A Ranch to Keep. Claire McEwen

      CHAPTER THREE

      FOCUS ON THE ROAD, Samantha commanded herself. But it was hard to focus with her heart beating fast and her glance flicked back to the rear view to note that the cowboy was now driving behind her. For a split second she thought he might really be following her, but reason prevailed. Of course he was behind her—his ranch bordered hers and if she remembered correctly, they actually shared a driveway for a few yards.

      She looked down the curving road, trying to see when that driveway was coming up. It had been a long time since she’d driven here and she didn’t want to miss it. Despite her efforts, the old mailbox flashed past before she even registered that it was there. She groaned. Now she had a wrong turn to add to her collection of embarrassing moments in front of her new neighbor.

      With a sigh she slowed down and looked for a safe place to turn around. At least she was providing Jack with all kinds of stories to tell down at the local bar. They’d definitely be good for a few laughs. She found a turnout and slowed to a stop then U-turned back toward the ranch. As she pulled into the driveway she saw Jack stopped on the left-hand side. He rolled down his passenger window and she pulled up next to him, lowering hers.

      His face positively glowed with tamped-down humor. “Everything okay there, San Francisco? I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to go flag you down.”

      “Thanks for your neighborly concern, Jack.” Sarcasm was always a good weapon when deeply embarrassed, she’d found.

      “Think you can make it from here?”

      She found herself staring at his smile, and the place where his lower lip curled up a bit. Catching herself, she rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah, I brought my compass.”

      He nodded in mock-seriousness. “I’ll rest easy then. Well, nice to meet you again, Samantha.” This time he went first and she felt only relief when he turned off toward his own property. At least if she drove into a ditch getting her city slicker car up this old road, he wouldn’t be there to witness it.

      Taking a deep breath, Samantha revved the engine up the hill. To her surprise, the driveway was recently graded and fresh gravel had been spread. Who’d been maintaining it? Her gaze roved to the pastures sloped down to the main road on either side of her. She knew from what the lawyer had told her that the fields on her left were leased to Jack. The lawyer had mentioned that her tenant had horses and she could see a mare and foal grazing busily just beyond the fence.

      In contrast, the fields to her right were overgrown with weeds and shrubs. No stock had grazed here for a long time and some of the fences were sagging with disrepair. A wave of loss swept over her as she remembered these pastures years ago, when The Double R Ranch had thrived under Grandpa’s hands. He’d kept a few sheep and goats down here through the fall to graze the field into an even-cropped, green swath that ran right up to the picket fence of the front yard. He’d have been disappointed to see the state of it now.

      She rounded one last turn and the house was in front of her. The well built, turn-of-the-century farmhouse was bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon. A closer look revealed three stories of peeling white paint, boarded-up windows and a sagging porch that ran along all sides of the building. Off to the right it was doing more than sagging—it looked like it might soon detach itself completely.

      Samantha turned off the engine and sat, taking in the changes, letting the memories flood over her. Grandma Ruth’s wide smile as she came out to greet her granddaughter at the beginning of each summer. The tears she’d tried to hold back as she sent her off again in the fall, with hand-knit sweaters and cookies. Grandpa sitting on that porch mending a harness in the evening while Grandma read to him from the swing that used to hang by the front door—it had been her favorite place to sit. In the past there had always been a border collie or two barking at visitors, romping and jumping with excitement. In contrast with her memories, the silence and stillness of the house was almost oppressive.

      Tears slid cool paths down her cheeks while she let the memories run their course. Then she straightened, blew her nose and got out of the car. Staring at the boarded-up windows, panic hit her. What had she been thinking? This place was dirty and dilapidated. She should’ve just waited for another time, when there was room at the hotel and she wouldn’t have to sleep here. “Samantha, get a grip,” she said out loud to the silence. She’d grown up living in rural villages, in huts with dirt floors, in countries where the insects grew as big as your hand. Surely she could handle a few years’ worth of dust and neglect. Squaring her shoulders, she popped the trunk of the car. It was time to get to work.

      Samantha unloaded her cleaning supplies, stacking them on the porch. She unlocked the front door of the old house and pushed it open. The room was dim, with just a trickle of light seeping between the boards on the windows. Samantha stepped in and flipped the switch by the door, relieved when the old bulb in the entryway flickered on. The utility company had kept its promise. She had electricity, and hopefully she’d have water, too.

      With each flick of a light switch, the house came alive a little more. Samantha allowed herself just a few moments to wander through the downstairs rooms. It was like stepping back in time.

      All the furniture she remembered was still there, shrouded in cloth, waiting to be brought to life. For the first time, Samantha wondered when Grandma had decided that the ranch would be hers. When she left for Reno ten years ago? Knowing Ruth, she probably had.

      Samantha imagined her grandmother carefully placing the furniture covers, making sure the house would be ready for her granddaughter when the time came. Friends sometimes wondered where Samantha had gotten her talent for organization. It was hard to trace that back to her parents, whose constant traveling and artistic pursuits had mystified the people of Benson. But Samantha knew that all those traits had skipped a generation and come straight to her from Ruth.

      Well, she’d definitely put that organization gene to good use now. She headed back to the porch, ready to start cleaning. Beethoven’s Fifth rang out again, jarringly loud in the quiet house. She dug her phone out of her deep leather purse and touched the screen. Still not Mark, but it was good to see her friend Jenna’s name on the display.

      “Where are you?” Jenna’s voice sounded distracted. “Are you home? Are you really sad?”

      “I can’t quite hear you. Are you there? You’re fading.” Samantha used her free hand to yank a canvas cloth off the armchair in the farmhouse living room. Bad idea. A small cloud of dust rose from the fabric and she backed away from it. Once the dirt settled, she carried the canvas gingerly through the kitchen and out to the back porch, dumping it off the edge into the long grass below.

      “Oh, sorry, Sam, I was doing turns. Warming up for a wedding couple. Oh joy.” Jenna taught ballroom dance at a popular studio in San Francisco. She had a love-hate relationship with her job, the love part being the dancing, and the hate part being couples who snarled at each other throughout their lessons.

      “You’ll be fine. Just wear your referee jersey and bring a whistle.”

      “You’re