Page 9 of A Marriage Pact for the Cowboy

“My grandfather’s ranch, but yes. We do have some cows and a small team who cut and bale the hay for the livestock, but our revenue is mostly tourist driven. There’s an RV campground, cottages to rent by the week, and hotel rooms in the lodge itself.”

“Sounds nice.” Eryn tried to come up with a picture in her mind.

“The Sweet River flows through a small lake where our guests swim and paddle and fish. My cousin Weston is the head wrangler, offering riding lessons and trail rides, and his girlfriend is the activities coordinator, coming up with everything from events for kids whose families vacation there to festivities for the Fourth of July.”

Every word out of his mouth gave Eryn’s imagination one more block to build with as the idyllic picture blossomed. The image was green… greener than anything Gilead offered at any time of year. “How about winter?”

“We can get a boatload of snow overnight, but it’s not too bad. The wind doesn’t have a chance to roll through the ranch like it does here. We don’t have many guests in the winter, just a few at the lodge from time to time, so it’s pretty cozy. Fires in the stone fireplace, chess games, good food — my aunt Nadine is the chef, and she keeps us well fed.”

Why hadn’t Eryn ever thought of other places that hired cooks? Not just restaurants. Huh. Not that she could aspire to being more than a sous chef, but that could be a steppingstone to other options. Not at Debby’s, though. She’d never advance there.

If she could do anything, be anything she wanted, would she choose to cook?

Mind-blowing question, and one she had no answer to. And here she was, wasting a brand-new experience on mulling her sad life. Not only riding, but in the company of the sweetest man she’d ever met. Granted, she didn’t know him all that well, but wouldn’t it be hard to fake the kindness in his eyes? Why would he pretend?

“Thanks again for not making fun of ’fraidy-cat me.”

He grinned at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Why would I? Every experience is new to everyone once.”

“I bet you’ve been riding since you were a kid.” Although he’d grown up in Gilead, so maybe not.

“I rode a few times at summer camp.” He shrugged. “But that was eons ago. Most of my experience has been in the past couple of summers since living at Sweet River. I never had the opportunity in between — didn’t look for it, either, to be honest. I was too focused on my business to consider the value of leisure time or the beauty of nature.”

“Life gets busy.” They could agree on that, at least.

Maxwell studied her. “What do you enjoy for hobbies?”

“Hobbies?” Her gaze flew to meet his. “Does quilting count?”

“Quilts? Definitely. It must take a long time to sew one.”

And they were pricy to make, so she couldn’t indulge often. A couple of times the fabric store in town had received a custom request and hired her. Those had been tons of fun. “They do take a long time. I’ve been saving up for a quilting machine. I tried doing one by hand like in the olden days, but it took forever.”

“Didn’t pioneer women do that in groups? Loads of gossip and tea while they stitched?”

What? How did he know about that?

He chuckled at the expression on her face. “Hey, I read, and I enjoy history. Plus, I came across a stack of cool quilts tucked away in an attic of this one house I renovated, so I had to do some research to figure out if we had true antiques on our hands.”

“Did you?”

“No, they weren’t that old, so no collectors lined up to buy them. I sold them as a lot but kept one because I liked it.”

He’d kept a quilt. What kind of guy was Maxwell Sullivan? He was more nuanced than she’d ever have given him credit for. “I’d love to see it sometime.” Whoa. That had been awfully forward of her.

“You’ll have to come to Montana, then. Much as I like the quilt, I don’t travel with it. I leave it folded on the foot of my bed and have done for several years now. I guess that’s how I know where home is.”

The only home Eryn had ever known was about to be ripped away from her. Could she choose to see that as a stepping-stone? A blessing? “Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime. I’ve never traveled, but Montana — your ranch — sounds beautiful.” She was lousy at flirting, but it didn’t matter. Maxwell would be leaving soon, and she’d be staying.

“It’s a great place.” He studied her for a minute then swept his hand toward the vista. “This has its own beauty, though.”

The other riders had disappeared from view over the crest of a low hill. The landscape was mottled yellow and green, and a neighboring farm settled into a hollow up ahead. To the right, Gilead lay nestled against the winding river.

“Yes, there’s beauty here.” But it was a harsh beauty, or maybe her view was tainted by the realities of Dad selling out the farm that had been in their family for generations. Her ancestors had managed to hang onto it through two world wars and the Great Depression, but all it took to reverse fortunes these days was a hefty medical bill. If the sacrifice had restored Amelia’s broken body to health, it might have been worth it, but it had been too little, too late.

Was she a terrible sister to wish Dad had simply accepted Amelia’s inevitable passing back then the way he seemed to be accepting the loss of the farm now?

On the other hand, Eryn was still here, hale and healthy, and she had an opportunity to look past the Kansas horizon, wide as it might be.

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