his head. The weak autumn sun felt good, though it did little to warm him. The air was clear and fresh, though. He let out a big breath, a cloud forming in front of his face. What did feel right since returning home was the big Montana sky, the sun, the smell of the air. There was nothing like it in the world—and he’d seen a lot of places.
Birds chirped in the skeleton branches of the scrub brush, but Duke had a problem telling where the tweets and burbles were coming from. Losing half his hearing had been a blow, but at least he could still hear out of his left ear, and he still had all his fingers and toes. That was what he kept telling himself anyway. The gash on his arm had healed to a pink scar and so had the bruises. But the hearing loss was permanent. He was damned lucky he hadn’t been killed by the IED and he knew it. That didn’t mean there weren’t adjustments that he had to make. Or that he deeply resented having to make them.
“Hey! I said, can I help you!”
Startled, he spun to his right to see a man, much smaller than himself, marching toward him from the back of the barn. He squinted and realized it was no man at all—it was a woman, in jeans, dirty boots, a denim jacket similar to his own and a battered brown hat on her head. The words she’d hurled at him echoed in his head. I said, can I help you! Clearly they’d been spoken more than once and he hadn’t heard. He clenched his teeth, annoyed at his disability once more.
“Jeez, I called out three times. What are you, deaf?”
He raised a surprised eyebrow as the words hit their mark. “Wow. That was rude.”
She huffed out a sigh as she came close enough he could see her face. “Bad morning. Sorry.”
He looked closer. “I’ll be damned. Carrie? Carrie Coulter?”
Blue eyes looked up into his. “That’s right. And you are?”
It only took a half second after the words were out of her mouth for who he was to register. “Oh, my God. Duke Duggan?”
He hadn’t seen Carrie since what, third grade? Back then she’d had a space between her front teeth and freckles, and sandy blond hair that she always wore in a perky ponytail with pieces sticking out at her temples. Once he’d called her Freckle Face and she’d kicked him in the shin so hard he’d had the bruise for two solid weeks.
She still had the same pieces of hair sticking out and curling by her hat brim and the same freckles, too, only they were a little bit lighter now and the space was gone from her teeth as she gaped up at him, mouth open. Huh. Carrie Coulter had turned out quite attractive when all was said and done, even dressed in dirty jeans and a bulky jacket that didn’t do her figure any favors.
“Well,” she finally said softly. “I think hell just froze over. Didn’t think you’d ever make it back here.”
“Why not?”
He watched her lips as she answered. They were very fine lips, full and pink without even a touch of gloss or lipstick. “Your grandfather always wanted you kids to come back and you never did.” Her eyes took on an accusing look. “I think it broke his heart.”
“His heart broke when my dad died,” Duke stated dispassionately. “Don’t get me wrong. I liked my time here as a kid, but after Desert Storm...” He frowned down at her. “It was always about my dad. Wanting us to take over the place since my dad never would.”
Duke had heard it so many times as a kid, how his father had failed the family. It was no wonder that Duke had rebelled against the idea of joining the ranch, instead determined to honor his father by following in his footsteps and joining the army. But it hadn’t only been about rebellion. Duke had wanted to be a soldier and he didn’t regret that move in the least. Not even considering his injuries. He’d served his country and done it proudly. It was all he’d ever really wanted to do.
“You didn’t hear how much he talked about you,” she replied, a little tartly, he noticed. Clearly Carrie had been devoted to the old man.
“You knew him better than I did.”
“My point exactly. What are you doing here, Dustin?”
She was mad. That had to be the only reason she reverted to his real name. He’d been Duke for so long that he was surprised anyone would even remember that his birth certificate said Dustin. It felt as though she was addressing a stranger.
He made a point of hooking his thumb in a careless gesture, motioning toward the back of the truck where two duffels sat side by side. “I’m here. As one-third owner of Crooked Valley Ranch.” To prove it, he took the letter out of his breast pocket and handed it to her, ignoring the slight feeling of panic he got just saying the words.
She opened it, walked away a few steps as she read the words. Words that had caused several reactions within him when he’d opened the envelope. Anger, grief and, strangely enough, fear. After all the places he’d been, things he’d seen, danger he’d been in, it was the idea of taking over Crooked Valley that made him most afraid.
He could tell she said something because he heard the muffled sound of her voice, but couldn’t make out the words. He turned and took a few steps through the crackly grass until he was facing her again. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
She held up the letter. “I had no idea. When Joe died, I asked Quinn what we were supposed to do and he said keep working until we heard differently from the lawyers. When did you get this?”
“Last week,” he confirmed.
“And your brother and sister?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t talked to them lately. They have commitments. I don’t. Not at the moment anyway.”
She folded the paper and handed it back to him. “Well, I have to say I’m a bit relieved. We’ve all been wondering what was going to happen with the ranch. But what about the army? Are you just on leave, or what?”
It stung more than a little to have to respond, “The army’s in the past. By the way, who’s Quinn?”
There. He’d changed the subject. He’d rather not talk about the circumstances around his leaving his former life. It was still too fresh.
“Quinn Solomon. The ranch manager.”
“And you’re what, a ranch hand?” He couldn’t help but smile a little at the idea. Most of the girls he knew wouldn’t be caught dead with manure on their boots, dirt on their face and less-than-perfect hair. It seemed impossible that the cute little girl he’d teased in school was now working on his ranch. That would make her his employee....
All traces of friendliness disappeared from her face. “No sir,” she corrected him. “Quinn’s the manager, and I’m the foreman of the cattle side of the business. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work. We lost two heifers to coyotes last night. I need to bury the bodies.”
Bury the bodies? Coyotes and heifers?
Duke had had visions of riding the range, surveying his domain, moving cattle from pasture to pasture and some sort of idyllic, carefree life for a few months while he made some hard decisions. That vision hadn’t included predators and dead bodies and digging graves. That wasn’t his idea of stress relief. He’d had enough of that sort of thing during his deployments.
“You
