what seemed like forever, in his peripheral vision he saw a pickup rider move in, and an instant later the horn blared, signaling the end of the ride. Zach grabbed the pickup rider’s arm and shoulder, lunged from the saddle and swung to the ground.
“What a great ride! Let’s give Zach a big hand, folks,” the announcer urged.
While the crowd clapped and cheered and the pickup riders caught Hellbent and led him away, Zach scooped up his hat, gave it three hard knocks against his pant leg to remove the dust, set it back on his head and ambled for the pens, doing his best to not limp. With each step pain shot through his left leg and hip—a nasty little memento from the enraged bull that had given him a toss four days ago. Damn. He was getting too old for this.
Most of the cowboys on the rodeo circuit were in their twenties. Some were even in their teens. Zach’s mouth took on a wry twist. Yeah, and there’s a reason for that, Mahoney, he thought. By age thirty-six they’re either too busted up to compete or they’ve wised up.
Not until Zach reached the exit gate did he allow himself to look over his shoulder and check his score. Yes! The ride had put him in the lead. Not bad for an old man.
By the time he made his way through the clutch of riders and handlers and accepted their congratulations, the last contestant was picking himself up out of the dirt, and Zach knew he’d won the top purse in the bronc riding event. Maybe even Best All Around, as well, but he wouldn’t know that for an hour or so when all the events were over. He’d come back then for the finale, but in the meantime he was going to his RV to apply heat to his aching hip and leg.
After retrieving his saddle and bridle, Zach slung them over his shoulder and headed back to his motor home in the camping area behind the rodeo arena. Halfway there a man in a FedEx uniform intercepted him with an overnight letter.
Zach frowned. Who the devil would be sending him a registered letter? He turned the envelope this way and that, but the return address was too faint to make out in the dim light of the parking lot.
When he stepped into the RV his cell phone was ringing. Zach dumped the saddle and bridle just inside the door, tossed his Stetson on the sofa and snatched it up. “Yeah, Mahoney here.”
“Zach, it’s J.T.”
Surprise darted through him. He hadn’t heard directly from either of his brothers since they’d they parted company in Clear Water, Montana, nine months ago.
No matter how much Kate and Matt’s wife, Maude Ann, might wish otherwise, the brotherly connection just wasn’t there.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Have you gotten an overnight letter from the Manning and Manning law firm yet?”
Zach checked out the return address on the envelope he still held. “It just came. I haven’t had a chance to open it yet. How did you know about it?”
“Because Matt and I each received the same letter a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh? What’s going on?”
“You’re not going to believe this. The letters are from Seamus Rafferty’s attorney, Edward Manning, notifying us of the old man’s death and that we’re beneficiaries in his will.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope. The old coot passed away yesterday. I called the law firm and talked to Edward Manning. He’s waiting to hear from us before scheduling the funeral so he can allow plenty of time for us to get there.”
“The hell you say. I’m not going to that old devil’s funeral.”
“I understand how you feel. That was Matt’s first reaction. Mine, too. But the Rocking R meant a lot to Colleen. She obviously felt it was our heritage. If Seamus leaves us so much as one square foot of the place, we owe it to her to accept it.”
Zach rubbed the back of his neck and looked up at the ceiling, torn between resentment and a nagging sense of obligation and loyalty to the mother he couldn’t remember. Damn. He didn’t need this.
Although…J.T. did have a point.
He sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”
The January wind swooping down the snowy mountain slopes cut to the bone, causing several people to huddle deeper in their coats and shiver. Gray clouds scudded overhead, heavy with the threat of more snow to come. The dank smell of freshly dug, frozen earth hung in the air. From the nearby stand of pines came the raucous cawing of a raven, and in the valley the cattle lowed mournfully, as though aware of the event taking place in the small family cemetery on the slope above the ranch house.
“Dear Lord, we commit unto your keeping the soul of Seamus Patrick Rafferty.” The minister picked up a handful of dirt and dropped the frozen clods onto the coffin. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. May God have mercy on your soul.” Clutching his Bible to his chest, he lowered his head. “Let us pray.”
Reverend Turner’s dolorous voice droned on, but Willa Simmons barely heard him. She was too angry and upset. Refusing to look at the three men standing shoulder to shoulder on the opposite side of the grave, she kept her gaze focused on the casket. They had no right to be there. No right at all.
The sun glinted off one of the coffin’s silver handles, and Willa’s eyes narrowed. Her hands curled into fists. It’s your fault that they’re here. Damn you, Seamus. How could you?
“Amen,” the reverend intoned, and everyone in the sparse band of mourners echoed the word—all except Seamus’s three grandsons. They stood stony-faced and dry-eyed, as they had throughout the service.
Zach Mahoney, Matt and Maude Ann Dolan, J.T. and Kate Conway, Edward Manning, Maria and the ranch hands and herself were the only ones there. A pitiful turn-out for a man’s funeral, Willa thought.
It was sad, but Seamus had only himself to blame. Over the years, with the exception of Harold Manning and his son Edward, Seamus had alienated every friend he’d ever had and all of his neighbors and acquaintances around Clear Water.
For an awkward moment the cowboys stood with their hats in their hands and shifted from one foot to the other, looking from Willa to Seamus’s grandsons, trying to decide to whom they should offer condolences first.
Edward solved the dilemma for them by turning to Willa with a murmured word of sympathy before skirting around the grave to speak to the three brothers and the wives of the two who were married. The reverend did the same, and the relieved hands quickly followed their example. After muttering a few words, each man wasted no time heading down the hill to the bunkhouse, eager to escape the unpleasant duty and shed his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.
When the last cowboy sidled away, Willa slipped her arm through the housekeeper’s. “C’mon, Maria. Let’s go.”
“But, Willie, you have not spoken with the señors.”
“Nor do I intend to.” Unable to resist, Willa glared at the brothers before heading for the gate in the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery.
“Willie? Hold on.” Edward called.
The housekeeper turned to wait for the attorney to catch up, leaving Willa no choice but to do the
