Can't Stop Believing (HARMONY) (8 page)

When he took the seat at the head of the table, Galem came from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee. Cord watched as the cook set the cup down carefully in front of him.

“Thanks,” Cord said to the cook as the last of the cowhands took their places.

While Galem served coffee, Cord started, “I’ve studied the books. No one here has had a raise in two years. That ends today. Next, we work with the sun, not on the clock, and every man stops at six unless I’ve asked for overtime. We’ll run a five-man crew on weekends from now on, and any who want to work then will draw time and a half. When it’s cold we’ll start later, and we’ll end earlier when the weather turns bad, but you’ll still draw the same pay. Fair enough?”

No one said a word. A few looked shocked, but most looked like they were calculating next month’s paycheck. Cord knew that raising wages on a failing ranch was risky, but these men would bring the place back to life.

“I want to talk to each one of you and see what you like doing best, but understand, until we get this ranch in working order, we all do what needs to be done. If you can’t do a job, let me know when it’s assigned, not when you fail.”

“I count twenty men. We’ll need forty, so if you know someone who’s honest and wants work, bring him to breakfast tomorrow. If I hire him, he needs to be ready to work. If not, he’ll have had a meal for his trouble.”

As he talked, Galem put food on the table. By the time they began eating, four men had walked out and the others were asking questions and making suggestions. Most, he figured, were hands who had been around for at least a few years and were happy to have someone finally ask for their opinion on the running of the ranch. By nine, Cord was in the saddle and working. Everything had to be ready to get crops in the ground and cattle in the pastures as fast as possible.

About two the phone in his pocket sounded. Cord walked away from the corral so he could hear Nevada. It seemed like days since he’d seen her, not hours.

“How are things going?” she asked. “This is the first break I’ve had.”

“Fine,” he answered, surprised at how fast the morning had gone. “Four men quit. I fired three others.” The man who’d glared at her had been one Cord let go. “We’re trying to get ready to move what cattle you have left to the north pasture. I’m planning to buy at least a hundred new head tomorrow. The auction is in the morning, and Tannon Parker says he can have any cattle I buy delivered before dark. I’ve got a crew mending fences now.”

“Not the ranch, Cord, how are you doing?”

“I’m good.” He thought about saying that he was great. Inside he felt like he was walking in boots that didn’t quite fit, but he was giving being boss his best try. One of the men he’d fired had cussed him out, calling him nothing but a con. Normally he would have gotten mad, but Cord knew it was coming. He’d planned what he’d say and how he’d walk away. He had a ranch to run and didn’t have time to talk about the past.

“I hired three brothers who rodeo on weekends. They may cut out on me early on Fridays, but they know cattle. Galem calls them the presidents since they’re named Johnson, Jefferson, and Jackson.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding as if she were only half interested. He could hear papers shuffling in the background.

All he could think to say to her now was, “Did you eat lunch?”

“I rarely eat lunch at work. I live on coffee.”

He growled like a bear, and she laughed.

“Everyone cooperating?” She changed the subject.

“Everyone except Ora Mae. I went in about an hour ago to grab something for lunch and she ran me out with the broom. Said if I wanted a noon meal she’d serve me on the porch. I told her I didn’t have time to sit down, so she threw a couple of apples at me and told me she’d have supper ready at six after I cleaned up. Now I know why you got that room off the back of the kitchen. Your housekeeper won’t let anyone in who smells like a cow or is dripping dirt.”

“She likes you too.” Nevada laughed through the phone. “If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have tossed apples.”

“I don’t think so. I’m thinking lunch around this place may be hazardous to my health.”

“Of course she does. She threw skillets at my last husband. When he told her he only wanted green for lunch, she mowed the yard and served it up.”

“I like her better now.” In truth, he liked that Nevada was talking to him about her past. “I’ll give Ora Mae another chance, but it’ll be from a distance.” He hung up and walked back to the corral. As soon as he got more men hired, he’d move a few to his land and get a crop in the ground. The cowhands had been cold at first, but as the day aged and they saw that he had a plan, they chipped in to help. Some of them even took up a challenge to keep up with him and work as hard as he did.

When he walked past the bunkhouse a little before six, a lanky stranger stepped off the porch. His legs were slightly bowed and he wore his hat low. Cord decided he could have stepped out of the past, a cowboy from a hundred years ago just getting in from a trail drive. The sound of his spurs clinking reached Cord, and he stopped and waited to see if the man was flesh and blood.

“I’m Zeb Darnell.” The stranger offered his hand, rough with calluses and scars. “Galem called me and said I might want to work for the new boss on the Boxed B. Said you had plans and might could use a cowhand.”

Cord nodded and shook hands. “I told men applying to come to breakfast.”

“I know, but I’ve worked here before. I’m a good hand, but I was no foreman. Nevada’s last husband fired me ’cause I couldn’t read the notes he kept leaving me when I took over the job.”

Cord waited, giving the man rope.

“I understand you’re buying cattle tomorrow. That’s why I came tonight. I’ve been working at the stockyard, but I’d like to hire on here. I think I could be some help at the auction tomorrow. If you’re interested in me working, I’d need to quit there and be started here before the show opens. I know cattle, Mr. McDowell, and I can help you with the buy.”

Cord realized he’d learned a great deal about reading men in prison. If Zeb was lying, he was far better at it than any man Cord had come across. Also, he wasn’t the type to brag. If he said he knew cattle, he probably did. “I’ll see you at the stockyards tomorrow. You’re hired.”

“I’ll go there early to quit.” Zeb smiled. “I’ll have the stock checked before you get there.”

“Fair enough. You’re working for the Boxed B now, and I’d like to pick up a hundred head tomorrow. You think we can manage that?”

Zeb tipped his hat. “Yes, sir. Thanks, Mr. McDowell, you won’t be sorry.”

“Call me Cord, and I’m the one who needs to thank you for coming out tonight. Once we’re finished with the buy, we’ll eat lunch and wait for the trucks. I’d like you riding back in the trucks with the cattle. You’ll know where to tell the drivers to unload if you worked here before.”

“I was planning on riding back. I brought my horse here tonight just in case I got the job.” He touched his hat. “See you tomorrow.”

The man walked toward the parking area at the side of the bunkhouse as Galem stepped onto the porch.

Cord waited until Zeb’s old pickup pulled away before he said, “You being my guardian angel, Galem?”

The cook smiled. “Maybe. That cowhand knows cattle better than any man I’ve ever seen. He’s honest too, but he won’t work for a fool like Bryce Galloway, who only wanted to play at ranching. When Nevada married Bryce, I knew Zeb wouldn’t hang around long, and he didn’t.”

“He can’t read.” Cord’s words were a statement, not a question.

“No,” Galem answered, “but the cows don’t notice.”

Cord laughed. “Thanks. He’ll be a big help walking me through the sale tomorrow. I’m pretty green.”

“He needs a job on land, not in feedlots, and he’ll help you build the herd. I think he was nervous coming out, being fired once from this place.”

“Tell the men that they all start fresh with me when they hire on. No past hanging on.”

Galem nodded. “No past,” he echoed.

Cord turned toward the house, knowing Nevada had been right about Galem. The cook had just filled a weak spot Cord had been worried about. He knew farming and land, but he didn’t know enough about cattle. Zeb wouldn’t need to read, just point at what to buy to build the best herd that had ever roamed the ranch.

After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at Galem. “Any chance you know a bookkeeper?”

“Nope, but you might ask around.”

Cord almost laughed out loud. He didn’t have anyone he knew to ask. If he asked anyone in town they’d probably have him arrested for speaking to them.

After a shower and a shave, he walked into the dining room in clean clothes. The table was set for one. Ora Mae had left a note.
Little Miss’s food is in warmer. She said to tell you to go ahead and eat, she won’t be in until late.

He read the note twice, noticing Ora Mae had used the same nickname as Galem had for Nevada. He figured he’d have to hang around a lot longer than eight months before she’d let him use one, if ever.

Cord took his plate to the study and looked over past cattle buys. Every bone in his body hurt from work. He’d pushed the men, but he’d pushed himself twice as hard. At ten he could keep his eyes open no longer. He stripped down to his underwear and crawled into his side of the bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Deep into the night he felt the bed shift and knew Nevada had climbed in on her side. She might run around half the night, but she’d kept her word. She’d come home to sleep in his bed.

M
ARCH
14
W
INTER
’
S
I
NN
B
ED
-
AND
-B
REAKFAST

M
ARTHA
Q P
ATTERSON
WAS
EXHAUSTED
. W
HEN
THE
FUNERAL
director’s little talk with Joni Rosen didn’t seem to work, Martha Q knew she had to think of another plan for emptying her house of widows. She liked the idea of being an innkeeper. It somehow sounded romantic when she started, but since then she’d heard that the two happiest days of an innkeeper’s life are the day he opens his doors to the public and the day he closes them.

She needed rest, not more work, but the three widows showed no sign of leaving.

Even worse than having to get dressed and put on her face each day was the problem of writer’s block. They were slowing down her great career as the next top writer of sexy, intriguing, apocalyptic murder mysteries. She’d decided from the first to write a book with everything in it. Masochistic shape shifters who time-traveled into Rome as it fell. They ran around producing zombies in togas while they became wine experts. Her book would hit the best seller lists, she was sure of it.

Martha Q thumped her own forehead. She was getting off track again. She needed to plan.

Maybe ants or termites. The widows would hate that.

Red ants would send the ladies running. Or bedbugs. People hated bedbugs, thanks to the idiot who’d blown them up to puppy size and put them on the Internet. If the bugs had just been butterfly cute, no one would have minded. They’d just toss back the covers and smile as feathery bedbugs flew by.

Off track again.

Martha Q considered hiring a prowler, or a Peeping Tom. She grinned. That would make an interesting story if a Peeping Tom fell in love with an exhibitionist. They’d be neighbors. He’d wear out the grass between their houses and she’d save enough money on window blinds to replant. Every night, no matter the weather, he’d pull on his coat and stand in the flower beds until she turned out the lights after blinking three times, their secret code for
I love you
.

“Off track again,” she mumbled as she reached for her bowl of chocolate-covered peanuts.

Half a bowl later she realized every single plan she came up with to send the widows away would also hurt her business. She liked people, with their secrets and stories, coming into her home, making her feel as if she had a big family and wasn’t alone.

But she also admitted she was a fair-weather liker of people. It was grand when they came on weekends or even odd days of the week. It was the every-day thing that bothered her. She needed a vacation. Maybe she’d drive up to Kansas and stay at someone else’s bed-and-breakfast.

The doorbell pulled her out of her worrying and away from the now-empty candy bowl.

“Darlene,” she yelled up the stairs where she thought the newest housekeeper might be. “Stop eating my candy.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be down in a minute to fill it back up.”

“Thank you,” Martha Q said over her shoulder as she rushed to the door. One of the widows probably forgot her key, or maybe a few of the half dozen things she’d ordered from the shopping channel had arrived. Every time she couldn’t sleep it cost her twenty-nine ninety-five plus shipping. The cleaning products, Christmas lights, and one-size-fits-all cuddle pillows never looked the same in daylight as they had at two in the morning, but the anticipation kept her hoping.

She pulled open the heavily carved door as she plastered on her best smile.

The nice-looking man on her porch didn’t appear as if he came as part of any midnight deal. Tall, well built, thirty-five maybe.

“Yes?” Martha Q straightened to her proprietor pose. “May I help you?”

He ducked his head slightly as he faced her; a smile sparkled in bedroom eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, Mrs. Patterson, but I hoped you might have a room for a weary traveler. I’m here on business for a few days. I was told this was the best place in town, though I never had a chance to visit during the short time I lived here a few years ago.”

After seven husbands, Martha Q had learned to mistrust flattery, but the sound of his whiskey-smooth voice made her wish she hadn’t given up drinking. “We do have a room, but I’m afraid it’s on the third floor.”

“I could use the exercise.” He smiled again, and she thought he might be an actor playing a part. She knew she could read people, even if she sometimes read them wrong. That didn’t change the fact that she could usually read them, and this one seemed to be printed in smaller type than normal. Like the last crossword puzzle in the book, he wouldn’t be easy to figure out.

Maybe he was a famous actor; after all, if he hadn’t appeared on
Gunsmoke
, she probably wouldn’t have seen him. Maybe he was here scoping out sites for a new series or a reality show based on innkeepers.

Martha Q rattled her head, hoping to shake a few brain cells awake. This guy had
never worked a day in his life
written all over him. “I’ll show you the room. Mr.—”

“No need to look it over. I’ll take it,” he answered, a bit too fast.

She noticed his leather hand-tooled bag already at his feet. Cocky, she decided, like her first boyfriend, who’d always carried three condoms in his pocket. But this one was much better-looking than any guy she’d ever dated, and he was dressed like he had his clothes made just for him. “Come on in, Mr. . . .” She tried again for the name.

“Bryce.” He smiled with his too-perfect teeth. “Bryce Galloway.”

“Any chance you play loud music and stay up all night smoking and swearing?”

“No. I’m pretty quiet.”

Martha Q sighed. “I was afraid of that. I take two nights in advance. Every third night is free and breakfast is at eight thirty.” She opened the door wider and invited him in, having no faith that he’d have any effect on the widows. He was too young and too smooth for them to give him a second look. Widows like a man who’s lived long enough to have a few bad habits and rough corners they can work on. The first husband might be married for love or even lust, but the second one was usually a fixer-upper.

The good news was that now the inn had only one room left vacant. The bad news, she’d be the first woman in history to scrub her nose off trying to get her makeup removed every night.

Bryce Galloway might be easy on the eyes, but having another guest would simply mean more work.

When she walked into the kitchen to tell her cook that there would be another mouth to feed for breakfast, Martha Q was surprised to see Mrs. Biggs’s grandson Border sitting at the kitchen table.

“Is it Sunday night already?” Martha Q said, as if she were really asking a question.

Border, unlike his friend Beau Yates, never knew how to take her. “No, Mrs. Patterson, it’s only Wednesday. I just came over to say hello to my grandmother.”

Martha Q frowned. The idiot thought she was senile.
This day was going downhill. A change of subject was needed.

She sat down and cut herself a slice of the pie Border had already had half of. “Border, did you know that I was thinking about becoming a great writer?”

“No, Mrs. Patterson. That’s really something. I’ve never known a writer before. What are you working on?”

Martha Q hated questions about her work. “Well, I haven’t worked much yet. First comes the thinking.”

“Of course.” Border actually looked interested. “That’s the part I would have trouble with.”

“I have no doubt, but you know Beau and he writes songs. How does he get his inspiration?”

Border shrugged. “He says sometimes he feels like they’re already in his head and he’s just fighting to get them out. Like the other day I asked him about this girl who sometimes picks him up after work, and he said she’d been on the back roads of his mind. I found out later that them words were in an old song. I swear, he don’t just write songs, he talks them too.”

Martha Q knew she would get little help from Border. She finished off her slice of pie. “Mrs. Biggs,” she said to the cook. “Have you got an extra pie to send the boys? Maybe it’d help Beau write.”

“I’ll do that.” Mrs. Biggs smiled at her tattooed, two-hundred-pound, shaved-headed grandson like he was adorable.

Martha Q decided the pair were proof that love is blind, and with that thought came an idea for a story about a beauty who fell in love with an ugly beast of a man.

She made the mistake of telling Border her idea, and he said he loved that movie even if it was a cartoon.

Martha Q marched off, frustrated that a storyteller had stolen her great idea before she could even get it down on paper.