Second Chance Ranch (24 page)

“Don’t go giving that cowboy too much credit. You’re the one that built this camp; he just managed to smooth out an activity or two.” Waving to one little boy, Patrick then waved his hand across the compound. “You have a great staff to keep the kids safe and happy. I’m sure they all liked the riding and hiking and games, too. Oh, and don’t forget the food—you’ve got some of the best cooks around feeding the hungry mob.”

“It took all of us, didn’t it?” No way would she accept the praise he was showering on her. She knew it took a virtual city to help raise her village of sweet kids. Still, it felt good to hear that maybe she’d done something right.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“How you feeling, cowboy?”

Zac looked up at the doorway from his pillowed recline against the cushioned arm. Sprawled out on the couch, a headache laid him low every time he tried to sit up so he’d acquiesced to building his incline one pillow at a time. “Like a load of rocks dumped on me.” Her grin widened as Jen stepped into the den, a small box in her hands. “I’d offer to come help you with your package, but you’ll probably be across the room by the time I roll off this couch.”

“I see how this works.” She set down her keys and the box and took off her jacket, hanging it on the peg beside the door before grabbing her things again. “Ahhh, chivalry. I really miss the days.”

He turned on his side and made room for her beside him. “Chivalry has always been here, sweetheart. You just never looked for it.”

She sat gingerly on the edge of the cushion with a frown on her face. “Grace said your back hurts. I don’t want to make it worse.”

“My back hurts because my mother won’t let me get up and about. She thinks I’m going to bust my stitches. I told her I didn’t get stitches, but she doesn’t care. I can’t wait for the explosion of Mount St. Grace tomorrow when I tell her I’ve got a field to bale.”

“Tomorrow? That’s only three days after the surgery. Dr. Jenkins told me they’d bruised your muscles while extracting the marrow. I wouldn’t push the activity if I were you.”

She touched his shoulder with tentative fingers and Zac felt the heat flow through his veins that had nothing to do with the down comforter draped around him. He was tired of playing the helpful friend. He wanted to wrap his arms around Jen and hug her close. Of course, if he gave in to that desire, he probably would bust his band-aids. No use in proving his mother right. “Getting up and moving is the best thing for me, isn’t it? You’re the nurse. You should be nagging me to get up and walk around.”

“I think you get nagged enough.” She held out the box tied with string. “I come bearing gifts. A thank you for helping my last session go so well.”

He recognized the Fred’s take-out box and his mouth started to water. “How in the world did you fit a sixteen ounce rib-eye into a box this small?”

“If I brought you restaurant steak, Grace would kick me out on my take-out box.” She untied the string, taking her time, making him sweat it out. If he could move, he’d have made short work of the process. But, since Jen brought it, she was in charge. As always. “If memory serves, you’d haul logs ten miles by mule for a bowl of Fred’s bread pudding.”

The aroma of cream, vanilla and cinnamon tangled together teasing him unmercifully. “Twenty miles and forget the mule.”

Her laugh made up for her slowness. “It’s not much, but I wanted to say thanks for all you’ve done, Zac.”

His throat went dry. She didn’t know the half of it. To have thought he wouldn’t have helped a child after finding out he was a match hurt. He needed to tell her about the ranch too, and soon. Knowing the dreaded task ahead, the thought of biting into the sweet dessert turned to ash. He’d tackle the lesser injury first. “Jen, how could you think I wouldn’t help my own flesh and blood?” He stopped short of calling Carli his daughter, though the word tried to roll off his tongue. “And not just because we’re related. I think I would have done it for anyone who proved a match. This is life and death we’re talking about.” A funny look on her face slowed his tirade. “What?”

“I was talking about the camp, not the transplant.” She reached out and smoothed his hair from his forehead, her fingertips lingering on his skin making him want to lean into her touch. “Zac Davidson, you truly are a man after God’s heart.”

He held the dessert between them feeling completely unworthy of any praise. “Oh, so we’re back to chivalry.”

Her intimate chuckle floated between them. “We’re way beyond chivalry. You’re so much more.” She settled deeper onto the cushion and snuggled against his stomach as he lay on his side. “You’re my hero, you always were. But that’s beside the point. I wanted to say thanks for helping me with my budget and planning numbers. You saw how they perplexed me and just fixed them. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

His conscience attacked from every side. “Jen, that’s what I do, remember? Create budgets and reports? It’s the most exciting part about me. I don’t see how you missed it.”

Careful of his incisions, she rested her elbow on his knee, making herself perfectly at home in the curve of his body. When she chuckled again, he couldn’t help notice how sweetly her lips curved up and how he wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

“So what do you call the impromptu dance number you played on my campers?” Her eyebrows rose, including him in her excitement. “Now that’s exciting. They were talking about it all the way down the mountain.”

“No way. Really?” He grinned, her exaggeration contagious. “All the way down the mountain?”

“It’s probably legend by now.” The tone of her voice heightened and her breath quickened. “I got my first corporate sponsorship possibility, Zac. Just like Trevor told me to do. Les Ralston wants to help the camp all because his grandson said a cowboy danced and made it look cool.”

Her dreams blazed in her eyes as she chattered about the kids loving his choice of music, his dance steps, his roping and a couple of turns around the field in his tractor. Dust settled in his throat again. He had to tell her the ranch was no longer for sale. He needed to snatch away her most treasured desire and grind it into the ground all because of a clerical error. He’d made the deal right by Jess Eklund in a fair trade of investment bargaining. Making the deal right by Jennifer O’Reilly was going to be impossible.

Her fingers wove with his and she squeezed their palms together. “My prayers have been answered.”

He stiffened, a flash of moisture lining his forehead. He didn’t want to crush her — now or ever. He wanted to hold her and protect her, all the things he should have done years ago. His fingers pressed her hand tightly to his. The way life ran, neither of their prayers were answered. Much like Great grandpa Jeb, Zac now knew what it felt like to lose everything. A hundred years later, there still were no winners.

Drawing her close, he savored the feel of her warmth beside him, her silky hair beneath his chin. As the Bible verse urged, he wasn’t going to worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow would take care of itself. He hugged Jen close. Today, he’d bask in paradise.

“I’m glad everything is coming together, Jen.” He nuzzled her cheek. “God has His ways.”

Grace walked into the den, a plate of brownies in her hand. “Aren’t we all lucky He’s in charge.” She frowned at the box on the coffee table, then her eyebrow hitched. “Jen brought you bread pudding from Fred’s? I’ll bet she’s thinking of taking it back after hearing about the ranch.”

A lead ball dropped in his stomach.

“No way, Grace. I came to celebrate. I’m so close to owning the Trails’ End I can taste it.” She nodded her head toward the treat box. “I thought I’d share the joy since Zac is mostly responsible for everything coming together.”

Keen eyes shifted between Jen and Zac as Grace put her plate on the table. “She doesn’t know? You said you were going to tell her.”

Jen turned and looked at him. The idyllic thoughts he’d had exploded in a burst of broken dreams. He couldn’t form the words as she eased back out of the circle of his arm.

“Isaac. Tell her.”

He’d finally realized what true love was all about, and just as family tradition dictated, he’d gambled it away. “The Trails’ End never belonged to the Eklunds.” His voice sounded dim and far off. He cleared his throat as his mother glared at him to say the words. “I own it.”

* * *

Goosebumps prickled her skin as the words cemented in her brain.

I own it.

All the warmth of moments ago, all the dreams she’d begun to think might come true now sat like a block of ice around her heart. She felt nothing.

“Jennifer,” Grace began. “I don’t know what to say. It came as a surprise to us all. Efrain Eklund never filed the papers—Gabe and Trevor Hockett researched the whole thing. They came up with nothing associating Eklund with the Trails’ End, other than he paid the taxes.”

A pain spiked in her head as she focused on Grace. “Trevor? He was in on it, too?” She remembered the messages left on her cell phone. The ones she hadn’t listened to or called about. “He knew about this?”

Zac palmed her shoulder. “No one was in on anything, Jen. The news didn’t make sense to me when Frannie Pollard told me. Since I was going into the hospital, I asked Gabe and Trevor to run down the paper trail just to make sure.”

Her heart began to pound as her stomach swirled. “Arthur and his father before him built the barn. They plowed the fields. They made the harvest.” Her mouth tasted like paste as she moistened her lips. “They paid the taxes.”

“Just because someone pays the taxes doesn’t mean they own the place — the taxes were never overdue.” Zac’s hoarse words crushed over her. “I was going to tell you, but the time wasn’t right.”

He tried to pull her closer. She shrugged off his arm and stood slowly, careful to stay grounded as the room spun. Was it all too good to be true? The harvest coming in; the camp’s success; the offer of sponsorships. She should have known things were going too well.

She took a step forward and then another, and then another.

“Jen, wait,” Zac called behind her. She kept walking.

Grace came up beside her. “Wait, honey, don’t go yet. Please, sit down and let’s figure out what to do.”

Concern swam in Grace’s gray eyes as Jen searched the face of the woman who’d picked up the pieces of her life so very long ago. She’d clung to Grace when she was scared and her father put patients and the hospital before her. She’d confided in Grace when she needed a mother’s touch to lean on. She’d believed Grace when she held Jen close, rocking her and telling her everything would be okay. Jen swallowed hard and clung to that truth.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay.” Jen heard her bright tone, but for the first time since she and Arthur conjured the dream—gave her hope for her future—she admitted she wasn’t okay. Nothing would make it right. Zac owned the ranch she loved and wanted more than anything else. Zac wanted it, too. Nothing made sense to her, but Jen knew one thing—she wasn’t going to let anyone see her fall apart. “I have to go.”

Zac called after her, but Jen marched forward. If she didn’t keep moving, she’d never get out and then everyone would see her unravel.

She climbed into her truck, flipped the key in the ignition where she’d left it and shifted into gear. As she rolled out of the Davidson compound, her fingers and hands tingled on the steering wheel as she headed home. Home. The cabin wasn’t hers. She’d have to move back in with her dad for a bit. Not a problem, she reasoned, Dad liked her cooking. Thoughts ricocheted through her head the entire drive back to the Trails’ End. The McMillan Ranch was still available, she’d have to look into that. Maybe tomorrow. Her mind spun in a thousand directions as she stared blindly out the windshield.

She blinked and realized she’d parked beside the old stone ranch house. How did she get here? No matter. She killed the engine, left the keys in the ignition and followed her usual trail to the back door into the kitchen. Her vision blurred as she turned the knob. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek as she smelled the vanilla freshener mingling with the scent of wood trim and leather cushions.

“Why?” she choked over the word. Tears spilled over her lashes and wet her cheeks. “How could I work so hard and come so close…and then have everything taken away? The ranch; the house; the camp.” Her fingertips brushed over the scarred oak table as she crossed the kitchen and into the living room. The dark pine floor, the overstuffed furniture, the massive stone fireplace swam in her blurred vision. She sucked in a stuttered breath as she sank into the worn cushions of the club chair and pulled the crocheted afghan over her.

Fresh tears blinded her. She squeezed her lids shut, rubbing her face in the soft comfort of the blanket. “Jesus, why is this happening? Why did Zac come back? Why did he make me care again? Why did Arthur and I create a dream that could never come true?” She pulled a fist full of tissues from the box on the end table. After blotting her eyes, she blew her nose and drew a deep breath as she tilted her head back and stared at the exposed beams lining the ceiling. Faces of all the recovering children she’d met over the summer filled her head. Their fears and worries etched on their young faces attesting to the fierce battles they’d fought through harsh treatments and medications, and the inevitable side effects that accompanied each. Childhoods eternally stolen by a despicable foe, from children whose only wish and prayer was to recover and be normal.