Leftover Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

learn.” Mattie’s smile showed tolerance as she sat in one of the other chairs at the table.
    “Have you lived here all your life?” Layne knew better, but it seemed a normal question.
    “I’m from North Platte originally. I came here when I was only twenty-two. I answered an ad in the paper for ahousekeeper and cook. At the time I couldn’t tell a stallion from a mare, but I soon learned. I might have been hired as a housekeeper, but when they needed a body to hold a calf while they dehorned or vaccinated or whatever, guess who got called into duty?” There was a trace of wryness in her soft laugh. “Then, five years after coming here to keep house for him, I married John Gray. I became housekeeper, cook, wife, and cowboy. We had a good life and a good marriage—working side by side whether on the range or in the house. He taught me practically everything I know about the cattle business—unconsciously, often unwillingly.” There was a small, reflective pause. “I lost him … five years ago in May.”
    “That’s quite a story, starting out in the stereotypical female role of housekeeper and becoming a rancher.”
    “I do have a partner—a man—but Creed and I work well together.” She sipped at her coffee, holding the cup in both hands. Her nails were trimmed short and her hands were work-roughened and chapped from the cold weather. “It’s a case of mutual respect, I guess.”
    “I’ve met a lot of women who claim to be liberated, but you seem to be the real McCoy,” Layne observed with silent admiration and interest. Usually it was just so much talk, especially among friends her own age.
    “Strange you should say that.” Mattie was oddly contemplative, smiling vaguely while she swirled the hot coffee in her cup. “There was a time, especially when the feminists were creating such a furor, that I believed I always had been liberated. After all, I worked at my husband’s side, doing a man’s job, sharing a man’s responsibilities. There were no special favors because I was a woman. But looking back, I can see that I was never treated quite the same as a man.”
    “What do you mean?” Layne frowned slightly, puzzled by this unexpected denial.
    “As I said, I was completely green about ranch life. I wound up learning just about everything the hard way. And men are not the most patient creatures God ever created. John was forever yelling at me about something, whether I brought him a crescent wrench when he wanted a socket wrench, or I let
out
the cow he wanted
in
the pen. Most of the time I’d take just so much, then I’d go storming to the house.” A quick, bright gleam entered her eyes. “There’s the difference. It’s very subtle, almost unnoticeable. You see, John would have expected a man to take getting chewed out, but I was a woman so it was perfectly reasonable for me to go to the house—where I belonged.” She separated the last phrase from the sentence for emphasis. “I may have been out there—I may have been working with him—but a woman’s place was still in the home. I’ve seen the same thing with ranchers’ daughters. They may go with their daddy but the threat’s always there, either implied or stated, that if they don’t behave, they’ll be sent back to the house. With a son, it’s different. If he misbehaves, he’ll be straightened out either with a belt or a good talking. There is a double standard out here, a subtle one, but it exists.”
    “I hadn’t realized that,” Layne mused, honestly fascinated by this revealing look at western life from a woman’s point of view.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go into a whole lecture on the subject. One thing about getting older, you can say what you think and people say you’re opinionated instead of sassy.” She smiled, and Layne caught the glint of humor in the washed-out green of her eyes. “Of course, the young people usually say you’re boring.”
    “Not hardly,” Layne said with a laugh. “But you