Rancher For The Holidays. Myra Johnson
A moment later, Aunt Jane pushed open the screen door. “Chow’s on the table, boys. Y’all come on in and wash up.” She patted Ben on the shoulder as he stepped through the door. “Don’t pay that old coot any mind. It’s nice to have a man around here who shows a little class.”
“Thanks, Aunt Jane. And for the record, I think you’re one classy lady.” He tweaked one of her platinum curls before following her to the kitchen.
Unfortunately, Uncle Steve was right. Here at the ranch, Ben’s casual-Friday slacks and Ferragamo loafers were the height of impracticality. He’d noticed the pretty photographer eyeing his attire as well—probably seeing dollar signs and hoping he’d snap up one of her photos.
If she only knew how fast his bank account was dwindling. Not that he was anywhere near destitute—he’d been careful to sock away hefty chunks of his salary into savings—but with no idea how soon he’d be employed again, he couldn’t afford to be frivolous.
Ben took the chair at the opposite end of the table from his uncle and breathed in the zesty aromas of homemade enchiladas, Spanish rice and cheesy refried beans. “Wow, Aunt Jane, you could open your own restaurant.”
She laughed as she refilled Ben’s iced-tea glass. “Honey, I’ve got my hands full riding herd over your fool of an uncle.”
“Pass me your plate, boy,” Uncle Steve said, reaching across the table, “and I’ll serve you up some grub.”
Aunt Jane’s enchiladas tasted as good as they smelled. She hadn’t skimped on the jalapeños, either. Ben was no stranger to hot-as-you-can-handle Tex-Mex, but by the time he’d polished off a third helping, he could almost feel the smoke pouring from his ears. He huffed and puffed and fanned his mouth. “Anybody got a fire extinguisher?”
“Milk’s the best thing.” Laughing, Aunt Jane rose and took a glass from the cupboard.
As soon as Ben gulped the ice-cold milk, the pain subsided. He patted his full belly and leaned back. “I mean it, Aunt Jane. With you as chef, we could go into the restaurant business and make a mint.”
Both his aunt and uncle chuckled and shook their heads, and Ben didn’t have the guts to tell them he was half-serious. He desperately needed to come up with some kind of plan to jump-start his stalled career. Nothing in a million years could have prepared him for getting laid off from his dream job. Just proved how naive he was, assuming a thriving brick-and-mortar chain like Home Tech Revolution was immune to the growing trend toward internet shopping.
After helping with the dishes and putting away leftovers—barely enough for someone’s meager lunch, after the damage Ben had done—Ben collapsed on the leather sofa in the great room and kicked off his loafers. While Uncle Steve flipped satellite channels on the big-screen TV, Aunt Jane pulled out some kind of yarn thing to work on. The quick action of her fingers mesmerized Ben.
He raised on one elbow for a better look. “What are you making?”
“It’s a baby blanket.” Aunt Jane’s eyes sparkled over her silver-rimmed reading glasses. “We have a ministry at church where several ladies knit afghans, prayer shawls and the like for people who have a special need or could just use something soft and comforting in their lives.”
“That’s nice.” He wasn’t really sure what a prayer shawl was, but then lately he hadn’t had much practice with prayer. These days he wasn’t on very good terms with God.
“This blanket’s for a sweet young mom in Candelaria.”
It was the second time today Ben had heard the name. He pictured the photo of the mother and child selecting food items in the little red barn. He sat up again and planted his feet on the floor. “You wouldn’t by chance know the photographer in town with all the pictures of Candelaria.”
“Marley?” Aunt Jane looked up with a smile. “She’s a doll. And so dedicated to helping the families out there.”
Uncle Steve turned down the TV volume. “Did you find Marley’s gallery while you were in town?”
“Yeah, I happened upon it. She’s really talented.”
Aunt Jane and Uncle Steve exchanged glances, then nodded as if sharing some secret communication. Uncle Steve grinned at Ben. “Son, we just might have some ideas to put you to work while you’re here.”
Ben didn’t know whether to be grateful or scared. Then the possibility of seeing Marley Sanders again took hold, and he felt the first twinges of anticipation he’d experienced in weeks.
“Your total comes to sixty-three dollars and eighty-four cents.”
Marley offered a tight-lipped smile as she fished her debit card from her wallet and ran it through the scanner. The cashier stuffed Marley’s craft supplies into three plastic bags, then handed her the receipt. She tucked it next to her cell phone so she wouldn’t forget to give it to Pastor Chris after church tomorrow.
Otherwise, especially after the notice she’d received from her studio landlord yesterday, she might be eating cold cereal three times a day for the foreseeable future. The landlord had decided to give the buildings on her block a face-lift, which meant a rent increase beginning in January.
With less than four months to raise her profits, where was her wealthy patron of the arts when she needed him? Apparently, Mr. Designer-Label Fisher had better uses for his money than returning to purchase one of the photos he’d admired yesterday. Since she’d even kept her promise to shorten the string of bells, Marley couldn’t suppress a sad chuckle.
But why expect this guy to be any different from the usual tourists strolling through the arts district? They mostly just browsed anyway. Despite frequent assurances they’d stop in again after shopping around, few ever did.
In the shopping center parking lot, Marley tossed the bags in the trunk of her Civic, then settled behind the wheel and started the engine to get the A/C running. While the hot air blasting her face gradually cooled, she pulled out her phone to check messages and email. Surely there’d be at least one more registration for her photography class.
Nothing.
She tipped her head against the steering wheel and groaned. Dear God, don’t make me break down and call my dad.
Maybe she’d drive by the church right now and see if Pastor Chris or his secretary happened to be in the office on a Saturday morning. She didn’t look forward to scrounging through the meager leftovers in her fridge to find something for tonight’s supper.
As she started to back out of her parking space, a car horn blared behind her. She slammed on the brakes. In the rearview mirror she glimpsed a flashy red convertible with the top down. A guy in smoky aviator sunglasses glowered at her from the driver’s seat before gunning his engine and swinging into the empty space on her right.
Marley groaned. Must be another wealthy out-of-towner. She couldn’t resist an annoyed glance as the driver opened his door. At least he took care not to bump her car. More likely, he was trying not to scratch his own.
Then he caught her eye through the window. Oh, no, the trendy-haircut guy? Marley’s breath hitched.
He must have recognized her, too. Grinning, he whipped off his sunglasses and motioned her to roll down her window.
“Can’t,” she answered with a shrug, hoping he could hear her through the glass. “It’s broken.”
He nodded and stepped around to her door while she lowered the driver’s-side window. “Marley, right? Remember me? Ben Fisher.”
“Of course.” Ben Fisher wasn’t exactly a forgettable kind of guy. “Don’t tell me you’re here to shop? I pegged you for more of a Saks Fifth Avenue type. If we had one of those around here.”
His