*
“Roan?” Maud Whitcomb called from the steps of the Wind River Ranch office porch. She waved toward a cowboy mounted on a blood bay quarter horse. He rode like he was born to the saddle, his gray Stetson low over his eyes, shading them from the welcome overhead sunlight. She saw him turn his gelding her way instead of heading down to where he and other wranglers were going to push about twenty head of cattle from one pasture to another.
She held on to her bright red baseball cap as the breeze picked up. When Roan drew near, she called, “I need to talk with you for a moment.” She saw the man’s hard, lined, and weathered face remain unchanged. It was his gray eyes that narrowed slightly. Maud pulled the screen door open and walked back to her office. Her husband, Steve Whitcomb, was behind the counter. This was where all the tourists coming in for a weeklong vacation would check in.
“I want to talk with Roan in back for a moment,” she told Steve. Usually, Maud manned the desk midweek, fussing over paperwork, and her sixty-year-old husband was off with the wranglers doing ranch work to keep the place up and running.
“Got it,” he told her, giving her a wink.
Roan opened the door, brushed his dusty boots off before entering. Taking off his Stetson, he nodded toward Steve, who nodded back.
“Come to the other office,” Maud called, waving Roan to follow her.
Frowning, Roan wondered what was up. He was part of the wranglers behind the scenes who kept the largest ranch in the valley operational. He wanted nothing to do with the dude ranch families who came here on vacation.
He hit his hat against his thigh and dust flew off it. In long, casual strides, he headed down the highly waxed oak floor to the other office Maud had disappeared into. His curiosity was piqued because for the two years he’d worked at the ranch, Maud had never asked him to come into the office to speak privately with her. Other than giving him raises that he’d earned through a lot of hard, consistent work, she rarely called him aside.
Entering the office, he saw Maud sitting behind her messy desk. She’d taken off her baseball cap, her silver and black hair short and just below her ears. She was frowning, her expression worried.
“Shut the door, Roan. Thanks.”
His straight, dark brown brows rose a little over the request. “What is this, Maud? A stealthy new procedure now in practice around the ranch?” Roan asked, giving her a teasing grin as he came over and settled in the chair. It was a normal chair but he wasn’t normal size. He was six foot two and two hundred pounds of brute muscle. Good thing it didn’t have arms on it or he’d never have fit into it. The metal chair squeaked as he sat down, hat resting on his long, hard thigh.
Maud chuckled a little and leaned back in the chair, rocking it slightly. “Some things need to be said behind closed doors.”
“Sounds serious.” Roan saw the sparkle in her eyes. Maud was fifty-five years old and a force to be reckoned with. The ranch had been in Steve Whitcomb’s family for a hundred years. He’d asked Maud to run the Wind River Ranch because he was a world famous architect. She’d put the ranch on the map decades earlier with the help of her husband, Steve. Both were damned hard workers, regardless of their age, and that had Roan’s respect. Steve liked escaping his always busy architectural practice and throwing a leg over a good horse and working with the wranglers whenever he could. It was one of the few ranches in Wyoming to be flourishing, thanks to his wife’s vision and passion for this valley.
“Well, it’s serious enough.” Maud pulled out a color photo from her pocket and slid it across the desk to Roan. “And the reason I’m roping you into this is because you used to be Army Special Forces. You have skills and talents most of my other wranglers don’t, with some exceptions like Cord McCall who is an ex-Delta Force operator.”
Nodding, Roan said, “McCall is a good man.”
“And he’s doing wonders with our new River Walk Hiking Trail,” Maud agreed. The mighty Snake River ran parallel to Highway 89. Both ran through the ranch. Maud figured to take advantage of the situation. Her idea for a River Walk had met with enthusiasm from tourists driving through the area, on their way to Jackson Hole, fifty miles north of where they were at. Now, families would stop, take a break from the driving, sit and have an impromptu picnic at one of the many wooden tables, and hike along the lush, beautiful Snake River. It was money in the ranch coffers to keep their business vibrant and healthy.