Leftover Love (4 page)

An hour later she slowed her car on the major highway and checked the map again. According to the motel manager, the turnoff to the ranch should be just ahead of her. She scanned the surrounding landscape, certain that she was in the middle of nowhere. She hadn’t seen anything for miles except the snow-crusted hills, rolling and tumbling in an endless tangle of ridgelines.

Dirty gray snow flanked the sides of the cleared highway as Layne drove slower and slower so she wouldn’t accidentally miss the turn. Suddenly there was a break in the fenceline; tall posts reared up to signal the location of a gate. A weathered signboard was nailed to one of the posts with the simple identification of “Ox-Yoke Ranch.”

The gate was standing open, leaning crookedly away from the ranch lane. It wasn’t much of a road, as Layne soon learned when she turned onto it. The snow hadn’t been bladed off of it, but frequent vehicle traffic had left well-worn tracks in the dirty snow-slush. The frozen ruts put the springs of her car to the test.

The ranch lane curved into a labyrinth of ridges and valleys where windswept hills sloped into small pockets. She drove deeper and deeper into the rough country without finding a sign of habitation. She was almost convinced she had taken a wrong turn when she noticed a spider-thin curl of smoke rising into the blue horizon just ahead.

When she rounded the shoulder of a high ridge, the headquarters of the ranch was spread out before her. It was easy to pick out the main house from the collection of buildings. It sat among some winter-bare trees, its dark
branches forming a cobweb. The ranch yard itself was crisscrossed with tracks and footpaths, in places exposing the frozen ground.

A long-haired dog came rushing out of one of the sheds to bark at Layne’s car when she drove into the yard, but the dog seemed to be the only one around to observe her arrival, outside of the shaggy-coated horses in the corral and the herd of cattle wintering in the broad sweep of valley beyond the buildings.

Since she didn’t see anyone around the barns or sheds, Layne drove straight to the house and stopped the car in front of it. Her mouth and throat felt dry, and her pulse was tripping over itself in an excited rush of apprehension. Her legs felt like rubber when she stepped from the car.

She took a moment to button her parka and muster her nerve before she approached the house. Her jeans were tucked inside the tops of her high-fashion cowboy boots, their tall heels designed more for style than serviceability. They definitely weren’t made for easy walking over rough ground. Layne finally reached the shoveled sidewalk that led to the porch steps of the two-story white-frame house.

The large shepherd dog sidled around her, wagging its tail in an ecstatic fashion and grinning with almost silly delight. Layne rubbed its head and the dog panted with joy, its hot breath turning into great, vapory clouds. Its very friendliness seemed to give her courage, although it didn’t follow her when she climbed the three steps onto the porch.

At the door she paused to mentally brace herself for this face-to-face meeting. She wanted her emotions securely tucked away where they couldn’t be seen. Finally Layne rapped a mittened hand on the door and waited for several long seconds, but there was no sound of anyone stirring within. She knocked again, louder this time, and still there was only silence. She started to shift to one of the windows
that fronted the porch to peer inside the house and see if anyone was about.

“What can I do for you?” The question came from behind her.

Layne turned with a startled little jump to face the front steps. The voice had the same no-nonsense inflection as that of the woman who had answered the phone. Layne stared at the woman before her.

An inch or so shorter than Layne, she was firmly packed into a pair of man’s jeans. One of the pockets of her quilted winter jacket was torn at the side. A yellow and brown plaid wool scarf was bundled around her neck and a work-stained hat was jammed low on her head. Red wisps of henna-dyed hair poked out the under sides of the hat. The cold air had reddened her cheeks and nose, but it hadn’t frozen out the collection of freckles that gave the woman a youthful look despite the crowtracks around her eyes and mouth.

“Was there something you wanted or are you lost?” A pair of faded green eyes studied Layne closely.

The question prodded Layne out of her tongue-tied silence, subtly making her conscious of her wide-eyed stare. “No … that is … you must be Mattie Gray.” She finally managed to get a complete sentence out.

“I am. And you are … ?” Mattie waited expectantly for Layne to identify herself.

There was an earthy directness about the woman that instantly appealed to Layne. It took some of the tension out of her smile when she replied, “I’m Layne MacDonald.”

Mattie’s expression was mildly speculative, neither friendly nor unfriendly. The keen sweep of her glance took in Layne’s fashionably heeled cowboy boots, her designer jeans, and the pale gray wool of her parka, an impractical color since it showed the smallest smudge of dirt.

“You’re not from around here, so you must be from the city,” she observed.

“Omaha,” Layne admitted.

Inside there was a debate going on whether or not to disclose her identity. Her mother’s cautionary words kept coming back to her. She didn’t want this to be her one and only meeting with Mattie Gray. Yet that was the risk she was taking if she told Mattie who she was.

“A man in town gave me directions on how to get here to your ranch.” She stalled, taking advantage of the precious extra minutes to observe little details about her natural mother—like the clear and direct way she looked at Layne, and the close way she listened as if weighing each word that was said.

“I see.” There was a slow nod, as if she finally comprehended the reason behind Layne’s visit. “You heard we were looking for a hired hand.” With a wave of her hand, she staved off the protest Layne was about to make. “I know. You’ve always wanted to work on a ranch. And you thought, since I was a woman, you stood a chance of getting hired. What kind of experience have you had?”

This was not the turn Layne had expected the conversation to take. It caught her flatfooted and slightly baffled. “Actually, none—” she began.

“But you love animals and you can ride. Right?” Mattie Gray guessed with the confidence of someone who had heard the story many times before.

“Well, yes—”

“There’s a lot more to it than that, honey. It’s chapped skin, broken nails, and a cold that’ll freeze your boots off. You’re a lovely girl—beautiful in fact. This kind of work isn’t for you.”

This time it was Layne’s turn to look her over, from the mud-and-manure-caked rubber of her high-buckled over–
shoes to her work-stained gloves. “You do it, don’t you?” Layne countered in a kind of challenge.

“Sure,” Mattie Gray conceded with a small shrug. “But that doesn’t cut any ice. Sorry you came all this way for nothing. You might as well come in the house, have a cup of coffee, and warm yourself up before you make that long jaunt back home.” She mounted the porch steps and walked past Layne to the front door.

“Thanks.” Layne’s mind was working, wheels turning with an idea that had so unexpectedly presented itself to her.

Rugs covered the hardwood floor just inside the front door. Mattie Gray stopped on one of them to unbuckle her muddy overshoes and leave them to sit on the newspapers. Although her own boots were clean, Layne was careful to wipe them thoroughly on one of the rugs before following Mattie, who padded silently across the floor in a pair of white woolen socks.

It was an old house, all toasty warm and comfortable. Layne took off her knitted cap and shook her chestnut hair free of her coat collar. She had time for no more than a glimpse at the traditionally styled furniture in the front room, but the predominant colors seemed to be shades of gold and tan—earth tones.

The kitchen was a cheerful yellow, with genuine solid oak cabinets and a wooden table covered with a plastic cloth in a multicolored daisy design. Mattie shrugged out of her overcoat and tossed it on the back of a chair. Underneath it, she wore a gray sweatshirt over a dark plaid shirt. Even though her figure had thickened at the waist and hips, she still had a nice, if rounded, shape to her.

“Do you take anything in your coffee?” She offered no apology for the dirty dishes in the sink as she took down two clean cups from an overhead cabinet.

“No thanks.” Layne removed her parka and draped it over the back of a chair, then sat down. A pumpkin-colored cat was curled on an old, faded pillow lying on the kitchen floor by the stove. It gave Layne an unblinking, green-eyed stare, then stretched lazily and ambled over to her chair to aloofly nose her. “Hello to you too,” Layne murmured, and the cat disdainfully swished its tail and walked away.

“Fred only tolerates people.” Mattie set two steaming cups of black coffee on the table, then reached for a tissue from the decorative box on the counter. “Cold air always makes my nose run,” she said, then proceeded to noisily blow it.

Layne marveled at the lack of pretension about this woman. She was completely natural, not trying to impress Layne one way or another. Layne either liked her the way she was or she didn’t. It didn’t seem to greatly concern Mattie one way or the other.

Layne preferred it this way. By blood, they were mother and daughter, but that wasn’t a sufficient basis for a relationship. They could only learn to know each other as people. More than anything Layne wanted that to happen, without any awkwardness or tension between them because of the past.

“I guess you must get requests from a lot of inexperienced people like myself to come to work on your ranch. You had all the answers before I even asked the questions,” Layne said, opening the conversation.

“Yes, and they’re all young and eager to learn.” Mattie’s smile showed tolerance as she sat in one of the other chairs at the table.

“Have you lived here all your life?” Layne knew better, but it seemed a normal question.

“I’m from North Platte originally. I came here when I was only twenty-two. I answered an ad in the paper for a
housekeeper and cook. At the time I couldn’t tell a stallion from a mare, but I soon learned. I might have been hired as a housekeeper, but when they needed a body to hold a calf while they dehorned or vaccinated or whatever, guess who got called into duty?” There was a trace of wryness in her soft laugh. “Then, five years after coming here to keep house for him, I married John Gray. I became housekeeper, cook, wife, and cowboy. We had a good life and a good marriage—working side by side whether on the range or in the house. He taught me practically everything I know about the cattle business—unconsciously, often unwillingly.” There was a small, reflective pause. “I lost him … five years ago in May.”

“That’s quite a story, starting out in the stereotypical female role of housekeeper and becoming a rancher.”

“I do have a partner—a man—but Creed and I work well together.” She sipped at her coffee, holding the cup in both hands. Her nails were trimmed short and her hands were work-roughened and chapped from the cold weather. “It’s a case of mutual respect, I guess.”

“I’ve met a lot of women who claim to be liberated, but you seem to be the real McCoy,” Layne observed with silent admiration and interest. Usually it was just so much talk, especially among friends her own age.

“Strange you should say that.” Mattie was oddly contemplative, smiling vaguely while she swirled the hot coffee in her cup. “There was a time, especially when the feminists were creating such a furor, that I believed I always had been liberated. After all, I worked at my husband’s side, doing a man’s job, sharing a man’s responsibilities. There were no special favors because I was a woman. But looking back, I can see that I was never treated quite the same as a man.”

“What do you mean?” Layne frowned slightly, puzzled by this unexpected denial.

“As I said, I was completely green about ranch life. I wound up learning just about everything the hard way. And men are not the most patient creatures God ever created. John was forever yelling at me about something, whether I brought him a crescent wrench when he wanted a socket wrench, or I let
out
the cow he wanted
in
the pen. Most of the time I’d take just so much, then I’d go storming to the house.” A quick, bright gleam entered her eyes. “There’s the difference. It’s very subtle, almost unnoticeable. You see, John would have expected a man to take getting chewed out, but I was a woman so it was perfectly reasonable for me to go to the house—where I belonged.” She separated the last phrase from the sentence for emphasis. “I may have been out there—I may have been working with him—but a woman’s place was still in the home. I’ve seen the same thing with ranchers’ daughters. They may go with their daddy but the threat’s always there, either implied or stated, that if they don’t behave, they’ll be sent back to the house. With a son, it’s different. If he misbehaves, he’ll be straightened out either with a belt or a good talking. There is a double standard out here, a subtle one, but it exists.”

“I hadn’t realized that,” Layne mused, honestly fascinated by this revealing look at western life from a woman’s point of view.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go into a whole lecture on the subject. One thing about getting older, you can say what you think and people say you’re opinionated instead of sassy.” She smiled, and Layne caught the glint of humor in the washed-out green of her eyes. “Of course, the young people usually say you’re boring.”

“Not hardly,” Layne said with a laugh. “But you have given me an idea. I never had a chance to mention that I’ve been writing features for the Omaha newspaper.” She mentally
crossed her fingers as she told a white lie. “I was interested in getting a job working for you on the ranch so I could write an article about the everyday, unglamorous side of ranching. I’d still like to do that, but I want to incorporate some of what you’ve just told me … sort of … the modern woman, how she fits in and where she doesn’t.” Layne paused, watching the flicker of interest in Mattie’s expression. “I don’t suppose you’d reconsider hiring me, would you?”