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“If you can be a grandmother to them, then I can be a doting aunt, lavishing gifts on them from afar and spoiling them outrageously. Like you, I will never have children of my own. The twins allow me to indulge in some of those deep maternal instincts all women have.”
Later that evening, Tara made much the same argument to Ty, before getting to the main purpose of her phone call, which was to apprise him of the progress the architect had made. An as-built blueprint of the barn, identifying all the existing mechanicals, was scheduled to be finished during the following week. Noah was already at work on some design sketches and hoped to have preliminary drawings ready for their review in three or four weeks.
As it turned out, it was closer to five weeks. Again the architect Noah Richardson arrived at the Triple C aboard Tara’s private jet, accompanied by its owner. Tara came along, as well, on the third and fourth trips.
The architect’s fifth visit, with final drawings in hand, coincided with fall roundup, one of the ranch’s busier times. In previous years, Jessy would have been in the thick of the gather. But a pair of cranky, teething twins had kept her sidelined at The Homestead.
Being housebound while all the activity was going on elsewhere combined with the stress of being confined with two irritable babies had given Jessy a bad case of cabin fever, complete with frayed nerves. When Old Joe Gibbs walked into The Homestead, toting that all-too-familiar Gucci luggage set under his arms, the sight of them cracked across her like a whip, shredding what little control she had of her temper.
Turning on her heel, Jessy charged into the kitchen, grabbed a set of truck keys off the board, and snapped at Sally, “Our company just arrived. You’ll have to deal with them. If the twins start crying again, let them.”
Startled by the sharpness in Jessy’s voice, Sally was slow to react. “But—where are you going?”
But the back door had already slammed shut behind Jessy.
“Jessy?” Joe Gibbs’s questioning voice came from the front of the house. “Hey, Jessy, where am I supposed to put these bags?”
Pushed into action by the call, Sally hurriedly wiped her hands on a towel and left the blueberry torte on the counter, unfinished, to hurry to the entry hall.
The minute the old ranch hand saw Sally, a gray eyebrow shot up. “What happened to Jessy? I swear, the very second she laid eyes on me, she took out of here like she’d been scalded.”
Tara’s timely entrance spared Sally from answering Joe’s question as she turned to greet the arriving guests. Through the opened front door came the sound of spinning tires and flying gravel.
Drawn by the noise, Tara stepped back into the doorway. “Good heavens, who is that?”
“Jessy.” Sally attempted to sound matter-of-fact.
Tara’s interest went up another notch. “Where is she going in such a hurry?”
“I’m not sure,” Sally admitted, showing her uncertainty. “I imagine she went to let Ty know you’re here. We’re in the middle of roundup, you know.”
“Yes, Ty mentioned it on the phone the other night. In fact, I had my pilot fly over the gather so Noah could have a
bird’s-eye view of a genuine roundup. But from the air, you can’t get a true sense of the noise, dust, and confusion of the real thing. I’m hoping we will have time to slip away for an afternoon so he can see it all up close.”
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy it,” Sally agreed even as her glance slid in the direction of the speeding pickup, a detail Tara noticed with her usual perceptiveness. The woman was clearly bothered by Jessy’s sudden and hasty departure. Tara’s curiosity over it was aroused as well.
Spurred by a nameless fury, Jessy drove at a reckless pace, mindless of the dust cloud billowing behind her. She was halfway to the Broken Butte area before she remembered they had finished the gather there and moved to Wolf Meadow. Slamming on the brakes, she fishtailed to a stop, threw the truck into reverse, turned around in the middle of the road, and took off again in the opposite direction.
By the time she reached the Wolf Meadow section, her anger had cooled to a slow burn. Leaving the ranch road, she followed twin tracks of flattened grass, left by the motorized cookshack and horse trailers, to the gathering point. Avoiding the branding area, she headed for the cookshack. As she neared the picket line, Jessy spotted a weary horse and rider coming toward her and rolled down the window.
“Hey, stranger,” Ballard greeted her with a tuckered smile. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you out and about.”
Jessy didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Where’s Ty?”
Ballard reined in his horse, surprise flickering in his expression. “You should have passed him on the way here. He left about twenty—maybe thirty minutes ago, right after he saw the plane fly over.” If anything, the kindness in his eyes took on an even gentler quality. “She’s back, isn’t she?”
His remark ignited a fresh spark of anger. Clamping her mouth shut, Jessy spun the steering wheel in a circle and jammed her foot on the accelerator to jolt back across the uneven grassland to the road.
Ballard watched her, recognizing the show of temper for what it was. Jessy had her back up. That didn’t happen often, and he had never known it to occur without cause.
It didn’t take much guessing to lay a finger on where the trouble was, although he was hesitant to put the blame on Tara. She was a she-cat, all right, one who clearly had designs on sinking her claws back into Ty. Everyone on the Triple C saw it. Ballard didn’t fault Tara for that; it would be like trying to blame a polecat for stinking.
But Ty—that was another matter. Ballard had never put much truck in him. Ty was a Calder by birth, born out of wedlock in California. He was fifteen years old before he ever set foot on the Triple C to claim his birthright. It had taken time, but Ty had eventually adapted to his new home and a new way of life. But Ty hadn’t lost all his California ways. That was clear to Ballard as well, certain that it had to be California thinking that would prompt a man to welcome an ex-wife into his home.
With a small, disgusted movement of his head, Ballard reined his horse away from the sight of the departing pickup and walked it to the picket line.
The aroma of baking ham, drenched with honey, wafted in the air when Jessy swept into the kitchen. The oven door stood open with Sally bent over the roaster pan, basting the ham with its sweetened juices. She straightened, with a glance over her shoulder, when Jessy walked in.
