The Rancher's Lullaby

“Everyone knows what an awful time this has been for you. We’re all glad you came back home from Atlanta after...” Sympathy swam in Ty’s eyes.

Garrett brushed a speck of dirt from his jeans. In the ten months since the funeral, he’d grown tired of the sympathetic looks, the understanding gestures. He waited while a thick silence filled the room. It dragged on until Ty cleared his throat.

“Even with your mom helping out, I don’t know how you’ve managed. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Sarah.” The owner’s gaze drifted to the door, where it lingered. “But no matter what you’re going through,” he said, his focus honing in, “I have a responsibility to our guests and employees. And I’m hearing things I don’t like much. That you’ve been hard on the men. That you’re takin’ chances. I know you well enough to know that’s not like you, so I have to ask...have you been drinking?”

“What?” Garrett shifted in his chair. He hadn’t gotten drunk, hadn’t even sipped enough rotgut to get a buzz. Not since the days immediately following Arlene’s funeral. At the thought of his late wife, though, the empty spot in the pit of his stomach burned. Garrett rubbed his fingers along the edge of his Stetson. “I might pour two fingers if I can’t sleep at night. But never at work. And never, ever, if I’m going to get behind the wheel.”

“Good to know.”

“As for the men, I don’t ride ’em any harder than I did my students.” Twice he’d been nominated for Teacher of the Year, but he’d lost interest in teaching high school while gravediggers were still shoveling dirt over his wife’s casket. “I thought you wanted to talk about the fall roundup,” he said, trying to shift the focus off him.

“Right, right. Just know that, if you need anything, someone to talk to—someone to yell at, even—I’m here for you. We all are. Your mom and your brothers, too.”

And how would that help? Ty and Sarah Parker had never experienced his kind of loss. Garrett prayed they never would. As for his mom, she and his dad had spent forty-plus years building memories together, while he and Arlene had their whole lives ahead of them when hers had been cut short. Too short. Two of his four brothers had found love, not lost it, during their stints as managers of the Circle P. That left the twins, Randy and Royce. But even if they hadn’t been in their twenties and too young to grasp the concept of losing a wife in childbirth, they were on the other side of the country—in Montana—till the first of the year.

A tightness he’d grown accustomed to worked its way across his chest. Deliberately Garrett took a breath. “Look, I’ve got Dad’s notes. I’ll go over ’em, and if I’ve got any questions, we can talk, but I really don’t expect any problems. There’s been a roundup on the Circle P since long before you and I were born. The men and I, we know the drill.”

“Things have changed now that we’ve got paying guests.” Ty leaned back in his chair. “It takes more time, preparation...everything. We can’t have too many people ridin’ herd on one cow, so we’re gonna have to break into groups. You’ll need to think about which ranch hands are responsible enough to take charge. And then there’s supplies. We have to lay in enough food and beverages, make sure the cooks know about any special dietary requirements and the like.”

Garrett let his brow furrow. “How many people are we talkin’ about?” When he was a kid, roundups had been family affairs involving the Parkers, the Judds and a few ranch hands. But Ty’s efforts to draw wannabe cowboys to the ranch had saved the Circle P from bankruptcy and turned it into a thriving concern.

Ty consulted his notes. “A family from New York—Jake and Melinda Brown and their two daughters, Carolyn and Krissy—signed on this morning. That brings us to thirty guests. That’s pretty much all we can handle. We’ll leave a skeleton crew here at the homestead. Everybody else—another thirty or more—will come on the trail with us.”

Garrett whistled. Taking sixty people on a week-long trek through the wilds of south Florida was a big undertaking. No wonder Ty was concerned. He set his hat on the chair beside him and leaned forward. “Anything in particular I should start workin’ on now?”

“Well, there’s the horses. It won’t do to put an inexperienced rider on, say, Ranger.” Ty’s stallion had a temperamental streak. “Our guests fill out a questionnaire when they register. I’ve got those right here...somewhere.” He thumbed through several stacks of paper before he found the right folder and handed it over.

Garrett scanned blanks filled in by a fifty-year-old stock broker from Boston with no riding experience whatsoever. “Shadow’ll be right for him,” he suggested.

With one guest down and twenty-nine to go, he brushed a shock of dark hair out of his eyes and settled down to work. Once each rider had been matched with the right mount, he and Ty coordinated the side trips and other events. A fishing expedition paved the way into a fish fry. Ty added steak to the menu on the night of the posthole digging competition. He scratched chicken off the list the day a group went bird-watching in the ’Glades. They were still at it when a knock at the door interrupted them.

“Come in,” Ty called.

Garrett took advantage of the break to glance at the clock on the wall. He blinked in sudden awareness that two hours had passed since he’d been shanghaied into the owner’s office. Guilt clawed at him for going so long without giving his late wife a single thought.

“Ty, I have the bills and receipts from today’s trip into town.” Stepping into the office, Doris handed a sheaf of papers to the owner. Her forehead creased as she spotted Garrett, and she folded her arms across a wrinkled shirt that sported a damp, whitish spot on one shoulder. “I was just getting ready to feed LJ his supper. Unless you want to do it?”

As hard as he tried, Garrett couldn’t entirely ignore the signs of fatigue etched into his mother’s face. Her pale blue eyes had taken on a watery look in the months since Arlene’s death. Yellow tinged the strands of once-white hair that, these days, often escaped her signature braid. Well past retirement age, she had no business serving as a full-time mom to his little boy, even if she had raised five sons of her own. But the alternative—holding LJ, playing with him, feeding him and changing his diaper—was more than Garrett could handle. He swallowed a wave of fresh guilt and said what he had to say. “We’re kinda busy here, Mom.”

“I can see that.” Doris’s full lips thinned into a stern look that dredged up childhood memories of getting into trouble with his brothers. “Garrett...” she began.

“You want the office?” Ty offered. “We’re ’bout done. I can leave if you two need to talk.”

Doris hesitated a second longer. With a sigh, she said, “Don’t bother. I’m not going to stay long. I just wanted to let you know I met someone in town today. Lisa Rose. She used to sing with that group, ’Skeeter Creek.” Doris pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. “I invited her to join us for dessert tomorrow night.”

The Circle P was so well known for its hospitality that Ty only took the yellow sheet Doris handed across and studied it. The tiny line between his eyes deepened when he finished. “I remember her from the party at the Barlowe place. Tall, slender, great voice. You say she’s moved to Okeechobee?” He scratched his head.

“She took over that empty space on Parrot. You remember the one?” At Ty’s nod, Doris continued. “I hear she’s spiffed up the place. Gave it a new name. Strummin’ Time.” She pushed a loose strand of hair off her face. “Something like that.”

Garrett scanned the paper Ty passed along. “Pickin’ Strings,” he corrected. He glanced at the photo of a fair-haired woman with angular cheekbones set in a heart-shaped face. A frown tugged at his lips. “She seems a little citified for our parts. Probably won’t stick around.”

“She’s a bluegrass singer,” his mother countered. “I’m sure she’ll fit in.”

Garrett took a second look at the image of a woman with long wavy hair and dark eyes. Whether the newcomer stayed or moved on was really no concern of his. Standing, he clamped his hat back on his head. “Let me have a chance to look over my notes about the roundup and I’ll catch you later, Ty. If you’ll excuse me now—” he nodded to his mom “—I have some chores to finish before supper.”

And as he had every night for the last ten months, he left his young son in his mother’s capable hands while he made himself scarce.

* * *

LISA’S SANDALS SLAPPED against the planks of the wooden porch. From somewhere nearby, night-blooming jasmine added its fragrance to a heady, sweet smell that drifted down from flower pots hung along the eaves. She sniffed, her head filling with images of islands and swaying palm trees. She stood for a minute while uncertainty tugged at her. Had she done the right thing by accepting an invitation from a complete stranger?

She glanced around, her unease fading. The Circle P looked like exactly what it claimed to be, a working ranch. A summer sunset reflected off an unpainted barn that had aged to a graceful gray. Sturdy pens and corrals spread out on either side of the large building like wings. On the porch, comfortable rockers and chairs invited people to stay and sit a while. Cedar logs and tall picture windows lent the ranch a sense of permanence that was so different from her own experiences she felt a little misty-eyed.

When she was a kid, she used to dream of living in a house like this one. Of playing Little League or having sleepovers. Instead, she’d climbed into an RV so loaded down with instruments and equipment there was barely room for her parents, brother, sisters and the dog. Crowded cheek-to-jowl, her family had spent months on the road, playing in an endless succession of one-night gigs and music festivals. She’d met Brad on one of those long tours. Their time together had been more of the same. So, no, permanence, wasn’t part of her vocabulary. She flicked her braid behind her and wondered if, now that she’d moved to Okeechobee, it could be.

Not at all certain that was what she wanted, she rapped on the front door. She’d barely had a chance to count out four beats when a slim redhead answered. “You must be Lisa Rose. Doris said you were coming. I’m Sarah Parker. Welcome to the Circle P.” The pert hostess pulled the door wider.

“You have a beautiful place,” Lisa said, meaning every word. She gestured toward the hanging pots. “Someone has a green thumb.”

“Don’t they smell divine?” Sarah’s smile deepened. “We raise plumeria and orchids in the greenhouse. It’s a side business I started soon after Ty and I got married. Now we ship all over the country.”

Lisa held out a plate she’d wrapped in plastic. “I’m not much of a gardener. Or a cook.” Boiling water was the extent of her culinary skills. “I picked these up from the bakery near Pickin’ Strings. I hope they’re all right.”

Sarah studied the small mountain of cookies. “Oh, my favorites. Oops.” She clamped a hand over her mouth as equal parts humor and concern danced in a pair of hazel eyes. “Better not let any of our cooks hear me say that.”

“It’ll be our secret,” Lisa said, warming to the woman who pushed past her outstretched hand to wrap her in a light embrace. She caught a slightly deeper fragrance of tropical flowers before the slim figure withdrew, carrying both the scent and the plate with her.

“Come on in,” Sarah said. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the family.” Leaving the cookies on a nearby table, Sarah led the way across polished cedar floors to a pair of comfortable-looking leather couches that flanked a massive stone fireplace.

“Lisa, this is my husband Ty Parker,” Sarah said as the group seated in the chairs stood.

Reading a warm welcome in the dark eyes of the man with sandy hair, Lisa smiled in return. “Thank you so much for letting me come tonight.”

“We’re glad to have you.” Tiny crows’ feet at the corners of Ty’s eyes deepened as he prodded the young boy at his side forward. “This is Jimmy. Say hello, son.”

“Hi!” The freckle-faced kid aimed a toothy grin her way. Somewhat awkwardly, he reached out. “Pleased to meet you.”

“What a handsome young man,” Lisa said as they shook hands.

When Jimmy’s cheeks reddened and he stepped back, Ty clapped a hand on the back of the man beside him. “Lisa, meet Garrett Judd, manager of the Circle P. It was his mom you spoke with in town yesterday.” He turned to the taller man. “Where is Doris?”

Garrett’s lips thinned. “She’ll be down in a minute,” he all but growled.

“Hi,” Lisa said, and gave herself points for keeping her bright smile in place despite the man’s dark look. “You must be Bree’s dad. She’s a sweetie.”

Garrett’s scowl only deepened. “Bree’s my niece. My brother Colt’s daughter.”

“Oh.” Lisa searched the other faces in the room for clues to the reason for this man’s curtness, but Jimmy had Sarah’s attention, while Ty only gave the manager a bland stare. She pressed forward. “And LJ?”

“He’s mine,” Garrett announced plainly.

Lisa tried to ignore the longing that stirred whenever the conversation turned to babies. “He’s adorable. But I’m sure you and your wife hear that all the time.”

Like an awkwardly constructed song, silence stretched out for several beats before Garrett stuck out his hand. No warm hugs from him, Lisa thought. The guy had attitude written all over him. Which didn’t keep her from appreciating the thick black hair that drifted onto his forehead, the clean lines of a square face, or the fact that, even at five-ten, she had to look up to meet his blue eyes. Blue eyes that pinned her with an icy stare.

She swallowed as her palm met his. A single pump and Garrett broke the contact, making her wonder why the long fingers and rough calluses of such an obvious grouch sent a prickle of awareness up her arm.

Jimmy broke the tension that swirled through the room by tugging on his dad’s shirt sleeve. “Can I go say goodnight to Niceta now?”

Glad for the excuse to look away from Mr. Tall, Dark and Brooding, Lisa turned her attention to the boy. “Niceta? That’s a pretty name.”

“She’s my horse,” Jimmy said, his chest puffing out the tiniest bit. “I’m raising her all by myself. Aren’t I, Dad?”

“Maybe with a little help from time to time.” Ty gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Have you finished your homework? Brushed your teeth?” When his son nodded, he continued, “All right, but don’t dawdle. You have school tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t.” Jimmy ran out the door with the exuberance that only a young boy could muster.

“School?” Lisa frowned. She’d need to move forward with her plans to offer music lessons if the local schools were in session already. “They start before Labor Day down here?”

Sarah stepped in. “Mid-August.”

“Because of hurricane season,” Ty added. “If we get a big one, the kids are likely to miss a week of class. Maybe longer.”

“But not this year, right?” Sarah leaned down to rap on the wooden coffee table. Rising, she met Lisa’s eyes. “You don’t have children?”

“No,” Lisa said, unable to mask a wistful look. “We tried—well, everything—before my husband and I separated.” She summoned a hopeful smile. “Maybe one day.”

“I give thanks for Jimmy and our foster children, Chris and Tim.” Sarah cleared her throat and looked at her husband. “Speaking of which, don’t you think you ought to keep Jimmy company, Ty? Otherwise, you know he’ll be out there all night.”

“What can I say?” Ty shrugged, looking only slightly abashed. “He’s a Parker. He loves horses. We all do.” He grabbed a cowboy hat from a peg near the entry. “Lisa, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a bit.”

The door barely clicked shut behind him before footsteps on the balcony overlooking the great room drew Lisa’s attention. She stared in dismay as Doris emerged from a room carrying LJ. Her plans to arrive long after the baby was down for the night in shambles, Lisa stifled a groan.

“You’re here! I’m so glad you came.” Doris hurried down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other hugging her grandson. She reached the bottom step and made a beeline for her son. “Here, hold him for a minute,” she said, thrusting the boy into Garrett’s hands.

Two seconds later, with Doris’s fleshy arms enveloping her, Lisa wondered how long it would take to adjust to the Southern habit of exchanging hugs instead of handshakes.

Stepping back, Garrett’s mother surveyed the group. “I see you’ve met everyone. Did anyone offer you something to drink? Iced tea or coffee? Something stronger?”

Lisa swept a glance at the collection of coffee cups and tall glasses on the low table between the couches. “An iced tea would be nice.”

“I’ll get it,” Garrett said abruptly.

Dangling from his father’s stiff arms, the baby kicked pajama-clad feet. The urge to cradle the little one against her chest surged within Lisa, but the boy’s dad held his child as if he was afraid he might get a bit of drool on the cowboy shirt that stretched tightly across an impressive chest. At length, he took a deep breath and leaned in just far enough to plant a single, graceless kiss on the baby’s smooth forehead. When LJ beamed wetly at him, Lisa swore something flickered in the man’s blue eyes. But instead of cuddling his young son, Garrett’s expression hardened until the muscles along his jaw pulsed. The baby twisted, the fabric of his pj’s slipping until it bunched around tiny shoulders. His little face crumpled.

Before LJ could cry, Garrett shoved the boy toward Doris. “Take him,” he said, his voice gruff.

Emotion deepened the lines on Doris’s face in the brief moment before she reached for the child. “C’mere, LJ,” she cooed at last. “That’s my sweetheart.”

Watching the interplay, Lisa fought to keep her own expression neutral, her confusion hidden. How could a father be so harsh with his own flesh and blood when she’d have given all the money she had—all the money she’d ever have—for a baby of her own?

Garrett’s boot heels clomped noisily across the wooden floor.

“You’ll have to excuse my son,” Doris whispered as she turned her back on the retreating figure. “He lost his wife soon after this little one was born.” She patted the plump bottom of the baby anchored to her ample hip. “Garrett, he’s still struggling.”

“Oh.” Powerless to stop it, Lisa let her mouth gape. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. Sympathy and shame lanced through her. “I had no idea. I never would have said...” Or thought. Her voice faded into nothingness.

“How could you know?” Sarah asked. “We’ve been walking on eggshells around him ever since, but even we say things that dredge up the past.”

Doris swiped at her eyes. “I’m just going to tuck LJ in, and I’ll be back.” A shuddery breath eased out of her. “Then, you can tell us all about yourself.”

Left alone with the owner’s wife, Lisa cast about for a topic far away from babies and their fathers. At last she pointed to a guitar that hung from a soft leather strap on the wall. “Who plays?” she asked.

“Ty used to strum a little.” Sarah sank onto the couch. She picked up a napkin from the coffee table and slid it under one of the glasses. A soft smile played about her lips. “He was sitting at the campfire, playing a song when I first realized I’d fallen for him.”

Lisa nodded. That ability to reach people on an emotional level was one of the things she liked best about performing.

Sarah blinked, and the dreamy look faded from her face. “Garrett, he plays some, too.”

But talking about the tall, wounded rancher was exactly what Lisa didn’t want to do. Abandoning the guitar, she wove her way through an eclectic mix of chairs and couches toward a banjo on the opposite side of the fireplace. “It’s not often you find one with a calfskin head,” she said, eyeing the round bottom half. “These days, most people use synthetic because it lasts longer. Do you mind?”

At Sarah’s acquiescent shrug, Lisa lifted the instrument from the wall. She took a minute to admire the mother-of-pearl inlays and gold-plated hardware, but frowned at the smudge marks her fingers left on the dust-covered fingerboard. A muted thump echoed through the room when she tapped the skin. She plucked the strings, her dissatisfaction deepening with each sour note. The banjo was badly out of tune, the head stretched, possibly beyond repair.

“I see you found my husband’s banjo. Do you pick?” Doris asked on her way down the stairs. From somewhere in the house, the baby wailed.

Despite LJ’s cries, Lisa caught the faint hope in the woman’s voice. “I’m a fair hand,” she answered the same way Tiger Woods might admit he played a little golf.

“I haven’t heard anyone pluck those old strings since...” Doris plopped onto one of the couches, a faraway look filling her pale eyes. She snapped back quickly. “Of my five boys, Hank’s the only one who took up the banjo. He can manage simple tunes, but he hasn’t had much free time since he and Kelly took over the Bar X.”

“That’s a mighty fine instrument to let collect dust.” Lisa brushed her fingers down the rosewood neck. “I can take it into my shop if you’d like. Tighten the head or replace it, if need be. A new set of strings will make a world of difference.”

“It’s fine just the way it is.” Returning from the kitchen carrying a glass of tea, Garrett’s long strides quickly ate up the space between them. Grasping the banjo, he stepped so close Lisa caught the faintest whiff of aftershave mixed with the not unpleasant smell of a man who’d spent a large part of his day outdoors.

Lisa eyed the strong, male fingers that clutched the instrument. Getting into a tug of war with Garrett was not where she wanted to go this evening. Even as Doris asked her to play a tune, she relinquished her grip.

“There’s no such thing as playing a banjo softly,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t want to disturb the baby.” Not that it mattered. From the sound of his cries, it’d be a long time before LJ settled down for the night.

But Doris’s crestfallen look stirred a desire to offer up a compromise. Daring him to argue, Lisa hiked a brow at Garrett. “They say you play the guitar. Do you know ‘Angels Rock Me to Sleep’?” The old standard was a favorite with most novices.

The man had the audacity to grunt before, acting as if he was marching to the guillotine, he traded the banjo for the guitar. The moment he strummed the strings, though, his demeanor shifted. He leaned in, focusing on the music, the tension and anger literally melting from his face.

She’d definitely had worse accompaniment, Lisa thought as she sang the uncomplicated melody. Calling on long-honed skills, she compensated whenever Garrett skipped a note or ran into a timing issue. As they ended the song, she smiled at him. Her breath caught as something shifted in his blue eyes in the instant before he looked away. She coughed, hoping to dislodge an unwanted reaction to the brusque cowboy. Despite her efforts, sensations she hadn’t felt in far too long shot through her, and she straightened.

“Imagine that.” Doris’s awed voice whispered into the quiet that filled the room as the last notes faded. “Sounds like LJ drifted off. He never goes to sleep that easy.”

“That was lovely, just lovely,” Sarah added from her perch on the arm of one of the couches. She glanced at the doorway, where Ty and Jimmy stood. A knowing look passed between the owners of the ranch before Sarah said, “I think she’ll be perfect for the roundup, don’t you?”

Lisa tugged her braid over one shoulder and ran her fingers through the ends. “What roundup?” she asked. And what does it have to do with me?

Ty crossed the room to his wife’s side. “People from all over the country come to the Circle P’s annual fall roundup. Each evening, after supper, we usually provide some kind of entertainment. We thought you might like the job.”

Garrett shot Ty a challenging glance. “What’s wrong with sitting around the campfire, swapping stories and singing songs like we’ve always done?”

Across the room, Doris’s lips pursed. “Someone would have to lead the group. None of the ranch hands are particularly talented. Ty’s too busy. And you haven’t touched a guitar in—” her voice faltered “—in nearly a year.”