Loved by Tandy (Stargazer Springs Ranch #6)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

TANDY

M y bright ideas have landed me in trouble more times than I can count, but I think my most recent brainchild is a winner. People want to fall in love. I can help. While I may not be good at finding a forever love for myself, I’m great at spotting love connections for others. And after watching all those young’uns on the ranch find their happily-ever-after—and some of the middle-aged folks too—I’ve decided that there’s something magical about a ranch setting. Not so much that exact place but one like it.

So I bought one. And I named it Matchmaker Ranch. I even plan to have the name on the gate at the entrance. The ranch isn’t open to wannabe love birds yet. Far from it. But I’m working on it. I’m in what we’ll call the planning stages. I have one employee, and he is refurbing the barn so that we can get horses.

The idea of people falling in love is fueling my writing, and I need to get some chapters written. But the ranch is my priority, and I have to-do items that need to be marked off my list.

Getting my house fixed up so that I can rent it out is near the top of that list. I still need to build a house to move to on the ranch, but first I have to find a builder. Blake only does renovations, unfortunately.

I close my laptop and check the time. The rest of the chapter will have to wait. Blake will be here any moment, and I need to check my notes. I don’t want to forget anything when telling him all that I want done. My original plans to redo the bedroom have expanded to the kitchen. But I’ll tell him when he arrives.

The mail truck stops at my box, then pulls away. Like clockwork, Ethel drops the mail at eleven every day except Sunday. I wander out to the mailbox and grab two letters. Both bills. I get plenty of those.

An insect zips by my head, and I swat, which only seems to anger the red wasp.

“Listen here, you flying thug. This is my yard. Go bother someone else. Someone mean. Someone who deserves to be stung.” As I reach the door, I spot the nest. They’ve built it on the roof of my porch.

Once Blake starts working, the front door will be opening and closing constantly, and I don’t want those winged beasts getting inside. They’ll bother the cats, and I can’t have that.

I have to take care of this problem now.

Luckily, I’ve spent some time watching videos on social media—a great place to find ideas—and have the perfect solution. I grab an old jar out of the recycle bin, wash it, then cross my fingers as I go into the garage. Hopefully, I have gasoline.

The red container isn’t anywhere to be found. And I feel dumb when I remember that my neighbor told me not to store it in the garage. He works at the fire station as an EMT and gets fussy about that sort of stuff.

I find the gas can in the little garden shed and fill the jar halfway. This works in the videos, and I figure that as long as I keep the jar away from open flames, I should be fine.

Hopefully.

The nest is up too high for me to reach, so I set the jar where I won’t accidentally kick it over and go get my step stool. Once the stool is unfolded and set up under the nest, I grab my weapon of choice—the gas jar—and climb on up.

I misjudged the size of this nest. Yikes. The jar opening will barely fit around it. I’ll have to be super careful.

On my tiptoes, I stretch up and position the jar. Then in a swift move, I push the jar over the wasps.

But there’s a problem. I’m too short to press the jar flush against the ceiling. There is a tiny gap, and I’m praying the wasps can’t fit through.

Newsflash! They can.

Now I have several wasps floating in the gasoline, and one flying around my hand.

It’s time to retreat.

A door slams behind me, and I holler, “Blake, stay back. I’ve made the wasps mad.”

Trying to hurry backward down steps in retreat, I topple. The jar goes flying, and I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing for impact. But my crash landing is softer than I expected.

I open my eyes, and Matthew Gallagher, a man I no longer speak to, grins from underneath me. Then his eyes widen, and he goes pale.

Before I can push off him, he rolls us over so that he’s on top of me.

“Dang it, woman. What were you thinking? You and your impulses are going to cause permanent damage.” Matthew doesn’t move even though I shove on his chest. “Quit that. With these blasted things stinging me, I’m kinda in a bad mood. Don’t shove.”

Peeking over Matthew’s shoulder, I see Blake slapping wasps with his clipboard.

More than one escaped death by gasoline. It seems I’ve made quite a few of them angry.

“Y’all can get up. But hurry. These guys will come back.” He opens the front door. “Everyone inside.”

Hurry. That’s a funny one. Getting up is a multistep process.

I give Matthew one more shove. For old times’ sake. He stands and holds out his hand.

After rolling my eyes, I roll to my stomach and work my way to my knees and then my feet. Then I bolt for the door. Once I’m inside, I check my clothes for gasoline spots.

Blake slams the front door. “You need to change your clothes. Do you have any cat litter?”

I’m already angry that Matthew is here. Angrier that he was on top of me, and now Blake is basically calling me a stereotype. And I don’t hesitate to unleash my frustration. “I find it highly offensive that just because I’m old and single, you assume I have cats.”

He blinks, then shakes his head. “Offending you was not my intention.”

Matthew snickers, and when I glance at him, his amusement morphs into a full belly laugh.

Chip and Dale, my orange tabbies, have decided that now is a good time to make an appearance. They weave circles between Matthew’s boots.

Blake spots the cats and joins in the laughter. But to his credit, he composes himself quickly. “Where can I find the litter?”

“Used or unused?” One day, I’ll learn to keep my trap shut. But that day better hurry because I’m already in my seventies, and I still haven’t learned.

Matthew wipes his eyes. “Either. If used litter on your front porch doesn’t bother you, it should work just as well.”

I’ll trade barbs with Blake, but I refuse to talk to Matthew Gallagher. That man is part of my past, and I intend to keep it that way.

“There is a box of litter in the laundry room. And, Blake, please inform your hired help that I will not be speaking to him. Only to you.”

Blake wiggles the toothpick in his mouth. “This should be a fun project.” He nods toward the hall. “You change. I’ll start getting the gasoline soaked up.”

I march down the hall and just before I close my bedroom door, I hear Matthew say, “Looks like my coming really stirred up the hornet’s nest.”

Just before I yell that he’s not funny, I remember that I’m not speaking to him. So I keep that thought to myself.

Blake will be getting an earful from me. My gut says that he asked Matthew to help just so that I’d have to be around the man. It’s what I would do. I guess I can’t be too mad. I shouldn’t have been so obvious about my disdain for the old geezer.

When I walk back out, Blake is peeking out the skinny window beside the door. Wasps are still swarming on the porch. “They’re still fuming. Get it. Fumes?” He chuckles at his own pun. “I put litter on the gasoline, but I’ll have to sweep it up later. It’s dangerous out there right now. And later, after I leave, do not do anything to that nest. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll let you.” I have no interest in doing battle with wasps. I need to save my energy for battling Matthew. But thanks to him, I escaped the situation without being stung.

He wasn’t quite so lucky. He has a welt on his cheek, another on his neck, and he keeps shifting his shirt like his back itches.

It would be polite to thank him for protecting me, but the sting of him walking out on me so many years ago keeps my jaw set. He was the only witness to the most embarrassing moment of my life. And I’ve carried resentment for so long, I’m not even sure what would happen if I let go of it. I’m not even sure I can let go of it.

I’m in my jammies, tapping out the rest of the chapter when I hear footsteps on the front porch. Listening, I wait for a knock.

But whoever is on my porch doesn’t knock. They just keep moving around out there.

Should I risk turning on the porch light? With the gasoline caked into the litter, I’m a bit hesitant about that. So I peer out the skinny window into the darkness.

Matthew’s smiling face appears in the window, and he waves. “I’m getting rid of the nest and cleaning up. Don’t mind me.”

I walk away. But curiosity pulls me back. He’s limping. Having a plus-sized old lady land on him must have hurt.

Still at the window, I watch until he finishes. Maybe I’m being too hard on the man. He is being sweet. Once everything is swept up, he rests a broom against the wall and waves before heading down the stairs.

When he reaches the bottom step, he turns around and blows me a kiss.

Oh, that man makes me so mad.