them, and their cut of the guest ranch wasn’t enough to see them through rough times. They’d both had to work for the family business and draw a paycheck.
“But you didn’t leave because you hated the ranch.”
Cole took hold of his sister’s shoulders and turned her so he could see her face. “Are you starting to hate the ranch?”
First she looked surprised, then adamant as she said, “No. I don’t.”
They loaded the calves in the trailer, as well as a yearling heifer that would be delivered to a couple in the Eagle Valley later in the week. After having a sandwich together, Cole headed back to the farm still thinking about his conversation with his sister.
He had a feeling that she was one short step from telling Miranda to shove it, as he had, and she couldn’t do that while three calves had counted on her for sustenance. He hoped she did it now. They’d still have their ranch, but since it was part of the guest ranch structure—the working ranch where guests participated in cattle drives and brandings and soaked up ranch ambiance—Miranda would have to send crew members from the guest ranch to do the chores and such.
The setup of the family operation was convoluted, having started as a handshake deal between two brothers trying to increase cash flow. As the business grew, things were put in writing, made official. Cole’s uncle had owned his physical ranch, and Cole’s dad had owned his, but the operations were combined into one entity, and decisions were made by agreement between owners. Fortunately for Miranda, operations were in place and smoothly running by the time her husband died, because Cole wasn’t certain at this point if he’d call a fire truck if he saw her house ablaze.
* * *
SINCE SHE’D LIVED alone and worked crazy hours in her former life, Taylor hadn’t realized how much she depended on easy access to the advice of friends. On the one hand, she was glad that no one was close enough to see where she was living. Compared with the beautiful simplicity of her former apartment, this place was…the words an abomination occurred to her, but she reminded herself to be grateful. On the other, she couldn’t get together with Carolyn or Paul or any of her peers over dinner or drinks and hash out the best course of action.
In this case, however, the best of course of action appeared to have been laid out for her by one annoyingly uncooperative guy. She was leaving the free-rent situation, so there would be no building of the nest egg. She’d be living paycheck to paycheck, which was something she’d never done before, and it frightened her.
She shouldn’t have sunk so much money into attempting to pay off student loans ahead of schedule. She should have saved more, but she’d stupidly felt bulletproof.
Cole was right. She hadn’t encountered many failures in her life, and she’d had a sense of false security until the layoff.
Bottom line, she was going to have to scrape by on half the salary she was used to, while living in a city she didn’t want to be in. Even accounting for the difference in the amount of rent paid, she was going to be one disaster away from withdrawing money from her IRA and invoking stiff penalties.
Taylor spent the rest of the morning devising a careful budget, crossing off items she could live without, calculating state taxes and federal withholdings, possible insurance premiums, factoring in a strict 10 percent savings margin. At the end of the month, she’d be about three dollars to the good, but it was better than her current situation.
She might still be trapped in Montana, but she would be standing on her own two freaking feet.
She showered, put on a superfine wool dress—the simple lines of which belied the amount of money she had paid—checked her shoes for scuffs, and stuffed what she needed into her small handbag. She also buffed up her leather carryall that served as a briefcase to carry extra materials to the meeting. A slim watch, silver earrings, a little makeup and she was good to go.
Taylor checked her reflection, shaking her head at the sad tan walls and the sheet pinned over the window that showed behind her. Maybe it was good that Cole so adamantly refused to let her stay for six months. She needed to get away from this dismal setting.
“I’m on my way, Max.” The cat rolled over on his back and yawned—a sure sign that he was wishing her good luck. “Thanks, big guy. I’ll bring you back some tuna.”
* * *
COLE SLOWED AS he approached the driveway and swung wide to accommodate the gooseneck trailer. It was growing close to dusk, and Taylor’s lights were on. Soon, if all went well, he’d drive home and the bunkhouse would be dark. He’d walk around his farm and not wonder if he was being watched. He wouldn’t have people getting him out of the shower at seven in the morning. In other words, he would be living the life he’d intended—a gloriously solitary life where he solved no one’s problems but his own.
He backed the trailer up to the gate of the newly restored corral and opened the gate so that it came to rest against the side of the trailer. He secured it, then unlatched the trailer door. As he started pulling open the door to form a narrow chute into the corral, the heel of his boot caught a piece of half-buried wire protruding from the ground. An instant later the yearling heifer, sensing freedom, hit the door hard, hitting him in the face and knocking him backward as she bounded out into the corral. Cole’s knee twisted sideways as he went down, and he fought to break his fall by jutting out his hands instead of shoulder rolling as his football coach had taught him. And he felt the nasty snap in his wrist as his weight hit solid ground.
He scrambled to his feet, but not in time to put the trailer gate back into position to contain the animals in the corral. He twisted sideways as the heifer blasted past him, out of the corral and into the driveway, the calves close behind her.
They disappeared around the house, and Cole took a slow, limping step. Pain shot through his knee—a familiar feeling since it wasn’t the first time he’d sprained it—and his wrist…he had a bad feeling that his wrist was toast. That was when he realized that he was bleeding.
Shit. Years and years of ranching and he’d been done in by a heifer and three leppy calves—which couldn’t be allowed to escape out onto the county road. Bad for them, worse for drivers.
Cole started toward the bunkhouse as fast as he could go, holding his injured wrist against his abs and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain in his knee, cursing with each step.
“Taylor!” he shouted as he got closer to the bunkhouse.
He waited, panting a little, then continued around the side of the house to her door. He started pounding. “Tay-lor!”
She jerked the door open just as he was about to pound again. “I need your help.”
“You think you can insult me and then expect me to run to your aid—” Her words stopped abruptly and a look of horror formed. He reached up to his forehead and discovered where the blood was coming from.
“This is serious,” he muttered.
“Who did this to you?”
He ignored the question. “I need you to run to the end of the driveway and close the big gate. Now.”
She sucked in a breath, and just when he thought she was going to argue, she brushed past him and literally started running. He limped toward the middle of the driveway, trying to see if the cattle were still on the far side of the house. Once the gate was closed, Taylor jogged
