A Ranch to Come Home To
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Marie Ferrarella
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Prologue
The knock on his front door caught Mike Robertson by surprise. It was after six. He hardly ever had guests come by his ranch even in the daytime, much less at this hour.
Since his wife, Amanda, had died several years ago, it felt as if all meaningful life had come a grinding halt. The sun had certainly gone out of his world...in more ways than one.
Ever since his only son, Ryan, had been a teenager, he and Ryan seemed to do nothing but lock horns at every opportunity. Without Amanda to act as a peacemaker, things had gone from bad to worse, until one day, he woke up to find that his son was gone.
After a fruitless search, Mike gave up looking for his son and forced himself to focus on running the ranch that had been in the family ever since his father had inherited it from his father. Ryan, he had convinced himself, would come back on his own in time.
The knock on the door came again.
For just a second, he thought it might be Ryan. But it hadn’t happened so far, no reason to believe that it would now. Probably had to be one of the three ranch hands who worked for him, Mike decided. Given the hour, something had to be wrong. Hoping it was nothing serious, Mike got up from the kitchen table and made his way to the front door.
Sometimes, the ranch was more trouble than it was worth, he thought. Maybe he should just sell it and be done with it.
Yeah, and where would you go? Mike asked himself. Like the town’s name implied, he had lived in Forever, Texas, all of his life. Not only that, but Amanda was also buried here.
He wasn’t about to leave Amanda. Or the ranch. It was in his blood.
“Face it, old man,” he murmured. “You’re going to live and die here, just like your daddy did and his daddy before him.”
The knocking grew more urgent just as he heard the crack of thunder. The brewing storm was all but on his doorstep.
Mike blew out a breath. Ever since his horse had thrown him over a year ago, he didn’t get around nearly as fast as he used to and that really irritated him. It reminded him that he was getting old.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your shirt on,” he called out, preparing to give whichever one of his ranch hands was on the other side of his door a piece of his mind. At this point, he felt that the racket that was being created could have raised the dead.
Finally reaching the front door, Mike yanked it open. The words “This had better be good” were just out of Mike’s mouth when he found himself looking not at one of his ranch hands, but at a total stranger. An extremely wet, pregnant total stranger who looked as if she should have given birth at least a week ago.
Normally, he would have guessed that the weary-looking, dark-haired woman had the wrong house and would have said as much, but closer scrutiny showed him that the young woman wasn’t just wet, she was perspiring. Not only that, but she also looked to be very unsteady on her feet.
Half a dozen reasons for her sudden, unexpected appearance ran through his head, the most logical of which was that she had run out of gas and needed help.
Mike couldn’t ignore the young woman’s flushed face. He had never been much for stilted politeness. He had more of a take-charge personality. It was one of the things that he and Ryan had clashed over more times than he could remember.
“Come in,” he told her gruffly, gesturing into his home. When she swayed slightly, he was instantly concerned. Taking her arm, he led her inside, hoping she wouldn’t pass out.
Not for the first—or last—time, he wished that Amanda was here.
“You want some water?” he asked once he had planted the pregnant woman in his armchair in the living room. He caught himself thinking that at her present girth, she easily filled all of it.
“Water would be very nice,” the young woman told him, managing a weak smile.
Mike moved as quickly as he was able, going to the kitchen and filling a glass, then hurrying back with it.
He noticed that her hands were shaking as she took the glass from him and then raised it to her lips.
She all but drained it.
“Hey, steady now.” Mike put his hand on the glass to slow her down. “I don’t want you drowning.” He was only half kidding.
Mike waited until she had swallowed and was able to talk. Looking at her with concern, the owner of the small cattle-and-horse ranch asked, “Is there anyone you want me to call for you? Someone who can come help you get home?”
The young woman was pretty despite the wet hair clinging to her cheeks. She shook her head.
“No,” she whispered to him. “There isn’t anyone.”
Mike couldn’t accept that as an answer. The dormant father in him rose to the surface. The pregnant woman in his armchair hadn’t gotten that way by herself. There had to be a lover or boyfriend, or someone responsible for her condition, in the picture somewhere. Right now, Mike was willing to drag that errant man back here by the scruff of his neck to face his responsibility.
Studying the sad look on her face, Mike insisted, “There has to be someone, little girl. Tell me where he is.”
The young woman’s eyes rested on him and for some reason, a very strange feeling undulated through him.
A premonition.
“That’s what I’m hoping for, Mr. Robertson,” she finally said.
Mike looked at her, the uneasy feeling he was experiencing growing. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
The silence was almost deafening as he waited for the young woman to speak.
She took a deep breath before finally answering.
“Ryan told me.” She saw Mike’s eyes widen. “Just before he was deployed. I’m your daughter-in-law. Rita. Rita Robertson,” she told him. “And these,” she went on, cupping her hands lightly against her very large belly, “are your grandbabies.”
