Stranded With The Rancher. Rebecca Winters
in Union, New Jersey. Alex’s father was the provost at the university there. Her parents’ home was only a half-hour drive from Alex’s apartment, but it might as well have been ten hours for the amount of time she’d been able to spend with her folks.
“I wish I could, but I’m all packed and leaving from JFK in a couple of hours to do another story.”
“Oh, no, honey. You never take a break these days.”
“I like work. Mr. Goff is a great boss who gives me the latitude to do stories as I see them.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but it’s not an answer. When are we going to see you next?”
“I didn’t mean to sound flippant.”
“I know, but I’m a mother who has the right to worry about you.”
Alex knew her parents had been concerned since her broken engagement. But that had been five years ago!
Her mom suffered because there was no man in her daughter’s life, but Alex didn’t care about that anymore. Not since her fiancé had told her she was too needy and ought to do something with her life besides wait around for him.
Ken Iverson had been six years older than Alex’s twenty-two. He was a corporate attorney in a growing local law firm. He’d just gotten back from being out of town and had flung the stinging rebuke at her during a heated moment when she’d asked how soon they should set their wedding date.
His words had burned into her brain. After saying she was going to take his advice, she’d removed the diamond ring he’d given her and gotten out of his car.
Once she was inside her parents’ home, she’d backed up against the closed door, vowing never to be accused of that again. He’d followed her from the car, but no amount of pleading on his part could get her to open it or crack the ice around her heart. She was so done it was scary.
“Where are you off to this time?”
“Colorado, then Wyoming.”
“Interesting. I’ve never been to Wyoming.”
“Nor I. The boss calls it flyover country.”
“Everyone has said that for as long as I can remember. What are you working on? Is it more exciting than my latest project?”
“Indubitably. Your stuff is dull as dust,” Alex teased, though it was the truth. Her mother wrote for different software companies who needed her technical expertise to describe their products. She was fabulous at it. “No offense intended, Mom.”
Her mother chuckled. “No offense taken.”
“When I get there and am settled into some saloon where they rent rooms upstairs, I’ll call and run it by you.”
“Wouldn’t that be funny, if there was such a place these days?”
“Very funny, Mom. I’ve got quite a bit of digging to do before I begin writing this one, and I don’t want to listen to the drunks below living it up after riding into town on their trusty steeds.”
“Maybe you should do a magazine spread on the Wild West of today.”
Alex laughed. She loved her mom, who had a great sense of humor. “I can promise that Rockwell Food Business Magazine won’t be putting out an article like that anytime soon.”
“With you on board, who knows?”
Another chuckle escaped. As a student, besides garnering many awards, Alex had been given the NYU Business and Economic Reporting scholarship by the New York Financial Writers Association. The merit-based competition had been open to any graduate or undergraduate student in the New York tristate area who’d been interested in business journalism.
In time, she’d been taken on as a featured writer for the prestigious Rockwell Magazine. One of her major objectives was to stay ahead of shifting national consumer purchasing patterns and attitudes. Many CEOs looked to their magazine for new trends.
Money had never been her god, but she had to admit it felt good to know she made more than Ken, whom she’d heard through her brother was no longer with the same firm and still a bachelor.
“When will you be back?”
“Let’s see.” She looked at her Disneyland wall calendar, given to her by her four-year-old niece, Katy, for Christmas. It hung below her framed graduate diploma in journalism from NYU. “Today’s Saturday, the third of September. I’ll be home in a week. That will be the tenth.”
“Perfect. Let us know what time you get in and we’ll pick you up at the airport. Plan to come home with us for a few days.”
Home sounded good. “I promise.”
“Text me once in a while.”
“You, too.”
“Stay safe.”
“Who, me? Ciao.”
After hanging up, she reached for the suitcase that held her laptop and digital recorder, then left the apartment. New York was experiencing sunny, seventy-five degree September weather. The wrong time to leave, but she had no choice.
Alex walked out to the street and waited until she saw a Yellow Cab with the middle two lights on the roof lit up. She called out, “Taxi!” The driver stopped. Alex made her way through the crowd and opened the back door. “JFK. Delta Airlines terminal.”
Part of her trip would involve interviewing sheep ranchers at Wool Growers Association conventions in Montrose, Colorado, and Casper, Wyoming. According to their websites, those organizations existed to preserve and promote the sheep and livestock industries in their states.
They would be good resources to help her start her investigation and obtain interviews. During her initial research, she’d picked up on a surprising trend in the demand for lamb. If it was a fluke, she needed to find out.
On the way to the airport, it hit her that, despite frequently traveling to new places, there was a sameness to her life. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t infusing her with a sense of excitement or fulfillment, either. She let out a deep sigh. Maybe she was asking too much of life.
* * *
“CHIEF POWELL? DO you have a minute?”
The head of the fire station in Whitebark, Wyoming, lifted his head. “Sure. Come on in.”
Wyatt entered the private office. “I’ve just gone off duty and wanted to remind you that I’m leaving for the mountains in the morning. I’ve already told Captain Durrant, so he knows not to schedule me for a week.”
The chief smiled. “So you’re off with the sheep.”
“Yup. It’s that time of year to bring the ewes down to the lower elevation.”
“Lots of work.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“The weather couldn’t be better.”
“I agree. Here’s hoping that at least eighty-five percent of the ewes are pregnant. The trick is not to lose any of them.” That included the thirty Hampshire stud rams.
“Take care, Wyatt, and good luck. See you when you get back.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He left the station in his car and drove to the Fielding Sheep Ranch just a few miles east of Whitebark. After a grueling twelve-hour shift putting out a warehouse fire, he was starving.
Thank heaven for Martha Loveridge, the part-time housekeeper for Wyatt and his disabled grandfather, Royden. Two years ago, his tough old sheep-rancher grandfather had accidentally shot himself in the leg during a hunting trip with friends in the mountains.
Damage to two of the major muscles and a fracture of the left femur had resulted in a