Reuniting with the Rancher. Rachel Lee

had all those years ago. Maybe even more so. That didn’t seem fair.

      “You’ve lost weight,” he remarked. “Have you been sick?”

      She shook her head. “Just busy. Sometimes I just feel too tired to eat.”

      “That’s not good.” When she didn’t answer, he spoke again. “I take it your job is draining. Want to tell me about it?”

      “What’s to tell? I work with people most of society doesn’t care about. People who never had a real chance in life. Most of my job is trying to get children to do the things that will give them a chance. To avoid the things that will take away their chances. We try to give them a safe environment after school, encourage them to finish homework, feed them, expand their horizons a bit. And then they go home to the same despair.”

      He gave a low whistle.

      “Maybe that’s not entirely fair,” she said after a moment. “There are some bad parents. There are in any group. When I first started I was investigating abuse cases that occurred at very nice addresses. Then I moved over to work with underprivileged kids. A lot of people may not believe it, but some of my strongest supporters with these kids are their parents. They want their children to have a better life. But it’s kind of hard to believe in when you come home to a run-down apartment where no one cares enough even to get rid of the roaches, and there’s little food in the refrigerator.”

      “Colliding worlds?”

      She nodded, closing her eyes. “You have to take it a step at a time,” she said finally. “Right now I’m organizing a couple of communities to demand exterminators. You’d think management would at least provide that. Little kids shouldn’t be living with roaches, rats and mice. It’s not healthy. Sometimes they get bitten.”

      “God!”

      “Anyway, sometimes I feel like I’m trying to hold back a flood with a broom. These people are so ground down. But then you see the spark of hope in them when they think you can help their kids. They really care about that.”

      “But you’re just one person.”

      “But I’m not the only social worker. We do what we can. It’s hard not to get impatient, though. I could use a magic wand.”

      “I imagine so.”

      She opened her eyes, but looked back toward the window. “What you said earlier about bringing some of them out here?”

      She noticed his response was hesitant. “Yeah?”

      “I wish I could. I was thinking about it, but the problems are huge. And while Martha might approve, I’d need to get through all kinds of red tape. And then I asked myself what I could do for them in a couple of weeks here. Or even a whole summer here. Would I just make it harder on them when they had to go home?”

      “That’s a tough question. I didn’t think about that.”

      She shrugged and finally managed to look at him again. “It needs a lot of planning in a lot of ways. But I keep thinking how wonderful it might be for them to have a month or two when they just simply didn’t have to be afraid or hungry.”

      “So they’re afraid, too?”

      “They’re living in a damn war zone. Gangs. Drugs. Turf wars. They learn to be afraid very early.”

      He cursed. “That’s no way for a kid to grow up.”

      “I agree. But as one of my friends often reminds me, a lot of kids in the world are growing up exactly that way.”

      “But it ought to be different in this country.”

      He spoke with so much vehemence that she blinked. She’d never had time before to find out if Cliff had a social conscience. Apparently he did.

      She glanced away toward the window again. She didn’t want to find any reasons to like this guy. None. She’d be leaving again in two weeks, whatever she decided to do with this ranch.

      But then her thoughts wandered a different, faraway path. “You get used to it,” she said presently. “You just get used to it.”

      “Have you?”

      “I guess so. I didn’t realize until I got here just how much tension I was carrying all the time. My first night here I could feel it letting go. Something inside me is uncoiling. But it never uncoils for those children. Even in a safe place, like their homes, or at the youth center, I’m sure it never has long enough to let go because in just a short while they’re going to step outside again.”

      He didn’t offer any bromides, but she heard him drum his fingers on the table. She needed to get away from this subject for a little while, she realized, because even just talking about it and thinking about it was ratcheting up her tension.

      She fixed him with her gaze. “Do you have a lot of insomnia?”

      “Sometimes. Usually not this bad.”

      “I’d think with how hard you work, you’d just conk out.”

      “You’d think.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe I’m just one of those people who doesn’t need a whole lot of sleep. I certainly don’t walk around feeling sleep deprived.”

      “I can’t imagine it. Sometimes I think I could sleep around the clock.”

      “Maybe I should let you get back to it.”

      The perfect out. She should have grabbed it, but she didn’t. “No, I’m fine. I think I’m done with sleep tonight. I was sitting upstairs thinking about things when I saw you ride up. I’m wondering if this house is always going to feel so achingly empty without Martha.”

      “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. I miss her, too, and I didn’t even live here, but you’re right, I keep expecting to hear her voice.”

      “Yeah. And for some reason I’m focusing on that. That I’ll never hear her voice again except inside my own head.”

      He hesitated visibly, then said, “Martha told me you were attacked once in Chicago.”

      At that instant she seriously wanted to throw him out. His company had at least distracted her from that mixed-up dream where one instant she was with Cliff in the throes of passion and in the next she was being grabbed and pawed by that slimeball. She still didn’t understand why her mind had hooked those two things together, even in a dream, but she certainly didn’t want to think about the attack.

      He must have read her face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up, but I’ve worried about you ever since.”

      “Why should you worry at all about me after the way I treated you?” she demanded, angry but not at all sure whether she was mad at him or something else. “And that was my business. Why would Martha tell you about that?”

      He responded to her anger, his face darkening. “She worried about you. Constantly. Maybe she never told you, but she did. And after that, I worried, too. There’s a lot of crap between us, Holly. I’ve got plenty of reason not to like you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to you.”

      He pushed back from the table. His face had grown hard, and his voice chilly. “Call me if you need anything. Martha put me on autodial.”

      Then he walked out. Just like that. Not even a goodbye.

      She sat alone at the table, cooling coffee in front of her, trying to sort through the tangled web of emotions inside her, but it proved impossible. All of it was impossible. She couldn’t imagine how she would ever get herself straightened out.

      Coming back here had been a mistake. Dealing with rough neighborhoods by and large wasn’t nearly as dangerous as dealing with emotions. Things that could kill your body weren’t half as scary as things that could kill your heart.

      Then she put her head down on the table and let the tears roll. Martha. Cliff.