The Rancher's Lullaby (Glades County Cowboys) (2 page)

* * *

G
ARRETT
J
UDD
SWERVED
onto the long, empty stretch of highway. He bore down on the pedal, pushing the truck until it rattled and swayed. Barbed wire and fence posts sped by so fast they blurred into a seamless stream. The steering wheel pulled to one side as his tires hit a tiny dip in the road. Garrett held his breath.

Was this finally
it
?

Would they find his waterlogged body when they pulled his truck from the deep drainage ditch that ran alongside the roadway? He whistled through clenched teeth when the wheel straightened of its own accord. Swallowing bile, he slowed marginally for the turn into the Circle P Ranch.

A cloud of dust filled his rearview mirror as he flew down the graveled drive toward the main house. He eased his foot off the gas only when he neared a large dirt lot surrounded by riding pens, barns and outbuildings. Aware that a ranch hand could emerge from the barn at any second, Garrett mashed the brake. Dirt spewed from beneath the tires as the vehicle came to a shuddering stop in front of a sprawling cedar house. Throwing the truck into Park, he jumped from the front seat. He took the steps two at a time, barely registering the drop in temperature as he stepped onto the wide front porch.

Never locked, the doorknob turned easily in his grasp. Garrett swept his Stetson from his head and stepped across the threshold. He relaxed slightly when no one called to him from the leather couches that provided ample seating for both family and paying guests. Intending to grab a snack and disappear out the back door before anyone noted his presence, he hustled across the hardwood floors.

In the long hall that led to the kitchen, he pointedly studied his boot tips rather than the dozens of photographs that lined the walls. Not that it did any good. From the earliest images of his ancestors working the land and its cattle to the most recent photo of his brother Hank’s wedding, he knew every picture by heart. Some folks might have thought it odd that so many Judds were captured in the history of the Parker ranch, but ask anyone from either side and they’d say it was only natural. The two families had been intertwined ever since the first Parker hired the first Judd to manage the acres of flat land that stretched from one horizon to the other. Still, afraid he’d catch sight of his dad or see Arlene’s smiling face peering out at him from the photos, Garrett kept his eyes down, his focus averted.

“Garrett. If you’ve got a minute...”

Halfway to the kitchen and relative safety, he stumbled to a halt. He pivoted, his heart sinking as he spotted Ty Parker standing in an office doorway. All too aware that he’d gotten caught skulking through the house, Garrett straightened his six-foot-three-inch frame.

“Yeah?”

“The fall roundup is just around the corner. It’s time we made some plans for it.”

“What’s the rush?” Garrett hiked an eyebrow. The roundup wasn’t for nearly two months yet, and the ranch hands knew the drill. Hadn’t they been gathering the Parkers’ herd of prized Andalusian cattle every year as far back as anyone could remember? “I was on my way to get a bite to eat.”

“And disappear out the back door till everyone turns in?” The frown lines at the corners of Ty’s mouth deepened. “I’ve been trying to catch you for three days, but you’re always in a hurry to go someplace else.”

“What can I say?” Garrett shrugged. “There’s never much downtime on a spread the size of the Circle P.”

Maybe it had been easier when fence lines marked the end of the Circle P’s property at Little Lake. But Ty had expanded their holdings, adding another thousand acres and leasing several additional sections. Between that and opening many of the ranch’s activities to outsiders—tourists who paid good money for the privilege of playing cowboys for a week—the list of chores required to keep things running smoothly had more than doubled. Which wasn’t the only reason Garrett made himself scarce. It wasn’t even the main one but, as excuses went, it was the best he had to offer.

When Ty’s gaze continued to pin him to the wall, Garrett took a breath. He met Ty’s unwavering stare. “Sorry. Sure, Ty. What can I do for you?”

Unease trickled down his spine when Ty gestured him into the office. It deepened when the man who’d been his best friend ever since they were in diapers together closed the door behind them. Was he about to get fired? If so, he’d be the first Judd to get handed his walking papers in...well, forever. He swallowed and propped his Stetson on one knee as Ty took his place behind the scarred oak desk. For a moment, the owner shuffled papers. Staring up from them at last, Ty drummed his fingers on the desk.

“Everyone knows what an awful time this has been for you. We’re all glad you came back home from Atlanta after...” Sympathy swam in Ty’s eyes.

Garrett brushed a speck of dirt from his jeans. In the ten months since the funeral, he’d grown tired of the sympathetic looks, the understanding gestures. He waited while a thick silence filled the room. It dragged on until Ty cleared his throat.

“Even with your mom helping out, I don’t know how you’ve managed. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Sarah.” The owner’s gaze drifted to the door, where it lingered. “But no matter what you’re going through,” he said, his focus honing in, “I have a responsibility to our guests and employees. And I’m hearing things I don’t like much. That you’ve been hard on the men. That you’re takin’ chances. I know you well enough to know that’s not like you, so I have to ask...have you been drinking?”

“What?” Garrett shifted in his chair. He hadn’t gotten drunk, hadn’t even sipped enough rotgut to get a buzz. Not since the days immediately following Arlene’s funeral. At the thought of his late wife, though, the empty spot in the pit of his stomach burned. Garrett rubbed his fingers along the edge of his Stetson. “I might pour two fingers if I can’t sleep at night. But never at work. And never, ever, if I’m going to get behind the wheel.”

“Good to know.”

“As for the men, I don’t ride ’em any harder than I did my students.” Twice he’d been nominated for Teacher of the Year, but he’d lost interest in teaching high school while gravediggers were still shoveling dirt over his wife’s casket. “I thought you wanted to talk about the fall roundup,” he said, trying to shift the focus off him.

“Right, right. Just know that, if you need anything, someone to talk to—someone to yell at, even—I’m here for you. We all are. Your mom and your brothers, too.”

And how would that help?
Ty and Sarah Parker had never experienced his kind of loss. Garrett prayed they never would. As for his mom, she and his dad had spent forty-plus years building memories together, while he and Arlene had their whole lives ahead of them when hers had been cut short. Too short. Two of his four brothers had found love, not lost it, during their stints as managers of the Circle P. That left the twins, Randy and Royce. But even if they hadn’t been in their twenties and too young to grasp the concept of losing a wife in childbirth, they were on the other side of the country—in Montana—till the first of the year.

A tightness he’d grown accustomed to worked its way across his chest. Deliberately Garrett took a breath. “Look, I’ve got Dad’s notes. I’ll go over ’em, and if I’ve got any questions, we can talk, but I really don’t expect any problems. There’s been a roundup on the Circle P since long before you and I were born. The men and I, we know the drill.”

“Things have changed now that we’ve got paying guests.” Ty leaned back in his chair. “It takes more time, preparation...everything. We can’t have too many people ridin’ herd on one cow, so we’re gonna have to break into groups. You’ll need to think about which ranch hands are responsible enough to take charge. And then there’s supplies. We have to lay in enough food and beverages, make sure the cooks know about any special dietary requirements and the like.”

Garrett let his brow furrow. “How many people are we talkin’ about?” When he was a kid, roundups had been family affairs involving the Parkers, the Judds and a few ranch hands. But Ty’s efforts to draw wannabe cowboys to the ranch had saved the Circle P from bankruptcy and turned it into a thriving concern.

Ty consulted his notes. “A family from New York—Jake and Melinda Brown and their two daughters, Carolyn and Krissy—signed on this morning. That brings us to thirty guests. That’s pretty much all we can handle. We’ll leave a skeleton crew here at the homestead. Everybody else—another thirty or more—will come on the trail with us.”

Garrett whistled. Taking sixty people on a week-long trek through the wilds of south Florida was a big undertaking. No wonder Ty was concerned. He set his hat on the chair beside him and leaned forward. “Anything in particular I should start workin’ on now?”

“Well, there’s the horses. It won’t do to put an inexperienced rider on, say, Ranger.” Ty’s stallion had a temperamental streak. “Our guests fill out a questionnaire when they register. I’ve got those right here...somewhere.” He thumbed through several stacks of paper before he found the right folder and handed it over.

Garrett scanned blanks filled in by a fifty-year-old stock broker from Boston with no riding experience whatsoever. “Shadow’ll be right for him,” he suggested.

With one guest down and twenty-nine to go, he brushed a shock of dark hair out of his eyes and settled down to work. Once each rider had been matched with the right mount, he and Ty coordinated the side trips and other events. A fishing expedition paved the way into a fish fry. Ty added steak to the menu on the night of the posthole digging competition. He scratched chicken off the list the day a group went bird-watching in the ’Glades. They were still at it when a knock at the door interrupted them.

“Come in,” Ty called.

Garrett took advantage of the break to glance at the clock on the wall. He blinked in sudden awareness that two hours had passed since he’d been shanghaied into the owner’s office. Guilt clawed at him for going so long without giving his late wife a single thought.

“Ty, I have the bills and receipts from today’s trip into town.” Stepping into the office, Doris handed a sheaf of papers to the owner. Her forehead creased as she spotted Garrett, and she folded her arms across a wrinkled shirt that sported a damp, whitish spot on one shoulder. “I was just getting ready to feed LJ his supper. Unless you want to do it?”

As hard as he tried, Garrett couldn’t entirely ignore the signs of fatigue etched into his mother’s face. Her pale blue eyes had taken on a watery look in the months since Arlene’s death. Yellow tinged the strands of once-white hair that, these days, often escaped her signature braid. Well past retirement age, she had no business serving as a full-time mom to his little boy, even if she had raised five sons of her own. But the alternative—holding LJ, playing with him, feeding him and changing his diaper—was more than Garrett could handle. He swallowed a wave of fresh guilt and said what he had to say. “We’re kinda busy here, Mom.”

“I can see that.” Doris’s full lips thinned into a stern look that dredged up childhood memories of getting into trouble with his brothers. “Garrett...” she began.

“You want the office?” Ty offered. “We’re ’bout done. I can leave if you two need to talk.”

Doris hesitated a second longer. With a sigh, she said, “Don’t bother. I’m not going to stay long. I just wanted to let you know I met someone in town today. Lisa Rose. She used to sing with that group, ’Skeeter Creek.” Doris pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. “I invited her to join us for dessert tomorrow night.”

The Circle P was so well known for its hospitality that Ty only took the yellow sheet Doris handed across and studied it. The tiny line between his eyes deepened when he finished. “I remember her from the party at the Barlowe place. Tall, slender, great voice. You say she’s moved to Okeechobee?” He scratched his head.

“She took over that empty space on Parrot. You remember the one?” At Ty’s nod, Doris continued. “I hear she’s spiffed up the place. Gave it a new name. Strummin’ Time.” She pushed a loose strand of hair off her face. “Something like that.”

Garrett scanned the paper Ty passed along. “Pickin’ Strings,” he corrected. He glanced at the photo of a fair-haired woman with angular cheekbones set in a heart-shaped face. A frown tugged at his lips. “She seems a little citified for our parts. Probably won’t stick around.”

“She’s a bluegrass singer,” his mother countered. “I’m sure she’ll fit in.”

Garrett took a second look at the image of a woman with long wavy hair and dark eyes. Whether the newcomer stayed or moved on was really no concern of his. Standing, he clamped his hat back on his head. “Let me have a chance to look over my notes about the roundup and I’ll catch you later, Ty. If you’ll excuse me now—” he nodded to his mom “—I have some chores to finish before supper.”

And as he had every night for the last ten months, he left his young son in his mother’s capable hands while he made himself scarce.

* * *

L
ISA
’
S
SANDALS
SLAPPED
against the planks of the wooden porch. From somewhere nearby, night-blooming jasmine added its fragrance to a heady, sweet smell that drifted down from flower pots hung along the eaves. She sniffed, her head filling with images of islands and swaying palm trees. She stood for a minute while uncertainty tugged at her. Had she done the right thing by accepting an invitation from a complete stranger?

She glanced around, her unease fading. The Circle P looked like exactly what it claimed to be, a working ranch. A summer sunset reflected off an unpainted barn that had aged to a graceful gray. Sturdy pens and corrals spread out on either side of the large building like wings. On the porch, comfortable rockers and chairs invited people to stay and sit a while. Cedar logs and tall picture windows lent the ranch a sense of permanence that was so different from her own experiences she felt a little misty-eyed.

When she was a kid, she used to dream of living in a house like this one. Of playing Little League or having sleepovers. Instead, she’d climbed into an RV so loaded down with instruments and equipment there was barely room for her parents, brother, sisters and the dog. Crowded cheek-to-jowl, her family had spent months on the road, playing in an endless succession of one-night gigs and music festivals. She’d met Brad on one of those long tours. Their time together had been more of the same. So, no,
permanence
, wasn’t part of her vocabulary. She flicked her braid behind her and wondered if, now that she’d moved to Okeechobee, it could be.