Almost from the minute they’d arrived, Molly had been scrubbing and cleaning that kitchen. It comforted him, somehow, to see her put the house to rights. His own sweet Molly would’ve thoroughly disapproved of his housekeeping methods. He probably should have hired one of the women from town to take a scrub brush to the place, at least before his granddaughter arrived to find such a mess.
He’d always intended to hire a housekeeper, but had yet to meet anyone he wanted in his home for longer than five minutes. Nor did he like the idea of a stranger touching his Molly’s things. Maybe Ginny, but she didn’t keep her own house too well, and he’d wager she’d be insulted if he suggested she clean his, even if he was willing to pay her.
Tom and Clay didn’t need to be told twice about dinner. They were inside the house quicker than two jackrabbits. Walt wasn’t as fast on his feet. He heaved himself up, grateful that the boys had put away his carvings and tools. That Tom might have a smart mouth on him, but at heart he was a considerate kid. Walt took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of something delectable. He didn’t know what his granddaughter had cooked, but the tantalizing smells wafting from the kitchen told him he was in for a treat. Preparing meals had become an onerous chore; more and more of late Sam had been seeing to his dinner.
Walt trusted Sam, and that trust hadn’t been given lightly. It was why he’d asked his foreman to drive Molly into town earlier in the day. When they returned, Sam had silently carried in the groceries and left immediately afterward. Walt smiled to himself, amused at the way Sam was keeping his distance since Molly’s arrival.
Walt headed for the kitchen, moving at his own pace. Although Sam hadn’t said anything, he probably wasn’t too keen on Molly dating Russell Letson. It surprised Walt that she’d agreed to have dinner with that puppy of an attorney. The boy hadn’t let any moss grow under his feet, that was for sure.
Letson was a good man, shy and kind of quiet. Nothing like his father, who’d been outspoken and opinionated. His son seemed to keep to himself. He wondered why Russell hadn’t married. Of course there weren’t a lot of marriageable women around Sweetgrass.
Now that Molly was here, Walt suspected plenty of young men would be dropping by the ranch. Once they got a good look at his granddaughter they’d find excuses to visit. Pretty as a picture, Molly was. Smart, too, and a fine cook. Given time, she’d make a good rancher’s wife.
He believed that Molly needed a man, although he was sure she’d disagree with him. He’d like to see her get married again. She was still young and if she remarried, she’d probably have more children. It saddened him to realize he wouldn’t be around to know and love them, but he refused to think about that. He was determined to enjoy what time he had with her and the boys and let the future take care of itself.
He paused in the doorway leading to the kitchen. He barely recognized the room. The walls shone because Molly had washed them, the floor boards gleamed with wax, and the windows sparkled behind new gingham curtains Molly had sewn on her grandmother’s old Singer. She’d found a length of cotton up in the attic; his Molly must have bought it shortly before her death. As the boys hurried about setting serving dishes on the table, Walt marveled at the change in the room. So it took him longer than it should have to realize the table was only set for four.
“What about Sam?” he asked, surprised that Molly had excluded the foreman.
Molly’s chin came up slightly, as if she was affronted by the question. “I invited him over, but he said he had other plans.”
That was interesting. Walt watched his granddaughter as she brought a platter of chicken from the counter to the table. Her lips had thinned slightly when she mentioned Sam. Now that Walt thought about it, he’d sensed a bit of tension between the two.
“What other plans?” Walt pressed.
“He didn’t say.”
And Walt figured she hadn’t asked, either. Grinning, he glanced out the kitchen window to the small foreman’s house where Sam lived. Beyond that stood the old bunkhouse; the run-down structure was a reminder of the Broken Arrow’s glory days, when the spread had been large enough to justify hiring on several hands. Now there was only Sam. His battered truck was parked the same place as before, which meant he hadn’t left the ranch.
“Isn’t he hungry?” Walt demanded. The man had too much pride for his own good. His stubbornness was cheating him out of the best damn meal he was likely to get. Not that there was any point in telling him. Might as well argue with a tree stump.
Clay put a green salad on the table with a bottle of no-fat dressing.
Walt frowned. He preferred his own brand and he didn’t care if it was loaded down with fat. A man could only be asked to sacrifice so much. As it was, he already had one foot in the grave. His cholesterol count was the least of his worries.
“Do you want me to invite Sam again?” Molly asked, standing stiffly behind the kitchen chair.
Although she’d made the offer, Walt could see she had no desire to do so.
“If he doesn’t want to eat with us, fine. The choice is his.”
She nodded. “My thought exactly.”
Sam hardly knew Russell Letson, and he wasn’t sure why he was so angry with the guy. Except for that incident his first day in Sweetgrass, he and Russell had very little to do with each other. Which was fine with Sam. It occurred to him, as he pitched a forkful of hay into Sinbad’s stall, that he couldn’t think of a single reason to dislike the man—other than the fact that Letson had invited Molly to dinner. True, Sam had an innate distrust of lawyers, but he had no personal reason to feel wary of Russell Letson. And, of course, what Molly chose to do was none of his business.
Then why did it bother him so much?
The muscles across Sam’s shoulders tightened. He’d mucked out the stalls and put down fresh straw—although it wasn’t really necessary—simply because he felt the need to keep moving. If he worked hard enough and long enough, maybe his thoughts would leave him alone.
Not only did Sam dislike Letson, he wasn’t sure he liked Molly Cogan, either. Not that anyone was asking his opinion. Nor was he offering it.
An endless series of questions buzzed around his head like pesky flies. But Sam decided he wasn’t going to concern himself with the answers. He wasn’t willing to waste time analyzing his feelings about Molly. First and foremost, why should he care who she dated? He didn’t, dammit!
Perhaps he should think about moving on. He’d worked on the Broken Arrow Ranch longer than anywhere, and he wasn’t the kind of man who was comfortable staying in any one place. When he was in town that afternoon, he’d gotten the addresses of a number of large ranches in the state. This was as good a time as any to inquire about jobs. He’d been here too long, and he’d grown restless. At least that was what he told himself.
But he realized almost immediately that it was a lie.
Working for Walt Wheaton had given him a sense of satisfaction. The old man had needed him, and Sam had definitely needed a job. And more. He’d needed a home, needed some respect, needed to be useful. He was willing to admit that now, although it wasn’t easy. The last six months had given him perspective.
The bitter taste of his anger was gone and he was able to look back on his time in prison with a sort of…acceptance. He’d been drunk and stupid, raging over the loss of his career and every dime he’d saved. He’d been looking for trouble that night—almost four years ago now. The fight had been his fault, and he’d paid the price for his stupidity.
Sam had thought he’d learned his lesson, but he hadn’t been in Sweetgrass more than a few minutes when he made the same mistake. He’d gone into Willie’s for a beer; all he’d wanted was to quench his thirst. Everyone in the bar had been content to ignore the quarrelling couple. Sam, too. Until the drunk started slapping the woman around. That was when he’d stepped in. The fight had spilled into the street, where Walt Wheaton was standing, talking with a couple of old cronies. Before long, the sheriff was on the scene and Sam ha
d been hauled away. Walt had seen the whole thing….
Sam was grateful to Walt for hiring him without asking endless questions about his past. He didn’t understand what had prompted the old man to bail him out. All the rancher cared about was Sam’s skill in running the ranch, and once assured he knew his way around a herd, Walt had offered him the job.
Unless someone else had told him, Walt didn’t know Sam had served a two-year sentence in a Washington-state prison. Sam didn’t figure it was relevant; besides, being an ex-con wasn’t something he was proud of. And it wasn’t something he liked to talk about.
Sam still wondered why this sick old man had trusted him. It’d been a long time since anyone had willingly placed faith in him. That was why Sam had stayed, why he’d worked himself to the point of exhaustion, month after month. Sam would rather have died than disappoint Walt Wheaton.
It’d been a long time, too, since he’d allowed himself to care about anyone. Feelings were a luxury a man on the move couldn’t afford. They’d always made Sam uncomfortable, for more reasons than he wanted to examine.
Over the weeks and months he’d worked the Broken Arrow, he’d become fond of the crotchety old man. On some level they’d connected. He owed Walt, in a way he’d never owed anyone before. He also saw Walt’s despair over the deterioration of his ranch, and he was determined to salvage as much as he could. In an effort to prove himself worthy of Walt’s faith, Sam had struggled to build up the herd. He’d ridden the land so often he was familiar with damn near every square inch of it.
And he’d made a mistake. A big mistake. He’d started to dream.
Once in a while he’d find an excuse to ride up to the crest of the hill that overlooked the valley and dream that this land was his.
He supposed it was because he carried the sole responsibility for this ranch now. He’d started to feel he belonged here. And that was dangerous.
At night, it had become his habit to walk among the outbuildings and check everything one last time before he turned in. All too often his thoughts grew fanciful and he’d pretend that inside the house a woman was waiting for him. His wife. He’d pretend that his children slept upstairs, tucked securely in their beds, loved beyond measure.
It was never meant to be. When Walt died, the Broken Arrow would pass to Molly and her two boys. Then she’d find herself a new husband, who’d send him on his way.
He grimaced. His dreams were downright laughable, and the sooner he put them out of his mind, the easier it would be to pack his bags and move on. With this experience under his belt, he’d apply elsewhere and await the replies. No point in lingering when he could read the writing on the wall. He’d be out of a job by the end of the year.
All of a sudden Sam realized he was no longer alone. He turned and found Tom, the older of Molly’s two sons, standing just inside the barn. The boy looked hesitant, glancing about as if he wasn’t sure he should be there.
“Do you need something?” Sam asked gruffly, sounding more unfriendly than he’d intended. Actually he liked Tom. The boy reminded him a little of what he’d been like at that age.
“No. I…thought I’d feed the horses.”
Sam noticed the boy had one hand behind his back. “And what do you think you’ll feed them?”
Tom brought his arm forward and revealed a handful of carrots.
“Have you been around horses much?”
Tom shook his head.
“Then let me give you a few guidelines.” The last thing the old man needed was the shock of having one of his great-grandkids bitten by a horse. Or kicked in the gut.
Hearing voices, Sinbad arched his sleek black neck over the edge of the stall. The gelding was friendly, just right for a boy about Tom’s age. Gus, Walt’s Morgan horse, wasn’t opposed to a bit of attention himself, but Sam would rather steer the kid toward the more reliable Sinbad.
“You like to ride?” Sam asked, while he showed Tom the proper way to hold a carrot without risking the loss of a couple of fingers.
“I never have,” the boy admitted.
“You’re going to have to learn, then, aren’t you?” If his mother decided to keep the ranch, Tom would probably be riding the herd himself, taking on some serious responsibilities.
“I’d like to know how to ride.” Tom shot a look at Sam, as if to suggest he’d need someone to teach him, and Sam was the obvious choice.
“You feel you’re man enough?” Sam asked bluntly.
“Yes.” The boy’s voice sounded confident.
Sam grinned. “That’s what I thought.” Opening the bottom half of Sinbad’s stall door, Sam grasped the horse’s halter and led him out. “He’s about fifteen hands high,” Sam explained, running his palm down the gelding’s neck. “Which means you’ll be about four feet off the ground.” He glanced at the boy to gauge his interest. “I gotta tell you, the air’s just a little bit sweeter when you’re sitting tall in the saddle.”
Tom’s grin stretched all the way across his face.
“I always feel everything in life is much clearer when I’m on a horse. There’s a good feeling in my gut. When I’m riding, I’m happy and it’s the type of happiness I’ve never found anywhere else.”
Tom was mesmerized and, with such a willing audience, Sam could have talked all night. Riding was more than just a means of getting from one place to another. It involved a relationship with another creature. You depended on your horse; you and your horse had to trust and respect each other. This inner wisdom was as important as any technique Sam could share with the boy.
“If you ask me, spring’s about the best time of year for riding. Especially after a downpour, when the wind’s in your face and the scent of sweetgrass floats up to meet you. It’s even better when you’re riding a horse with heart.” Nothing was more exhilarating than a smooth steady gallop across acres of grassland. But it was the silence Sam loved best, a silence broken only by the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
“Sinbad’s a working horse,” Sam went on to say, in case Tom believed that any one of these animals was bred for fun and games. Gramps and Sam shared the same opinion when it came to animals. They worked for their keep. The dogs, too. Gramps might have given them cutesy names, but every last one of them worked as long and hard as he did himself.
“What do you mean by ‘working horse’?”
The question was sincere and Sam answered it the same way. “He’s a cow pony. He’s been cutting cows, trailing cattle and rounding up steers all his life. A cowboy is only as good as his horse, and Sinbad’s a damn good horse.”
Tom tentatively raised his hand to the gelding’s neck. Sam could tell he didn’t want to show he was intimidated by the large animal. He didn’t blame the kid for feeling a bit scared. In an effort to put him at ease, distract him from his nervousness, Sam continued to speak.
“Sinbad’s a quarter horse, which is an American breed. All that means is they were used at one time to compete in quarter-mile races. Far as I’m concerned, a quarter horse is the perfect horse for ranch work.”
Tom’s interest sharpened and he moved closer. His stroking of the horse’s neck was more confident now, and it seemed he’d forgotten his fears. “Is that one a quarter horse?” the boy asked, looking at Gus, who’d stuck his head over the stall door.
“Gus is a Morgan,” Sam explained. “It’s an excellent breed, as well, especially for a ranch. They can outwalk or outrun every other kind of horse around. Did you know that the only survivor of the Battle of the Little Big Horn was a Morgan? Go ahead and touch him. He’s pretty gentle.”
“Hi, Gus,” Tom said. He smiled broadly and walked over to rub the Morgan’s velvety nose.
“When can I start learning to ride?” Tom’s voice was filled with eagerness. “How about right now? I’ve got time.”
“Hadn’t you better talk to your mother first?” Sam resisted the temptation to discreetly inquire about the boy’s father. He knew Molly was divorced, but little else.
At the me
ntion of his mother, the excitement slowly drained from Tom’s dark brown eyes. “She won’t care.”
“You’d better ask her first.”
“Ask me what?” Molly said. She had just entered the barn. The open door spilled sunlight into the dim interior. Bathed as she was in the light, wreathed in the soft glow of early evening. Molly Cogan was breathtakingly beautiful.
No wonder Russell Letson had asked her out to dinner. It demanded every bit of concentration Sam could muster to drag his eyes away from her.
“Sam’s going to teach me to ride!” Tom burst out excitedly. “He’s been telling me all kinds of things about horses. Did you know—” He would’ve chattered on endlessly, Sam felt, if Molly hadn’t interrupted him.
“Teach you to ride a horse?” Molly asked.
“Duh! What did you think? It isn’t like I could hop on the back of a rooster!” The boy’s enthusiasm cut away his sarcasm. “Sam says we can start tonight. We can, can’t we?”
Molly’s gaze pinned Sam to the wall. “I’ll need to discuss it with Mr. Dakota first.”
Mr. Dakota. Sam nearly laughed out loud. The last time anyone had called him that, he’d been flat on his back in a hospital emergency room in pain so bad even morphine couldn’t kill it.
“Mom…” Tom sensed trouble and it showed in the nervous glance he sent Sam.
“I didn’t come outside to argue with you,” Molly said, her voice cool. “I need you to go back in the house. Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Tom cried indignantly. “You’re treating me like a little kid. It’s still daylight out! You aren’t sending me to bed, are you?”
“No. Your grandfather has some things he wants you to get for him, and they’re upstairs. He can’t make the climb any longer.”
“I’ll get them,” Sam offered. If Tom didn’t recognize an escape when he heard one, Sam did. With Tom out of earshot, Molly was sure to lay into him for what he’d done—agreeing to teach her son to ride.