put the woman out of her mind. She clicked off her phone and stuck it in her purse just as her hunter-green suitcase pushed through the carousel’s plastic flaps. She couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. The Preston-Werner Clinic had a stellar reputation. Adam had screened the patients meticulously for the trials. And Bethany’s fellow nurses were all top-notch.
She sighed and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, gritty from the 3:00 a.m. wake-up to make her flight. Adam was right, though. There wasn’t much she could do about Mrs. Bolter’s death now. And she wasn’t naive. She’d lost an occasional patient during the years she’d been a nurse. Still, it was never easy, especially with a patient that sweet.
Besides, her father needed her here in Montana, even if he’d insisted he was all right. He’d fallen off his horse and broken his leg—not an easy injury to recover from at sixty-eight years of age.
Her suitcase began to draw closer. Bethany skirted a man in cowboy boots, hefted it from the carousel, and wheeled it across the luggage-claim area to the tall glass doors. Once outside, she blinked in the afternoon sunshine, Bethany walked past the stone pillars to the end of the sidewalk where she stopped to wait for her ride.
Relax, Adam had told her. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the dry mountain air, and willed her tension to ease—not hard to do since Bozeman’s small regional airport had none of the frenzy of O’Hare. There were no shuttle buses spewing exhaust, no constant stream of traffic, no frantic people rushing to catch their flights—just a deserted parking lot dotted with rental cars and an occasional passenger strolling past.
She scanned the mountains ringing the horizon—the Bridger Mountains to the north, the Madison front of the Rockies to the west—their huge peaks dusted with snow. It always amazed her how far she could see out west without humidity hazing the air. Looking up, she spotted a lone hawk riding the currents, and a soothing peace settled inside. She loved the wide open spaces of the land where she’d grown up.
Then a man drove past in a pickup truck and shot her a hostile glare. She stiffened, trying not to let it affect her, but her fleeting sense of harmony disappeared. That right there was the reason she’d moved back east—because of people like him. To them, she was a Native American first, an individual second. Even having a Caucasian mother hadn’t helped her fit in. At least in the anonymity of Chicago, she had the freedom to be herself.
And frankly, there’d been nothing to hold her here after high school. No family, aside from her father. No man, not after Cole Kelley made it clear where his priorities lay.
Her stomach turned over at the thought of Cole. In the past she’d managed to avoid him during her visits home to Maple Cove—but that was before her father had become the foreman on his ranch. Now that her father lived in a cabin on the Bar Lazy K, she was bound to run into Cole.
But maybe not. October was roundup time, the busiest time of the year. Cole would be loading cattle, shipping them to market. If she was lucky, she’d never see him around.
And if she did … So what? Cole was ancient history. He’d made his choice—his land over her—and she no longer cared. She had a great life in Chicago—a cozy apartment, good friends, a fabulous job despite the current setback. If she’d hoped for more at one time—if she’d longed for a family and marriage to Cole—she’d learned the futility of that. There was no point dreaming for things she couldn’t have.
A new Ford pickup pulled up to the curb, and she waved to the driver, Kenny Greene, a former high school classmate and a cowboy on Cole’s ranch. Determined to forget Cole—and her worries in Chicago—she tossed her suitcase into the back of the shiny pickup and climbed into the passenger seat.
For the next two weeks she was on vacation. She would bake her father chokecherry pies, sit on his porch swing and read and go for long rides on his horse while he napped. The Bar Lazy K had twelve thousand acres to get lost in, more if she rode onto government land. She’d never see Cole Kelley or even give him another thought.
She hoped.
Late that evening, Cole pulled into his yard and parked in the fluorescent halo pooling from the pole light next to the barn. More light poured from the ranch house, glinting from the floor-to-ceiling windows like honeyed-gold.
He cut the engine, a deep weariness seeping through his bones, and sighed. Damn, he was tired. He’d put in another sixteen-hour day. He tossed his leather work gloves onto the dashboard and massaged his throbbing temples, still unable to believe that he’d lost those cows.
It made no sense. None of his neighbors would have done it. They were all on friendly terms. In fact, the neighbor who owned the alfalfa was trying to sell Cole his thousand-acre spread—if Cole could swing the down payment when he sold his cows.
And he couldn’t imagine his father’s mistresses shooting the cattle. Shooting Hank, definitely. Cole was surprised his mother hadn’t done that years ago. But to kill the cows?
Still, he’d bet his ranch the killings were related to his father. He couldn’t prove it, but given the problems plaguing his family, no other explanation fit.
His back aching, Cole climbed out of the truck and rotated his stiff shoulders, then bent to pet Domino, who’d joined Mitzy in circling his feet. He’d reported the shooting to the sheriff. He’d herded the surviving cows back into their pasture and strung new wire on the fence. And tomorrow, he’d have his men check every cow on every inch of the twenty-square-mile ranch.
He just hoped he could get those cattle to market before that predicted cold front moved in—or anything else went wrong.
A soft whine drew his gaze. “Hey, Ace.” He stooped and scratched the gray-muzzled, fifteen-year-old border collie who thumped his tail and licked his hand. Ace had retired from chasing cows when his eyesight failed and now spent his days in the house, pampered by the ranch’s cook and housekeeper, Hannah Brown. But, retired or not, the old dog still faithfully greeted Cole whenever he came home.
The other two dogs, not to be ignored, leaped against Cole and butted his hand. Cole laughed and ruffled their fur. When he straightened, they bounded off, heading for their food bowls, no doubt.
His own stomach growled, and he shot a longing glance at the ranch house, wanting nothing more than a cold beer, a hot meal and some long-overdue oblivion in his king-size bed. But he had a lame colt to check on first.
He strode to the barn, the sight of the freshly painted corral easing his tension a notch. His grandmother had built the lavish ranch house on the family homestead, its soaring ceilings and two-story windows more suited to Aspen than Maple Cove. But the barn … Fierce satisfaction surged inside him. That was Cole’s contribution, the first thing he’d remodeled when he and his brother Dylan had bought the place. He’d added a dozen horse stalls, created more heated space to birth calves. He’d also upgraded the pens and loading chutes, satisfied that he now had a modern outfit to tend his stock.
He opened the wide barn door, greeted by the familiar scent of hay. A soft light came from the nearest stall where his ranch foreman kept his horse.
“Rusty?” he called out, his exasperation rising. The stubborn man was supposed to be lying in bed with his broken leg propped up, not fooling around with his horse.
He swung open the gate to the stall, expecting to see his old foreman hobbling on his crutches and cast. Instead, a woman stood with her back to him, brushing Rusty’s chestnut mare.
Bethany Moore. Cole abruptly came to a stop. Even after a dozen years, the
