No Strings Attached (Last Hope Ranch Book 1) Page 7

  “Fantastic,” Rein said, dropping the drill he’d been using on the new hood range. “Gentlemen, I think we’re going to be out of here by Monday at the latest.” He looked around. “Just about a week.” He grinned.

  Tyler unstrapped the box and stood looking at what had been accomplished. “Sally’s going to love this. Taking out this back wall really has made a difference. And turning her dad’s old bedroom back here into a family room is a great idea. Now she can cook and keep an eye on her kid.” He glanced their way. “Whenever that should happen.” Tyler viewed the room with his hands over his chest, unaware that Rein was staring at him.

  Clay raised his eyebrows. This was going to get interesting.

  “What are you talking about?” Rein asked. “Sally doesn’t have any kids, you know that.” He picked up the drill and resumed his task.

  “Oh, come on, everyone’s talking about it.” Tyler fished out his box cutter and began to open the box.

  Clay kept his eyes on the cabinet hinges, wanting to caution Tyler to shut his pie-hole. The guy seemed to have few, if any, filters.

  Rein’s drill stopped.

  Both Clay and Tyler looked up. Clay scratched his chin—by the look on Rein’s face, this was not going to bode well for Tyler.

  “Geez. Why are you looking at me?” he said. “I didn’t start it. I only heard about it.”

  “Didn’t start what? Just heard—what, exactly?” Rein turned to face Tyler.

  “You know, that Sally’s looking for a guy to father her child.”

  Holy mother of God. Clay reached over and gently took the drill from Rein’s hand. There was a moment when it seemed the air in the house was sucked into a vacuum, and then Rein was in front of Tyler, grabbing him by his shirt. He pushed his face into the shocked plumber’s face. “I hope to hell you’re stopping any kind of shit like that you’re hearing, Tyler.”

  Clay straightened, prepared to intervene if things got ugly.

  Tyler turned a pale shade of chalk. “Really? You hadn’t heard?” He chuckled lightly. “I guess not.”

  Clay could all but see Rein reeling in his fury.

  Rein took a deep breath and stepped back, though his fist still held a wad of Tyler’s shirt. “I think you best go. And if I hear that you’re helping spread this crap, you’ll have me to answer to. Are we clear?” He dropped his hold.

  Confusion clouded Tyler’s expression. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I didn’t start it. I overheard it at Betty’s the other day” He glanced at Clay. “Isn’t that what I told you the other night at Dusty’s?”

  Rein stopped rubbing his temple and looked at Clay. “Jesus, you’ve heard this, too?”

  Clay decided to keep the information about the brochures close to the hip. “Just what Tyler mentioned. But I don’t get around town much.”

  “I’ve got to talk with Sally and apologize,” Rein said, looking out the kitchen window. “Wyatt and I were sitting at Betty’s the other day and he was mentioning something about Sally wanting a child of her own.” He shook his head. “Clearly, someone overheard and has decided to fill in the blanks with their own version.”

  Tyler brushed down the front of his shirt. “I thought it was common knowledge. Hell, I’d offer my services to Sal in a heartbeat, if I thought she’d give me the time of day.”

  Rein’s gaze snapped to Tyler’s.

  “Purely out of friendship.” He put up his hands in defense. “For Sally, I’d do anything.”

  “The out of friendship, maybe you should start focusing on setting people straight if you hear this rumor again.” Clay suggested quietly. “That kind of talk could affect her job. Besides, it’s nobody’s business what Sally chooses to do with her life.”

  Rein and Tyler stared at him. “You agree she should raise a kid by herself?” Rein asked.

  At what point the tide had turned, Clay wasn’t sure. “Hell, no. I think it’s insane. It’s hard enough to raise a kid with both parents.”

  Rein nodded. “You’re right about her job. Principle Kale can be a hard-ass. And rumors in this town seem to take on a life of their own once they get fuel under them.”

  Clay shrugged. “It happens. People mean well. They’re curious about one of their own. Everyone wants to think they’re helping, but it can get out of control and pretty soon everyone has their own spin on it.”

  “I’m sorry, Rein. I don’t want Sally getting hurt.”

  Rein nodded. “I know, Tyler. Sorry, man. I’m as mad at myself really. I should know better not to discuss sensitive stuff over at Betty’s. You never know who may overhear your conversation.” He released a sigh. “Come on, let’s get this done so she can have at least this much that’s back to normal in her life.” Rein looked from Tyler to Clay. “I’ll talk to Sally, but you guys help squash anything you hear, okay? I’ll let Betty know, too. That way she can stop what she may hear, and I know she will.”

  ***

  Clay was curious as to whether or not Rein had spoken to Sally. He’d seen her a couple of times from the barn as she headed off to school. Each time she’d been wearing that mass of gorgeous red hair secured with a clip that seemed more like a prison sentence for her locks, in his opinion.

  The weather had turned unseasonably mild for Montana in February. Having lived in Texas and California longer than he had Montana, his body wasn’t as used to the cold as the locals here in the mountain town. Michael Greyfeather blamed it on global warming, Clay was just grateful that the bitter north winds had subsided and his muscles didn’t seem to ache as badly. That, however, was nothing compared to the blazing fury of a woman late for her trail ride. Wyatt and the four kids from the Women and Children’s shelter in Billings had saddled up and were waiting as Sally’s beat-up truck came sailing down the long drive, kicking up bits of ice and gravel as she came to a halt in front of her cabin.

  Clay eyed her as she flew into her cabin, and a short time later emerged in her riding clothes, tugging a jacket over her arms. She grabbed the reins to the horse he’d been saddling for her and, before he could get a word out, she dropped her boot in the stirrup. “Sally, wait, I’m….”

  Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. He scratched his jaw. She was loaded for bear, that much was true. The saddle listed and she wound up on her butt on the frozen mud, foot still stuck in the stirrup.

  She looked up at him with a dazed look that dissolved into fury. Clay bit back a laugh. Damn, little bossy butt.

  “Didn’t Michael teach you how to properly saddle a horse?”

  He casually reached over and unhooked her boot from the stirrup and righted the loose saddle. “Pardon me, but you didn’t really give me a chance to tell you I wasn’t finished yet.” He offered her a hand. She slapped her gloved palm to his begrudgingly and he hauled her to her feet.

  She glanced at him, those green-gold eyes meeting his as she wiped the dirt off her backside. He’d thought to offer his help, but changed his mind. Clay glanced at his feet, concealing a smile as he maneuvered the blankets and saddle over the horse’s back.

  “Feel free not to choke on that laugh, Mr. Saunders.” She nudged him aside and started tightening the cinches. The horse snorted and stamped his hoof, seemingly taking sides in Sally’s displeasure.

  He cleared his throat, then stepped forward and nudged her out of the way. “You can just simmer down—” The nickname he’d given her teetered on the edge of his tongue.

  Her gaze held his in challenge.

  “Why don’t you give me five minutes to finish.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You seem a little preoccupied.” Clay didn’t claim to be psychic, but he sure as hell felt her ire.

  “You know, despite what everyone seems to think around here, I can manage quite well on my own.”

  No doubt, Clay thought, but didn’t back down, reminding himself that Miss Bossy Butt was in some kind of mood today and curious if it was only that she was running late. Still, he breathed a quiet sigh when she stepped aside and leaned against the
nearby fence. She brushed errant strands of hair from her face, looking off into the distance. Worry was etched on her beautiful face. “Everything coming together for the ball?” he asked casually. Tightening the harness, he smoothed the blanket under the saddle for the horse’s comfort.

  “Hum? I’m sorry, uh, yes, things seem to be coming together.” She hadn’t looked at him, instead raising a hand to Wyatt as though to say she’d be right there. It was usually Michael who went along on the trail rides because of his familiarity of the area, and he loved to entertain the kids with stories of folk and animal lore.

  “That’s good.” Small talk. Clay had difficulty enough with long discussions unless it happened to involve a deck of cards and a cold beer. Small talk? Not his thing.

  “By the way, you have your tux, right?” she asked in an urgent tone.

  He finished adjusting the stirrup, wanting to remind her that he’d heard of his acceptance—not from her—but from Maggie, the owner of the newspaper and a member of chamber committee. It’d been clear to him from the night of the blizzard that she wasn’t fully convinced of his inclusion. Now she cared to check up on him? “Ms. Andersen,” Clay said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a big boy. And whatever the hell has your panties in a twist, you can just tone it down. You need someone to listen to whatever the hell is eating you—fine. I’ll be happy to. But cut with the attitude. Lady. It doesn’t look good on you.”

  She looked at him as though he’d slapped her.

  “There you go. She’s ready.” He eyed her shocked expression. “Need a lift up?”

  Without a word, she took the reins and he stepped back to offer her plenty of room. She grabbed the saddle horn and paused. “I could use the lift, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  He bent down, offered his clasped hands, and lifted her to mount the horse.

  She toyed with the reins, then glanced at him, her demeanor far more contrite. “I’m sorry I seem a little edgy today, Mr. Saunders.”

  He tossed her a smile. “I’m sorry you got your backside dirty when you fell.”

  She nodded.

  Dammit. The woman was a quandary for certain—bossy, unstoppable one minute and soft and vulnerable, the next. He reached out, taking the reins and stopped her quiet departure. “So you can relax. Yes, I have my tux…on a hanger, by the way, ready to go.”

  She searched his eyes, then sighed. “I have so much on my mind. You just happened to be here and got the brunt of it. I’m sorry.”

  Clay shrugged. “Apology accepted on one condition.”

  She raised her brow and looked down at him. He had to blink to jump-start his brain. He had to stop this—it wasn’t helping him sleep any better at night. “I think it’s time we call each other by our first names.” He held out his hand. “Hello, my name is Clay.” To his amazement, she accepted it.

  “Sally.”

  He nodded, dropped his hand and his hold on the horse. “See, that was fairly painless, wasn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she jerked the reins and trotted across to where the group waited for her.

  Head down, Clay walked back to the barn. The woman, though pretty as a summer sunset, had the personality of a damn cactus. Beautiful to look at—dangerous if you got too close. Not that the idea had crossed his mind… more than twice that day.

  Women, as a rule, still baffled him. The come-to-Jesus realization hit him after being released from the hospital and going back to stay for a time with his sister, her accountant husband, and their two boys. Sunny California. Warm sunshine. Beautiful beaches. A slice of home. If there’d been a worse mistake than surviving the damn rocket grenade, it was seeing the look of pity on his sister’s face, the day the cab dumped him on her doorstep.

  “Clay!” Julie squealed. Her enthusiasm waned as her gaze traveled the length of him and lingered on his new leg. Granted, sticking out from the khaki cargo shorts it did seem to have a little ‘terminator” vibe. It was California. Everyone wears shorts, right?

  He smiled, though it didn’t seem to lessen the tightness in his chest.

  His sister, blinked as though jarred from her thoughts. “Let me help you with that.” She reached for the duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

  Her husband, still in a white shirt and tie, appeared beside Julie. “Jesus, Clay, I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to the airport in time to pick you up. Here, let me help you with that.” He nudged his wife. “That’s far too heavy for you, babe.”

  Clay glanced over the pair quietly chiding each other and saw his nephews frozen in place at the bottom of the stairs inside. He jerked the bag from their grasp and dropped it at his feet. “I’m not helpless. I can carry my own damn bag.” The words exploded from him before he realized it. They said that might happen if he encountered the right triggers. Being pitied—he’d soon discover—was one of those triggers. Realizing he stood on their front steps still he glanced over and caught the shocked gaze of a neighbor. They cast a strange look his way. Clay snorted. He hadn’t slept well since his return, he was adjusting to a new mechanical leg, and he hadn’t shaved for a few days. All-in-all, he felt like a homeless man, seeking a handout.

  It took only until the second week at his sisters to realize how uncomfortable she was around him. The discomfort trickled down to his nephew’s every time their questions were silenced. He tried to give his sister some slack. She was carrying a lot on her plate while he’d been deployed—a home, husband gone all the time, two kids, and their mom, who was now in an Alzheimer’s care facility nearby. That alone had to have been difficult, it was for Clay the first few times he’d gone to visit her.

  “I have a son. His name is Clay, also. He’s in the war, you know. Army-man, like his grandfather.” She’d smile sweetly at him, then her gaze would drift out the window to the birdhouse beyond. Clay would sit and stare at her, so small and fragile, not the fierce Texas-born woman he’d once known-who could strike the fear of God in him with one look. It damn near killed him and he couldn’t go back. The fact that she didn’t recognize him drove deep into his psyche, already littered with enough garbage to clean up. He leapt at Hanks suggestion about coming to Montana, to some ranch that a couple of their college friends owned. What other choice did he have? At least until he’d gotten some things straightened out inside him. Then maybe he’d head back to his home state of Texas and settle down.

  “Sally has a strong spirit.”

  Clay was jarred from his thoughts by Michaels comment as he walked into the barn that had been built to stable the overflow of rescued horses from the Mountain Sunrise ranch over the winter months. Tying into the purpose of the Kinnison legacy of the Last Hope Ranch, Michael Greyfeather—once the head ranch hand and good friend to Jed Kinnison—had suggested to Jed’s sons that they partner with the equine rescue ranch, where Michael had once worked. To help in housing the horses that had been rehabilitated and were now awaiting forever families—the ranch would continue to check with the families and if caring for the horse didn’t work out, they would take them back at the ranch. The concept, readily accepted by the Kinnsion brothers, had already served to help in many areas, not only in Last Hope Ranch guests assisting in the care and nurturing of the horses, but also enabling special trail rides for kids who might never have the chance to be around a horse. It was a win-win situation, but the need for housing the rehabilitated horses had grown since last summer—creating more hours to Michael’s days at the ranch.

  Clay, too, had benefitted, finding he had great empathy for the damaged animals, needing someone to see their potential, to love them as-is, despite the scars of their past. He glanced at Michael and snorted. “Strong spirit, as you say, is a nice way of putting it. Where I grew up, we had a different term for that attitude.”

  Michael quietly continued to clean the hoof of the Appaloosa he’d just walked around the paddock. The old man, his silvery hair in one long braid down his back, nodded. “She can be prickly. I’ll give you that. But she has
a good heart, trust me. No one can handle troubled kids better than our Sally.”

  Clay picked up a pitchfork and started mucking stalls. “Too bad she hides it under that cactus of a personality.”

  Michael chuckled. “She was probably running late. She hates being late.”

  Promptness was something Clay prided himself on. He understood that. But the woman gave new meaning to the word tightly wrapped—and he was the one diagnosed with post-traumatic stress. He bit back a laugh at the sheer irony that he might have a greater patience level than the red-haired music teacher. “Chances are I didn’t score any points with her.” He shot a look at Michael whose steady gaze met his. “Not that I was trying.”

  The flutter of wings caught Clay’s attention and he glanced up into the rafters just in time to see a Great White Owl swoop from the shadows and soar through the open door. He looked at Michael in amazement. “Did you see that?” He’d never been so close to a wild bird of that stature, where he could’ve reached out to touch the creature as it flew past.

  Michael stood looking to where the owl had flown. He seemed unfazed by what Clay felt was a near miracle. “Must be a storm brewing.” Michael scratched the back of his neck, his eyes landing on Clay.

  As though hit by a cold punch, Clay held the old man’s gaze. For the first time, he truly realized Michael’s ethnic background. He sensed something spiritual, reverent in his eyes. Clay blinked, shook his head and passed his musing off as nonsense. “Well, I understand snow can happen without any warning in this neck of the woods.”

  Michael raised one silvery brow. “I don’t know if this storm is about the weather. Storms come in many disguises.”

  Clay wasn’t sure why Sally Andersen’s face should pop into his brain. He shrugged off Michael’s American Indian vibe and went back to work, stopping to listen to the low, mournful sound of the owl perched somewhere outside in the trees. He couldn’t say what caused the hair to stand up on the back of his neck.