Thankful for Love Read Free

huge side logs and a cross beam from which hung two Rs, one reversed so the letters were back to back. The place was called simply the Richardson Ranch. No phony Spanish or fancy, cutesy name. A straightforward explanation of where you were.
    The dirt road off the main highway went for a number of miles before dipping down into a small hollow where three hills came close to intersecting. On the crest of the hills, wind turbines presided over the scene below.
    As Quanna drove down the hill, she saw the darker green of trees interspersed with buildings. One, a big red building, was obviously a barn, big enough to hold quite a few horses or head of cattle. There were several smaller red structures grouped around it where farm equipment was probably stored.
    Set at some distance from the barn complex was the ranch house. Joan Anthony had told her it had been built over time by succeeding generations of Richardsons who renovated, rebuilt, and added to the small one-room cabin put up by the original rancher. After all those years, it had morphed into a two-story, stately looking residence with a deep-set porch running the entire front of the house. Painted white with sage green shutters on the upstairs windows, the house was protected from the weather by large junipers, cottonwoods, and pine trees, which, judging from their size, had been planted decades ago.
    Parked outside the house was a dusty, white Ford pickup truck with an extended cab, the kind her brother had always wanted to own but could never afford. It didn’t look brand new, but it looked well cared for. Next to it was a Toyota sedan. Quanna parked the old Honda her brother had loaned her on a more or less permanent basis beside the sedan, steadied herself with a couple deep breaths, and went to meet what she hoped was her future.
    An older woman answered her knock. “Oh, you’re early. I didn’t expect you yet.”
    It wasn’t exactly the welcome she’d hoped for and only increased her nervousness. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to wait in the car until it’s time?”
    “No, no. Come in. It’s fine.” She led Quanna into a large, light-filled living room. “I’m Anne Salazar, Jack’s mother-in-law.”
    Quanna extended her hand. “I’m Quanna Morales.”
    Anne seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before taking the outstretched hand. “Jack’s on the phone. Something about part of the irrigation system not working right. He’ll be with us in a minute.” She waved her hand toward a set of sofas covered in a beige fabric and two oversized leather armchairs. “Take a seat wherever you’re comfortable,” she said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
    Quanna sat on the edge of the seat of one of the armchairs. “That would be nice, thank you.”
    While the woman was in the kitchen, Quanna looked around the room. If she’d had a dream house, it would look a lot like this one. It was like something out of a magazine.
    The room where she was sitting was probably the original part of the house if the floor-to-ceiling, freestanding stone fireplace dominating the middle of the room was any indication. On a rough-hewn wooden mantle was a display of what she assumed were family photos, most of them featuring the man she knew from Golden Years, a beautiful blonde woman, or two boys. To the right of the fireplace, a set of stairs led to the upper story. Behind it was a door open enough for her to see a room with more couches and chairs and the corner of what she suspected was a large television set.
    To the left of the fireplace was a door leading to another room—a dining room, maybe? Another door at the far left, through which Mrs. Salazar had disappeared, was, she supposed, the kitchen. At the other end of the room, tucked under the staircase, was a baby grand piano, the lid down, the bench pushed under the keyboard.
    On the walls were paintings depicting Eastern Oregon landscapes in all four seasons. Pillows covered in traditional striped Pendleton woolen