we did, but I saw on the morning news that the highway is clear. You shouldn’t have trouble driving.”

“The weather has improved. But, Dad, you turned the Flying Owl over to a total novice. I can’t walk away and let the ranch fall into ruin.”

“What do you mean? It’s not a working ranch anymore. Your grandfather told me he was trapped under a mountain of medical bills after Gram died. That’s why he sold what was left of his herd and offered a chunk of pasture to a neighbor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told him to sell the whole shebang and come live with us, but he refused. When you went to help out, I didn’t press further. So up to now I’ve ignored your mom’s unhappiness over the way you put your career on a back burner. Frankly, with Eric in a war zone and making sure Rolling Acres stayed in the black, not needing to worry about my dad’s health and well-being took a load off me. But, honey, you can stop feeling responsible for the Flying Owl. I paid the estate tax and the last payment on Dad’s banknote. Giving the property to Lieutenant Maxwell frees us all up.”

“You paid Gramps’s banknote? Why? I’m about to ship last year’s calves. That revenue is earmarked to cover the note and sustain the ranch until we sell next year’s calves.”

“Come on, Myra. How many pregnant cows did Dad own? Twenty? Although I can’t fathom why he didn’t sell the lot. His asthma and arthritis were so bad when we talked shortly before he passed away, he admitted he hadn’t walked out to the barn in almost a year.”

“He didn’t need to, Dad. I managed the ranch. I grew his herd. He had around a hundred head when I moved here. We didn’t sell any. This year I’ll be shipping almost that many calves. Our overall herd stands at close to three hundred.”

There was a long silence. Enough for Myra to think she’d lost the connection. Suddenly her father yelped an explosive “Why am I only hearing about this now? Isn’t that something you should have told me at Dad’s funeral?”

“You didn’t ask.” Myra crossed to her bedroom window. “As I recall, you guys were in a rush to leave and barely stayed for the reception my friend from the café in town helped prepare.”

“I’m sorry about that, honey. You know Rolling Acres was in the middle of calving. With Eric and me at the funeral, it only left two ranch hands to handle a four-man task.”

“You didn’t hear me say I was in the middle of calving, too? Thank goodness two of my neighbors helped out, which is what neighbors in Snowy Owl Crossing do.”

“Honey, I didn’t call to argue. I honestly had no idea Dad didn’t sell off his herd. But I’m good with you keeping the funds from your stock sale to tide you over until you find a teaching job. Instead of staying with us, you may want to rent an apartment in Billings or Missoula, whichever city you think offers the best opportunity for you. Of course your mom and I would rather you be in Billings. That way you can come on holidays to visit. Oh, your mom is just saying come stay over summer breaks, too, until you find some significant someone, get married and start a home of your own.”

Myra recognized the smile in his voice that surely came from her parents’ long-standing wish for her to get married. She wasn’t in any mood to humor them. “You still aren’t hearing me, Dad. I’m not leaving here. Not yet. I love this ranch. I realize we all owe former Lieutenant Maxwell a debt of gratitude. But he knows zero, zippo, not one thing about cattle. What happens to the Flying Owl, not if but when he flounders? When he realizes he’s in over his head, I want to be here to carry on. Then I’ll do my level best to convince Nate Gooding at the bank to lend me money to buy Maxwell out.”

“That’s preposterous, Myra. Do you have any idea what that land is worth? The property taxes alone are partly why I decided to gift the ranch to Eric’s friend.”

“And it never entered your mind to ask if I was interested in keeping the ranch? Aren’t Eric and I the only two in line to inherit from you and Mom? I assume he’ll take over Rolling Acres. I thought this was my legacy.”

“But...but you went to college when your brother chose the military. Before his obligation was up, he saw it was a mistake. He told us he’d be returning to the ranch. At the risk of sounding old-school, Myra, ranches belong in the hands of a competent man.”

She’d heard this before, but it still irritated her. “I can’t believe you said that. And man though he is, Zeke Maxwell is about as far from being a competent rancher as I’ve ever seen. The one thing in his favor so far, he’s begun to see it himself. This morning he offered me a job managing the Flying Owl. At the time I wasn’t sure I wanted to work for him. Now I think I’ll stay and hope by spring our city boy tires of Snowy Owl Crossing’s isolation. Sorry, Dad, I’ve gotta run. Hank Watson is trucking our calves to market tomorrow, so I’ve a full day’s weaning ahead of me.”

Hearing her dad sputter as she removed the phone from her ear, Myra disconnected. Fully expecting a callback from her mother, she tossed her phone down on her nightstand and charged out of the room.

She almost bowled Zeke over as she rushed into the living room. He was bent down peering inside one of her completed dollhouses.

“Sorry I spent so much time gabbing with Dad,” she said brightly. “Grab your gear. Time’s aʼwasting. We need to get busy sorting calves.”

“You look flushed. Is everything all right?” Zeke hurried after her, pausing to pluck his coat from the rack where he’d hung it by hers the night before.

“I’m fine, just running late.” She stepped out onto the porch and pulled on her boots.

Zeke followed her out and shut the door. “Will I need the hat with earflaps again?” he asked, watching Myra set a gray cowboy hat atop her taffy-colored waves.

“Separating calves from their mothers is sweaty work. You can probably get by wearing your baseball cap. Most ranchers favor a cowboy hat.” She left the porch and was met by a cold blast of wind. “It’s gonna be chilly when we begin. You won’t want to let body heat seep out through the top of your head. In this country it’s always smart to start the day wearing a hat.”