The Rancher's Texas Match. Brenda Minton

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

      When he pulled up to the ranch, Bea was already on her way down the stairs. Tall and in her fifties, the former social worker for the state was all heart. She adjusted her glasses and smoothed her hair, turning to give a “hurry up” look to the person following her out the door.

      Macy Swanson?

      The two climbed in his truck, Macy opening the back door and getting in the backseat. Beatrice clicked her seat belt and settled her purse on her lap.

      “Katie is staying to help Jake with the kids. I asked Macy to come with us to take notes. I’m going to want my own person there so that we have a record of our own.” Beatrice shot him a questioning look. “Do you know what is going on, Tanner Barstow?”

      Like he was one of her kids and someone had TP’d the house.

      “No, Bea, I don’t. I got the call the same as you.”

      “Gabriel said it’s a good thing. But, Tanner, I’ll have you know, I’m not a fan of surprises. Even of the good variety.”

      “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of Macy looking out the window, bottom lip caught between her teeth. He cleared his throat, and she shot him a look. “I’m sorry I put you on the spot back there. So, do you think you’d be interested in spending time reading to the kids? They enjoyed the story you told them.”

      “I’m not sure,” she finally answered. “I mean, it would be good, wouldn’t it? The boys enjoyed it. Colby enjoyed it.”

      He slowed to make his turn. “Think about it.”

      The Everett Ranch, owned by Gabriel Everett, was a big spread located between the Silver Star and Haven. Tanner parked next to a half dozen assorted trucks and SUVs. He got out quickly so he could hurry to the other side and open the door for the ladies. His dad hadn’t taught him to be a gentleman, but Aunt May had. She’d told him someday he’d appreciate the manners she instilled in him. He’d be thankful.

      He was, and he wished she was alive so he could tell her how much she’d meant to him and his siblings. But she’d passed about eight years ago, getting them mostly raised, all but Chloe, who had been not quite fifteen. May had at least seen Tanner’s business get off the ground. She’d known they would be okay without her.

      Eight years later Haven Tractor and Supply was well-established, and Aunt May’s small ranch had quadrupled in size. He didn’t mind feeling proud of that accomplishment. May had sold off land to get him through college. He’d put the family spread, the Rocking B, all back together for her. It had taken him a few years, buying back the land as it came up for sale or as he convinced neighbors to sell it back to him.

      He opened the door for Bea. She stepped out, not needing the hand he held out for her. He reached to open the door for Macy, as well.

      “Thank you, Tanner.” Beatrice patted his arm, as if he wasn’t thirty-two and just twenty years her junior. With Bea they were all kids.

      The ladies preceded him to the house. He didn’t mind. A few more minutes meant a little more time to think; maybe he might come up with some reason they were all being called to the Everett place for a meeting. But by the time they were shown to the library, where the meetings were held, he still didn’t have a clue.

      A gavel pounded on the table. Tanner sat back and gave Gabriel his full attention, but then his gaze shifted to the right of the league president. The man sitting in the seat of honor was Harold Haverman, attorney and member of the Lone Star Cowboy League, of which Tanner was vice president. It seemed to him that if there was something going on, Tanner should have been told ahead of time.

      Tall, with a black Stetson covering his gray hair and metal-framed glasses on the end of his nose, Harold had presence. And he had a document in his hands that looked far too official.

      “Meeting to order.” Gabriel glanced around the group. He cited the date, the time, the emergency status of a meeting of the Waco district Lone Star Cowboy League chapter.

      The formalities were taken care of with some seconds, a vote, and then on to new business.

      “I would like to recognize our guest, Harold Haverman.”

      Harold stood, pushed the silver-framed glasses back in place and shifted the papers he still held. He gave them all a look, serious as could be, no hints as to what this was all about.

      “I’d like to thank you all for coming today. I know this is unexpected.” He peered at them over the top of those glasses. “As you all know, we lost a respected member of our community. Cyrus Culpepper passed last week. I know several of you attended his funeral. Today I have the honor of sharing with you his last will and testament.”

      “What does this have to do with me?” Bea started to stand, but Gabriel shook his head. “I have children at home.”

      “Bea, this won’t take a minute.” Harold cleared his throat and shook out the papers. “If you’ll just give me five minutes to read this. And then we can take care of the details.”

      He started to read. Silence held as the members looked from one to the other, clearly astonished. Tanner glanced across the table and made quick eye contact with Macy Swanson and got caught in those green eyes of hers. She looked wary and like she was pretty sure she shouldn’t be involved. She also looked like someone still hurting. The grief for her brother had turned to pain for a little boy still missing his parents.

      Listening as Haverman read the final will of one Cyrus Culpepper, curmudgeon and stirrer of the pot, Tanner thought that maybe they’d all just been tossed in the middle of a big old mess.

      I, Cyrus B. Culpepper, am writing this on my deathbed with, per my doc of over forty years, only days or weeks to go. I may be about to meet my maker, but I am of sound mind and hereby bequeath the bulk of my estate to the Boys Ranch, as I was once a resident myself back when the ranch first started in 1947. Yes, that’s right. I might be an old curmudgeon who can’t tolerate a thing, but since I was once a troubled kid who was turned around by the Boys Ranch, I want to do something for the place. However, I have conditions. When I lived at the Boys Ranch, there were four other original residents who I lost touch with. I would like you to bring them together for a reunion at the ranch on March 20th, a party on my birthday for the 70th anniversary celebration of the Boys Ranch. That gives you six months. Now, now, quit your bellyaching—given all the newfangled technology, search engines and social media nonsense, you’ll probably find them lickety-split. Though I never tried, so who knows? I suppose I’ve gotten a bit nostalgic in my old age and leave it up to you whippersnappers to do my bidding.

      Oh—and one more thing. I had a son, John Culpepper, who I didn’t get on with too well after his mother passed. We were estranged, but I know he had a child, a girl—Avery—who lost her mother. I heard, well after the fact, that my son died when the child was young. I have no idea what happened to her, and I’d like to invite her to the ranch to receive an inheritance.

      If the terms of my will are not met, I’ve instructed my attorney, Harold Haverman, to bequeath the estate, minus a small endowment to the Boys Ranch, to Lance Thurston, a real estate developer, to build a strip mall bearing my name. Sometimes you have to provide the right incentive.

      Now for the boring part. The “bulk of my estate” is to include my ranch house and all the outbuildings, livestock and land except for the cabin in which I grew up and the five acres of land it sits on. That cabin, five miles from the ranch on the outskirts of town, and land is bequeathed to Miss Avery Culpepper, to be given to her in March. I was a self-starter and believe everyone should be, but I also believe I did wrong by Avery and want her to have what she likely would have garnered over the years as my granddaughter. The rest of my bank accounts and investments are bequeathed to the LSCL Boys Ranch.

      Yours, Cyrus B. Culpepper

      Everyone was talking at once. Outrage. Shock. The library fairly rattled with raised voices. Fletcher Snowden Phillips, last remaining kin of the