Page 1 of Loved By Tandy

CHAPTER 1

TANDY

My bright ideas have landed me in trouble more times than I can count, but I think my most recent brainchild is a winner. People want to fall in love. I can help. While I may not be good at finding a forever love for myself, I’m great at spotting love connections for others. And after watching all those young’uns on the ranch find their happily-ever-after—and some of the middle-aged folks too—I’ve decided that there’s something magical about a ranch setting. Not so much that exact place but one like it.

So I bought one. And I named it Matchmaker Ranch. I even plan to have the name on the gate at the entrance. The ranch isn’t open to wannabe love birds yet. Far from it. But I’m working on it. I’m in what we’ll call the planning stages. I have one employee, and he is refurbing the barn so that we can get horses.

The idea of people falling in love is fueling my writing, and I need to get some chapters written. But the ranch is my priority, and I have to-do items that need to be marked off my list.

Getting my house fixed up so that I can rent it out is near the top of that list. I still need to build a house to move to onthe ranch, but first I have to find a builder. Blake only does renovations, unfortunately.

I close my laptop and check the time. The rest of the chapter will have to wait. Blake will be here any moment, and I need to check my notes. I don’t want to forget anything when telling him all that I want done. My original plans to redo the bedroom have expanded to the kitchen. But I’ll tell him when he arrives.

The mail truck stops at my box, then pulls away. Like clockwork, Ethel drops the mail at eleven every day except Sunday. I wander out to the mailbox and grab two letters. Both bills. I get plenty of those.

An insect zips by my head, and I swat, which only seems to anger the red wasp.

“Listen here, you flying thug. This is my yard. Go bother someone else. Someone mean. Someone who deserves to be stung.” As I reach the door, I spot the nest. They’ve built it on the roof of my porch.

Once Blake starts working, the front door will be opening and closing constantly, and I don’t want those winged beasts getting inside. They’ll bother the cats, and I can’t have that.

I have to take care of this problem now.

Luckily, I’ve spent some time watching videos on social media—a great place to find ideas—and have the perfect solution. I grab an old jar out of the recycle bin, wash it, then cross my fingers as I go into the garage. Hopefully, I have gasoline.

The red container isn’t anywhere to be found. And I feel dumb when I remember that my neighbor told me not to store it in the garage. He works at the fire station as an EMT and gets fussy about that sort of stuff.

I find the gas can in the little garden shed and fill the jar halfway. This works in the videos, and I figure that as long as I keep the jar away from open flames, I should be fine.

Hopefully.

The nest is up too high for me to reach, so I set the jar where I won’t accidentally kick it over and go get my step stool. Once the stool is unfolded and set up under the nest, I grab my weapon of choice—the gas jar—and climb on up.

I misjudged the size of this nest. Yikes. The jar opening will barely fit around it. I’ll have to be super careful.

On my tiptoes, I stretch up and position the jar. Then in a swift move, I push the jar over the wasps.

But there’s a problem. I’m too short to press the jar flush against the ceiling. There is a tiny gap, and I’m praying the wasps can’t fit through.

Newsflash! They can.

Now I have several wasps floating in the gasoline, and one flying around my hand.

It’s time to retreat.

A door slams behind me, and I holler, “Blake, stay back. I’ve made the wasps mad.”

Trying to hurry backward down steps in retreat, I topple. The jar goes flying, and I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing for impact. But my crash landing is softer than I expected.

I open my eyes, and Matthew Gallagher, a man I no longer speak to, grins from underneath me. Then his eyes widen, and he goes pale.

Before I can push off him, he rolls us over so that he’s on top of me.

“Dang it, woman. What were you thinking? You and your impulses are going to cause permanent damage.” Matthew doesn’t move even though I shove on his chest. “Quit that. With these blasted things stinging me, I’m kinda in a bad mood. Don’t shove.”

Peeking over Matthew’s shoulder, I see Blake slapping wasps with his clipboard.

More than one escaped death by gasoline. It seems I’ve made quite a few of them angry.

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