The Rancher's Redemption. Melinda Curtis

on an old kitchen table with spindly wooden legs.

      Henry sat in his recliner, an empty microwave container of macaroni and cheese in his lap. His scuffed boots were discarded near the door, as if he’d needed to take off his shoes first thing to pamper his aching feet. He muted the television. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

       Is it too much to ask that he call me Rachel?

      Probably, since he’d seen her as a toddler running through the front yard sprinkler naked.

      Hoping to garner some respect, Rachel tugged down her blouse and buttoned her jacket. Her efforts to look like a presentable boss—one worthy of a title better than little lady—resulted in a fair amount of dung sprinkled on the floor. “There’s a heifer loose. I shut her in the road leading to the river, but there’s a break in the fence somewhere.”

      “I’ll get to lookin’ tomorrow.” Henry was seventy-five if he was a day. He’d been with the ranch since he was in his twenties. Nothing upset him. Not loose heifers or flooded pastures. “Thanks for letting me know. If she continues to be a problem, we’ll have to make steak out of her.”

      Rachel had never been good at eating animals she’d had a face-to-face with. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s make sure none of the rest of the herd is loose.”

      “Little lady.” Henry slid his glasses off his nose and stared at Rachel. “After your father died, we made an agreement. Unless there’s an emergency, I don’t put in more than my eight hours, or I retire.”

      The last thing Rachel needed was to upset Henry enough that he’d retire. But still, she worried. They had so few cattle left. “What about Tony?”

      “He left early to have a root canal in Bozeman.” Henry’s gaze drifted back to the television. “He won’t be in tomorrow by the way.”

      Shoot. She’d forgotten. But still... “This needs to be done tonight.”

      “Ain’t no hurry, little lady. We don’t live in a time of cattle rustlers.” Henry cast a disparaging glance at Rachel’s pearls and then at her mother’s pink-and-gold trimmed boots. “The Blackwells raise Black Angus. They aren’t going to confuse white-faced cows on their land with their own.” He unmuted the television. “You can’t run a ranch in heels and pearls. Now, you worry about taking care of that baby of yours and I’ll worry about the ranch.”

      Rachel left, feeling as if she’d been given a glass of water, a pat on the head and then shooed toward her bedroom.

       Little lady.

      Rachel’s anger increased with every step she took. Dad wouldn’t have waited until morning. There was nothing for it. This little lady was going to have to ride out to the fence line herself.

      Now all she needed was something to wear.