Hands tight on the steering wheel, he mentally ticked off points for the thousandth time—as if repetition might alter things. His parents were dead, and that wasn't going to change. He and his two brothers were in charge of the ranch now, and according to their parents' will, all three of them had to live on the ranch for a full year before the estate could be properly settled, unless a particular set of extenuating circumstances presented itself. Initially, the oldest brother, Trevor, had carried the burden while Randy and Carson had tied up loose ends in their lives. Now, however, Trevor was married to Lacey with a new baby on the way and two businesses to take care of. He still helped care for the McCall ranch when he could spare the time, but these days Randy bore most of the responsibility, at least when Carson was away at one of his rodeo circuit stints.
Randy’s frustrated thoughts broke off as he pulled up in front of the Fincher farm's main house, and he let out a low whistle. “No wonder they’re calling her crazy,” he said quietly.
Randy had dim memories of visiting the Fincher farm a time or two with his parents and brothers when he was small, but it certainly hadn't looked then the way it did now. The house itself was a rambling, two-story structure, with porches on both the first and second stories. He remembered playing up on that second-floor balcony with one of the Fincher boys, tossing water balloons down onto the heads of their unsuspecting victims. The way it looked now, though, there was no way that someone, even a child, could stand on that balcony without falling through. The whole house appeared to be sorely in need of attention, like a thoroughly exhausted person caving in on himself. What was left of the formerly white paint, peeling off in small sheets, had a decidedly gray tint. Nothing about the house screamed "this is a place I want to live," and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why the "crazy lady" would have gotten it in her head to purchase the place. He understood even less when two little kids came barreling out through the rickety front door, slapping at each other as they went.
“No!” the angelic blonde girl screeched, flailing at the boy coming after her at top speed. “Don’t touch me, Andy!”
Andy, a shorter-haired copy of the girl, proceeded to do the opposite of what his sister demanded. He grabbed for her hair with his grubby little hands, crowing with delight as his fingers caught hold. The girl shrieked again, louder this time, then burst into loud, unhappy sobs.
"Good lord, isn't anybody taking care of them?" Randy grumbled, climbing out of his truck and heading toward the porch steps. He was looking forward to the arrival of Trevor and Lacey's kid, but otherwise, he preferred to keep children at arm's length.
"That's enough, both of you!" shouted a harried-sounding female voice from inside the house. Seconds later, the screen door banged open, and a woman Randy could only assume was the children's mother shot out onto the porch.
“Please, Andy, leave your sister alone!” she cried, taking the little boy by the wrist and untwining his fingers from his sister’s halo of golden curls.
“We’re just playing, Mamma,” Andy whined before peeking around his mother’s legs to stick out his tongue at his sister.
“Are you now?” the woman said with a strained laugh. “Because from where I’m standing, mister, Amelia doesn’t seem to be having a very good time. Are you, baby?”
"I dunno," the small girl answered sullenly, her eyes cutting to her little family and then back down to the dirty wooden slats of the porch. "There's a man, Mommy. A man looking."
The woman's head snapped up, her eyes landing on Randy with laser precision. The expression on her face stopped him in his tracks. He wasn't actually doing anything wrong—he had a reason to be on her property, yet seeing her reaction to his presence, he felt like a criminal caught in some terrible act.
“I’m sorry,” she said, narrowing her admittedly lovely blue eyes at him with obvious mistrust. “Who are you? And why exactly are you hanging around my front porch?”
“I’m not,” he answered quickly, mortified when his voice cracked on the last word. “I mean, I’m here on business.”
“Business?” she repeated, her skepticism growing more acute. “What kind of business? If you’re here trying to sell something—”
"No," he interrupted, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "I'm not a salesman. Somebody here called the vet’s office to schedule a visit. I was under the impression that you had a horse that needed seeing to, but if I'm mistaken, I'll gladly be on my way."
“No,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping as she ran her hand through her hair distractedly. “I’m sorry, I forgot you were coming today. I’ve got a lot going on right now with all this.”
She made a general gesture at the house and surrounding land as she spoke, and it was all Randy could do to hold back a bark of disbelieving laughter at what could easily win the title of understatement of the year. Part of him wanted to ask what she had been expecting when she’d decided to purchase a strawberry farm sight unseen. The gossip around town was that the woman was from San Francisco, that she'd never set foot in Montana in her life before scooping up the Fincher farm. If she'd known anything about buying and selling land, or better yet about farms, she would have known the price she’d paid for the place fell squarely in the category of “too good to be true.”
It looked to Randy like she'd plunged headfirst into a conundrum she had no idea how to get herself back out of again. She already had more on her plate than she could rightly manage, and now here he was, about as far from wanting to be involved as a man could get.
"Maybe you can show me to the barn?" he said, careful to keep his voice casual. "I can help you get one thing checked off your to-do list, at least."
“Of course,” she said, starting down the porch steps without further hesitation. “You probably already know where it is if you’re from around here, though. Seems like the people in Winding Creek know everything there is to know about anything around here.”
Randy thought he heard a trace of resentment there, and although he had no interest in getting involved in that, either, he couldn't say he exactly blamed her. People in small towns like Winding Creek could be brutal, especially when an outsider was involved. The townspeople would likely still be referring to this woman as the crazy strawberry lady ten years from now. Assuming she lasted that long.
“I can surely see how it might feel that way, ma’am,” he said, glancing behind him as he walked to meet her. Both chubby little blond children were following at his heels, their eyes wide and full of expectation.
"Ugh, let's not do that, okay?" the woman said, fixing him with an expression of pure disgust as he reached her. "People have never referred to me as ma'am before, and I'm not keen on starting now. My name is Heather. Heather Browning."
"All right then, Heather, good to meet you.” He held out his hand. “My name is Randy McCall. My family has a ranch on the outskirts of town," he added with his politest smile, trying to remain friendly in the face of her terse introduction.
She missed the smile, and the extended hand, her gaze fixed firmly on the barn. “It’s this way,” she said, all business.