gone eight years now, and my friends here treat me like family. I’ve never spent a birthday or holiday alone.”
Now that Ellen was gone, Sarah wondered how she’d spend the holidays. Not that she didn’t have friends, but they had their own families.
“This sounds like a very special place,” she said. Even though Mrs. Yancy had arrived in Saddlers Prairie after the Beckers had sold their home, you never knew. “Did you by chance ever meet a family named Becker?”
The widow glanced at the ceiling, thinking, and then shook her head. “Not that I recall. But why don’t you join me over coffee and the oatmeal cookies I baked this morning, and I’ll think on it some more.”
At the mention of food, Sarah salivated. In the anxiety and excitement over seeing the house where the Beckers had once lived, her appetite had all but vanished, and she hadn’t eaten much breakfast or lunch. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.
Minutes later, she was sharing the kitchen table with her talkative landlady, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of chewy cookies.
“You never said why you’ve come to Saddlers Prairie,” Mrs. Yancy said.
“One reason is to do research for an article on ranching in eastern Montana.”
“I had no idea you were a writer.” She looked impressed. “It’s about time somebody sang the praises of Saddlers Prairie. I enjoy reading magazines. Which one do you write for?”
“I freelance for several.” Sarah listed them. “One of the editors who buys my pieces thought an article on ranching would appeal to her readers. I love the idea, and since I wanted to look around here, anyway, I happily accepted the assignment. I hope to meet with successful ranchers, but also those who are struggling, so that I can paint a realistic picture. Anything you can share about Saddlers Prairie will be a big help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You say you also want to look around town?”
“That’s right.” Sarah saw no reason to hide the truth. “I was adopted, but I recently learned that I was born in Saddlers Prairie.”
“No kidding. I know just about everyone. Who are your kin?”
“They don’t live around here anymore, but their last name is Becker—Bob and Judy.”
“The people you asked about.”
Sarah nodded. “They may have left the area before you arrived. I know they sold their house here about twenty-nine years ago.”
“There are folks in town who’ve been here longer than that. Someone will surely know the family you’re looking for.” Mrs. Yancy sipped her coffee. “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”
“Would you?” Fresh hope bubbled through Sarah. “I really want to know the kind of people I come from.”
“I understand.” The landlady looked thoughtful. “Over my sixty-six years of living, I’ve learned a few things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge a secret. “One of the most important, which my John taught me, is that who you are matters more than your people or where you came from.”
Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed. “I still need to know,” she said. “If you were standing in my shoes, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. I wish I could help.” She looked genuinely sorry.
“You already have,” Sarah said. “By listening to my story.”
Clay had listened, too, with just as much interest.
She wished she could stop thinking about him. When she’d dated Matthew, she’d all but managed to forget Clay, and she wasn’t about to waste her time pining for him again.
If only he hadn’t kissed her.
A long and very thorough kiss that had stolen her breath and chased away her common sense. For those few moments, she’d been right back where she was three years ago, caring too much, too quickly for a man who couldn’t be trusted.
“—know a few ranchers around here who fit what you’re looking for and would love to be interviewed for your article,” Mrs. Yancy was saying. “If you want, I’ll give you names. There’s a pen and paper in the catch-all drawer under the phone.”
As soon as Sarah returned with the writing supplies, the woman rattled off the names, addresses and phone numbers of two ranchers. By heart.
“You’ll definitely want to contact Dawson Ranch,” she said. “Adam and Drew Dawson own about the most successful ranch around. Now the Lucky A Ranch isn’t as profitable, but Lucky Arnett is a good man with plenty of stories about his life as a rancher. I don’t want you to get writers’ cramp so I’ll save the rest for later.”
Smiling at the little joke, Sarah flexed her fingers and traded the pen for her mug. After months of grief and anger, Mrs. Yancy’s warmth and friendliness were like a balm to her parched soul.
“Wait—there is one more person you might want to talk with,” the older woman said. “He’s a celebrity with star power the world over, and he’s chosen Saddlers Prairie as his new home. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—his name is Clay Hollyer.”
Sarah almost choked on her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I know Clay. I interviewed him for an article a few years ago.”
Mrs. Yancy looked both impressed and curious. Not about to answer any questions about that time, Sarah hurried on. “Funny thing. Earlier this afternoon, when I first arrived in town, I stopped at the house where the Beckers used to live. The man who bought it from them still owns it, and I hoped to talk with him. It turns out, he doesn’t live there. He rented the house to Clay.”
“I know that place, and I know Ty Phillips. He runs the lumber company outside town, and has for years. I don’t think he lived in that house for long. Shelley wanted something brand-new, and after they married, he custom-built her a real nice home. Right now, they’re in Europe, taking a long-overdue vacation.”
“That’s what Clay said. So that house has always been a rental?”
“Since I’ve lived here. Mind you, Ty hasn’t always been able to find a renter. From time to time the place has stood empty. Even so, he’s managed to keep it in pretty decent condition.
“Back to Clay. He just bought the old Bates Ranch, a neglected ranch on the other side of town, and renamed it Hollyer Ranch. The main house there was in particularly bad shape, and he had it torn down. Now he’s building his own custom house and working on plans to start up a stock contracting business.”
Clay had mentioned building a house but hadn’t said a word about buying a ranch or beginning a new career. But then, Sarah hadn’t asked. His life seemed to have changed drastically from the spotlighted fame of before.
“I’m not sure I know what a stock contractor is,” she said.
“Those are the folks who supply stock—bulls, steers and horses—to rodeos around the country. A good business for a man who knows his bulls, as Clay does, wouldn’t you say? You should probably interview him, too.”
Oh,
