1
RUBY WHITAKER
“Oh my god, Mary. It’s so, so good to see you.”
She stared at me like she’d seen a ghost.
Awkward.
It was okay, though. I hadn’t been back in a long time. She probably needed a moment to recognize me. I looked different now. Hell, I was different now. The big city will do that to you.
In my years away, I’d changed just about every aspect of myself that I could. Not that there was anything wrong with where I was from or who I used to be. I’d just wanted to leave everything about being from a ranch behind.
Like, really, really far behind.
“Mary, it’s me, Ruby,” I said to her still-blank face.
Mary, herself, was little changed. Her long black hair was newly scattered with tinsel-y silver, and her skin revealed a few lines that gave her a striking maturity. That was it. And even if the changes had been dramatic, I would have recognized her stout figure in the apron she’d worn for the twenty-plus years she’d served as my parents’ cook and general housekeeper.
“Ruby Lee,” she whispered, as if the words tasted strange in her mouth.
My stomach dropped. Mary was usually thrilled to see me come home. All my life, she’d not only been a member of my parents’ household staff, but also my default babysitter-slash-nanny while my parents were busy growing their ranch business. There’d been times when my brother and I had seen more of Mary than our mom and dad together.
Which had been fine. Even preferable. She spoiled us rotten.
Which made it even more strange that she was looking at me like she had no fucking idea what I was doing here.
“Mary, are you okay?”
I stepped over the threshold into the house. She didn’t step aside to let me enter, which put us in an awkwardly close proximity.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to block me from entering my own house.
“Um…” she stammered, continuing to stand her ground.
Oh my god. Had she had a stroke and no one told me? Or early-onset dementia?
I reached out, putting a hand on her arm. “Mary. It’s me, Ruby. The Whitakers’ daughter.”
That would jog her memory. Or jog something.
Her head twitched, and she blinked, clearing her throat. “Sorry, honey. I am just so surprised to see you. Here. At the ranch.”
Ohthankgod.
She was fine.
I stepped farther into the house, brushing against her since she still hadn’t made way for me to enter.
I wondered where my parents were. It was getting to be dinner time.
Now that I was fully in the foyer, I took a deep inhale, and the house, as it always had, smelled of cedar, pine, and something delicious cooking in the kitchen. I’d been driving for more than ten hours and was freaking starved, having eaten only Clif bars and Red Vines. From all the sugar, I felt like I had hair on my teeth.
I did a full three-sixty in my parents’ giant foyer, taking in the massive central staircase, exposed ceiling beams, and hunting trophies covering the walls. Nothing had changed, not even a little bit.
And I was thrilled.
I turned back to Mary, who, this time, put a hand on my arm.
“Honey. Can you wait here for just a second?”
Huh? Wait? In my own house?
But I didn’t want to be pushy. Or get off on the wrong foot. After all, it had been a while since I’d been around the ranch. I didn’t want to act like a brash New Yorker.
“Sure, Mary.”
She hustled off in the direction of my dad’s office, and while I waited I bounced up and down a little in my sneakers. I’d always wanted to surprise my parents by coming home unannounced.
They were going to be so thrilled to see me. I’d pictured their reaction during the whole cross-country drive.
I could see it now.
Mom would cry when she saw me.
Dad would shake his head and laugh. Maybe get a little choked up, but clear his throat really fast the way guys did.
They’d want to know what brought me home, how long I’d be staying, and whether or not I was hungry.
Some of their questions I’d put off answering. Like why the hell I was there.
I’d tell them later that I had to come back to Flood Creek. Because I had to leave New York. Later.
They’d throw their arms around me and squeeze until I couldn’t breathe. When they finally let go, Mom would offer me something to eat and Dad would go out to the car to get my stuff. We’d have an amazing dinner with yummy wine, thanks to Mary, and then we’d either watch a movie or play cards until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer.
I’d wake the next morning with the sun streaming in my bedroom, coffee brewing and bacon sizzling downstairs in the kitchen, where I’d wander wearing my flannel PJs and shearling slippers.
Like a real rancher’s daughter.
At least that’s what I pictured, until I realized the joke was on me. And it was a big, fat, fucking not-funny joke.
While waiting for whatever was taking Mary so freaking long to allow me into my own house, I wandered over to the credenza where my parents’ incoming mail was always kept.
Odd. It was empty. Not a newspaper or ranching magazine in sight.
And where were my mom’s usual vases of flowers?
They’d probably changed up their system, with the internet delivering everything digitally these days.
But still. My parents and the internet didn’t mix much. At least not that I was aware of.
“Um, Ruby Lee?” Mary asked from behind me.
My smile blazing, I whipped around, prepared to run into the arms of one or both of my parents.
Instead, my stomach dropped.
Standing before me with an expression that could best be described as what the fuck, was Roman Maxwell.
Our neighbor from the next ranch over.
I hadn’t seen him since I last babysat for his kids, long before I’d even left Flood Creek for college. He was still the handsome outdoorsman I remembered, with a splash more gray around the temples and deeper lines etched in his face.
And he was tall. So freaking tall.
Why was Roman Maxwell, who also happened to be my dad’s biggest enemy, in our house?
2
RUBY
“Mr. Maxwell…?” My voice came out like a strangled squeak, and I swallowed hard. I needed water.
“Ruby Lee,” he said, “could you come with me, please?”
He gestured in the direction of my father’s office.
Because I was so thoroughly thrown off by seeing him, I mutely followed, with Mary patting me on the back, entering the room where I used to do homework while my father read the paper.
“Have a seat,” he said, making himself at home behind my father’s desk.
Where were the family photos and other mementos my dad kept on display? The place had been wiped clean. But I spied the needlepoint pillow I’d made in 4-H on the crackled leather sofa between the bookcases. At least that was still there.
Dad would not be happy to know Roman Maxwell was behind his desk. But I wasn’t saying anything until I had a better idea of what the hell was going on.
Mary lingered in the doorway. I waved her in and pulled out the chair next to me so she’d take a seat. Having her close by was a comfort.