“Yes, but he’s on the phone right now.”
“There’s just the two of you?”
“This isn’t a big association. To be perfectly honest, we’re a little old-fashioned.”
Join the club, Troy felt like saying.
“We specialize in the general farm and ranch, whereas a lot of the groups are more specific to a breed or a type of operation. We support the family ranch and do our best to keep the traditions alive.”
That sounded like something out of a brochure, but Troy didn’t point that out, since he was in marketing himself. In his real job. When he wasn’t getting a headache on his family ranch. Thankfully, his assistant back in Fort Worth was handling most of the day-to-day duties, and Troy could advise via phone or e-mail when necessary.
“I know. We raise Herefords, and our father was a member, and my brother since our dad passed away. But I’m more interested in the specific request my brother made. He asked for a ranching expert. He’s paid dues for years and all he’s gotten so far is a bimonthly magazine. We need help, and we need it now.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford, but I don’t see any request. I’ll have to talk to Mr. Sam Goodman, the general manager, but he’s still on the phone. I’ll give him the information you told me and we’ll see what we can find. He’s been running this association since the 1970s, and he has a terrific memory.”
For someone who’d been working at the same job for the past forty years and is probably past retirement age, Troy wanted to add. “Just get back to me as quickly as possible. Ms. York wants to find out where she’s supposed to be, and I need to locate my ranching expert before the end of the day.”
“We’ll sure do our best.”
Troy gave the man the numbers for his cell phone and the ranch phone, then hung up. He’d detected no sense of urgency, despite the fact it was Friday afternoon. He doubted Mr. Goodman or anyone else worked over the weekend.
“Any news?” his non-cattle-expert asked from the doorway of the office.
“No. I called the association in Bellville. That’s a little town northwest of Houston. They’ve never heard of you and the person I talked to didn’t have any record of Cal’s request. Hopefully, the senior guy will know something, but he’s busy.”
“Is it a big association?”
“No.” Of course not. A big association would charge a lot more money and would not have a list of retired volunteers who took on assignments for peanuts. A big association might have a list of top-notch consultants, but they would charge thousands of dollars for helpful advice. Troy really didn’t think the person Cal had asked for could save the ranch, but dammit, it had been Cal’s decision. Troy felt as if he owed it to his brother to try this approach…first.
“If I could use your phone, I’ll call my contact at the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens. It’s a small group, too, but maybe we’ll have more luck getting answers.”
“Good idea.” Troy handed her the ancient phone that had sat on the desk for at least thirty years, then got up from the chair and stepped aside. “Have a seat. I’m going to grab a soft drink. Would you like one?”
“No, thank you. I have some water.”
She probably didn’t drink soda anyway. She was around average height, a little on the slim side, but not that two-hour-on-the-StairMaster trim that he observed in some other women. In Fort Worth, he often saw artificially plump lips, small noses and hollow cheekbones. They didn’t look all that real, especially when combined with large breasts on skinny women. Raven York seemed natural, as if she never thought about her looks, just her comfort.
But, heck, what did he know? And why was he spending any time thinking about it, since she’d probably get her answer and be gone by sundown.
RAVEN DIALED THE NUMBER OF the society that was working with the heritage homestead back home. They were a small group located in Florida, but had some excellent members who were willing to help with research and restoration. The project near her New Hampshire farm was especially important because there wasn’t another authentic homestead like it open to the public in her area. Schoolchildren would really benefit from seeing a working homestead from their ancestors’ era.
As soon as the phone-answering system kicked on, Raven started to worry. She dialed the director’s extension, and listened to a slightly feeble voice on the recording.
“This is Mrs. Margaret Philpot. I will be out of the office on Friday afternoon and all weekend visiting my grandchildren. I should be back in the office late Monday or Tuesday. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
Oh, no! “Mrs. Philpot, this is RavenYork. You sent me a letter and instructions about coming to Brody’s Crossing, Texas, to the Rocking C ranch to document a historic homestead garden. I’m here, and the owner of the ranch knows nothing about a garden. As a matter of fact, he was expecting a cattle expert! Please, we’re trying to figure out how this mix-up happened. Call us back as soon as possible.”
She gave Mrs. Philpot the number of the ranch, which was neatly typed on the round insert in the middle of the old black phone. “Please, let her call back soon,” Raven whispered, crossing her fingers.
“No luck, either?” Troy Crawford asked from the doorway.
“No, but I’m sure she’ll check in for messages.” At least, Raven hoped she did. Since Mrs. Philpot didn’t leave a cell phone or other number, the odds weren’t great.
“This is bizarre,” he said.
Raven silently agreed.
AFTER WAITING FIFTEEN MINUTES and then placing another phone call to the Farmers’ and Ranchers’ Society, Troy felt his blood pressure rise a few notches. He put the phone down and turned to Raven. “Mr. Sam, as I’ve just learned they affectionately call the older gentleman who runs the place, will call me back as soon as they find out what happened to Cal’s request.”
“As my New England ancestors used to say, patience is a virtue.”
“Right. So are a few other traits that I don’t seem to be in possession of right now.”
“Well then,” she said, straightening up, “I’ll just get a few things out of the car. I’m going to have a snack while we wait for the phone call.”
“You’re welcome to raid my fridge if you’d like.”
“No offense, Mr. Crawford, but I doubt it’s stocked with organic vegetarian food.”
“Certainly nothing organic unless some mold has grown on the cheese.”
She wrinkled her nose at his joke. Well, a halfhearted joke. The cheese probably was moldy.
“I’ll just get my tofu and fresh fruit. I’m sure the ice I put in the cooler this morning is probably melting, and the tofu needs to be kept cold.”
Tofu. He’d tried it once at a Japanese restaurant in Seattle. Bean curd had the consistency of slimy, firm pudding and tasted like…well, bean curd. “Help yourself to whatever you need.” There was no reason to be inhospitable just because they were worlds apart in values and backgrounds. She seemed nice enough when she wasn’t turning up her nose at cattle ranching.
“Thank you. And you’re welcome to join me.”
He tried to hide his own grimace. “Thanks, but I…er, gave up bean curd for Lent, years ago. I think I’ll wait for that call.”
“Of course.” She turned in a swirl of skirts and scarves and long black hair. That woman sure was swirly. And when she got a little peeved, her cheeks flushed a nice shade of peach.
Not