ran into Sam as she was working with him. The stud looked full of the devil.”
“He is.” Grant chuckled.
Glancing out the window as twilight caressed the land, Kyle said, “Sam’s got a kid.”
“Yep.”
“Said the father was out of the picture. I didn’t know she’d been married.”
“Wasn’t.”
“So where is the guy?”
“Beats me. I never asked. Wasn’t any of my business,” Grant said. Unspoken but implied was the message and it’s none of yours, either.
Kyle heard the quiet reprimand in Grant’s tone but ignored it. “No one knows?”
“Well, I suppose Sam knows, and Bess, her mother. Some of the gossips in town try to point the finger at Tadd Richter. You remember him?”
“Yeah. Never met him, but heard he was a local hood.”
“He ran with a fast crowd, rode a big motorcycle, drank and was always in trouble with the law. His folks split up and he ended up in jail, or a juvenile home somewhere near Casper, I think. Anyway, Sam had hung out with him right before he left town and then…well, she turned up pregnant. Not that it’s any of your concern. She’s kept quiet about it all these years and I figure she’s got her reasons…. Anyway, I just called to welcome you to Wyoming.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not a bad place, you know.”
“Never said it was.”
“But you weren’t too happy to have to move here.”
Kyle stared through the panes to the stand of aspen guarding the banks of Stiller Creek. “I don’t like being told what to do. Not even by Kate.”
“It won’t be so bad. You might find you like it out here, discover what it is you’re running from or looking for. You never know.”
“Nope, you never do.” Kyle felt his temper flare a little. Never one to mince words, Grant had let it be known that he hadn’t approved of Kyle’s rootless lifestyle in Minneapolis.
“Maybe you need to slow down a mite.”
“Maybe,” Kyle drawled, though his jaw tightened. He didn’t need a lecture. He knew that he’d thrown away a few years of his life, dabbling at this business and that, making a little money, sometimes losing a lot. Marrying the wrong woman. Working for the family and getting fired was the latest disaster. He didn’t want to be reminded of that failure, nor could he explain the restlessness that had chased after him since boyhood, the feeling that he couldn’t stay in one place too long. And, he suspected, six months in Clear Springs with Samantha living next door was going to be far too long.
“I’ll be by in a couple of days and see that you’re not mistreating Joker.”
“Yeah, more likely that stallion will be the end of me.”
“Or Sam will.”
Amen.
“She’s a bossy one. Likes to run things her way.”
“I figured that much out already.”
“Just remember, she might bug the hell out of you, but she knows a lot more about ranchin’ than you do.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that. See ya tomorrow.”
Kyle hung up, scowled at the ledgers on the desk and slammed the book closed. Sam. He hadn’t thought about her in years, wouldn’t let himself, but ever since he’d set foot in Wyoming, he couldn’t get away from her.
“Damn it all to hell.” Rotating his neck, he winced as a vertebra near the top of his spine popped. Tadd Richter—what had Sam seen in that lowlife? And why did Kyle care? It was old news.
His coffee, bad instant stuff when it was hot, was now cold and looked as if it might gel. Kyle ignored the cup. The old chair groaned as he stood and walked to a cupboard where, once upon a time, Ben had kept his liquor. Empty. “Strike two.” No computer and no liquor, not in this den with its yellowed, knotty pine walls, faded prints of rodeo riders and braided rug tossed over an ancient plank floor. It was as if life out here in godforsaken Wyoming hadn’t changed in the past fifty years. “Thanks a lot, Kate,” he grumbled, though the ranch in summer had always held a special spot in his heart—a spot he’d rather not remember.
Jet lag hadn’t settled in and probably wouldn’t. The plane ride from Minneapolis to Jackson hadn’t been all that bad, nor had the trip out to the ranch in his hastily purchased, used pickup. No, it wasn’t the travel that bothered him so much as the feeling that he was being manipulated. Again. By his grandmother. From her damned grave.
Snapping off the desk lamp, he walked in his stocking feet through the long hall that ran the length of this rambling, two-story house, the place where he’d spent many of his summer vacations. Sometimes the family had taken trips to faraway and exotic places—Mexico, Jamaica, Hawaii or India. But the summers he remembered best, the ones he cherished, weren’t when he was ensconced in some opulent hotel boasting five-star restaurants, mineral springs and connecting pools. No, the best summers of his life he’d spent here, learning how to rope calves, saddle horses, brand the stock, skinny-dip in Stiller Creek and sleep under the blanket of stars in the vast Wyoming sky.
Kyle walked up the steep, uncarpeted stairs to the second floor, where a warren of attic rooms was housed. At the end of the hall was the bunk room in which he and his cousins had slept. He felt the worn wood of the door and touched the gouge where Michael had broken the lock when Kyle and Adam had locked him out. Kyle had been about twelve at the time. Michael, a year older and full of piss and vinegar, wasn’t about to let a little latch keep him from breaking open the door and seeking some kind of vengeance for his brother catching him off guard and nailing him with a stream of ice-cold water from the garden hose.
Smiling, Kyle remembered Michael, dripping from head to toe as he’d crashed through the door and sprawled into the room, clunking his head on the end of one of the bunks and nearly knocking himself out.
It seemed like a lifetime ago. Before he’d started shaving, before he’d really noticed girls. Before Sam.
Snapping on the light, he walked into the room and eyed the bunks, three sets now without sheets, mattress ticking faded, tucked under the eaves and in the dormers. Nowhere in sight was the carton of cigarettes they’d swiped from their grandfather, the Playboy magazines that one of the ranch hands had “loaned” the boys or the bottles of booze they’d hidden deep in their dresser drawers when a local cowboy had, for a stiff fee, bought them whatever kind of rotgut whiskey they could afford.
Running his hand over one of the bed frames, he stopped at the window they’d used for escape. The ledge was located close to an ancient apple tree with wide branches, and the boys had rigged an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys to lower themselves to the ground or climb back up. They’d thought they were so smart, but, Kyle suspected, their grandmother probably knew everything that was going on. She was just too clever to have missed all of their shenanigans.
“Son
