Sweet Mountain Rancher

CHAPTER THREE

THE MINUTE EDEN pulled up to Pinewood, her heart sank.

She parked the van near the deep wraparound porch and hoped the interior of her grandparents’ three-story farmhouse was in better shape than the exterior.

It was not.

A slow tour of the house where she and Stuart had spent so many happy years proved that weathered clapboards and lopsided shutters were the least of her worries.

Last time she’d been here—to deliver the lease to a nice young family—the chandelier had painted a thousand minuscule rainbows on the tin ceiling. Now, years of cooking grease and cobwebs clung to each crystal teardrop. A fresh coat of paint would hide the scrapes and fingerprints that discolored the walls, but repairing the gouged, dull oak floors would require hours of backbreaking labor. Things were worse in the kitchen, where cabinet doors hung askew and floor tiles showed hairline cracks. There were glaring, empty spaces where the stove and fridge once stood. And in both bathrooms, missing faucets and broken medicine cabinets, dumped unceremoniously into the claw-foot tubs, made her tremble with anger.

Eden sat on the bottom step of the wide staircase and held her head in her hands.

“Hey, half-pint.”

She looked up. “Hi, Shamus. It’s good to see you.”

The elderly neighbor drew her into a grandfatherly hug, then held her at arm’s length. “I suppose you’ve taken the grand tour.”

She nodded.

“Bet you thought ol’ MaGee was exaggerating, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly. But I did hope you had overstated things a bit.”

Scowling, he shook his head. “Don’t know how they sleep at night, leaving Pinewood in such sorry shape, ’specially after all you did for ’em.” He studied her face.”

How did she feel? Worried. Sad. Embarrassed, because Gramps had been right: “You think with your heart instead of your head,” he’d said, time and again. “Someday, that good-natured personality of yours is going to hurt you.”

The way Eden saw it, poor judgment, not temperament, had hurt her. She was almost as much to blame for this mess as the Hansons. All the signs were there: Unkempt children. Unmowed lawn. Undone household chores. Late payments—and for the past six months, no payments at all. She’d bought into every one of their excuses. Harold lost his job. Lois’s car was rear-ended, putting her out of work, too. The oldest boy cracked a tooth eating walnuts. The youngest girl broke her toe trying to stop the playground merry-go-round. “Just give us a month,” they’d said, “and we’ll get back on track.” She’d suspected all along that they saw her as a pushover, but she couldn’t evict them midwinter, or midsummer, for that matter.

“Desperate people do desperate things, I guess,” she said at last.

He eyed her warily. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. The Hansons are deadbeats, plain and simple.” His tone softened. “You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t pull the wool over this old man’s eyes.”

Since childhood, she’d wondered whether Shamus’s mixed metaphors were inadvertent, or a quirky attempt at humor.

“In your shoes, I woulda booted ’em to the curb after they missed the second payment.”

“Please,” she said. “You aren’t hard-hearted enough to put asthmatic, anemic kids into the street.” Eden hadn’t wanted to do it, either, even after they’d fallen so behind.

“Quit lookin’ so guilty. You did what you had to do. You couldn’t keep paying the taxes, insurance, county fees—without sinking yourself.” He snorted. “You should have let me handle them, instead of Joe Templeton.”

She’d let the owner of the property management firm get away with a lot, too. “Well, what’s done is done, I guess.”

“You’re well within your rights to take the lot of ’em to court. My grandson just got his law degree. Right now, he’s playing gopher to some big shot at a downtown legal firm, and he’s itchin’ to sink his teeth into a case of his own. Bet he’d give you a real good price, just for the privilege of flexing his law muscles against those deadbeats and that lousy excuse for a property manager.”

The way things were going, she probably couldn’t even afford Shamus’s inexperienced grandson.

“Want me to talk to Ricky for you?”

“Ricky...not that little blond kid who used to picked Gran’s roses as presents for Maggie?” Eden pictured his sweet-tempered wife.

Shamus beamed. “One and the same.”

“Wow. Hard to believe he’s old enough to have completed law school.”

“Now, now,” he said, “you can’t change the subject on a fella with tunnel vision. I’ll email his contact info to you, and tell him to expect your call.”

“I appreciate the offer, but...” Even if she could scrape up a few extra dollars to pay Ricky’s fees, Eden didn’t relish the idea of getting entangled in what would likely be a lengthy, unpleasant lawsuit. “Let me do some research first. Get some estimates. Find out what it will cost to bring Pinewood up to code. Double-check my contract with the property managers. Because I’d hate to waste Ricky’s time.” Or my quickly vanishing savings.

Shamus had been a fixture at Pinewood for as long as she could remember. After her grandfather’s fatal heart attack, the elderly widower stepped in to help her grandmother with minor repairs and acted as a sounding board when she needed to purchase not-so-minor things such as replacement windows, the new roof, a car. And since Eden’s grandmother passed, Shamus had become the self-appointed guardian of the house and grounds. It was comforting to have a substitute grandparent of sorts, but Eden didn’t want to take advantage of his good nature. That’s why she’d hired Joe Templeton.

Shamus frowned. “Bring it up to code? Does that mean you’re thinking of moving another tenant in here?”

“Not exactly...” Eden explained the tight spot Brett’s proposal had put her in.

“Aha, I get it now. If this old place can pass all the inspectors’ tests, you want to move the Latimer House boys in here.”

“Only as a last resort. Their lives have already been too chaotic. I hate to uproot them just when they’re settling in and doing so well.”

“Let me give you a little something to think about, half-pint. When soldiers get the order to pack up and move from one base to another, or some corporate type accepts a transfer to a new city, their families go with them. Whole kit and caboodle. The kids might not like it, at least not at first, but they adjust. Same as you and Stewie did when you came here from Baltimore.”

Eden had to admit, he made a lot of sense. Still...

“You homeschool those boys, so it isn’t like they’ll need to transfer into a new district. Something else to think about. I can help out if you’re shorthanded. Teach the boys to use power tools, maybe even put ’em to work on a big vegetable patch out back.”

Shamus would love that. With his only son and every grandchild but Ricky out in California, he spent a lot of time alone. It might be a great arrangement for everyone concerned—if moving became necessary. If she could convince city authorities to allow her to relocate the boys. If she managed to come up with the money to make the house safe and comfortable for them.

If...the biggest little word in the English language.

Shamus leaned against the newel post. “Can I ask you a question, half-pint?”

“Sure, as long as it isn’t ‘how do you expect to find a man, settle down and have kids of your own while you’re in charge of those ruffians?’”

He laughed quietly. “I imagine you’ve heard that one a time or two.”

“Or three.”

He saluted her. “On my honor,” he said, smiling, “I will never ask you that question.” His expression grew serious. “So whatever happened with that police report I made the day those deadbeats moved out and took half of your stuff with ’em?”

This was the first she’d heard of any police report, and she said so.

“Would’ve sworn I told you when I called to say they were leaving.” Shamus shook his head. “By the time a squad car rolled up, the crooks were long gone, along with your light fixtures, cabinets, appliances...” He shook a bony arthritic finger. “You better believe I told those officers everything I saw. Showed ’em the pictures I took with my cell phone, too. One cop wrote down your phone number, promised to call you to see if you wanted to press charges. When I didn’t hear from you, I figured you’d gone soft on ’em, again, and were too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Probably just as well that no one from the department called.”

“Let me guess...because they’d throw those criminals in the slammer, and their kids would end up in foster care?”

“In separate houses, no doubt.”

“Yeah, that’d be a shame. Isn’t their fault they were born to a couple of losers. Still...” Shamus started for the door. “Soon as I get home, I’ll email Ricky. Anything particular you want me to tell him?”

“Would you mind holding off on that, actually? I have a lot of research to do and a lot to think about, remember.” She squeezed his forearm. “Okay?”

“If nothing else, you’re proof that giraffes don’t change their stripes.” Chuckling, he shook his head again. “Remember what your grandpa said? Your heart has always been bigger than your head—a good thing, so long as it doesn’t hurt you.” He stepped outside, pausing on the porch. “Don’t wait too long to get the wheels of justice rolling, though. Call me when you change your mind.”

“I will. And thanks, Shamus. Why don’t you stop by next time you’re on our side of town, have supper with us. I know the boys would love seeing you.”

“Might just do that.” He shuffled down the walk. “Probably the only way I’ll find out what’s going on with this place,” he mumbled, jerking a thumb over one shoulder. Then, in a louder voice, “You have every right to be reimbursed for the time, trouble and money it’ll cost to replace everything they took, you know. And you don’t need to feel guilty about it, either!”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” she said, but he was already out of earshot.

Eden returned to her seat on the bottom step and dialed Joe Templeton. After the obligatory greetings, she asked when he’d last visited the property.

“Not since I delivered the eviction notice. Why? Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem,” she said through clenched teeth. “Lots of problems. If I made a list, I’d get writer’s cramp. Or carpal tunnel. Or both.”

“Gee, Eden, I’m sorry to hear that, but—”

“I’m coming back over here in the morning, and I’m bringing my camera. I’d like you to be here when I document this...” She looked around and ground her molars together. “This mess.”

“I, ah...”

His phone hit the desk with a thunk and Eden heard him riffling papers. “What time did you have in mind?”

“Seven.” At that hour, he couldn’t use the old “other meeting” excuse. “That’ll give us time to evaluate things without taking too big a bite out of the rest of your day.” And speaking of eating, Joe didn’t know it yet, but he was going to explain how he’d allowed this to happen—and why he hadn’t notified her about it earlier—over coffee and eggs at Breakfast King.

“Oh, and, Joe? Bring your camera, too.”

“Okay, but why?”

“We’re compiling photographic evidence for a possible lawsuit, that’s why, and two cameras are better than one.”

She listened patiently as Joe explained how unlikely it was that they could find the Hansons, let alone get them to stay in one place long enough to file suit.

“Besides,” he said, “you know the old adage, ‘can’t squeeze blood from a—’”

“I thought you might say something like that.”

“Anyone who’d all but destroy the place they called home can’t be expected to do the right thing and reimburse me for the damage done,” Eden said.

With the wisdom of Gramps and Shamus ringing in her ears, Eden said, “See you tomorrow, seven sharp. And don’t forget the camera. I’ve had too many pictures go missing to trust my cell phone.”

“See you in the morning, then,” he said, hanging up.

She’d paid Joe a handsome monthly fee to oversee Pinewoods, and he’d let her down, big-time. Admittedly, that was partly her fault. If she hadn’t been so concerned that spur-of-the-moment inspections might hurt his feelings, she might have nipped things in the bud before they became problems. Starting tomorrow, she’d lead with her head instead of her heart.

“Better watch it, Quinn,” she said, locking the front door behind her, “because this exercising-your-rights stuff feels good enough to be habit-forming!”

CHAPTER FOUR

JOE SLOUCHED AGAINST the tufted red Naugahyde booth at Breakfast King, scrolling through the pictures Eden had taken at Pinewood. “I’ll bet this happened when they dragged the stove out the door,” he said, pointing at an image that showed a deep gouge in the kitchen’s door frame. His dark brows furrowed as he studied photos of curtain rods hanging from single screws and cabinet shelves that slanted at awkward angles. He turned off the camera and slid it to her side of the caramel Formica tabletop.

“Saying I’m sorry doesn’t begin to cut it,” he said. “I feel awful that the Hansons stuck you with that mess.”

Eden folded her napkin back and forth, back and forth, and fanned herself with the resulting paper accordion. “I’m sure you’ve faced situations like this before. Any idea what we’re looking at in repair costs?”

Joe shook his head as the waitress delivered their coffee.

“Thousands,” he said when the woman walked away. “Easily.”

Eden waited for him to empty two milks and three sugar packets into his mug before continuing. “So how does this work? Will you hire a contractor?”

He nearly dropped his spoon. “Me? Whoa. You expect me to foot the whole bill?”

Eden smoothed out her paper accordion. “In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to the Hansons. It’s my property, after all.” She met his eyes. “But as we discussed when I hired you, the nature of my job makes it difficult, at best, to get away. You told me not to give that another thought, because absentee landlords make up the bulk of your client list, and that it was your job to do periodic spot checks, to make sure tenants are living up to the conditions outlined by the lease. And that if they didn’t, we’d come to an agreement about repairs, in order to avoid arbitration.” She paused long enough for her words to sink in. “Remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Nodding, Joe stared into his mug. “I spent most of the night on the computer, trying to hunt down the Hansons.” He looked up. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have a bit of luck.”

She drew an invisible figure eight on the tabletop. “In other words, since you can’t find them, we can’t file a lawsuit.”

He winced slightly at the word. “Oh, if I kept looking, I could find them. Eventually. I used to be FBI, remember. But what’s the point?”

If he quoted the old “can’t squeeze blood from a turnip” cliché again, Eden didn’t know what she’d do. She pointed at her purse beside her on the seat. “I brought our contract, just in case we needed to refer to it.”

Smiling slightly, he nodded again. “Why am I not surprised.” Joe picked up his mug, put it right back down again. “Okay. I admit it. Somehow, we completely overlooked your property. I could make excuses, like it’s on the opposite side of town, or my regular guy quit and there wasn’t anyone in the office capable of doing the job. I’m embarrassed to admit that we screwed up big-time, but—”

His phone rang, and one glance at the screen was enough to cut his sentence short.

“Sorry, it’s my kid’s school. I have to take this.” He stood. “When the waitress gets here with our food, ask her to bring me some tomato juice, will ya?”

Eden went back to pleating the napkin. Her landlord wanted an answer. More accurately, he wanted to sell Latimer House, the sooner the better. A lot depended on whether or not Joe would do the right thing. She felt like a passenger in a leaky dinghy, sinking slowly, while a big storm loomed on the horizon.

“You’re up and at ’em early...”

Eden jumped, and then looked up into Nate’s smiling blue eyes. “I could say the same thing.”

“Had some early-morning appointments. Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee before heading back to the Double M.” He pointed over her left shoulder. “I’ve been sitting right over there.”

She glanced at the red counter stools behind her. He’d been near enough to hear everything she and Joe had discussed.

He slid into Joe’s seat. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me back there, shuffling the pages of yesterday’s Denver Post. Bet I read the same article four times, trying to tune out what you guys were saying.”

“Oh, good grief. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Nate harrumphed. “That guy should be embarrassed, not you.”

The waitress delivered breakfast. “Coffee, sir?”

“Sure. Why not.”

When she left, Nate pointed at Joe’s food. “I saw your pal leave. Seems a shame to let perfectly good flapjacks go to waste.”

“See, that’s why I hate sitting with my back to the door.”

The waitress brought over his coffee and topped off Eden’s mug. “Thanks, hon,” he said.

“Hon? I haven’t heard that since I left Baltimore.”

“Yeah, it’s one of the few things I picked up out there that I can’t seem to put down.”

Eden smiled. “I always loved the way everybody used the term. Made the city seem so much friendlier.”

“Speaking of friendly, think your pal is off wheeling and dealing to spare himself a lawsuit?”

The idea made her laugh. “I bet he’s halfway to his office by now.”

“Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say.”

“And I haven’t heard that one since grade school.”

Nate shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just as true today.”

“I don’t know if it’s fair to lump him in with the trash just yet.”

Nate returned her halfhearted smile. “So what’s your next move?”

Move. What a peculiar choice of word, considering what she and the boys might be doing in the very near future. She sighed. “It’d be easy to blame Joe for everything the tenants did to Pinewood, but there’s no escaping the fact that the house was—and is—my responsibility. I should have checked on things myself.”

“Still, he had contractual obligations. What if you lived in Chicago or San Francisco? Or Baltimore?” He grinned. “I really like that name, by the way. Pinewood has a homey ring to it.”

“That’s what my grandfather thought.” Eden had no sooner finished the sentence when her cell phone pinged. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said, opening the text.

Sorry to stick you w/tab. Son fell @ school, broke a tooth. Here’s my offer: Templeton Prop. Mgmt. will replace missing appliances, light fixtures, faucets, vanities. You make cosmetic repairs. If agreeable, call & I’ll recommend contractors.

She repeated the message to Nate, trying her best to sound lighthearted.

She could almost read Nate’s mind: Joe had all but ignored Pinewood; what made her think she could trust him now? If the answer affected her alone, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much. But the boys had put their trust in her. Why hadn’t she seen this coming, and done something to prevent it?

“Hard to believe a few measly words could solve so many problems, isn’t it?” she said, sliding the phone into her purse.

“Uh-huh.”

She took a sip of her coffee.

“Do you believe the guy this time?” Nate asked.

This time? Even a near stranger understood that Joe’s word was less than stellar.

“Aw, don’t pay any attention to me,” he added. “Ask anybody. I tend to rain on parades.”

“No, you made a valid point. To be honest, I don’t have a clue if he was sincere or not, or if something like a text message would stand up in court if he wasn’t.”

“I know a couple good contractors. How about I make a few calls for you? We can meet them at your grandparents’ house—your house—and see which one can give you the most for your money. And if that snake slithers out of his promise to share the costs, I’ll front you the money for repairs.”

“What? I can’t ask you to do that!”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” He grinned and, using Joe’s fork, speared a bite of sausage. “I like your boys, so we’ll consider it a donation to Latimer House.”

She could tell that he meant every word, but she couldn’t take his money. Eden never had a problem accepting checks from Cora Michaels and other regular donors. What made Nate’s contribution feel so...different?

“I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I just can’t—”

“Fine. I get it.” He held up a hand, preempting her rejection. “Who knows? Maybe ol’ Joe will do the right thing.”

There was an awful lot riding on that maybe.

That leaky dinghy seemed deeper in the water now, and despite the sunshine on the other side of the windows, she sensed that storm was closing in fast.

* * *

NATE POSITIONED THE Phillips head drill bit into the crosshairs of a loose screw, wincing when it slipped and gouged his left thumb. “Nearly bored a hole clean through it,” he mumbled. “My own fault for letting my mind wander.”

On the other side of the stall gate, Patches bobbed his dark-maned head, as if in agreement.

“Okay, smart guy. I’d like to see how well you’d concentrate with a pretty filly running around in your head.”

The Paint only snorted and went back to munching contentedly from his eye-level hayrack.

“Nobody likes a smart aleck, y’know,” Nate said, moving the tool to the next loose screw in the hinge.

Fellow ranchers had accused him of spoiling his horses. “You treat them nags better’n I treat my wife!” Phil Nicks often joked. But Nate wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d personally drawn up the blueprints for the new barn that housed ten stalls, each with wrought iron gates, rails and yoke openings, swivel grain and water doors, and windows set high enough that the horses could stick their heads out to watch the goings-on outside. An insulating wall-to-wall rubber mattress system covered the floors, and oscillating fans helped circulate the air. Since the flicker of fluorescent bulbs made some of the horses jumpy, he used nothing but incandescents, purchased by the truckload when the government banned them in favor of swirled compact fluorescent, LED and halogen bulbs. Finally, at one end of the barn, he’d installed a wash bay, and across from that, a tack storage cubicle outfitted with saddle and bridle holders and swing-arm blanket racks.