The Prodigal Ranch

Though Meredith’s surviving cat had traveled to Oklahoma City with Meri and their father, Ann opened the door to her sister’s bedroom with some trepidation. Meredith had an apartment in the city and, while on temporary leave at the moment, worked as a nurse in the very hospital where Wes was even now receiving his chemotherapy. Generous to a fault and sweet, Meri was, nevertheless, manic about her cats, one of which had been accidentally killed on the day of Rex’s wedding.

Her room showed her obsession. Every kind of cat contraption imaginable filled the space. Connecting tubes, scratching posts, toys, feeding stations and an elaborate litter pan/carrier thingy. Meri even had framed photos of her cats, including the dead one. Meredith still blamed the local veterinarian for not saving the poor thing. Ann certainly would not have done away with the cat, but one cat per house seemed quite adequate to her. Meredith claimed that Ann just didn’t understand, and Ann supposed that was true. She was more of a dog person, really.

The intelligent face of Donovan Pryor’s dog came to mind with its perky, twitching ears and alert black eyes. That dog certainly seemed smart and playful, a great companion for a little boy.

This space was too small for the amount of cat junk crammed into it, Ann noted. There was hardly room enough for the bed.

After searching her sister’s closet, Ann found three pairs of Western boots. All proved too small, so she reluctantly accepted defeat before carefully closing the bedroom door behind her.

Her next step took her into War Bonnet, but Mrs. Burton’s Soft Goods had long since closed, and the local grocery sent her to the Feed and Grain, which offered nothing more than work gloves and tool belts. She stopped at the gas station to refuel her BMW coupe for the drive out of town, and that was where she ran into the one person she had most hoped to avoid.

Jack Lyons had been a fixture at War Bonnet High for at least two decades. So far as Ann knew, he had never married. All indications were that he ate, drank and slept sports. Yet it was common knowledge that he had turned down positions with much larger school districts, and for that he was greatly revered by the local populace. Coach Lyons had spotted Ann’s athleticism early on, but he hadn’t offered her extra batting practice until she’d buckled down and gotten serious about improving her stats and landing a softball scholarship. The extra practice had meant working out with several of the guys on the baseball team.

Those practice sessions had involved lots of teasing and laughter, but Ann hadn’t cared. Like every other kid who played for Lyons, his respect meant everything to her. She hadn’t always managed to hold her own against the guys, but she’d done so often enough to be good-natured about it when she failed. This had prompted Lyons to tag her with the Jolly nickname, a play on her middle name, Jollett. Ann had done her best to live up to the label.

Under his tutelage, the softball team had won their district championship four years in a row, with Ann as the team’s number-one slugger. Coach Lyons had written her glowing recommendations, and she’d managed to win a minor scholarship to Southeastern State in Durant, where she’d studied business management and marketing. For the next three years she’d driven home as often as she could, and she’d never failed to stop by the school and say hello to Coach Lyons. He’d always seemed happy to see her. Then, near the end of her junior year, she’d stopped by the field house just in time to overhear a conversation between Lyons and another teacher.

“Saw Ann Billings pull into the parking lot a minute ago.” It had sounded, strangely, as if the other teacher, Caroline Carmody, was warning Coach.

He had sighed and said, “Guess that means she’ll be here soon.”

Ann had paused beside his office door to listen, puzzled.

“What’s the deal with her?” Caroline had asked. “She’s been out of school for years. Why is she still coming around?”

“The awkward ones are like that sometimes,” the coach had opined.

“You think she’s awkward?” Caroline had asked.

Jack Lyons had snorted. “She’s taller than half the male population. She could outhit most of the teenage boys I’ve worked with, and if you cut off her hair, I’m not sure you could tell the difference.”

Horrified, Ann had slapped a hand over her own mouth to keep from crying out in pain.

“It’s true she’s not the most feminine girl I’ve ever known,” Caroline had said with a chortle. “If she comes back to War Bonnet after college, she’ll probably wind up an old maid out on that ranch with her mom and dad.”

Lyons said something else, but Ann hadn’t stayed around to listen. She’d run as quickly and quietly from the field house as possible.

Some serious thinking had followed, and her conclusions had been painful.

Her parents had not encouraged her to date during high school, and the pickings around War Bonnet had seemed slim at best, especially once she’d started outdoing many of the guys at sports. For most of her college career, she’d focused on academics, sports and working enough to help her parents afford tuition and expenses. Her disinterest in partying had ruled out a great many prospective dating partners, but she hadn’t worried about it. Now, suddenly, she wondered if something might be fundamentally wrong with her, if she was seriously lacking in the feminine qualities necessary to attract male interest.

Horrified by the future painted for her by Coach Lyons and the teacher, Caroline Carmody, she had taken steps to ensure that she would never be War Bonnet’s pathetic spinster. Telling her family that she wanted to focus on hotel management, she had transferred to the University of North Texas for her senior year. The move had required her to give up her scholarship, take several extra classes and delay graduation until the age of twenty-two, but she’d made up for all that with hard work and early success in her field.

She’d told only one other soul about the fears she’d nursed for so long.

Her fiancé Jordan’s only response at the time had been to say that War Bonnet’s loss was Luxury HotelInc’s gain. Later, when he’d proposed, Jordan had reminded her that no one in War Bonnet could possibly value her as much as he and LHI did.

Ann had successfully avoided conversation with Jack Lyons until that very morning at the gas station. Jack climbed up out of his vintage Mustang and reached for the gas nozzle. He’d put on a bit of weight, but he still looked almost exactly like he had the day he’d impacted her life. His gaze slid over Ann on the opposite side of the pump with a friendly, disinterested nod then came back for a second look.

“Jolly!” he exclaimed, making Ann cringe.

“Coach,” she returned quietly, willing the slow old pump to fill the coupe tank faster.

Lyons walked around the pump to take a long look at the coupe.

“Very nice. Series 4?”

She nodded.

“I always knew you’d make good,” he said, smiling. “You still in Dallas?”

“Yes. I manage a hotel there.”

His gaze raked over the car again. “Big, fancy hotel, I imagine.”

“You could say that. I, uh, I understand you’re head coach now.”

“Athletic director,” he corrected proudly.

She put on a smile. “Ah. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. How’s your dad? Heard he’s been ill.”

She nodded. “Undergoing chemotherapy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

Lifting her arms, she swept her hair back with both hands, trying not to fidget beneath his stare.

“Is that an engagement ring I see, or have you taken to wearing a house on your finger?” he quipped.

Feeling rather smug about it, Ann straightened the cushion-cut diamond. “I am engaged, as a matter of fact.”

“Congratulations. Dallas boy?”

“Not a boy,” Ann said pointedly, “and not from Dallas, at least not originally. He’s actually from New Hampshire, though he’s moved around a lot. Right now he’s filling in for me while I’m here helping out.”

“So you’re coworkers, then.”

“Not exactly. He used to be my boss. Now he’s upper management in another area of the company.”

“So when you’re married you’ll be living where?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” she admitted. “Jordan is working that out with the company now.”

“Won’t be in War Bonnet, though, will it?”

“No. It won’t be in War Bonnet.”

Jack nodded. “Well, don’t be a stranger.”

The fuel pump clicked off. Ann turned away with a sense of satisfaction mingled with relief, saying, “I’ll try not to. I really need to get going now.”

He pushed away from the truck. “Important doings, huh?”

“Boot shopping.”

“Ah. Where you headed?”

“Duncan, I suppose.” Ann replaced the cap on the neck of the gas tank.

“Try the Western wear store on 81,” he advised.

“Okay.”

“Good seeing you,” he said, wandering back toward his vehicle.

Smiling, Ann climbed into the car, started up the engine and drove away, thinking how odd it was that the man who had so impacted her life would never know how he had changed things for her. Had she not overheard that conversation that day, she might well have finished school, come back to War Bonnet and...what? She’d had some vague notion of taking over the ranch at some point, but other than that...

For some reason, Dean Pryor’s face sprang up before her mind’s eye, so real in that instant that she gasped.

Heart pounding, she shook her head. Dean Paul Pryor was nothing to her. He could never be anything to her. Why, he didn’t even compare to Jordan.

She told herself that was because Jordan existed on an entirely different plane than the men in War Bonnet. He was suave, polished, always expertly groomed. She’d never seen him in anything other than a classically tailored suit. Jordan’s idea of casual wear was a suit without a tie, but even then he tended to favor silk T-shirts in place of his usual handmade dress shirts. She wondered if he even owned a pair of jeans. He must. They’d been friends for years, and she’d seen photos of him swimming and skiing. Surely he didn’t wade up out of the ocean or come down off the slopes only to relax in a nice three-piece, Italian wool suit. It was just that most of their interactions had taken place in more formal surroundings.

Truthfully, Ann didn’t have much of a life outside the hotel. Being on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week put a damper on a girl’s social life. That was why she and Jordan had become friends in the first place; she just didn’t have a lot of other options.

When Jordan had returned to Dallas to temporarily take over for her during her leave of absence so she could help her father through this health challenge, Jordan had immediately confessed that he’d formed feelings for her when he’d been her boss that had gone beyond friendship. He’d declared that he meant to sweep her off her feet, and then he’d done just that. In the three weeks they’d had to bring him up to speed on the current operations of the hotel before she’d left for Oklahoma, they’d become engaged.

Strangely, however, Jordan, Dallas and the hotel no longer seemed quite real. Instead, Dean Pryor, War Bonnet and the Straight Arrow were her current reality. Surely it was natural, then, to compare Jordan to Dean.

And yet, she could not bring herself to do it. She simply refused to compare her fiancé to Dean Pryor in any way. She didn’t even want to know why.

* * *

“Yep, those are boots, all right,” Dean pronounced, staring down at Ann’s feet on Friday morning. He was very glad that he’d kept his sunglasses on after she’d driven up and gotten out of the truck, for he feared that she’d have read in his eyes exactly what he thought of those pink-and-pearl-white, pointed-toe monstrosities.

Apparently he didn’t cover his opinion up well enough, because she brought her hands to her shapely hips and demanded, “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “They’ll protect your toes out here just fine.”

She frowned at the rounded toes of his scuffed, brown leather boots then tilted her head, obviously comparing her own footwear with his. Her boots were designed for riding, with toes so sharp that they almost curled upward at the tips. She had clearly chosen them based on color and style rather than function, but he wouldn’t embarrass her by saying so. Unfortunately, Cam wasn’t that circumspect.

One of the longtime hands at Straight Arrow Ranch, Cam had evidently known Ann from childhood. How else could he have gotten away with calling her pet names?

“You always did like fancy duds, Freckles,” Cam declared, strolling up to the harvester where Dean and Ann stood talking. “Oo-ee! You bought them boots right outta the window of the Western wear store up there in Duncan, didn’t you? Why, them things been there nigh on thirty years, I reckon.” He grinned at Dean, shaking his head. “Just goes to show that something’ll come back in style if you wait long enough, don’t it?”

Dean kept his jaw clamped and rubbed his nose, while Ann turned red. She lifted her chin and seemed about to turn on her heel when Donovan ran up behind her. He just naturally threw his arms around her thighs and hugged her, startling a high, shocked yip out of her. To Donovan, anyone he saw more than twice was a close, personal friend.

“Hello!” he sang, swinging around her body as if she were a maypole, a long-legged maypole wearing hideous boots.

She recovered quickly, smiled and smoothed a hand across Donovan’s back. “Hello. Where’s your dog?”

For an answer, Donovan put his head back and yelled, “Digger!” The dog bolted from somewhere to the boy’s side. “Here he is.”

“That’s one fine dog,” Cam declared enviously. “Show her what he can do.”

Thinking that it might take her mind off the boots and Donovan’s unorthodox greeting, Dean complied. He put Digger through a series of tricks then nodded to Donovan.

“Ready?” Donovan fell to his knees. “Digger, protect!” Dean commanded.

Instantly the dog knocked the boy to the ground and stood over him with all four legs, growling, teeth bared, while Donovan lay still beneath the animal.

“Digger, safe!” Dean said.

The dog moved to sit beside the boy, its tongue lolling happily from its mouth. Donovan hugged and petted the dog, crooning softly to it.

“That’s amazing,” Ann said.

“Wish I had me a dog like that,” Cam said, not for the first time. “You ought to think about training dogs for a living, Dean.”

Dean chuckled. “Not much call for that around here, I imagine.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Ann said. “Lots of local farmers and ranchers use herding dogs. They might be interested in the kind of protective training Digger has.”

Dean shrugged. “You can’t train just the dog. You have to train the owner, too.”

Donovan got up, and Dean went to dust him off, but Ann reached him before Dean did.

“How does your mama manage your laundry?” she asked, ruffling his hair.

“Don’t got a mama,” Donovan announced baldly. “Grandma does my laundry.”

“And a chore it is, too,” Dean said quickly, whacking dirt from Donovan’s bottom. “Run and get the water jug now. We’ve got work to do.”

Donovan nodded, but he stood looking up at Ann for a second longer. “I like your boots,” he said before taking off with Digger on his heels.

“Thank you,” she called after him, turning a wry smile on Dean. He had to clear his throat and swallow to keep from laughing as he turned toward the cab of the harvester.

Cam said, “That reminds me. I need to check the water in the east range.” He ambled off toward the four-wheeler that Rex had recently purchased.

Dean traded his cowboy hat for the ball cap then turned toward the combine. To his surprise, he felt Ann’s hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to find her biting her lip.

“Um, obviously I could use some...guidance.”

Guidance. Somehow he thought this could be a momentous admission for Ann Jollett Billings. Letting go of the rails, he turned to face her.

“About?”

She looked down at her toes then up at him. “I’ve been away from the ranch for a long time. Obviously I don’t have a clue about what boots to buy.”

The grin he’d been trying to hold back since she’d first climbed out of her dad’s old truck broke free at last. “They sure saw you coming, didn’t they?”

She smacked him in the shoulder, which made him laugh. Then she laughed, too.

“They were in the window. I thought they were the latest style. I didn’t even look at anything else.”

“I hope they were cheap, at least.”

“I don’t know.” She told him what she’d paid, and he nodded.

“Cheap enough.” He considered a moment and made a decision. “I’ve got to take Donovan shopping for school supplies tomorrow. If you want to come along, we’ll see about getting you into a proper pair of boots.”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”

“Donovan would love it if you came,” Dean pointed out, “especially as Digger will have to stay home.” He shook his head. “The truth is, I’m not sure how he’s going to manage school without Digger. Donovan was eighteen months old when we got that dog. I’m having to find ways to wean them apart.”

“I see. Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’ll work till noon,” he told her. “Then we’d planned to grab lunch in town and go shopping after that. Sound okay to you?”

To his surprise, she nodded. “Sounds fine. Thanks. I’ll be ready.”

“Saturday it is,” he told her, turning away again. He climbed up into the cab and tried not to be too obvious about watching her walk back to her truck.

Something about the way a woman walked in a pair of jeans and boots, even ugly boots, made a man sit up and take notice. Like he hadn’t noticed before this. To his disgust, he’d noticed when she’d worn a softball uniform and cleats. Not that it mattered. The woman was engaged to be married, after all, and on her way back to Dallas and her hotshot career as soon as her dad could do without her.

Sighing, Dean straightened his sunglasses as his son ran toward him, hauling the heavy water jug by its handle. He reached down a hand for the water jug as Donovan shoved it toward him. He stashed the jug in a corner then helped Donovan scramble up into the cab of the harvester before following him and settling into the operator’s seat.

Donovan leaned against his back and said straight into his ear, “She sure is pretty, ain’t she, Dad?”

He meant Ann, of course. Donovan had been playing pint-size matchmaker since Ann had literally caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. For the past year or more, since he’d come to understand what going to school really meant, Donovan had gone on the lookout for a mom. Dean figured it was as much concern about him being on his own during the time Donovan would be in school as it was the boy’s natural desire for a mother. The boy didn’t realize that most husbands and wives spent relatively little time together and that almost no fathers were blessed with the almost constant companionship of their children.

Dean mentally sorted through a number of possible replies, everything from correcting Donovan’s grammar to playing dumb. In the end he chose casual honesty.

“She’s pretty.”

“And you like red hair, don’cha?”

“I do. But you realize that she doesn’t actually live here, right?”

“Huh?”

“She’s just visiting, son. Before long she’ll go on back to where she came from and stay there.”

“Huh. Is it a long ways off?”

“Yep. Afraid so.”

Only a few hours away by car. Worlds away by every other measure.

But then that had always been the way with him and Ann Billings.

Donovan couldn’t know that, of course.

Dean hoped that he never would.

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