From Temporarily Texan

     Raven York turned off the engine of her aging green Volvo wagon, but Pickles wasn’t quit ready to stop running yet. She dieseled and sputtered a few times, then obediently went silent. With a feeling of disbelief, Raven stepped out of her car into the vast Texas prairie. Her long skirt and hand-dyed scarf billowed in the warm breeze as she pocketed her keys and retrieved her tote bag from the passenger seat.
     “I can’t believe I’m supposed to be here,” she whispered into the wind, but no one else was here to comment.
     She’d never seen a more unwelcoming place in her life, and she sincerely doubted that a garden could survive here for nearly a hundred years without careful tending.
     The house wasn’t the Ponderosa, but it wasn’t Green Acres either. It looked a little like a New England farmhouse, except without the big trees and charming painted shutters. This house looked raw-boned and bare, as if there had never been a woman to soften the harsh edges or brighten up the drab beige of both painted wood and brick. Even the roof was a brownish beige. Shadows from the front porch, supported by outdated aluminum scroll columns, nearly hid the brown front door and windows. Front steps ended in a sea of unmowed spring grass forcing its way through winter-dead tufts.
     Surrounding the house, blue, red and yellow flowers dotted the rolling hills, but at the moment, all she could think about were the countless cattle grazing beyond the fence. She’d seen their poor, sad, white faces as she drove toward the house. Doomed. They were Hereford steers and their days were numbered.
     She watched the cattle graze and felt as if she should cry, but she couldn’t, because she had get to the bottom of this mix-up. Had she taken a wrong turn someplace? She’d followed the directions carefully. All the landmarks matched. The country roads had been clearly marked, and she’d turned just past the lopsided big cottonwood tree that had been split by lightening.
     The Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens would not have sent her to a working cattle ranch.
     Raven crushed the woven jute handle of her tote and took a deep breath. She vaguely heard a door closing, which meant people were around here. Well, she’d just march right up to the door and get some answers. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Maybe things weren’t what they seemed . . .
     And then she spotted the tall, lean cowboy who stepped out of the shadows. Somehow, he appeared threatening. With his crossed arms and angular, set features, he might as well shouted, “go away” instead of silently leaning against one of those ugly aluminum columns and staring a hole through her.
     Raven’s stomach felt as if it were still on the bumpy narrow road that led from a state highway to this ranch. She pressed her hand to her middle as she stared back at the cowboy. Why didn’t he wave or come to greet her?
     She forced herself to walk calmly toward the hostile house. Surely there had been a mistake. She really didn’t have to be here. For three long weeks . . .
     She forced a smile. “Hello, I’m Raven York. I may have taken a wrong turn. I’m looking for the Crawford Ranch.”
     “You’ve found it,” he answered, pushing away from the aluminum column.
     She looked back toward the pasture where the cattle grazed and felt her smile fade. “Really?”
     “I’m Troy Crawford. Call me Troy,” he drawled, unwinding his arms and taking a step toward her. Upon closer observation, he wasn’t really threatening. His handsome features appeared intense, and he looked just a fraction as confused as she felt.
     Sometimes she got a feeling for things that others didn’t. Her friends who professed to be psychic claimed she had a “gift,” but Raven went along with her friend Della, who said that some people were just more observant than others.
     “So you’re the expert the association sent?” he asked.
     “Well, yes, I do have experience—“
     “I hate to tell you this,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and wasn’t reflected in his voice, “but you just don’t look the part.” He looked pointedly at Pickles, then turned his disapproval on her, giving her a thorough inspection from the top of her curly black hair to the toes of her canvas sandals.
     How dare he insult her car and her person with just a glare? “I was just thinking the same thing about your ranch.”
     “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with a frown.
     She pulled herself a little straighter and tightened her hold on the jute handle. “Just that your ranch doesn’t look like the kind of place where my services would be needed.”
     “For one thing, which the association maybe didn’t tell you, this isn’t really my ranch. My brother runs it. It’s been in my family for a little over a hundred years, though.”
     “Oh, I see.” Not that she really did, of course. He was confusing and cryptic, and all she wanted to do was get to the bottom of this assignment.
     “My brother Cal is in the reserves and his unit was called up after Christmas. He asked me to take care of the place while he’s gone, and he asked the association to send someone to help me.”
     He said the word “help” as if he didn’t believe he needed anyone. Or didn’t believe the person his brother sent could help him.
     “I haven’t been a rancher in fifteen years,” he added. “I’m a marketing director for Devboran cattle. It’s a new breed, a cross between beef Devons and African Borans, so you might not recognize it. Normally, I live in Fort Worth, but I’m on the road a lot.”
     Raven frowned. “I see, but why did you need me?”
     “I already told you,” he said, giving her another one of those not-quite-sincere smiles as he reached for her bag. “I’m not a rancher. I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job to help out my brother, who normally runs this ranch with a little help from a couple of hands.”
     She held on for moment too long, before realizing he was pretty intent on dragging her big tote inside his house. She let go and he opened the door.
      I’m not either! she felt like shouting. Instead, she ignored the unwelcome vibes from the house and followed him inside.
     “You might not be a rancher, but you look a lot like a cowboy.”
     He turned back with an amused look on his face. “Yeah? And how is a cowboy supposed to look?”
     That smile could melt butter in January, she thought as she looked as closely as possible in the dim interior light. He was definitely handsome. At a little over six feet of lean muscle, long legs encased in the requisite jeans, and scuffed boots on what must be size twelve feet, he sure looked like he could ride and rope and . . . whatever else cowboys did.
     “I’m not sure, I suppose. I’m from New Hampshire.”
     His smile faded and he looked at her as if questioning her response. “Okay, then.”
     She wanted to say, “Okay, what?” but for the sake of getting off on the right foot, instead simply followed him into the eat-in kitchen. The large square room seemed to be the hub of the house where the hallway came together with the living spaces.
     The kitchen was just as dreary and outdated as the exterior of the house, with beige vinyl flooring, dull brown cabinets, and faded abstract floral wallpaper. The pseudo-cowboy staring out the back windows appeared far more interesting than the décor.
     “Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”
     “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
     “I suppose the association mentioned that I have a guest bedroom for you here at the house. Is that okay?”
     “Yes, they did mention I’d have accommodations on the property.” She’d envisioned a quaint guest cottage surrounded by roses and blue bonnets. They hadn’t mentioned that she’d be sharing a very isolated house with a handsome cowboy. She wasn’t certain how she felt about the living conditions in the light of day, much less in the dark of night.
     “Is anyone else living here?” Wife and children, perhaps.
     “No, it’s just me. Neither Cal nor I are married.”
     “I see.” So, they would be alone.
     “My bedroom is down the hall,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You’ll have your own bath across the hall.”
     “All right.” They wouldn’t be sharing a bath, but she was near to the kitchen and living areas. Not as private as that nice guest cottage she’d envisioned.
     “I grew up in this house, on this ranch,” he said, cutting into her wandering thoughts. “I left here to go to college and haven’t worked on a ranch since I was eighteen.”
     “Do you miss it?”
     He paused a moment too long. “No.”
     “Oh. But—“ She hurried to catch up as he turned down the hallway to the left. What did he study in college? Did he miss his job? How long was he taking off?
      And why was she so interested in a brooding Texan who was so difficult to read?
     “This is your room,” he said, placing her tote bag on a double bed. The brown bedspread had probably been put on the bed before Troy Crawford left for college. The off-white walls hadn’t been painted recently either, and the dark dresser and nightstand were possibly some type of wood. Some nubby beige drapes hung from a sagging rod.
     She looked back at Troy Crawford and found him watching her. “It’s not a five star hotel, but I imagine you’ve stayed in worse.”
     “Oh, I wasn’t . . . Sorry. I was critiquing the room a little. I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s just that I’ve never stayed in a ranch house.”
     “What?”
     “Most of my work has been done east of the Mississippi.”
     “I wouldn’t think there were that many ranches that needed your help back there.”
     “Ranches? No, but there are many homesteads and family homes, some with three or four generations still living on the same land that was settled in the 1700s.”
     He frowned. “Why would you care about homesteads and generations?”
     She frowned right back, more confused than ever. “Because that’s how I glean much of my knowledge.”
     “About their cattle?” “No,” she replied slowly, “about their heritage gardens.”
     “Gardens? What are you . . . Wait a minute.” She watched an entire evolutions of expression transform his face. “You aren’t a ranch expert, are you?”
     “Of course not! I’m a vegetarian. I’m against eating beef.”
     Troy Crawford rubbed a hand across his face, as if wiping away all that charm. “Dammit, I knew there was something wrong.”
     “And I knew there as something wrong when I arrived on a working cattle ranch! I just knew it!”
     “Wait a minute. Why did you think you were here?”
     “To document and restore a heritage garden.”
     “A what?”
     “A garden used by settlers or for generations to provide herbs, fruit, vegetables and beauty.”
     “Dammit. I need a cattle expert.”
     “Well, I don’t need to be on a cattle ranch. I’m looking for old roses and tomatoes, daisies and berry bushes. Ranching is against everything I believe.”
     “Then you are definitely in the wrong place.”
     “What did I just say!”
     He turned away and looked up at the dingy popcorn ceiling. “Well, we’ll go call the association and get this straightened out.”
     “Right. There’s probably a simple explanation.”
     “The cattle expert is probably in the next town, wondering why there’s an old garden and no cattle.”
     “Right. And the person who needed my help is probably wondering why the expert on their doorstep knows more about feed than seed.”
     “Okay then. Let’s go get this cleared up.”
     “I’m more than ready,” she replied, following him out of the uninviting guest bedroom, relieved she wouldn’t be staying there for the next three weeks.