Montana (5 page)

Ginny stood with her hands on her hips. Walt looked her up and down, then shook his head. A woman her age had no business wearing dungarees; he was firm on that.

“Someone knocked down your mailbox,” she told him, her chin angled stubbornly toward him. “The way the tire tracks went, it looks deliberate.”

Vandals had been wreaking havoc the past few months. Walt didn't understand it. “Who'd do such a thing?”

“Anyone who knows you, Walt Wheaton. You've gone out of your way to make yourself the most unpopular man in town.”

“Are you going to stand on my property and insult me, woman?” He forgot about conserving his strength. Ginny always did have a way of getting his dander up. He suspected she did it on purpose, and if the truth be known, he often enjoyed their verbal skirmishes.

“I'm not insulting you. I'm telling you the truth.”

“I don't…have to…take this,” he said, then slowly lowered himself into the rocker.

Ginny frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I'm okay.” He closed his eyes, and his breath came in shallow gasps. It always happened like this; without warning, he'd be unable to catch his breath. No feeling on earth could be worse. It felt as though someone's hands had closed around his throat.

“Walt?”

He dismissed her with a flick of his hand.

“Walt?” She sounded much closer now.

“Pills,” he managed between gasps. He patted his shirt pocket. His head slumped to one side and he felt Ginny's hand searching around for the small brown bottle. The entire time, she was talking. Leave it to a woman to chatter at a time like this. If his heart didn't kill him, Ginny's tongue would.

An eternity passed before she managed to get the pill under his tongue. A couple of minutes later, it took effect. Walt managed to remain conscious, but only by sheer force of will. He refused to pass out; otherwise Sam was sure to haul him back to the medical clinic. If a man wasn't sick when he walked in there, he would be by the time he walked out.

Dr. Shaver had damn near killed him while Sam sat there watching. Walt had fired Sam three times in the next few days, but Sam had ignored his orders. The problem was, his foreman could be as stubborn as Walt himself.

“Drink this.” Ginny thrust a glass under his nose.

“What's in it? Arsenic?”

“Water, you old fool.”

When he didn't obey her fast enough, Ginny grabbed it back and gulped it down herself.

“I thought you said that was for me,” he grumbled.

“I needed it more than you.”

Ginny collapsed in the rocker next to his own. Molly's rocker. For forty years she'd sat on the front porch with him each night. She'd darned socks, crocheted, knitted. His wife hadn't believed in idle hands. Every now and again he'd find a way to steal a kiss. It had never ceased to amaze him that a woman as beautiful and talented as Molly MacDougal would marry the likes of him. Her one regret was that she'd only been able to give him one son.

Now they were both gone. Adam killed by a drunk driver while still in his twenties and then, later, his Molly. He'd be joining them soon. But not right away. There was work that had to be done. Affairs settled. Arrangements made. He wanted time with Molly and her boys first. God would grant him that much, Walt was sure. The good Lord had seen fit to take Adam and Molly early in life, and as far as Walt was concerned God owed him this additional time.

“You gave me the scare of my life!” Ginny cried. She was rocking so fast she damn near stirred up a dust devil.

“What'd you do with my mail?” he demanded, hoping to change the subject.

Ginny glared at him, her dark eyes burning holes straight through him. “I saved your life and all you care about is your stupid mail?”

“You've got it, haven't you? Suppose you read it, too.”

“I most certainly did not.”

He snorted in disbelief.

“How about thanking me?” Ginny muttered. “If it wasn't for me, you could be dead by now.”

Walt made a disgusted sound. “If I'd known you were going to nag like this, death would've been a blessing.”

“I
t's probably the biggest, most beautiful home I've ever seen,” Molly told her boys wistfully as they sped along the two-lane highway. Eager to reach Sweetgrass, she drove fifteen miles above the speed limit. They hadn't seen another car in more than half an hour, and she figured the state patrol had better things to do than worry about an old country road.

“How many rooms does it have?” Clay asked.

“More than I could count,” Molly said, smiling to herself. As a child, she'd considered her grandparents' home a mansion. It had taken her two entire summers to explore all three floors. The original house had been built just after the turn of the century, a grand home for its time, with a turret dominating the right-hand side of the wooden structure. There was a wide sweeping porch along the front of the house, added in later years; it looked out over the rolling green paddock where the horses grazed. A narrow dirt drive snaked in from a marked entry off the highway.

“I can have my own room, then?” Tom asked, showing some life for the first time since lunch.

“There must be four, possibly five bedrooms not in use now.”

“I'd sleep in the attic without electricity if it meant I wouldn't have to share a room with Clay.”

For Tom, that had been the most difficult aspect of their move into the apartment. He'd been tolerant about it for a while, but living in such close proximity to his younger brother had quickly become a problem.

“My grandmother kept the house in meticulous condition,” Molly said. During her last visit, the month following her grandmother's death, she'd marveled at how clean and neatly organized the house still was. Molly Wheaton had regularly waxed the wooden floors and washed the walls. She'd line-dried all the clothes, ironed and crisply folded almost everything. Even the dish towels.

Out of respect for his wife, Gramps had removed his shoes before stepping into the house, to avoid tracking mud across the spotless floors. Every room had smelled of sunshine, with the faint underlying scent of lemon or pine. Molly could almost smell it now.

“How big's the barn?”

“Huge.”

“That's what you said about the house.”

“I named you right, son,” she said, reaching over and mussing his hair. “Doubting Thomas.”

Tom slapped at her hand, and she laughed, in too good a mood to let his surly attitude distress her.

They were within an hour of Sweetgrass, and Molly felt a keen sense of homecoming. It was an excitement that reminded her of childhood and warm summer days, a joy that wanted to burst forth. After the long hard months of Daniel's trial, months of struggle and embarrassment while their names were dragged through the media, this was a new beginning for them all. At last they could set aside the troubles of the past and move forward.

“There's a weeping willow beside the house,” Molly said. “When I was a girl, I used to hide behind its branches. Gramps would come looking for me and pretend he couldn't find me.” The remembrance made her laugh softly. Her grandfather might be crusty on the outside, but inside he was as kind and loving as a man could be. While her grandmother fussed over her only grandchild, coddled and pampered her, Gramps had growled and snorted about sparing the rod and spoiling the child.

But it had been her grandfather who'd built her a dollhouse and hand-carved each small piece of furniture. It'd taken him a whole winter to complete the project. Instead of giving it to her, he'd placed it in the attic for her to find, letting her think it'd been there for years.

Her grandmother had never allowed any of the dogs or cats in the house, but it was her grandfather who'd smuggled in a kitten to sleep with her the first night she was away from her parents, when she was six. Molly wasn't supposed to have known, but she'd seen him tiptoe up the stairs, carting the kitten in a woven basket.

All the memories wrapped themselves around her like the sun's warmth, comforting and lovely beyond description.

“Does Gramps have a dog?” Clay asked excitedly.

“Three or four, I imagine.” Gramps had named his dogs after cartoon characters. Molly remembered Mr. McGoo and Mighty Mouse. Yogi and Boo Boo had been two of her favorites. She wondered if he'd continued the practice with more recent dogs.

“That's it!” she said, pointing at two tall timbers. A board with BROKEN ARROW RANCH burned in large capital letters swung from a chain between them. The brand was seared on either side of the ranch name.

“I don't see the house,” Clay muttered.

“You will soon,” she promised. Molly took a deep breath. They'd been on the road for two days and it felt ten times that long. Her heart was ready for sight of the house, ready to absorb the wealth of emotion that stirred her whenever she remembered those childhood summers.

Her ten-year-old Taurus crested the first hill, and she gazed intently ahead, knowing it was here that the house came into view for the first time. She could hardly wait for her sons' reaction. Could hardly wait for them to suck in their breaths with awe and appreciation. Could hardly wait to show them the home that would now be theirs.

It wasn't Tom or Clay who gasped, but Molly herself. The house, at least the outside, was nothing like she remembered. It sat forlornly, revealing years of neglect and abuse. Most of the shutters were gone, and those that remained hung askew, dangling by a couple of nails. The paint had blistered and peeled, leaving behind large patches of sun-parched wood. Two of the posts along the porch had rotted away, and the railing around the front showed gaping holes as unsightly as missing teeth. A turquoise tarp was spread across the roof over what had once been her bedroom, presumably to stop a leak.

“Are you sure this is the same house?” The question came from Tom.

“This isn't it…is it?” Clay's words seemed to stick in his throat.

“The Addams family would love this place,” Tom said sarcastically.

Molly felt her sons' scrutiny, but was speechless, not knowing what to say.

“Are we just going to stay parked here?” Clay asked.

Molly hadn't realized she'd stopped. She squared her shoulders and forced herself to swallow the disappointment. All right, so the house wasn't exactly the way she'd recalled it. She'd personally see to the repairs and the upkeep; it was her responsibility now. Her hands squeezed the steering wheel as a new thought struck her. If the outside was this bad, she could only imagine what had happened to the inside.

“We need to remember Gramps is ill,” she said more for her own benefit than her children's. “He hasn't been able to take care of things. That's why we're here, remember?”

“This place is a dump.”

“Thomas, stop!” She would hear none of this. None of it! “This is our home.”

“We were better off in the apartment.”

Molly's fingers ached from her death grip on the steering wheel. “It'll be just as beautiful as ever in no time,” she said forcefully, defying the boys to contradict her.

Either they recognized the determination in her voice or were too tired to argue.

Molly had half expected Gramps to be on the porch waiting for her when she arrived and was disappointed when he wasn't. She pulled the car around to the back of the house, close to the barn where Gramps generally parked his vehicles. Two dogs, one of them hugely pregnant, began barking furiously.

She turned off the engine and a man stepped out of the shadows from inside the barn. He removed his hat and wiped his forearm across his brow, then paused to study her.

This could only be Sam Dakota. Her grandfather's foreman. The boys scrambled out of the car, eager to escape its confines. They were obviously anxious to explore, but stayed close to the Taurus, waiting for her. The instant he was out the door, Clay squatted down and petted the pregnant dog, lavishing her with affection. The other dog continued his high-pitched barking.

Molly worried when she still didn't see Gramps. Her immediate fear was that she'd arrived too late and her grandfather was already dead. Sam would've had no way of contacting her while she was on the road. It'd been foolish not to phone from the hotel, just in case…As quickly as the idea entered her head, she pushed it away, refusing to believe anything could have happened to Gramps. Not yet! She opened her car door and stepped into the early-afternoon sunshine.

Sam walked toward her, which gave Molly ample opportunity to evaluate his looks. After that first glimpse, when he'd briefly removed his Stetson, she couldn't see much of his facial features, which were hidden beneath the shadowed rim of his hat. The impression of starkly etched features lingered in her mind, his face strong and defined. He was tall and whipcord-lean.

If his clothes were any indication, he didn't shy away from hard work. His jeans were old, faded by repeated washings. The brightly colored shirt with the sleeves rolled past his elbows had seen better days. He pulled off his right glove, and even from a distance Molly could see that those gloves had been broken in long ago.

“You must be Sam Dakota,” she said, taking the initiative. She walked forward and offered him her hand; he shook it firmly—and released it quickly. “I'm Molly Cogan and these are my boys, Tom and Clay. Where's Gramps?”

“Resting. He thought you'd arrive earlier. He waited half the morning for you.” The censure in his gruff voice was unmistakable.

Involuntarily Molly stiffened. Clay moved next to her and she slid her arm around his neck, pressing him close. “How's Gramps feeling?” she asked, choosing to ignore the foreman's tone.

“Not good. He had another bad spell this morning.”

Molly frowned in concern. “Did you take him to the clinic? Shouldn't he be in the hospital?”

“That'd be my guess, but Walt won't hear of it. It would've taken twenty mules to budge that stubborn butt of his.”

Molly smiled faintly. “My grandmother was the only person who could get him to change his mind, and that was only because he loved her so much.”

An answering smile flashed from his eyes. “Unfortunately he holds no such tenderness for me,” he murmured, then turned his attention to Tom and Clay. “Are you boys thirsty? There's a pitcher of lemonade in the fridge.” Without waiting for a response, he led the way into the house.

With a mixture of joy and dread, Molly followed. She paused as she stepped into the kitchen—it was even worse than she'd feared. The once-spotless room was cluttered and dirty. A week's worth of dirty dishes was stacked in the sink. The countertops, at least what was visible beneath the stacks of old newspapers, mail and just about everything else, looked as if they hadn't been cleared in weeks. The windows were filthy—Molly could tell they hadn't been washed in years—and the sun-bleached curtains were as thin as tissue paper.

Molly wasn't nearly as meticulous a housekeeper as her grandmother had been; as a working mother, she didn't have the time for more than once-a-week cleaning. Nevertheless she had her standards and this house fell far short of them.

“Is lemonade all you got?” Tom asked when Sam took three glasses from the cupboard. Molly was surprised there were any clean dishes left. “What about a Pepsi? A Coke? Anything?” Tom whined.

“Water,” Sam suggested, then winked at Clay, who had no problem accepting the homemade offering.

Tom tossed his mother a look of disgust and snatched up the glass of lemonade as if he was doing them all a favor.

“Your grandfather's asleep in the living room,” Sam said, motioning toward it.

Molly didn't need directions, but she said nothing. Not wanting to startle Gramps, she tiptoed into the room. She stood there for a moment watching him. He leaned back in his recliner, feet up, snoring softly. Even asleep, he looked old and frail, nothing like the robust man he'd been only ten years ago.

It demanded both determination and pride to keep her eyes from filling with tears. Her heart swelled with love for this man who was her last link to the father she barely remembered. She'd been so young when her father died. A child of six. Her entire world had fallen apart that day of the car accident; she missed him still. Her mother had remarried less than a year later, and Molly had a baby brother the year after that. And the summer she graduated from high school, her mother, stepfather and half brother had immigrated to Australia.

Kneeling beside the recliner, Molly gently brushed the white hair from Gramps's brow. Needing to touch him, needing to feel a physical connection, she let her hand linger.

“Gramps,” she whispered, so softly she could hardly hear her own voice.

No response.

Tenderly Molly placed her hand over his. “We're here, Gramps.”

His eyes flickered open. “Molly girl,” he whispered, reaching out to caress the side of her face. “You're here at last. To stay?”

“I'm here to stay,” she assured him.

His smile made it to his eyes long before it reached his mouth. “What kept you so damn long?” he asked in his familiar brusque tone.