What She'd Do for Love (8 page)

“It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Oakes,” Christa said.

“How is your mom doing?” Ryder asked again.

“Pretty good. The surgery went well and the hospital sent her home this morning. I just came into town to do a few things for her.”

He smiled and indicated she should join them.

“No, I’m fine where I am. But thank you for the flowers you sent. They were gorgeous. And completely unexpected.”

“I wanted to do something. I really like your mom and dad.”

“And they like you.”

“Why do you sound puzzled by that? I’m a likeable guy.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. I’m just surprised that you hit it off with them so quickly.”

“Their high opinion of me means a lot.”

Christa had no comeback.
Where was Etta Mae?
She turned instead to Ryder’s mom. “Is this your first visit to Cedar Grove?”

“It is. Ryder’s been showing me around town,” Peggy said. “It’s a lovely community. Everyone is so friendly.”

“The pace is a little slower here than in the city,” Christa said. “But we like it.”

“Have you lived here long?” Peggy asked.

“Most of my life.”

“And your parents are ranchers? For a while, when Ryder was a boy, he wanted to be a cowboy.”

“Mom—every six-year-old wants to be a cowboy.” He grimaced. “I also wanted to be a fireman and a race car driver.”

“You must allow a mother to indulge her memories.” She gave him a fond look. “How do you two know each other?”

“In a town this size, it’s hard not to know almost everyone,” Ryder said.

“Yes, but a casual acquaintance doesn’t send flowers to a mother in the hospital, I don’t think.”

“Actually, Ryder knows my parents better than he knows me,” Christa said. “I only just moved back to town a little over a week ago.”

“Then maybe the two of you will get to know each other better.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Christa spotted Etta Mae emerging from the kitchen. “I have to go,” she said. “It was nice talking with you.”

“It’s always nice to meet Ryder’s friends,” she said. “I hope I’ll see you again soon.” But she looked at Ryder as she spoke, as if waiting for him to confirm that she would, indeed, be seeing more of Christa.

“Maybe so.” She nodded to Ryder, and hurried away. She wasn’t sure what to make of Ryder’s mom. Ryder hadn’t seemed all that comfortable with the conversation. He hadn’t acted as if he was ashamed of Christa or anything that obvious, but he clearly hadn’t wanted his mother to read too much into their relationship.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw mother and son, heads together, deep in conversation. She sympathized with Ryder’s reluctance. Parents of single grown children had a tendency to want to pair them off. A lot of them tried to be subtle, but she’d seen the same light in her own and Kelly’s mother’s eyes that had shown in Peggy Oakes’s eyes just now—a hopeful look that maybe this was the match they’d been hoping for for their child. Someone to partner them and care for them, and to provide the other half of the genes for future grandchildren.

“Just the girl I wanted to see.” Etta Mae charged over and grabbed hold of Christa’s hand. “How is your mother doing?”

“She’s doing good. She’s home from the hospital and determined to be up and about her normal routine.”

“You tell her not to overdo it. And don’t worry about meals. I’ve got that covered. Someone will be bringing by dinner every night this week.”

“Oh, Etta Mae, that’s so thoughtful.” Christa gently withdrew her hand from the other woman’s grip. “But it really isn’t necessary.”

“We’re glad to do it, hon. Now, is there anything you all can’t eat? Are you gluten free or dairy free or allergic to peanuts or anything like that?”

“Nothing like that, but really, I think Mom would prefer that people didn’t fuss. You know how independent she is. She’d be mortified if anyone thought she was an invalid.”

“My goodness, the woman just had major surgery. She deserves a break from the kitchen for a few days.”

“My dad and I can handle the cooking. I’m really grateful, but the best thing you can do for Mom is not make any kind of fuss at all.”

Etta Mae frowned. “Adele is a stubborn one. I remember when she had foot surgery several years back and was in a cast for two months. She wouldn’t let anyone lift a finger to help.”

“Then you understand. Maybe you could just send her a card to let her know you’re thinking about her. She’d like that.”

“All right. But I can’t let you go without sending her something. You wait right here.”

Christa waited behind a partition that separated the cash register area from the dining room. From here she had a view of Ryder and his mother, but they couldn’t see her.

Without her there, he looked more comfortable. His mother said something and he laughed, his dimples and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. He took her hand in his, and she reached up to touch his cheek, with a look that reminded Christa so much of her own mother and grandmother that her eyes stung.

“There’s a half a buttermilk pie in here.” Etta Mae pressed a Styrofoam take-out container into Christa’s hands. “I know it’s Adele’s favorite. You tell her if she needs anything at all, to give me a call.”

“I will. And thank you.”

Etta Mae pressed her lips together. “You tell her I had the same surgery almost twenty years ago. I imagine they’ve perfected their technique since then, but I made it through okay, and she will, too.”

“I’ll tell her.” Christa hid her surprise by pulling the older woman to her in a hug.

“It’s good to be independent and look after yourself,” Etta Mae said. “But it’s good to let other people help you, too. You don’t have to tell her that, but let her know that we’re here.”

“I think she already knows it.” Even if Mom never accepted the casseroles and counseling that others offered, just knowing they were available probably was a weight off her mind. Maybe it was easier to get through a crisis when you knew you had a whole town on your side.

CHAPTER SEVEN

C
HRISTA
HAD
ALWAYS
admired her mother’s strength and independence. Adele Montgomery was a tough Texas cowgirl, able to hold her own in any situation. But those same qualities made her a terrible patient. She resisted being waited on, didn’t want to stay in bed “like an invalid” and kept trying to do too much. Attempting to wash dishes her second day home from the hospital, she dropped a plate, which shattered at her feet. She burst into tears.

“Now, Adi, it’s all right,” Dad said, though he looked as if he wanted to cry, too.

“I’ll get this, Mom.” Christa grabbed a broom to sweep up the broken china. “I’m here to help, so you might as well let me.”

“I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be useless in my own kitchen.”

“Now, Adi, you are not useless.” They both retreated to the bedroom, Mom weeping, Dad cajoling.

Christa swept up the broken plate, finished the dishes, and then turned her attention to supper. She’d agreed to take over the cooking for the time being. If only she was better at the job. Her father, accustomed to eating his wife’s excellent meals three times a day, didn’t hold back with his criticism.

That evening, while Mom slept, Dad stuck his fork in the mound of mashed potatoes on his plate and frowned. “You should ask your mother how she makes her potatoes,” he said. “Hers are never lumpy like this.” He took a bite and the frown grew more severe. “This gravy is scorched.” He set down his fork in disgust. “Your mother taught you better than this, I know.”

“She did, but I’m out of practice. There’s no point in cooking a big meal when it’s just me.” Most nights she settled for frozen dinners, or take-out.

“You don’t have a boyfriend to cook for?”

“If I had a boyfriend, don’t you think I would have told you?”

“I don’t know. I guess that depends on how serious things were.” He scraped gravy off the potatoes and took another bite. But his eyes remained fixed on her. “You do date, don’t you?”

“Yes, I date. But there’s no one serious.” She knew guys who were friends, and guys she went out with, but no exclusive relationships. Not because she didn’t want to fall in love with someone, she just hadn’t been lucky that way.

“Those men in Houston must be blind.”

She held back laughter. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m willing to wait for the right guy to come along.”

He reached across the table and patted her hand. “You do that. I knew the moment I met your mother that she was the one for me.”

Christa settled her chin in her hand to listen. She’d heard this story so many times over the years, but it never got old. Dad continued, “She was sitting in the Blue Bell with her friend from college, Raye Ann Taylor. She’d come from her home in Longview to spend a couple of weeks on the Taylor ranch. She laughed at something Raye Ann said and I froze from across the room. I thought she was the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

Christa had seen pictures; her mother had been beautiful, with strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes. “I walked right over and introduced myself and asked her to the Kiwanis club dance that Friday night. She said yes. I borrowed the ranch truck and was so distracted by her I ran it into a ditch on the way home. We had to walk two miles up the road to a telephone, but we held hands and talked the whole time. Three weeks later, I asked her to marry me and she said yes.”

And they’d been madly in love ever since. Anyone could see that. The depth of their love, and its longevity, amazed Christa. And maybe, in a way, the story of her parents’ grand passion, along with her grandparents’ fairy-tale romance, had spoiled her. Maybe, subconsciously, she’d been waiting for a man she could love at first sight—however uncommon or unrealistic such ideas might be.

“You should have wakened me for supper.” Mom stood in the doorway, dressed in knit pants and a loose top, pale but steady on her feet. She moved to the table and sat while Christa rushed to add a place setting for her. “I can see we’re going to have to work on your cooking,” Mom said as she surveyed the lumpy potatoes, scorched gravy and dry pork chops.

“I’m out of practice,” Christa repeated. She pushed aside her own plate. “Maybe we should have taken Etta Mae’s offer to bring food. I’m sure it would have been better than this.”

“I don’t want half the women in town traipsing out here like mourners at a funeral, then going back to town to tell everyone how terrible I look.”

“Mom, you make them sound awful, and they really just want to help. Most of them have known you for years.”

“All right, maybe that wasn’t very charitable. But I don’t need their help. Besides, you clearly need the practice in the kitchen.” She sipped her iced tea. “Besides working on your cooking, what do you have planned for this week?”

“I hadn’t made any plans.” Christa spread her napkin in her lap. “I thought I’d do whatever you need me to do.”

“I won’t have you moping around the house,” Mom said. “Your father fussing over me is enough.” She patted his hand to take the sting out of her words. “I got a call from Rhonda Benson this afternoon. She tells me the Chamber of Commerce is hosting a breakfast and a meeting tomorrow morning. They’re looking for volunteers.”

“Volunteers for what?” Christa asked.

“I’m not sure. You know Rhonda. She’s always involved in some project or another. I told her you’d be glad to give a hand.”

“Mom! I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

Adele spooned peas onto her plate. “They could use your skills, I’m sure. And you’ll meet a lot of nice people.”

“Your mother’s right,” Dad said. “You should go.”

“Fine. I’ll go.” But Christa couldn’t help feeling this was just a way for her mother to get rid of her. The job she loved didn’t want her and her parents only saw her as being underfoot. So much for thinking she’d fit right in here at home. Even Ryder, who was brand new to Cedar Grove, found a better welcome than she did.

* * *

“I
DON
’
T
KNOW
what to tell you, Greg.” Ryder clutched the phone tightly to his ear, trying to block out the sound of a backhoe scraping against rock. “I’m positive I’m going to have all the rights-of-way by the end of the summer, but I can’t rush these people. Some of these ranches have been on their families’ land for generations, and they don’t want to give up even part of it too easily.”

Greg Draycut, his boss, said something about timelines and cost overruns, and all the things he and Ryder had been over half a dozen times already. From his office near the capital in Austin, Greg didn’t always have a realistic view of what it took to persuade people to sell right-of-way for a highway they hadn’t initially believed they even needed. Ryder had done a good job of winning over most of them to his point of view, but such persuasion took time. He wanted people to sell willingly, and not feel they were coerced. “Everything will be all right, Greg,” Ryder said. “Don’t worry.”

But, of course, Greg’s job was to worry. Ryder would leave that to him and get on with his task at hand, which was to shepherd this project through to completion. He pocketed the phone and rejoined the group of men and one woman who stood near a barrier of red ribbon stretched between two trees. The woman—the president of the Cedar Grove Chamber of Commerce—handed Ryder an oversized pair of scissors made of cardboard. “We’ll do the real ribbon-cutting with real scissors,” she said. “These are for the photo for the paper.”

She positioned Ryder in front of the ribbon, with her next to him, Paul on his other side, and other prominent Chamber members gathered around. The reporter from the local paper shouted “Cheese!” and the camera flashed.

Still blinking from the blinding flash, Ryder handed over the cardboard scissors and thanked the woman. She snipped the red ribbon with real shears and everyone applauded. Paul clapped Ryder on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some lunch.”

“It’s too early for lunch. It’s barely after ten.”

“Coffee, then.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

Paul grinned. “Schmoozing the customers is part of my job.”

“It’s part of my job, too, but this morning I have other things to do.”

“You’re making me look bad, working so hard.”

Ryder chuckled. “I could probably meet you later. I’ll give you a call.”

“Sure thing.”

Ryder said his goodbyes and headed for his truck. He drove out of town, to a ranch that bordered the Montgomery property. The rancher, Melvin Nimichek, met him on the front steps of the ranch house. “Right on time.” The stocky older man, dressed in a green-and-white striped snap button shirt, starched jeans and gray eel-skin boots, checked a heavy gold pocket watch. He then tucked it away in his jeans and offered a leathery hand. “Bud Montgomery told me I should talk to you again. You made a good impression on him.”

“Thank you for seeing me. Mr. Montgomery’s assistance had meant a lot to me.” He couldn’t say why he and Bud had hit it off so well. In many ways, the rancher reminded Ryder of his dad, with the same direct manner and rock-solid code of ethics. But Bud was quieter than Martin Oakes. Whereas Ryder’s father was quick to tell Ryder what he should and shouldn’t do, Bud listened to what Ryder had to say, and didn’t try to push his own agenda. Maybe, since Ryder wasn’t his son, Bud didn’t feel the need to solve every problem or share every opinion.

“Let’s walk up the drive and you can show me exactly how much of my property you intend to take.”

“The state will pay the full market value for the land,” Ryder said. “And we’ll build fencing and even plant trees, grass and wildflowers. You’ll maintain your privacy and have great access to the highway. The value of your remaining property will likely increase.”

“Don’t know how I’ll get used to hearing those big trucks zip up and down the highway all day and night.” Melvin matched Ryder’s stride. He was impressed the older man could keep up. “That’s a big chunk of my land you want—a third of my acreage. Prime pasture.”

After years of drought the pasture was reduced to dirt and stubby grass, but Ryder figured the older man didn’t see it that way. He remembered when his cattle had grazed on lush grass. Maybe he even remembered when the only road into town had been a narrow dirt track. “We need enough land for the highway itself as well as utility right-of-ways and a buffer zone to protect the property owners on either side.”

He stopped near the pink-flagged survey stakes the state had erected months earlier to mark the new route. “You see how there’s a gentle curve up through here. We’ll build up the roadway so water will drain off, with gravel catchments on either side to filter the runoff and keep oil, gas and other chemicals from washing into the groundwater.”

“So I don’t have to worry about all that stuff washing into my well,” Melvin said.

“No, sir. The state is committed to protecting the water. We all know how precious that resource is.”

Melvin grunted and both men stared across the pasture. Ryder pictured the highway to come, a sweeping curve of pavement built to the most up-to-date, exacting standards. He wondered if the rancher saw the same thing.

“My son doesn’t want me to sell,” Melvin said. “He thinks I should hire a lawyer and ask a judge for an injunction.”

“You could do that,” Ryder said. “But it could cost you a lot of money to fight this, and I don’t think your chances of winning are very good. The state is really behind this project, and most of your neighbors have already agreed to sell the right of way we need.”

“My son tells me if I sue, I could get my neighbors to go in with me.”

“Is your son upset because he expects to inherit the ranch?”

“Oh, he’ll inherit it, but he won’t ever ranch.” Melvin shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on the heels of his boots. “He runs some tech company in Dallas, designing computer games. But you know how kids are—they want to know the old home place is still there, even if they don’t have much practical use for it.”

“How old is your son?”

“He’s going on forty, but he’s still a kid to me.” The rancher looked Ryder in the eye. “You’ve been here long enough to see ranching isn’t what it used to be. The old-timers say it was this bad in the dust bowl days, and we came back, but I’m not going to live long enough to see that, I don’t think.”

“I think we still need ranchers and farmers, but things have changed,” Ryder said.

“I appreciate that you haven’t pressured me like some slick salesman.”

“I’m an engineer, not a salesman. I have a job to do, but I can appreciate that this kind of decision isn’t easy.” Ryder had never felt the close ties to a place the way these people, who had lived and worked here for generations, did. But he knew what it was to love his family, and he imagined love of a home could be like that.

“I told my son this was my decision to make, that I was looking out for my future as much as his. And I talked to my wife about it. We figure if we sell the land and take the money the state is offering, we’ll be more secure in our old age. We won’t have to depend on our son to pay the bills, and we can stay in our house. That’s worth something in itself.”

Ryder waited. He’d learned the value of silence when dealing with people. They needed room to weigh their thoughts and draw their own conclusions. “Do you have the paperwork with you?” Melvin asked.

“I have an agreement to sell. The state will draw up the closing papers and set a time for you to sign them and receive your check.”

“Then let’s get it and get this thing done.”

They returned to the truck and Ryder retrieved the contract to sell the land to the state. Melvin signed it and let out a sigh. “My great-grandfather settled here in 1882,” he said. “He took a section of land and his brother took a section. His brother sold out after only two years—that’s the land the Montgomerys have now. Over the years different people sold off little chunks, so I suppose I’m no different. You should have seen it in the good years, though. Back in the seventies when we had rain and the grass grew knee-high, cattle really was king and we thought the boom would go on and on.”