The Rancher's Best Gift. Stella Bagwell

      Camille rolled her blue eyes toward the low ceiling of the kitchen. Make Matthew feel welcome. What the heck did her brother think she was going to do? Give the Three Rivers foreman the cold shoulder? Just because she hadn’t been home in a couple of years, Blake must think she’d turned into a hateful hag or something.

       Well, haven’t you, Camille? For a long time after Graham asked for his engagement ring back, you didn’t want to communicate with any human being. You buried yourself here on Red Bluff and rarely got off the property. And you’re not exactly Miss Sociable now.

      Smirking at the sardonic voice in her head, Camille walked back to the cabinet and poured herself a large mug of the coffee. As far as Matthew Waggoner went, she didn’t need to be Miss Sociable. Over the past ten years, the man had probably spoken twenty words to her, and that would probably be stretching things. And the way he looked at her—she’d never been able to decide if he liked her or if she grated on his nerves.

      Either way, she’d not given the man much thought these past couple of years. But then her family would say she’d not given anyone much thought, except for herself.

      And maybe they were right, she pondered as she sat down at the table and propped her feet on the chair next to her. She had gone a little crazy when Graham had jilted her. But she’d gotten over him ages ago. She was getting on with her life now and she was doing it without a man. And without her family breathing down her neck. It felt good. And that’s the way she intended for things to stay.

      Picking up the phone, she typed in a reply to her brother: Don’t worry. I’ll roll out the red carpet for Matthew.

      Friday evening when Camille arrived home from work, the ranch yard was buzzing with activity. Pickup trucks, along with several semi-truck cattle haulers, were parked at different angles near the barn area. Portable pens had been erected next to the permanent wooden corrals to hold the extra cattle that were being unloaded.

      Working dogs were barking and nipping at the heels of the lagging cattle, while misplaced calves bawled for their mamas to find them. Dust boiled high in the air, men shouted to communicate above the din of noise, and horses neighed to each other.

      For a couple of minutes, Camille stood watching the activity, and then an odd thing happened. A hard lump lodged in her throat and tears filled her eyes to the point where the ranch yard became nothing but a watery blur.

      Cursing to herself, she entered the house and wiped her eyes. Darn it, she’d been done with tears a long time ago. And she sure as heck wasn’t homesick. No, she’d spent twenty-six years of her life on Three Rivers and that was enough. She loved it here on Red Bluff. But seeing the men on horseback, the cattle and dogs had all reminded her of her late father, Joel. Next to his wife and children, ranching had been his deepest joy and if he’d still been alive, he’d be out there right now with the rest of the men, doing the job he’d loved.

      Nearly nine years had passed since her father had died, yet Camille still endured unbearable moments when she longed to see his grinning face and feel his comforting arms around her. She’d been a daddy’s girl and once he’d died nothing had been the same.

      Giving herself a hard mental shake, Camille walked straight to her bedroom and stripped off her slacks and blouse that were permeated with the odors of fried food and burnt cooking oil. It being Friday, the diner had been extra busy all day. She’d lost count of the burgers and chicken strips she’d cooked today. Now, instead of relaxing with a cup of coffee and the book she’d been reading, she had to shower and get ready for Matthew Waggoner.

      Oh well, it would only be for a couple of weeks, she reminded herself. Surely she could put up with the man’s company for that long.

      The Red Bluff ranch house was built in a square with a low sandstone wall and a slatted iron gate serving as an entryway at the back of the structure. On the bottom floor, a covered porch ran the whole length of the house, while the second floor was structured with a roofed balcony. The thick walls were covered with stucco and painted a dark beige, while the flat-style roof consisted of board shingles weathered to a pale gray. The windows and doors were framed with wood that had once been black, but had long ago faded to a charcoal color.

      It was a gorgeous example of a traditional hacienda ranch house and made even more charming by the inner courtyard landscaped with succulents, a tall saguaro and three large Joshua trees. Years ago, the Hollisters would often drive down in the dead of winter and enjoy a few days of the warmer climate. But plenty had changed since then. Joel was gone and all of the Hollister siblings, except for Camille, were married with children. And she would’ve been a wife by now, too, if Graham Danby hadn’t changed his mind about marrying her.

      That last thought was going through Matthew Waggoner’s mind as he let himself through the wrought-iron gate that connected the sandstone wall and walked around the edge of the courtyard to the back door of the house.

      Although he had keys to both front and back doors, Matthew was loath to use either one. Even though the house didn’t belong solely to Camille, it was currently her residence, and he didn’t want to barge in as though he had a right to the place.

      After knocking on the back door, he glanced over his shoulder to a view of the ranch yard. From where Matthew stood, he could see a corner of the bunkhouse. Smoke was coming from the chimney and though it was well after ten, lights blazed in the windows. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since Matthew and the other men had called it a night. Now he figured they were all pestering Curly, who’d reluctantly taken on the job of cook, to fix them something to eat. As for Matthew, he didn’t care if he ate a bite of anything. After the exhausting day he’d put in, all he wanted was a mattress and pillow.

      The sound of the door creaking open caused his head to turn back to the house, and he suddenly found himself staring straight into Camille Hollister’s face.

      “Hello, Matthew.”

      “Hello, Camille.”

      A long stretch of silence passed, and all the while Matthew could hear a pack of coyotes yipping in the far distance, while closer to the house the penned cattle continued to bawl in protest.

      Red Bluff was wild, rugged land and far from town or any kind of civilization, yet Camille lived here alone. What kind of twenty-eight-year-old woman made such a choice? The kind that was still nursing a broken heart?

      He was trying to answer that question as she pushed the door wide and gestured for him to enter.

      “Please, come in,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been knocking long. I dozed off on the couch. And the walls of the house are so thick it’s hard to hear outside noises.”

      “I’ve only been here a minute.” He stepped into the kitchen and blinked as she switched on a light hanging over the table. The room basically looked the same as it had the last time he’d been in the house, and that had been at least five or six years ago when Blake and Maureen had come down to stay a few days during fall roundup. For the past couple of years since Camille had moved in, Matthew and the men had steered wide of the ranch house.

      “Sorry it’s so late,” he apologized. “I hope you didn’t wait up just to let me in. I have a key.”

      She shut and locked the door, then walked over to where he stood. Matthew desperately tried not to notice the soft scent of flowers emanating from her hair and skin. It swirled around him and pulled his gaze to the gentle features of her face. She’d always been beautiful, but tonight she seemed to be even lovelier. Or was that because he’d not seen her in two long years?

      “I didn’t know whether you had a key or not. But it’s no big deal,” she said. “I usually don’t get into bed until eleven anyway. Uh, would you like something to eat, or drink?”

      “Don’t worry about