Thankful for Love (2 page)

Maybe there was. At the bottom of the flier were tear-off bits of paper with a phone number and e-mail address on each piece. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she carefully tore off all but two of the pieces. She wanted the job. If it took cheating to get it, she was willing to do it.

Instead of going home at the end of her shift that day, Quanna waited in the parking lot for the cowboy to appear. Feeling like she was stalking him—because, face it, she was—she followed him and watched where he posted more fliers. When he headed out of town, she returned to each place and removed most of the tear-off tags from the fliers. She didn't think it was smart to remove them all. He'd think it odd if she was the only person who contacted him about the job.

But she would make sure she was one of only a handful. That would lower the odds of someone more qualified getting the job she already thought of as hers. At least, she hoped it would.

Panic didn't set in until Quanna was on her way to the Richardson Ranch for her interview. She'd been calm all through her preparations—choosing from her very limited wardrobe the nicest clothes she owned, taking pains to make sure she looked neat and tidy, carefully putting the hard copies of her references in a file folder so they wouldn't get crumpled, organizing the sample menus highlighting her meal planning and cooking skills. Armed with enough paperwork to apply for a job with Homeland Security and ready to nail the interview, she left Pendleton in plenty of time to make her two-thirty appointment.

Then, about halfway there, the doubts she'd had off and on since she'd applied for the job reemerged. She'd barely hung up from the phone call arranging the interview when she had begun to wonder if her excitement about the salary and stability of the position had clouded her judgment. After all, what did she know about this man or his situation? Maybe in spite of his good manners, he didn't like Indians. She'd known more than one local rancher who didn't. Maybe he was a misogynistic jerk who'd treat her badly. She'd be alone in his home, isolated on a ranch miles away from Pendleton, with only two kids as company. Or witnesses.

In her panic, she had turned to the only person she knew who might have some answers—Joan Anthony—and asked about him, explaining why she wanted to know. What she got in response was a long hymn of praise for Jack Richardson.

Mrs. Anthony said her nephew was the most responsible and levelheaded member of a family with deep roots in the community. When his parents were killed in a plane crash, it was Jack who had sacrificed his college career to finish raising his younger brother and run the family ranch. He'd lost his wife to cancer two years ago and was now raising the two sons they'd struggled to have through years of fertility problems. The job he was trying to fill had until recently been done by his mother-in-law who had been helping out since the death of his wife.

The Richardson Ranch was not one of the biggest in the county, Joan Anthony had said, although it was one of the oldest land grants. She bragged that the current generation of Richardsons was the fourth to work the land, with the fifth already living there. Quanna had held her tongue and didn't say some of her ancestors had been there centuries before there
was
a county.

Jack's backstory helped explain the sadness in his eyes, although the image of sainthood Mrs. Anthony had painted sounded a bit overblown. On the other hand, he did seem a decent enough guy when he visited his aunt. He was attentive and polite, all “yes, ma'am” and “no, ma'am.” All “please” and “if you have time” with everyone. He was respectful to staff, never treating Quanna or anyone else who was an underling or a minority differently than he treated the director. He didn't seem to be the kind of person who'd make snide comments about her Indian/Latina blood, the way some of her coworkers did. The same coworkers who routinely hit on her. He didn't seem like the sort who'd do that either.

Even if he wasn't as saintly as Joan Anthony described, he was obviously someone who had earned the respect of a woman Quanna knew was a savvy judge of people. Still, her level of anxiety had risen and fallen like the tide the closer she got to the day of her interview.

It was now at full flood as she drove to the Richardson Ranch. Finally, her head was calmed by what she saw outside her car—the seemingly endless expanse of the Eastern Oregon high plains she was driving through. She loved the landscape, even the scrubland where nothing would ever thrive except the ubiquitous tumbleweed. The land, her homeland, had always soothed her, even when she was a kid, and it did now. She lowered the window in her car and inhaled the smells of sage and warm earth and growing wheat.

The year's crop wasn't even hip-high yet, but it looked healthy. Green stalks, which were beginning to produce heads of grain, moved with the slightest breeze, making it seem they were waving to her in a friendly and welcoming way.

In the distance, she could see a dozen head of cattle. Hardly anyone in Umatilla County made a living on cattle anymore, but some ranchers still ran a small herd. Mostly it was for their own consumption, although some sold designer beef to white tablecloth restaurants in the trendy neighborhoods of Portland or to the upscale markets that liked to advertise who raised their ribs and roasts.

The more likely source of income for the ranches and farms she was passing were the wind turbines occasionally seen on the hills, slowly turning, generating power for California. The huge white generators kept a number of family operations in the black with rental payments for the land on which they were built.

The directions to the ranch were easy to follow—right after the milepost twenty-five marker was a two story high, whitewashed gate composed of huge side logs and a cross beam from which hung two Rs, one reversed so the letters were back to back. The place was called simply the Richardson Ranch. No phony Spanish or fancy, cutesy name. A straightforward explanation of where you were.

The dirt road off the main highway went for a number of miles before dipping down into a small hollow where three hills came close to intersecting. On the crest of the hills, wind turbines presided over the scene below.

As Quanna drove down the hill, she saw the darker green of trees interspersed with buildings. One, a big red building, was obviously a barn, big enough to hold quite a few horses or head of cattle. There were several smaller red structures grouped around it where farm equipment was probably stored.

Set at some distance from the barn complex was the ranch house. Joan Anthony had told her it had been built over time by succeeding generations of Richardsons who renovated, rebuilt, and added to the small one-room cabin put up by the original rancher. After all those years, it had morphed into a two-story, stately looking residence with a deep-set porch running the entire front of the house. Painted white with sage green shutters on the upstairs windows, the house was protected from the weather by large junipers, cottonwoods, and pine trees, which, judging from their size, had been planted decades ago.

Parked outside the house was a dusty, white Ford pickup truck with an extended cab, the kind her brother had always wanted to own but could never afford. It didn't look brand new, but it looked well cared for. Next to it was a Toyota sedan. Quanna parked the old Honda her brother had loaned her on a more or less permanent basis beside the sedan, steadied herself with a couple deep breaths, and went to meet what she hoped was her future.

An older woman answered her knock. “Oh, you're early. I didn't expect you yet.”

It wasn't exactly the welcome she'd hoped for and only increased her nervousness. “I'm sorry. Do you want me to wait in the car until it's time?”

“No, no. Come in. It's fine.” She led Quanna into a large, light-filled living room. “I'm Anne Salazar, Jack's mother-in-law.”

Quanna extended her hand. “I'm Quanna Morales.”

Anne seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before taking the outstretched hand. “Jack's on the phone. Something about part of the irrigation system not working right. He'll be with us in a minute.” She waved her hand toward a set of sofas covered in a beige fabric and two oversized leather armchairs. “Take a seat wherever you're comfortable,” she said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

Quanna sat on the edge of the seat of one of the armchairs. “That would be nice, thank you.”

While the woman was in the kitchen, Quanna looked around the room. If she'd had a dream house, it would look a lot like this one. It was like something out of a magazine.

The room where she was sitting was probably the original part of the house if the floor-to-ceiling, freestanding stone fireplace dominating the middle of the room was any indication. On a rough-hewn wooden mantle was a display of what she assumed were family photos, most of them featuring the man she knew from Golden Years, a beautiful blonde woman, or two boys. To the right of the fireplace, a set of stairs led to the upper story. Behind it was a door open enough for her to see a room with more couches and chairs and the corner of what she suspected was a large television set.

To the left of the fireplace was a door leading to another room—a dining room, maybe? Another door at the far left, through which Mrs. Salazar had disappeared, was, she supposed, the kitchen. At the other end of the room, tucked under the staircase, was a baby grand piano, the lid down, the bench pushed under the keyboard.

On the walls were paintings depicting Eastern Oregon landscapes in all four seasons. Pillows covered in traditional striped Pendleton woolen fabrics were tossed on the sofas. No rugs obscured any part of the wide boards of the hardwood floors. The overall effect was casual, comfortable, and beautiful.

Mrs. Salazar returned with a glass full of ice, a bottle of mineral water, and Jack Richardson. He was holding a cell phone and frowning.

Quanna started to rise, but he waved her off, the frown disappearing as he acknowledged her.

“Please, don't stand. You'll make me feel like the old man I'm afraid I'm turning into.” He enveloped her hand in his. His handshake was a warm grip of a large, strong, slightly calloused hand. She liked the feel of it and was surprised to find how much she enjoyed touching him. She immediately dismissed her reaction as inappropriate.

“I recognize you now,” he said. “I couldn't put a face to your name when we talked on the phone. All I remembered was how much Aunt Joan likes you. You're one of her favorites. She's always praising you.” He grinned, and the room seemed to get a bit brighter and warmer. “Actually, I'm not sure I should be interviewing you for this job. I don't know what she'll say if I steal you away from Golden Years.”

The panic Quanna felt at his comment must have shown on her face because he quickly added, “I'm joking. She called this morning to tell me she can't think of anyone better suited to the job than you.”

“That was kind of her, Mr. Richardson. I didn't ask her to.”

“Jack, please. And the first thing she told me was you didn't know she was calling.” The smile got wider. “She also said you asked her about me.”

Quanna could feel her face heat up. “I didn't mean to be disrespectful, I just...”

“You wanted to make sure of what you were getting into,” he interrupted. “I'd have done the same thing.”

Jack settled back into the couch. “Hope you don't mind. I asked Anne to sit in on the interview. She's been my kid wrangler for a couple years now. She can probably give you a better idea of what the job entails than I can. She can also warn you about working here. Apparently, it leads to the need to have your hip replaced.”

Anne slapped him lightly on the hand but didn't make a comment on his joking reference to her ailment.

“Of course I don't mind,” Quanna said.

“Okay, then let's get started,” Jack said. “I'd like to get the formal part out of the way before the boys get home from school. Tell me why you want this job and how your experience makes you a good candidate for it.”

• • •

Maybe because his kids' grandmother had been taking care of the boys, Jack had thought of a kid wrangler as middle-aged, at least. But only one of the handful of applicants he'd heard from was past forty. And she was older than Anne and even less able to get around.

Quanna, like the rest of the few who'd responded to his fliers, was young. Like the others, she was, to his forty-four-year-old eyes, almost a kid. Although she was not as young as the other two he'd interviewed. They were barely out of high school, with little experience in managing their own lives, let alone someone else's. One of them admitted she'd be leaving for college as soon as she saved enough money, meaning he'd have to look for her replacement in the near future. He suspected both of them would leave in a heartbeat if they found anything more interesting to them.

Quanna, on the other hand, had real life experience holding a steady job. And he'd heard she was good. Not only from the manager of the Golden Years facility, her former boss in Portland, and her supervisor at the restaurant at the casino resort on the reservation but also from his aunt.

Seeing her close up now, he registered for the first time how pretty she was. She had dark brown eyes, copper brown skin, and thick, shiny black hair she wore in one long, loose braid that hung over her right shoulder. When he'd seen her before, she'd been in baggy scrubs. Now she was in jeans and a knit shirt and looked more like a teenager than a woman in her late twenties, which he guessed she was from the information about her work life on her résumé.

Obviously looks weren't on his list of requirements for a kid wrangler, but it wouldn't be the worst thing to have an attractive woman around the house again.

Now, as she spoke enthusiastically about her work experience in her jobs in Pendleton and Portland and how it had prepared her to take care of his kids, her calm, competent manner convinced him—she might be the answer to his problem. If she could figure out what to do about the foul-up in the irrigation system, he'd nominate her for sainthood.