Because all things to do with Lieutenant Maxwell gave her heartburn, Myra stopped thinking about him. Instead, she concentrated on signs that told her she was still on the right path to reach the herd.
It was spitting snow when the first bunch of cows came into sight. Stopping, Myra let the tractor idle and passed Zeke the cutters. “Will you toss this mob some hay, please?”
“How much?” He rose stiffly.
“I could say as much as they’ll eat. But until we see what all is left tomorrow, we won’t know if we gave them too much or not enough. Just free a bale and scatter hay as I drive along.”
Zeke cut the first bale open. “Are these different cows than those we already fed? I thought we’d be tossing hay in the same places.”
“You should try to feed in different spots so the manure doesn’t get so deep in one area. Saves you from having to spread fertilizer around when the snow melts, plus it gives cows a clean table to eat, so to speak. If we had to have an early snowfall, this is a good area for the herd. There are plenty of draws and shrubs to shelter them from the wind. And the stream’s not in danger of freezing over. Water and feed are the two essentials. After you separate the cows from the yearlings and Hank transports them, you’ll drive these cows and the bull down to the pastures nearer the barn. I’ll try to show you those pens tomorrow.”
“When do you move them back up here?” he asked right before she revved the tractor and they headed to the next grouping of cows huddled against the biting wind.
“After these heifers drop their calves in the spring. Usually that’s March and April. I suppose I can make a chore list,” she called back to him, trying not to sound exasperated. But the man was a total novice. What had her father been thinking? Had he been blinded by the fact Zeke had put himself in harm’s way to save Eric that he gave no thought to what might befall the Flying Owl? That kind of selfless heroism did deserve recognition, but darn, couldn’t her dad have called in some markers and found Zeke a job in Billings or maybe with the Stock Association? Her grandfather and her dad had both once been officers.
Zeke remained strangely silent throughout the rest of the hay distribution. Perhaps he was too cold to talk. The snow petered out. As they drove home, the sky cleared to patchy clouds. The silvery moon popped in and out of the clouds. Those were the quiet beauties that never failed to touch Myra’s heart. She wondered what was going through Zeke’s mind. He never said a word.
It was well past midnight when she once again unhitched the trailer and stored the tractor in its shed.
Zeke broke his silence. “I’d think times like this would be when you’d want to have a dog. What if you run into trouble out there in the dead of night?”
She cocked her head and guided him to the house. Stamping snow off her boots at the door, she said, “I have my cell phone and there’s good service all over this ranch. But if you want a dog, Zeke,” she said, opening the door and shedding her hat and jacket inside, “I know Jewell would be more than happy to hook you up with a healthy pet. I can ask her to drop by tomorrow or the next day. We need vaccine for the heifers. If you want my advice, don’t let her get you a puppy. You’re going to have plenty to learn about the ranch, which won’t leave time to train a puppy.”
He nodded. “How much sleep do you get?” he asked tiredly.
Myra took pity on him because he did look beat. “I know I tagged you to fix breakfast, but how about if tomorrow I handle that? In fall and winter we eat breakfast around six. Spring and summer earlier.”
“I’ll set my cell-phone alarm. Is there a towel I can use in the bathroom?”
“Yep. And the bedding is fresh. It’s all new, actually. Courtesy of my mom. They stayed here for Gramps’s funeral.”
Zeke returned his borrowed hat to the rack, excused himself and made a beeline for his bedroom.
Myra was weary, too. Probably she was more tired for still laboring under the shocking news that she needed to turn over her beloved ranch to a stranger. To a man who, however heroic he might have been on the battlefield, was green as a gourd about cattle ranching. Going to the kitchen, she picked up Orion, whispered her thoughts to him and carried him to her room.
* * *
LATE THOUGH IT WAS, Zeke needed to shower. He hoped the sound wouldn’t keep Myra awake.
Letting hot water beat down on his back and the sore shoulder that still bore scars from his surgeries, his mind drifted. Myra Odell of the curling blond hair and somber, whiskey-colored eyes, was a dynamo. She was nothing like her sibling. When he’d acquired Eric on his combat team, the kid had been fresh-faced and kind of unsure about everything. He’d never have made a career soldier.
Zeke shut off the water and toweled dry. He thought about Myra going out in the snowy evening to load a trailer and haul hay into a stark, cloudy night. Eric hadn’t shirked any duty to which he’d been assigned, but he hated night patrol. He went out of his way to trade night duty for any number of undesirable tasks. Maybe that all stemmed from growing up feeding cattle on nights like tonight.
Checking his clothes as he emptied his duffels and hung things in the closet, he noted that while he’d brought long-sleeved shirts and knit Henleys, he didn’t own anything flannel. He made a mental note to buy flannel shirts, long underwear and a Sherpa-lined jacket like Myra wore. August had yet to end and both times he’d ridden out with her he’d frozen his fanny.
He fell into bed, wondering if he did have what it’d take to be a rancher. His twin had called this a sweetheart deal. Even he’d considered it a windfall when the papers from Jack Odell had arrived. Now he wasn’t sure.
As he lay on his back, staring up into total blackness, it crossed his mind that he could sell the cows, cattle or whatever one called them. And use his army disability pay to live out his days here rocking on the back porch he’d glimpsed. From his drive up, he could see that the mountain range behind the property held a certain gray and purple majesty.
Forget it. The still-rational part of his brain reminded him how stir-crazy he’d been during his recovery and later in Boston when he hadn’t found a job. He wasn’t cut out to do nothing. So what were his options? No clear idea came to mind because the warmth of the soft bed and the day’s unfamiliar exercise overtook him and he slid into sleep.
* * *
LIGHT POURING INTO the bedroom woke Zeke. At first he felt disoriented, until the room coalesced around him and he remembered having come to the ranch. The Montana ranch he now owned.
Even as he kicked off the covers and sat up, his phone alarm chimed. And he smelled something cooking. Sausage, maybe.
Climbing from the bed caused pain in more areas than his injured elbow and shoulder, and left him feeling as if he’d aged overnight. It had to have a lot to do with manhandling hay bales, or perhaps bouncing around on a tractor-pulled flatbed. That last trip out to the herd had been an especially rough ride.
How had he gotten so out of shape in ten months? The six he’d spent in VA surgeries and rehab, and the four he’d spent pounding the streets in Boston job hunting? Before that, he’d jogged Afghan hills carrying a loaded M16 and a fifty-pound pack.
Zeke told himself to stop being wussy. After dressing, he made the bed, and after washing his face, left his room—only to fall over Myra’s pig. The creature was chasing a rubber ball down the hall. To keep from stepping on the pig, he lurched to the side, but slammed into the door frame. It shook the house and hurt his right arm—thankfully, not his healing left one. All the same, it prompted a colorful array of swearwords.
When he regained his balance and glanced up, Myra stood in the kitchen doorway, spatula in hand.
“What in the world happened?”
“I tripped over your silly pig.”
“Sorry. I let him out