The Rancher's Redemption. Melinda Curtis

      When Rachel was younger, she’d been unflappable. Crying in public? That wasn’t her thing. Now that she had Poppy, her hands shook when she got nervous and she cried at every Hallmark commercial.

      “Good thing you’re here,” Mom said in the overly bright voice she’d been using since Dad died. “We’re arguing over which is better—the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice, or the movie with Kiera Knightley.” The movie was playing on the television. “You can be the deciding vote.”

      “You should pick Colin Firth and the BBC if you want a Christmas gift this year.” Nana Nancy was knitting in a chair in the corner. Rachel’s grandmother was short, short-haired, short-tempered and, like her knitting needles, slender and pointed.

      “There can be no penalties for voting.” The cheer in Mom’s voice was tested. “I’m sure Rachel knows that the movie version empowers Elizabeth.”

      “I’m as neutral as Switzerland.” Rachel looked for a place to set Poppy down where she’d be no trouble.

      “Ga-ga-ga-gahhh.” Poppy bounced impatiently, extending her arms to her grandmother. Rachel set her down and she crawled over to Lisa’s feet, using her grandmother’s capris to bring herself to a wobbly stand.

      Fanny circled, wagging her pom-pom tail as she sniffed Poppy for stray crumbs.

      “Poppy only goes to you first because you feed her.” Nana didn’t like coming in second to anyone. “See?” She caught Rachel’s eye. “Your mother just slipped Poppy a Cheerio and yet she didn’t want me to bribe you for your vote on Pride and Prejudice.”

      “Babies get low blood sugar if they don’t eat regularly.” Mom had the cereal stored in covered containers in the living room, kitchen and bedroom, reminiscent of the way Dad used to keep kibble around to train their ranch dogs.

      Rachel loved her mother and grandmother, but neither woman asked how Rachel’s day went or about her meeting with Ben. Didn’t they care about the Double T? Didn’t they care that generations of Thompsons were weighing heavily on Rachel’s shoulders? Didn’t they respect her for taking on the reins of the ranch? She knew she shouldn’t say anything, but how could she not? Their fate was in her hands. “I go to court tomorrow against the Blackwells. They won’t win this time.”

      “Water,” Mom grumbled. “That’s what broke your father’s heart. We should—”

      “Don’t start about selling the Double T.” Nana clicked her knitting needles angrily, looping purple yarn faster than a drummer hitting a cadence for a marching band. “This land has been in our family for seven generations.”

      “And it’ll be in it for seven more,” Rachel promised, mentally crossing her fingers and knocking on wood.

      Mom lifted her gaze heavenward. “At least, tell me you got Ted to sign the custody agreement.”

      Rachel’s smile fell. “He wants another stipulation.”

      “What is it this time?” Nana put down her knitting needles. “Does he want you to be his designated driver on Saturday nights?”

      “It’s nothing.” Rachel bent to pin a fan of the pinwheel together, unable to look at her family.

      “From the expression on your face—” Nana thrust a finger in Rachel’s direction “—your nothing means something awful.”

      “It’s not.” It shouldn’t be. “Ted wants me to agree to stay here to raise Poppy.”

      “As if you’d leave us.” Mom picked up Poppy and gave her another Cheerio from her stash. “We wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

      “We sure couldn’t get Stephanie to run the ranch.” Nana harrumphed. “Your little sister is more interested in the color of her nails than in the color of a healthy heifer’s tongue.”

      Rachel grimaced. She wasn’t sure she could confidently state the correct color of a healthy heifer’s tongue, either. And she resisted looking at her nails. She hadn’t had a manicure in who knows how long. Or a pedicure. Or gone shopping for clothes for herself. Or had highlights put in her hair. She missed the days when she could pamper herself, like Stephanie, who had two beautiful girls and a handsome architect husband in nearby Livingston.

      Poppy giggled and patted her palms on Mom’s cheeks. “Ga-ga-ga-gahhh.”

      Guilt wrapped around Rachel’s chest and squeezed. With such an adorable daughter and a loving family, Rachel shouldn’t resent Ted’s restriction.

      The sound of wood cracking and snapping could be heard outside. She hurried to the window and peered out on the backyard. “Shoot. It’s that heifer.” She’d forgotten to text Henry. The cow had pushed her way through the pickets to the vegetable garden. “I’ll get her.” And now she could add fixing the garden fence to her long list of to-dos.

      Rachel rushed to the mudroom, slipped out of her heels and into Mom’s pink and gold-trimmed cowboy boots. She grabbed Dad’s lariat from a hook on the wall and then ran out into the heat wearing her best suit and pearls. “Git! Git!”

      The heifer looked up. The green feathery tops of Nana’s carrots dangled out of one side of the cow’s mouth. She didn’t budge, most likely because she didn’t consider Rachel a threat.

      The cow lowered her head and resumed her grazing.

      “Hey! Hey!” Rachel slapped the stiff rope against her boots and then ran down the porch steps, charging the heifer. “Get out of there. Git-git-git!” She sounded like Poppy, except not as happy. She swung the loop of rope at the heifer’s front flank.

      Startled, the heifer rolled her eyes and backed up a few steps, reevaluating Rachel much the same way Ben had earlier.

      “That’s right. Git!” Rachel swung the lariat in front of the cow’s face. “Back up. Get out.”

      That worked. The heifer made a sound like someone had sat down hard on a whoopee cushion. She wheeled and trotted out through what was left of the fence posts, kicking up dirt clods at Rachel. Slimy mud spattered her good jacket and skirt.

      A guttural wail filled the air.

      That wail... It was hers.

      Rachel had three court suits that fit her mommy hips.

      Well...now only two.

      Her mother tapped on the bedroom window glass, her face hovering above Nana’s. “Are you all right?”

      Rachel nodded, even though she wasn’t. She marched across the ravaged carrots and torn-up grass, scrunching her eyes against the threat of tears, because ranchers didn’t cry. Not over ruined wool and silk.

      The heifer headed behind the barn.

      Rachel took off after her, rounding the corner only to find the escapee ambling down the weed-choked road that separated the Double T from the Blackwell Ranch, tail swinging happily as if she was high on carrots.

      The gate was open, which gave rise to many questions. Why was it ajar? Who’d been careless enough to leave it open? How had the heifer escaped the large pasture? Was another gate open? A fence down? Were other livestock roaming about? The herd was supposed to be summering across the river in higher, greener pastures.

      Rachel latched the listing gate, closing off the road and shutting the heifer in. Someone would have to saddle a horse and ride the property line to find how and why the heifer was free.

      Personally, she’d like that someone to be Henry. She hadn’t expected to do anything but paperwork today and hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Although her clothes were already ruined, she reminded herself.

      Rachel turned toward a small house behind the barn. It was the original one-room homestead. It had no front yard. No fenced backyard. No driveway. But a well-used green Ford pickup was parked near the front door.

      “Come