“And we get to sleep in a tent,” Alice added excitedly.
The corners of Libby’s pouty lips turned down, and Sam couldn’t stop a grin. “I guess Libby’s not as enthusiastic about the trip as you two are. Maybe she’ll change her mind once she’s up there.”
Betty’s silver eyebrows went up. “You don’tlike camping?”
“I don’t really know. I’m from Manhattan.”
“We’re from Phoenix,” Alice said. “The photos on the website look wonderful. We can’t wait to visit thehigh country.”
“It’s beautiful up there,” Sam said. “You won’t be disappointed.” He helped the women with their luggage, then left them to settle in. Libby caught up with him as he strode toward the barn.
“You didn’t say anything about sleeping in a tent,” she muttered darkly.
“You’re here to work. Guests enjoy different activities. Their days are pretty much their own. Some like to fish; others like hiking or sightseeing. One of the add-ons we offer is a camping trip into the mountains. Guests ride in on horseback. We lead a string of pack mules in with supplies, stay two nights, thenride back out.”
“Do all the guests go on the trip?”
“Not all of them, no.”
“Then I’ll stay here and take care of those whoremain behind.”
If she were anyone else, he might let her. But it wasn’t what Marty had wanted, and Marty was paying the bill. “Sorry, that’s not going to happen. I’ll need you to help with the cooking.”
“So Clara’s going on the trip?”
He almost laughed at her hopeful expression. “I do the camp cooking. You’ll just need to pitch in with the meals and helpwith cleanup.”
“But—”
“But what?” He cast her a glance. “You aren’t afraid of horses, are you?”
“No, but—”
“The weather plays a role. At the moment, it looks like we won’t be going till the end of next week. That’ll give you some time to get used to the idea.”
Libby grumbled something he was glad hecouldn’t hear.
At least so far she’d been pleasant to the guests. Still, she wasn’t used to taking orders. He wondered how long her good humor would last.
* * * *
The afternoon passed more quickly than Libby would have guessed. Between visitor check-ins, Sam had given her a tour of the ranch, or at least a portion of the 5,100-acre property he owned.
Along with the cabins, there were two barns—one with a large tack room—an equipment shed, the bunkhouse, and a metal structure that sheltered huge rolled bales of hay stored for winter feed.
“We’re a working cattle ranch,” Sam explained. “That’s our main source of income. Having guests in the summer helps raise a little extra money, but it’s not really what we do.”
According to Sam, along with a thousand head of Black Angus cattle, there were thirty horses, the remuda, he called them. There was also a pigsty anda chicken coop.
Libby paused to watch the black-and-white speckled hens pecking in the yard around the coop.
“Oh, you raise Plymouth Rocks!” she exclaimed. “And look at that beautiful Rhode Island Red rooster.”
Sam’s head swiveled toward her in amazement. “Youknow chickens?”
She shrugged. “I was raised on a farm.” But most of the first twelve years of her life were buried behind the wall of grief she had built to protect herself after her parents were killed. She remembered almost none of her childhood and didn’treally want to.
When he continued to stare, she found herself telling him the truth. “I don’t remember much about my life back then. Seeing the chickens, I remembered going with my mom to collect eggs from the coop. Some days it was like an Easter egg hunt. My mom had a way of making it fun.” Libby swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. She didn’t like thinking about the past. It was just too painful.
