She loaded the groceries into the car and wearily got back in. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to reaching the ranch, but she was looking forward to not driving anymore. It had been one long day. And it was only half over.
THERE WAS NO WAY in hell that a car, even one with all-wheel drive, should have made it up Lone Summit Road after a snowfall. But damned if Madeline Blaine didn’t climb out of a Subaru Outback and wade through the drift to the gate at the end of the driveway.
Ty tipped back the brim of his black felt hat and watched from the corral where he’d just fed the bulls. A full minute later he knew he had to go help her. What kind of a person could navigate that road and then not be able to figure out a gate latch? Apparently one with a doctorate in anthropology.
He muttered a curse and trudged down the snowy drive with Alvin, his border collie, at his heels, walking in the same track Ty created. She was obviously het up to see the ranch, so see the ranch she would. He had a feeling when she was done that she was going to wish she’d believed him.
Madeline did not give up on the latch. She continued to wrestle with it right up until he stopped on the opposite side of the gate.
“Need help?” he asked mildly.
“What do you think?” she snapped.
You don’t want to know what I think…. “I’m surprised you made it,” he said after he pulled the mechanism that released the latch—the mechanism that Madeline had been pushing for all she was worth. She lifted her chin slightly when she saw how easily the latch sprang open.
“What do you mean?”
“The snow, the ruts, the road.”
She made a face. “I grew up in New York. I can drive in the snow and I don’t need one of those to do it.” She pointed at his four-wheel-drive pickup truck parked next to the barn a hundred yards away.
“Bully for you,” he muttered as she trudged back to her car and got inside. He and Alvin stood clear as she drove past, and then Ty shut the gate. Madeline had parked next to the truck and was out of the car, standing in the snow, when he and Alvin caught up with her.
“I’ll show you Skip’s house.”
“Thank you.”
She followed him as he broke trail through the calf-deep snow to the double-wide closest to the barn. Skip had lived in the newer of the two prefab ranch houses. Both were roomy, with three bedrooms and two baths and, under normal circumstances, quite comfortable. These were not normal circumstances, though. Skip’s place had been uninhabited for almost two years and Ty had a feeling Madeline wasn’t going to find the place all that inviting. Oh, well. He’d told her not to come.
Ty walked up the stairs and opened the door.
Madeline stalled out at the bottom step. “I assume there are no mice inside? It has been empty for some time.”
He had managed to keep the mice out so far—no small feat in the country—with a lot of caulk and steel wool. He figured that if he ever expanded to the point that he could hire help, or if he got another partner to buy into the operation, he’d need to keep the house up.
Perhaps that had been a mistake.
“No mice. I check frequently.” It was still hard for him to go inside Skip’s place, and cleaning it out had been a hell he never wanted to have to repeat.
Madeline slowly climbed the stairs with a suitcase in each hand. Her concern about mice only reinforced his belief that she wasn’t going to last long at the ranch, but he had to give her credit for not flinching at the amount of fine silt that had worked its way in through the edges of the windows and settled. One of the joys of desert life—even in the high country.
The only furniture in the two front rooms was a leather sofa that pulled out into a bed—in case Ty had company who wanted privacy, which was laughable because Ty never had company—and a small kitchen table with two chairs. The other rooms were empty.
Everything had been shipped home or sent to charity.
“I sent the bedding and towels and stuff to Goodwill.”
“I know,” she said briskly. She walked through the house, the floor squeaking beneath her steps. “I brought a sleeping bag.”
“You’re really staying.”
Her eyebrows lifted, as if in surprise, but the reaction seemed forced—quite possibly because of where she would be staying. The house was not inviting. “I told you I was.”
“Suit yourself.” The sooner she saw that everything was on the up-and-up, the sooner this walking, talking reminder of Skip would be out of his life.
“I will.” She glanced around and from the way she moistened her lips he had a feeling she was fighting to keep her placid expression. She brought her eyes back to his face.
“Not much to do here,” Ty explained. “No TV or anything.”
“I plan to use any free time I might have to work on a book I’m writing.”
Ty stared at her. “How long do you plan to stay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Three and a half weeks.”
Oh, shit. Why didn’t she just take out a gun and shoot him?
This went beyond not wanting to be reminded about Skip. Ty enjoyed his solitude. Hell, he embraced it. When he wanted company he went to town. He did not want it forced on him.
Madeline squared her shoulders. “Well, I guess I’ll go and get the rest of my luggage. I have a busy afternoon.”
Ty nodded and headed for the door. There wasn’t much else he could do.
CHAPTER THREE
GOOD HEAVENS, SKIP, what were you thinking when you bought this place?
He’d said it was isolated, but Madeline couldn’t believe how far she’d driven on that darned Lone Sum Road before finally seeing the driveway and gate. Beyond the gate she’d recognized the view from the photos Skip had sent, but when Skip had talked of a ranch, she’d envisioned a big wooden barn and sheds and lots of board fences and corrals. Well, the barn was there. It was big and metal and ugly. The smaller buildings all looked as if they were a couple hundred years old, and the fences were made of wire. Wire.
She thought he’d sent pictures of the view because it was so spectacular. She hadn’t realized there was nothing else to photograph.
Ty had disappeared and was hopefully hooking up the electricity, while Madeline carried her belongings into the frigid house, which was larger than she had expected. Skip had called it a trailer, but it was the size of a regular house with a woodstove on a ceramic-tiled hearth.
She made three trips through the snow between her car and the house, leaving the door propped open. The last trip was the easiest because she’d beaten the snow into a path. Then she took another look at her living quarters.
She should have bought more cleaning supplies.
And
