My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(22)

“That strong coffee of yours perked me right up. I’ll be good for hours. So how big is this ranch?”

“Not that big. Only about four hundred acres. I raised a couple crops of hay last year, but most of the land is unused. I figure we could do with some stock—cattle or sheep. Hell, maybe even alpacas. They seem to be the new thing.”

“What we choose would depend on pasture—the soil, the graze, the terrain, the access to water, even fences. Since we can’t put grazing stock out till spring, we’ve got plenty of time to think about it.”

“Especially since we can’t afford to buy stock,” Travis added. “Even with the ranch as security, the bank won’t lend money to an ex-convict.”

“Or a broken-down rodeo cowboy with a bankruptcy in his recent past,” Conner said. “We need to figure out a way to make money. You say you inherited the ranch free and clear. Is there any part of it you could sell?”

“Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that. But who’d want to buy land out here? Far as I know, beyond what’s been cultivated, there’s nothing but rocks, weeds, and vermin.”

“Far as you know? You mean you haven’t seen it all?”

“Not all the way to the west boundary. It’s been as much as I could do to plow and harvest the hayfields. And there aren’t any roads, or even trails, going out that way. If I tear up my truck out there or get stuck in a wash, I’m in trouble.”

“So do we even know where the boundaries are, and who owns the land next to them?” Conner’s interest was piqued, just as Travis had hoped. “Hell, what if we strike oil or find a gold mine out there?”

“Don’t bet on it, friend.” Travis shook his head. “I found an old aerial map with survey lines drawn in when I moved into the house. It’s tacked to the wall, just this side of the front door. You can take a look while I clear away our breakfast.”

Travis hurried to put the leftovers in the fridge and load the antiquated dishwasher. Then he joined Conner, who was studying the old map.

“When was this made?” Conner asked.

“There’s no date on it, but I’m guessing it’s at least ten years old. A couple from somewhere back east leased the place for a few years back then. Hippie types, the family lawyer called them. From what he told me, they had an option to buy it on contract, but they had some legal trouble and couldn’t make the payments. They gave up and left.”

“I can see the house and barn and the road,” Conner said, peering at the map. “And I can see where the property line runs right up against that line of hills to the west. I’m guessing it might be government land beyond that. And then, on the north, it butts against your neighbor’s property.”

“Jubal McFarland. Nice family. He raises organic, grass-fed beef, and he builds good fences.”

“Was it Mark Twain who said that good fences make good neighbors?”

“No, it was Robert Frost. But he was right.”

“Well, keep in mind that good fences cost money, and you’ve got a lot of property,” Conner said. “So what do you say we do some exploring? It’s a nice day, even with that chilly breeze. And my four-wheeler can go anywhere.”

Outside, they wheeled the ATV out of the trailer, donned helmets, and climbed into the seats. Conner was about to start the engine when Bucket came tearing around the house, leaped into the ATV, and settled onto one of the rear seats.

“Oh, no!” Conner protested. “That stinky mutt isn’t coming along.”

“Hey, he’s behind us. He’ll be downwind the whole time,” Travis said. “And look at him. How could you say no to that face?”

“You’ve gone soft in the head over that mutt!” Conner started the engine. It caught with a deafening roar.

“Lordy, I hope the neighbors don’t complain,” Travis said. But Conner, he realized, couldn’t hear him over the engine noise. There wouldn’t be much conversation on this ride, but Conner had studied the map, and he seemed to know the way. He was headed along the boundary of the property toward the west end at the base of the hills, a part of the ranch Travis had never seen. Last winter, after his arrival, it had been all he could do to get the house livable and stay warm. With the coming of spring, the hay crop had kept him too busy for exploring.

The rugged vehicle seemed to eat up the terrain, its knobby, oversized tires bounding over rocks and shooting through hollows. Conner had been right. The big ATV could go anywhere—especially with Conner driving it like he was on a blasted bucking bull.

He touched his friend’s shoulder. “Slow down, damn it!” he shouted. Conner only grinned. Travis glanced back at the dog. Bucket was balanced on the rear seat, eyes half closed, tongue lolling like he was in heaven. Travis hung on and tried to relax. Maybe he’d been a highway patrolman too long and seen too many bad accidents.

They were moving into a line of low, scrub-dotted hills that stretched like a ripple from north to south across the Texas plain. Travis had been aware that the hills ran along the west edge of his property. He’d watched the sun set over them almost every night. But only now did it sink in that this wild section of land—this small piece of the earth—was really his.

Motor roaring, the ATV climbed a low ridge. At the top, the machine came to a sudden, silent stop with Conner staring down into the hollow below. “What the hell is that?” he muttered.