Page 49 of Red Hot Rancher

Closing the window for Moore’s classifieds, she prepared herself to search Phoenix’s openings. Hell, maybe she should look at Fargo. It was big enough and constantly growing. But it was also far enough away that a commute wasn’t ideal, and she’d be caught between wanting to move home and not being able to. She’d also be close enough to learn about how everyone else moved on with their lives once she left.

Caleb.

Her heart twisted. What was she going to do?

The phone rang.

She saw the number and sucked in a breath. This was the call she’d been waiting for.

Shaking her hands, she blew out, “Hello?”

“Hi. Can I talk to Brigit Walker, please?”

Brigit recognized the department manager she’d interviewed with in Minneapolis. Her smile grew until her cheeks hurt. “This is Brigit.”

Finally, a little validation that she’d done well, that all her hard studying over the years would amount to something. That she’d amounted to something.

“Hi, Brigit. This is Danielle Costa with Golden Waves Credit Union. Listen, you’re going to be getting a letter from us, but I wanted to contact you in person.”

Brigit wiggled. The impending move, uprooting herself to move back to the city, and leaving her loved ones behind all took a backseat to this moment. She’d give herself this moment to celebrate a hard-won victory.

Danielle continued. “I was just so impressed with you, but unfortunately I wasn’t the only person involved in the decision.” Brigit’s smile wavered and faded the more Danielle spoke. “The position was offered to another applicant and they accepted. I wanted to call personally and thank you for coming out to speak with us, and I urge you to apply with us again.”

“Oh… Okay.” Her vision blurred, and she dropped her head into her free hand. “Thanks for calling.”

Danielle said a few other things, but Brigit didn’t catch them. She just wanted to get off the phone and break down. She managed to say goodbye and sound semiprofessional.

Foolish, foolish, foolish. Why would the best place out of all the ones she’d applied to offer her a spot when she could barely get her resume taken seriously anywhere else?

Tears rolled down her cheeks. All that school for nothing. Mom and Dad had paid for all that school and she couldn’t use it. Oliver had carried her ass for years while she’d gotten her degrees. He had a job.

All she had to show were snail mail and digital letters of rejection.

Time ticked by. She sighed and went to the bathroom. Hopefully a little water would take some of the puffiness out of her face.

Trudging back into her bedroom, she settled in with her laptop. What jobs were open in Phoenix again?

Time ticked by and she moved on from devastated to numb. By now, she had a process to applying. Need a resume? She had three different types. References? Three to five, take your pick. List of addresses, all the schools she’d attended, it was all at her fingertips.

By the time a motor droned closer and closer to the house, she’d put in for five different positions in Phoenix. Two market research analysts, an operations research analyst, and—to hell with it—a clinic administrator.

Getting on her coat and stepping into her boots, she resolved to be cool and collected. She wasn’t sure if she could tell the story without tears, and while Caleb was always her cheerleader, showing her in so many ways that he had complete faith in her, he shouldn’t have to do it constantly.

Yes, not getting this job was a big deal, but it was a bump in the road and she’d wait until she could hold the waterworks at bay.

Outside, Caleb was at the shop, brushing a dusting of snow off the cement slab in front of the main door.

He looked up, squinting in the bright sun of a winter day. “Hey. Hungry?”

“I think there’s some leftover venison from last night in the fridge.”

“Want to go to town?”

Not really, but it’d do her good to get out. Face her disappointment and keep going. “Sure.”

She looked down at her favorite pair of jeans that were nearly white around the knees. The coat she’d chosen was her Carhartt Sherpa-lined jacket. It’d seen more than a few chore days and while she washed it often, its natural state was now grunge.

“You look fine. We’ll just hit the Brown House.”

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