on this morning. That brings us to thirty guests. That’s pretty much all we can handle. We’ll leave a skeleton crew here at the homestead. Everybody else—another thirty or more—will come on the trail with us.”
Garrett whistled. Taking sixty people on a week-long trek through the wilds of south Florida was a big undertaking. No wonder Ty was concerned. He set his hat on the chair beside him and leaned forward. “Anything in particular I should start workin’ on now?”
“Well, there’s the horses. It won’t do to put an inexperienced rider on, say, Ranger.” Ty’s stallion had a temperamental streak. “Our guests fill out a questionnaire when they register. I’ve got those right here...somewhere.” He thumbed through several stacks of paper before he found the right folder and handed it over.
Garrett scanned blanks filled in by a fifty-year-old stock broker from Boston with no riding experience whatsoever. “Shadow’ll be right for him,” he suggested.
With one guest down and twenty-nine to go, he brushed a shock of dark hair out of his eyes and settled down to work. Once each rider had been matched with the right mount, he and Ty coordinated the side trips and other events. A fishing expedition paved the way into a fish fry. Ty added steak to the menu on the night of the posthole digging competition. He scratched chicken off the list the day a group went bird-watching in the ’Glades. They were still at it when a knock at the door interrupted them.
“Come in,” Ty called.
Garrett took advantage of the break to glance at the clock on the wall. He blinked in sudden awareness that two hours had passed since he’d been shanghaied into the owner’s office. Guilt clawed at him for going so long without giving his late wife a single thought.
“Ty, I have the bills and receipts from today’s trip into town.” Stepping into the office, Doris handed a sheaf of papers to the owner. Her forehead creased as she spotted Garrett, and she folded her arms across a wrinkled shirt that sported a damp, whitish spot on one shoulder. “I was just getting ready to feed LJ his supper. Unless you want to do it?”
As hard as he tried, Garrett couldn’t entirely ignore the signs of fatigue etched into his mother’s face. Her pale blue eyes had taken on a watery look in the months since Arlene’s death. Yellow tinged the strands of once-white hair that, these days, often escaped her signature braid. Well past retirement age, she had no business serving as a full-time mom to his little boy, even if she had raised five sons of her own. But the alternative—holding LJ, playing with him, feeding him and changing his diaper—was more than Garrett could handle. He swallowed a wave of fresh guilt and said what he had to say. “We’re kinda busy here, Mom.”
“I can see that.” Doris’s full lips thinned into a stern look that dredged up childhood memories of getting into trouble with his brothers. “Garrett...” she began.
“You want the office?” Ty offered. “We’re ’bout done. I can leave if you two need to talk.”
Doris hesitated a second longer. With a sigh, she said, “Don’t bother. I’m not going to stay long. I just wanted to let you know I met someone in town today. Lisa Rose. She used to sing with that group, ’Skeeter Creek.” Doris pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. “I invited her to join us for dessert tomorrow night.”
The Circle P was so well known for its hospitality that Ty only took the yellow sheet Doris handed across and studied it. The tiny line between his eyes deepened when he finished. “I remember her from the party at the Barlowe place. Tall, slender, great voice. You say she’s moved to Okeechobee?” He scratched his head.
“She took over that empty space on Parrot. You remember the one?” At Ty’s nod, Doris continued. “I hear she’s spiffed up the place. Gave it a new name. Strummin’ Time.” She pushed a loose strand of hair off her face. “Something like that.”
Garrett scanned the paper Ty passed along. “Pickin’ Strings,” he corrected. He glanced at the photo of a fair-haired woman with angular cheekbones set in a heart-shaped face. A frown tugged at his lips. “She seems a little citified for our parts. Probably won’t stick around.”
“She’s a bluegrass singer,” his mother countered. “I’m sure she’ll fit in.”
Garrett took a second look at the image of a woman with long wavy hair and dark eyes. Whether the newcomer stayed or moved on was really no concern of his. Standing, he clamped his hat back on his head. “Let me have a chance to look over my notes about the roundup and I’ll catch you later, Ty. If you’ll excuse me now—” he nodded to his mom “—I have some chores to finish before supper.”
And as he had every night for the last ten months, he left his young son in his mother’s capable hands while he made himself scarce.
* * *
LISA’S SANDALS SLAPPED against the planks of the wooden porch. From somewhere nearby, night-blooming jasmine added its fragrance to a heady, sweet smell that drifted down from flower pots hung along the eaves. She sniffed, her head filling with images of islands and swaying palm trees. She stood for a minute while uncertainty tugged at her. Had she done the right thing by accepting an invitation from a complete stranger?
She glanced around, her unease fading. The Circle P looked like exactly what it claimed to be, a working ranch. A summer sunset reflected off an unpainted barn that had aged to a graceful gray. Sturdy pens and corrals spread out on either side of the large building like wings. On the porch, comfortable rockers and chairs invited people to stay and sit a while. Cedar logs and tall picture windows lent the ranch a sense of permanence that was so different from her own experiences she felt a little misty-eyed.
When she was a kid, she used to dream of living in a house like this one. Of playing Little League or having sleepovers. Instead, she’d climbed into an RV so loaded down with instruments and equipment there was barely room for her parents, brother, sisters and the dog. Crowded cheek-to-jowl, her family had spent months on the road, playing in an endless succession of one-night gigs and music festivals. She’d met Brad on one of those long tours. Their time together had been more of the same. So, no, permanence, wasn’t part of her vocabulary. She flicked her braid behind her and wondered if, now that she’d moved to Okeechobee, it could be.
Not at all certain that was what she wanted, she rapped on the front door. She’d barely had a chance to count out four beats when a slim redhead answered. “You must be Lisa Rose. Doris said you were coming. I’m Sarah Parker. Welcome to the Circle P.” The pert hostess pulled the door wider.
“You have a beautiful place,” Lisa said, meaning every word. She gestured toward the hanging pots. “Someone has a green thumb.”
“Don’t they smell divine?” Sarah’s smile deepened. “We raise plumeria and orchids in the greenhouse. It’s a side business I started soon after Ty and I got married. Now we ship all over the country.”
Lisa held out a plate she’d wrapped in plastic. “I’m not much of a gardener. Or a cook.” Boiling water was the extent of her culinary skills. “I picked these up from the bakery near Pickin’ Strings. I hope they’re all right.”
Sarah studied the small mountain of cookies. “Oh, my favorites. Oops.” She clamped a hand over her mouth as equal parts humor and concern danced in a pair of hazel eyes. “Better not let any of our cooks hear me say that.”
“It’ll be our secret,” Lisa said, warming to the woman who pushed past her outstretched hand to wrap her in a light embrace. She caught a slightly
