Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

18. Yellow Rose Ranch

April 15, 1990

Yellow Rose Ranch

Amarillo, United States

I swayed back and forth as my old Ford pickup rolled down the uneven gravel road. The spring air breezed through the rolled-down windows, taking the edge off the Texas sun. As I neared the ranch house, I narrowed my eyes and turned down the radio. Tall weeds blocked the front porch from view, and the hedges were overgrown and twisted.

"Oh, my God," I breathed, pulling the gear shifter into park. I sank back in my seat. "Elenor died."

The two horses in the stable whinnied excitedly when they saw me. I patted their shiny necks, grateful that someone was looking after the place. The old wheelbarrow I found had a squeaky wheel, but it held up just fine. Pulling weeds was not what I expected to be doing that day, but I had to get the place ready to entertain tomorrow.

By late afternoon, I was nearly done with the yard. My ears suddenly perked up at the distant pop and crackle of car tires on the long driveway. Turning my head, I raised my hand to block the sun from my eyes. It was a black Mercedes-Benz, a rather flamboyant car for a humble equestrian. It rolled to a stop next to my truck.

The door opened, and a set of designer shoes and a blonde head appeared.

I looked down and breathed out a laugh before rising to my feet. I shoved my gloves into the back pocket of my high-waisted jeans and dusted off my hands.

He cocked his head once he spotted me, no doubt confused by the state of me. It was great to see him looking so well and healthy.

"Am I...?"

"Early," I finished. "Yeah."

I reflexively extended my hand, and then, on second thought, I stepped forward to hug him. I slid my hand across his back, feeling the defined muscles through his thin dress shirt. He hesitantly placed one hand on my upper back.

"It's so good to see you," I said.

"Ja." When I pulled back, he was smiling. "Likewise."

I clapped my hands together and glanced back at the yard. There was still a lot of work to be done. "Ready for some good old-fashioned manual labor?"

He narrowed his eyes at the wheelbarrow full of weeds.

Elenor—God rest her soul—had left some of her late husband's clothes inside. I showed Germany to one of many guest bedrooms to change and invited him to stay the night. As I pulled the door shut, I glanced down the hallway and reminded myself to make up three more rooms.

"Well, technically, the others are late," I said over my shoulder wryly.

"Mm," he hummed neutrally. He diligently focused on his work, pulling twice as many weeds as me in the same span of time. The sweat on his brow glistened in the afternoon sun.

I tried to focus on working. "I'm a little surprised you didn't travel with them," I wondered aloud.

"We are not close."

I nodded to myself. "I just assume that everyone is close."

"I tend to make similar assumptions."

I sensed him glance in my direction, revealing his unspoken curiosity. "I'm really only close with England these days," I admitted.

"That is...ironic."

I laughed. "I know."

A few beats of silence went by as I contemplated how personal was too personal. I tossed an unruly rock into the wheelbarrow.