snap some shots. What’s a good time?”
“I’m up at 4:30 a.m., or is that too early for you?”
This being our first conversation, I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just sarcastic.
“Tad too early, so how about 9 a.m.?”
“I’ll be here. You need directions to the ranch?”
“Sure do, and I should warn you I’ve never been to Big Sky Country before, so I don’t know any of the highways or towns. Plus, I’m a city girl and get lost very easily once I’m out of the suburbs.”
“Okay, city girl, where are you staying?”
“The Redstone Inn on the outskirts of Missoula.”
“I know where that is. Be sure to sample one of their steaks. Best T-bones in these parts.”
My stomach rumbled just hearing him say that. I hadn’t eaten anything substantial since I’d left Boston and was feeling hungry.
“I’ll definitely give them a try,” I said.
“Getting to my ranch is pretty straightforward. When you head out of the parking lot of the hotel, turn left and get onto Highway 283, heading north. It’s about a thirty-minute drive before you see Highway 77. Turn left then drive another two miles until you see a dirt road on the right, which is actually the entrance to the ranch. You have a cell phone?”
“Yes, it’s with me all the time.”
“If you get lost, call the ranch, and either me or one of my ranch hands will come and get you.”
“Sounds good to me and, providing I don’t lose my way, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I put the phone down and looked over the directions while they were still fresh in my mind. Seemed simple enough, and he sounded like a nice old guy, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad assignment after all. I leaned back in my chair. Now that was taken care of, I was going for a swim, and then I’d follow Blake Whelan’s advice and sample one of those T-bone steaks.
Chapter Two
Dirt road had been an understatement. I was glad it was a rental car and not my own because, right now, half an inch of what looked like red-colored sand sat all over the bodywork. As I pushed down on the accelerator, more swirled around in the air and prevented me from seeing farther than a few feet ahead. Even though I had all the windows tightly closed, some dust must have entered through the air-conditioning vents, and I coughed to clear my lungs.
The car hit a bump, and the dust cleared long enough for me to spot a sign that said, “Welcome to the Whelan Ranch.” I somehow expected to see the words Home of the Last American Cowboy written underneath.
I drove through two open, oversized iron gates, with a large W welded into both their centers, and headed up another dirt road, which eventually turned into what looked like one big parking lot. A barn sat to the left, a series of sheds to the right, and ahead was one great-looking house, which I assumed meant this cowboy, although being a part of a dying breed, obviously wasn’t poor.
I turned off the ignition, grabbed my purse and notebook, and got out of the car. A dog barked, and I was ready to run but then relaxed when I noticed the German Shepherd was tied to a stake. Hopefully, I’d quickly spot someone to ask where I could find Mr. Whelan. I looked around and heard two guys’ voices coming from one of the nearby sheds, so I decided to head that way. I walked along a path covered in what looked like the tan mulch I used to keep the weeds at bay in my garden back in Boston.
I peeked around the corner of the shed where two men in their early 60s, wearing cowboy hats and boots, stood talking. I guessed one of them might be Blake Whelan.
They both turned to look at me as I entered the building.
“Hi, I’m Fiona Spencer. Are either of you Blake Whelan, by any chance?”
“That’s me,” said the taller, more tanned of the two men. “Can I help you with something?”
Obviously, he hadn’t remembered my name from our telephone conversation just the day before.
“I’m up at 4:30 a.m., or is that too early for you?”
This being our first conversation, I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just sarcastic.
“Tad too early, so how about 9 a.m.?”
“I’ll be here. You need directions to the ranch?”
“Sure do, and I should warn you I’ve never been to Big Sky Country before, so I don’t know any of the highways or towns. Plus, I’m a city girl and get lost very easily once I’m out of the suburbs.”
“Okay, city girl, where are you staying?”
“The Redstone Inn on the outskirts of Missoula.”
“I know where that is. Be sure to sample one of their steaks. Best T-bones in these parts.”
My stomach rumbled just hearing him say that. I hadn’t eaten anything substantial since I’d left Boston and was feeling hungry.
“I’ll definitely give them a try,” I said.
“Getting to my ranch is pretty straightforward. When you head out of the parking lot of the hotel, turn left and get onto Highway 283, heading north. It’s about a thirty-minute drive before you see Highway 77. Turn left then drive another two miles until you see a dirt road on the right, which is actually the entrance to the ranch. You have a cell phone?”
“Yes, it’s with me all the time.”
“If you get lost, call the ranch, and either me or one of my ranch hands will come and get you.”
“Sounds good to me and, providing I don’t lose my way, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I put the phone down and looked over the directions while they were still fresh in my mind. Seemed simple enough, and he sounded like a nice old guy, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad assignment after all. I leaned back in my chair. Now that was taken care of, I was going for a swim, and then I’d follow Blake Whelan’s advice and sample one of those T-bone steaks.
Chapter Two
Dirt road had been an understatement. I was glad it was a rental car and not my own because, right now, half an inch of what looked like red-colored sand sat all over the bodywork. As I pushed down on the accelerator, more swirled around in the air and prevented me from seeing farther than a few feet ahead. Even though I had all the windows tightly closed, some dust must have entered through the air-conditioning vents, and I coughed to clear my lungs.
The car hit a bump, and the dust cleared long enough for me to spot a sign that said, “Welcome to the Whelan Ranch.” I somehow expected to see the words Home of the Last American Cowboy written underneath.
I drove through two open, oversized iron gates, with a large W welded into both their centers, and headed up another dirt road, which eventually turned into what looked like one big parking lot. A barn sat to the left, a series of sheds to the right, and ahead was one great-looking house, which I assumed meant this cowboy, although being a part of a dying breed, obviously wasn’t poor.
I turned off the ignition, grabbed my purse and notebook, and got out of the car. A dog barked, and I was ready to run but then relaxed when I noticed the German Shepherd was tied to a stake. Hopefully, I’d quickly spot someone to ask where I could find Mr. Whelan. I looked around and heard two guys’ voices coming from one of the nearby sheds, so I decided to head that way. I walked along a path covered in what looked like the tan mulch I used to keep the weeds at bay in my garden back in Boston.
I peeked around the corner of the shed where two men in their early 60s, wearing cowboy hats and boots, stood talking. I guessed one of them might be Blake Whelan.
They both turned to look at me as I entered the building.
“Hi, I’m Fiona Spencer. Are either of you Blake Whelan, by any chance?”
“That’s me,” said the taller, more tanned of the two men. “Can I help you with something?”
Obviously, he hadn’t remembered my name from our telephone conversation just the day before.
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