Ranch Hand

Unimpressed and Unwelcome

Excitement and jitters blended, Harry stepped on the gas. One good thing about these Texans—they gave excellent directions. Mr. Carlson had not been exaggerating when he had called the place an oasis. That was exactly what it was. He was also correct when he'd said there was no way you could miss it.

White washed split rail fences adorned the left side of the road, green grass was abundant in the enormous pastures, where sleek, glossy coated quarter horses grazed. This place definitely had underground irrigation, and plenty of it.

Trees grew everywhere. The quality of the horses was obvious even to Harry's mostly untutored eye. There were also cattle visible much further out, in distant pastures. Some black, some brown and white with white faces. Harry could see at least several hundred, many with calves at their sides. The ranch itself held little resemblance to the dry, harsh land surrounding it. His eyes drank in the virtual paradise.

As Harry continued to drive, buildings came into view. The main house was a low, sprawling Spanish hacienda of the type commonly seen in Texas. It was, however, exceptionally large compared to most. There were corrals of many different sizes, round pens, paddocks, a few barns, as well as acres upon acres of pasture.

An exceptionally huge barn stood to the north and what had to be the bunkhouse sat beneath the shade of several huge mulberry trees, a hundred yards from the main house. The contrast between this ranch and the ones Harry had just seen was startling.

The obvious care and back breaking work that had gone into the building of this place originally, not to mention the upkeep would be no small feat, even for several strong men. Harry was impressed, to say the very least. He did notice though, that although not obvious, the paint was beginning to peel here and there. He could understand how that would not be a first on the priority list of a ranch this size. The animals were the essence, the livelihood of the ranch. They needed to come first. Maybe they'd hire him to paint. . . and who knew, if he won them over, if they might keep him on and give him a chance as a ranch hand? He'd have to be as charming and amiable as he could, along with somehow proving to them he was a hard worker. If they'd only give him a chance . . .

Fighting to remain positive despite the grim, sobering thought that this would probably be his last chance to stay in Pecos, Harry maneuvered the Rover into a carport of sorts, where several other vehicles were parked. It even had a cement floor, he noticed with interest. He assumed the hired hands parked here. There were also several flatbed trucks that would obviously be used for hauling hay, feed and equipment.

Just as he parked, the Rover began to make its plaintive squealing noise again. Harry steadfastly ignored it. For right now, his talk with Mr. Tomlinson must take precedence over anything else. He'd worry about the Rover later.

Even under immense pressure, it was imperative that he appear cool and collected, mature and confident. It could make all the difference. He knew the owner probably would not respond favorably if he sensed Harry's desperation. But, at the same time, he must somehow impress on the rancher how very much he wanted to work for him. What a delicate balance to maintain!

Not even sure if he could manage it, Harry walked with a purposely firm stride to the front door of the ranch house.

No one answered the door. He knocked and rang the bell for a couple of minutes, then disappointed beyond even his own belief, Harry headed back for the Rover, intending to return tomorrow morning.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure walking toward him from the direction of the bunkhouse. He turned his head to see if the person was, in fact, approaching him directly. It appeared so, so Harry stopped and waited, not sure if he should advance toward the person. This guy could be the owner, but he doubted it. He had the dusty look of a ranch hand about him.