The Rancher's Redemption. Melinda Curtis
where Ben protected big utility companies from greater consumer liability. Gas leaks. Energy surges. Fires sparked by downed power lines.
And the subsequent loss of life. There was no joy in putting a dollar figure on death. No laughter when negotiating with an attorney sitting next to a grieving, tear-stained mother holding a baby who’d never know her dad.
“I apologized,” Ethan said to Ben now, the light dimming in his eyes. He turned to go.
“Wait.” Ben had no idea what to say. The very air between them felt taut with tension. “Thank you.”
Ethan gave a jerky nod. “Now that we’ve dealt with that... I need you on my team. The way we used to be.” His words were stilted, as if he hadn’t practiced what he’d say and didn’t know how to say it now. “I can buy you out later.” He grimaced. “Well, not for a couple years. Student loans and...” Ethan drew a deep breath. “Just...don’t make a decision on selling now. Stop and think about it, for my sake.” He walked out.
Ben sank into the leather cigar chair. Ethan was getting married. He was going to be a father. He had his life planned out. Hopefully he was headed for happiness. A part of Ben wanted to crow with ironic laughter. And yet...
In rolled jealousy like a toxic tide, eating his insides.
Ben was thirty-two. Jobless. Wifeless. Childless. Back where he started. Back where everything went bad.
Never look back.
He wanted to side with Jon and sell the ranch. He wanted to put the ranch and the past behind him just like he was putting Transk, Ipsum & Levi in his rearview mirror.
They gave you the boot, boy.
Enough!
Ben moved the leather cigar chair to the left of the fireplace out of the way, pried the floorboard free and stared at the safe. Someone besides Big E had to have the combination. Katie or Lochlan were the most likely candidates.
His stomach growled. It was past dinnertime. He replaced the floorboard and went to the kitchen.
Ben surveyed the contents of the pantry and then the fridge. There wasn’t much to eat, not a fresh vegetable in the house. Canned green beans. Canned pork and beans. Canned chili beans. Even though there were low-salt and no-salt versions, everything was processed.
In New York, he’d have ordered something delivered. Beef stir-fry with quinoa sounded good. Sushi. Chicken chop salad.
You’ve gotten weak, boy.
No. The fact was he’d never learned to cook like an adult.
Big E’s idea of providing for five boys was to tell them to make something for themselves. He’d assigned them days of the week to cook dinner. Ben and his brothers had spent many nights in the kitchen baking frozen pizza and boiling hot dogs. Some of the Blackwell brothers had progressed to a cookbook. One winter, one of Big E’s wives had taught Jon the rudiments of the spice rack. Ben had survived college on dorm food, fruit, fast food and peanut butter sandwiches. Without takeout or delivery, he’d be resorting to the same.
Ben stared at the sparkly pink backsplash, the pink trimmed cabinets with glass knobs, the pink-feathered crystal chandelier.
Who’s gotten weak, old man?
He’d skip dinner. He’d go for a run.
Ben grabbed his suitcase and headed upstairs toward the bedroom he’d shared with Ethan growing up. He stopped in the doorway, nearly dropping his suitcase for the second time that day.
Zoe hadn’t contained her redecorating to the common areas.
Instead of bunk beds and two old oak dressers, there was a queen-size bed buried beneath a mountain of frilly pink pillows. The walls had gold-striped wallpaper. The curtains were sparkly silver and draped into a pool on the floor.
How much did this cost?
For the first time in five years, Ben almost felt sorry for his grandfather.
Ben slung his bag on the end of the bed and withdrew his running clothes. The sun was dropping low on the horizon. The wind would be picking up on the high plains, whipping down through the mountains. He dressed for chill temperatures.
A few minutes later, he ran down the steps and cut across the series of pastures that separated the ranch buildings from the river. This wasn’t a run in Central Park on smooth pavement. This was uneven ground, dotted with cow pies and prairie dog potholes. There were dips and rises blanketed with brown grass. The wind filled his ears and his lungs. It whipped through his hair.
Betrayals didn’t matter. Water rights didn’t matter. Past mistakes didn’t matter.
He climbed a metal gate and dropped into the north pasture. This was June and there wouldn’t be any cattle here. By now, they’d have been moved up the slopes across the river where the grass was greener.
Ben could see Falcon Creek in the distance and how it had carved its way through the land. The banks were at least fifteen feet high and lined with a few lush elms. The tributary may have been called Falcon Creek, but during the winter and spring, it ran high and fast, like a river. And during the spring and summer, rain in the mountains could turn it into a raging torrent, sometimes with little warning. This time of year, the water was low and slow, dancing around rocks exposed to air.
Ben kept his gaze from drifting south toward the remnants of the old bridge where his parents had died in one of those flash floods. He concentrated on losing himself in the run.
He had a good stride going. Steady.
His heartbeat was strong. Steady.
He felt his equilibrium return. Steady.
But then he heard something rumble. Fast. Uneven. Angry. Like gathering thunder.
The sky was the gentle pink-orange of approaching sunset. Not a cloud was visible. But the sound was growing louder.
Ben glanced over his shoulder and swore.
An Aberdeen Angus bull was barreling down on him, hide as black as night, eyes filled with a deadly rage.
The beast was sixty feet away and closing fast. The riverbank was thirty feet ahead. It seemed like a mile.
Ben picked up the pace. Strike that. He sprinted for all he was worth. Nothing was steady anymore. Not his stride. Not his heartbeat. Not his chances of seeing another sunrise.
His only hope was to scramble up the nearest tree before that bull tossed him onto the rocky creek bed.
* * *
RACHEL’S ROAN GELDING, Utah, was ungainly but trustworthy. Nothing spooked him. Not her mother’s yappy poodle. Not Poppy pulling on his mane.
Not even the sight of Ben Blackwell being chased by a charging bull.
Rachel was spooked, though. Her hands trembled and air stuck in her throat. Life on the range wasn’t like living in the suburbs. She’d witnessed ranch hands gored by bulls during branding, struck by hooves while training horses, lose fingers to hay balers. Lacerations. Broken bones. Internal injuries. People got hurt on a ranch. People died.
She might not like Ben, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to be trampled.
On the road separating the two properties, Rachel urged Utah into a fast trot toward the gate that opened onto Blackwell land. She freed a length of rope from her saddle as smoothly as if she was reaching for her cell phone. She loosened the noose.
Like I’m gonna rope that bull?
She wasn’t that good with a lasso. A shiver of fear ran through Rachel, originating in concern for Ben. And then another shiver startled her, one brought on by the image of her roping the bull and watching helplessly as he bolted for the river. She’d be pulled off Utah’s back, dragged into the pasture and