sat up a little straighter and tuned in.
“I’ve got to admit, I was worried about something bad happening last night, but it was quiet,” Amy said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Deputy Binderman stopped by this morning at first light to check on us, but he’d come and gone before the guests woke, so we didn’t have to worry about explaining the presence of a squad car in the driveway.”
“Good. I’m glad he checked on you. Remind me again what the guests’ names are before we get home.”
“The Westenbergs are Gary and Barbara, with their kids, April and Billy.”
“Are those the teenagers?”
“No. You’re thinking of the Moores. Howard and Elsie are the parents. Christina and Robbie are the teens.”
Rachel grimaced, sorry she’d asked. She didn’t mind sharing her home with the inn’s guests as much as she’d thought she would. She wasn’t inside all that often to begin with, and whenever she needed space, there was plenty of open pasture outside her door.
But with so many folks coming and going, she was hard-pressed to remember anyone’s faces, much less their names. Amy gave her a daily briefing, but mostly, she got a free pass from being a hostess as long as she stuck to the role of resident cowgirl. She’d practically worked up a Texas drawl with all the howdys and y’alls she tossed around in front of the guests.
It was just her luck that when the travel magazine sent a journalist to review Heritage Farm in February, she highlighted Rachel as one of the main spectacles, or as the journalist called her, “A real live cowgirl who looked plucked from the history books of the Wild West.” Rachel didn’t think cowgirls plucked out of history would be carrying cell phones and GPS navigators on their belts, but there was no arguing with the uptick in business the farm received once the article came out. Never in a million years would she have guessed the financial future of her ranch hinged in part on her abilities as an actress. Such was life.
At least she’d get an acting break when the inn closed for the summer months.
“We’ve kept a real close eye on them,” Amy said.
“Who?”
“The Westenbergs and Moores, silly. That pain medication you’re on is making you loopy.”
Rachel grunted. She didn’t have the heart to tell Amy she wasn’t on any pain meds, and her lack of focus was more because she talked so dang much that Rachel couldn’t help but activate her mental mute button.
“. . . and Kellan and I gave the workers a big speech about not letting them wander off too far. Today they went on a tour of Chris and Lisa’s dairy, then Mr. Dixon was taking them to Main Street for some shopping.”
The inn had been Jenna’s idea, the restaurant, Amy’s. Their father’s death a year and a half ago left the sisters with a pile of bills and no money to pay them with, so Jenna proposed the transformation of their home into a dude ranch as a way to save the property from foreclosure.
Rachel had vehemently opposed the idea. She’d argued that she needed solitude—her mental health downright required it—and having their home crawling with tourists sounded like hell on earth. More importantly, if the sisters got busy creating a new business, Rachel had argued, who would keep an eye on Mom?
What a bitter piece of irony that question turned out to be.
“What are you thinking about?” Amy asked, cutting into Rachel’s thoughts.
She blinked, looking around. She hadn’t noticed the car had stopped in front of their house. “Nothin’. Why?”
“You were staring at the porch, scowling. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of remodeling it. I know it could use a fresh coat of paint, but we’ve got enough going on with the wedding in less than three months.”
She took the out Amy provided. “Needs more than a coat of paint. The wood’s rotting through on some of those rails. You say it doesn’t matter for the wedding, but half the Catcher Creek population is going to
“I’ve got to admit, I was worried about something bad happening last night, but it was quiet,” Amy said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Deputy Binderman stopped by this morning at first light to check on us, but he’d come and gone before the guests woke, so we didn’t have to worry about explaining the presence of a squad car in the driveway.”
“Good. I’m glad he checked on you. Remind me again what the guests’ names are before we get home.”
“The Westenbergs are Gary and Barbara, with their kids, April and Billy.”
“Are those the teenagers?”
“No. You’re thinking of the Moores. Howard and Elsie are the parents. Christina and Robbie are the teens.”
Rachel grimaced, sorry she’d asked. She didn’t mind sharing her home with the inn’s guests as much as she’d thought she would. She wasn’t inside all that often to begin with, and whenever she needed space, there was plenty of open pasture outside her door.
But with so many folks coming and going, she was hard-pressed to remember anyone’s faces, much less their names. Amy gave her a daily briefing, but mostly, she got a free pass from being a hostess as long as she stuck to the role of resident cowgirl. She’d practically worked up a Texas drawl with all the howdys and y’alls she tossed around in front of the guests.
It was just her luck that when the travel magazine sent a journalist to review Heritage Farm in February, she highlighted Rachel as one of the main spectacles, or as the journalist called her, “A real live cowgirl who looked plucked from the history books of the Wild West.” Rachel didn’t think cowgirls plucked out of history would be carrying cell phones and GPS navigators on their belts, but there was no arguing with the uptick in business the farm received once the article came out. Never in a million years would she have guessed the financial future of her ranch hinged in part on her abilities as an actress. Such was life.
At least she’d get an acting break when the inn closed for the summer months.
“We’ve kept a real close eye on them,” Amy said.
“Who?”
“The Westenbergs and Moores, silly. That pain medication you’re on is making you loopy.”
Rachel grunted. She didn’t have the heart to tell Amy she wasn’t on any pain meds, and her lack of focus was more because she talked so dang much that Rachel couldn’t help but activate her mental mute button.
“. . . and Kellan and I gave the workers a big speech about not letting them wander off too far. Today they went on a tour of Chris and Lisa’s dairy, then Mr. Dixon was taking them to Main Street for some shopping.”
The inn had been Jenna’s idea, the restaurant, Amy’s. Their father’s death a year and a half ago left the sisters with a pile of bills and no money to pay them with, so Jenna proposed the transformation of their home into a dude ranch as a way to save the property from foreclosure.
Rachel had vehemently opposed the idea. She’d argued that she needed solitude—her mental health downright required it—and having their home crawling with tourists sounded like hell on earth. More importantly, if the sisters got busy creating a new business, Rachel had argued, who would keep an eye on Mom?
What a bitter piece of irony that question turned out to be.
“What are you thinking about?” Amy asked, cutting into Rachel’s thoughts.
She blinked, looking around. She hadn’t noticed the car had stopped in front of their house. “Nothin’. Why?”
“You were staring at the porch, scowling. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of remodeling it. I know it could use a fresh coat of paint, but we’ve got enough going on with the wedding in less than three months.”
She took the out Amy provided. “Needs more than a coat of paint. The wood’s rotting through on some of those rails. You say it doesn’t matter for the wedding, but half the Catcher Creek population is going to
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