“So much for the friendliness of small-town banks,” she groused.
At the next stoplight, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed. The incessant ring echoed from the speaker. “C’mon, Chance. Pick up. Please...”
“You have reached my voice mail. You know what to do.”
Yeah, she knew what to do. Why the hell was she depending on the jerk anyway? He sweet-talked her, wined her, dined her and jumped her in bed and then he no longer had time for her. Well, fine. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anybody.
A horn honked and startled her out of her thoughts. She focused on driving until she got to a little place next to the highway. It wasn’t the Four Corners but the scent of BBQ wafting through the truck’s open window made her drool and her stomach gnaw on itself.
Inside, the wooden-planked walls looked grimy and smoke-stained, but the food still smelled heavenly. Antiques and old pictures littered every surface. She ordered ribs and fries, heaped her plate with onions, dill pickle chips and jalapeños, and sat down at a little table in the corner.
She bit into the first rib and almost moaned. Plastic squeeze bottles held different sauces and ketchup. Experimenting with the various flavors, she found a mix she liked, dragged the rib through the puddle of sauce on her plate and devoured it.
As she finished off the last of the homemade apple cobbler and ice cream, Cass realized this would be the last time she splurged. She had less than a thousand dollars in her checking account. The ranch account had enough to pay the bill at the electric co-op. The propane company had told her they could wait, and she had almost a full tank at the house anyway.
No job. No income. The loan was due, and she had no clue how to pay it. A headache formed between her eyes, and she rubbed her forehead. Why did she even care? She hated the ranch. Didn’t she? Hated Oklahoma. But not a certain man who lived here.
She could just walk away. Not look back. Leave Boots and Buddy and—she nipped that thought. She did not want to think about Chance. About leaving him. Her life was in Chicago. Not here. Wasn’t it? She didn’t want to deal with the tangle of emotions Chance conjured up. Why hadn’t he returned her calls?
People gave up and walked away all the time. But she wasn’t a quitter. Her daddy would be spinning in his grave—or in that little box holding his ashes—if he could hear her thoughts.
I don’t raise quitters, honey. You wipe those tears, get back in that saddle and ride. You’re a Morgan. Show ’em what you’re made of.
“Oh, Daddy,” she murmured. “I miss you. What am I going to do?”
Something clattered back in the kitchen, and she jerked her head at the sound. Broken glass and spilled food. Yeah, that was a terrific sign from heaven. She glanced out the window but a photo beneath it caught her attention. Faded with age, it showed a group of cowboys on horseback. A herd of cattle milled behind the riders. Leaning closer, she peered at the legend on the photo. 1944—Calvin Barron and hands deliver herd to Oklahoma City National Stockyards.
“That was quite a day.”
Cass jumped and jerked her head around. An old black man in a stained apron chuckled. “The war was on and gasoline was bein’ rationed. Old Mr. Barron, he had him a herd of prime cows and no way to get ’em to market. The gov’ment wanted them heifers to feed the army, but them ol’ boys had to figure out a way to get ’em to the stockyards to put ’em on the train.”
Dizzy as ideas whirled in her head, Cass felt as if she was on the verge of discovering something important. Then the name clicked. “Wait. Old Mr. Barron?”