Reclaiming Nick (13 page)

Maggy decided to forego knocking and eased the door open. “Stefanie?” She wouldn’t call out Nick’s name, but her stomach
fluttered all the same when she heard a creak. She stilled, listening. Nothing—not even the sheepdog who used to greet her with a yawn and a nudge from his black nose. She missed digging her hands into his shaggy fur. He’d disappeared a week after Bishop’s death.

Sunlight slanted into the kitchen and across the floor, turning the linoleum to gold. Elizabeth Noble had updated the place back in the midnineties, and the paisley wallpaper and dark-oak cabinets attested to her good taste. Maggy could still remember sitting with her, paging through magazines while Nick and Cole ran a poor steer around the corral, working on their timing. What Elizabeth hadn’t known was that Maggy had dreamed up her own design plan for this kitchen.

Maggy passed through the quiet kitchen to the living room, her steps light, her heart heavy. She still couldn’t define why she’d returned, why she might be skulking through the house like a bandit. Maybe she only wanted to see Nick. See his face and search it for shame or guilt. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t even written. As if she—and the note she left him the night he’d left—had meant nothing to him.

She lingered in the living room, staring at the last Noble family picture. In her memories, Nick would always be eighteen, always smiling, always ready to charm her into his arms.

In some way, all the whole Noble family had that charm in different measures. And with different effects.

The smell of last evening’s fire lingered in the hearth. Upstairs, she’d find Bishop’s darkened room where she’d served him herbal teas and read him his favorite psalms. Nick would like to know that, know what his father had said about him in his last days. Know the secrets the old man had hidden for so long.

Anger flared inside her, fresh and vibrant, releasing in a cry. No, Nick didn’t deserve to know. After all, he’d turned his back on her when she needed him the most.

Maggy pressed a hand against her mouth, her throat suddenly tight. She turned and stole back through the kitchen. What was she doing here?

Through the kitchen window, she saw him.

Maggy froze, watching Nick stride out of the barn, leading a bay quarter horse. Her breath caught. He wasn’t eighteen anymore. This Nick had broad shoulders and a confidence to his gait that bespoke experience, not cockiness. He’d found his old black Stetson, and his dark curly hair barely showed from beneath the rim. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two. And in a corduroy shirt and jeans he looked every inch the outlaw she’d branded him after he’d stolen her heart.

She watched with captured breath as a petite blonde followed him out of the barn.

Maggy turned away, fresh heat burning her chest. No, there were some things Nick Noble didn’t deserve to know. Some secrets she would never betray. Because if she did, it might cost Cole everything he loved.

Everything that now belonged to Cole.

Nick remembered clearly the last time he’d been to Cutter’s Rock—three days before he’d left for college. He’d run his new pickup around the neighbor’s field, scaring the cows, acting like a hotshot in front of Maggy. Occasionally over the past ten years, he returned to that day and the memory of sitting around the campfire under the stars,
Maggy under his arm, Cole trying not to glare at him from across the flames. There had been times in high school when he’d felt the jealousy radiate off Cole like heat. Not often, but sometimes when the three of them were together, it felt palpable. Never, however, did it seem dangerous. Because Nick also remembered the day he and Cole had sat on Cutter’s Rock, had drawn their knives across their palms and crossed hands, letting their blood become one.

The Cole who had been his blood brother would have never taken his girl.

Nick let that thought rake through him as he’d saddled his horse and an old gentle mare and led them out of the barn. Nick didn’t know why he had the urge to show her this place that had once been his alone. Maybe he needed to see it through new eyes, like yesterday when he’d shown her around their land.

Or perhaps he simply couldn’t return alone.

Nick held the stirrup as Piper gripped the pommel and swung into the saddle, then gave her the reins. “Ever been on a horse?”

She nodded. “Trail ride through Glacier National Park once.”

He mounted his horse, then urged him out ahead. “Would you rather ride behind me on my horse?” He wasn’t sure why he asked . . . yes, he was—he’d liked the feeling of her arms holding on to him, needing him for protection.

Apparently he’d forgotten what happened when he let a woman close to him. Someone usually got hurt. In fact, he had accumulated a short but vivid list. Maggy. Maybe even his friend Jenny.

“No, this is good,” Piper said as she urged the mare forward with her knees and a click of her tongue.

They rode up the road, cutting south through the winter pasture, then down across Rattlesnake Creek. He’d pointed out most
of their property yesterday, how the creek meandered across their land from north to south. He’d left out the part about Cole now inheriting the creek on the southwestern side of the property. Piper’s mare followed Nick’s horse easily over the wooden bridge, and he urged the horses into a canter as they dropped into a coulee. Boulders and pincushion cacti prickled the prairie, along with a showing of pink steerhead. Azure blue stained the sky in every direction.

“Were you born on the ranch, Nick?”

More questions. Nick looked over his shoulder, saw Piper nearly abreast of him. She was bouncing in her saddle, one hand on the pommel, the thin decorative scarf that roped her neck flapping behind her. He slowed his horse to a walk, caught her reins, and slowed her also.

“Thanks,” she said. She looked flushed, but the color seemed pretty on her, a distinct contrast to her leather jacket and black pullover. He hadn’t been able to study her much yesterday . . . well, not her features as much as the way she seemed to follow his moods as she’d ridden behind him. But looking at her now, he’d easily label her as pretty. Shoulder-length blonde hair tangled into waves, the slightest hint of freckles over her nose. She had shapely lips and blue eyes that glanced at him and away, as if afraid she might be asking too many questions.

He felt his guard lowering, especially when she looked down, as if blushing. “No, actually, my mother had a difficult pregnancy,” he said in answer to Piper’s question. “She was hospitalized the last few months and nearly died delivering me. It was hard on my father to see her suffering . . . especially since he had to run the ranch alone. My mother didn’t have another child for five years.
. . . I think they were afraid. Ironically, she had twins—my sister, Stefanie, and brother, Rafe.”

“I like your sister. I saw her earlier today, going out in her pickup with a load of hay.”

“Probably to check on the bulls. We had a couple bulls die recently in another field.”

“What did they die from?”

“Vet says dehydration, but there’s plenty of water there. Dunno. But we moved the rest of the cattle off Hatcher’s Table and the surrounding fields. Hopefully it wasn’t locoweed.”

“What’s that?”

“When cows eat too much black sage, their brains can poison and they lose their minds and die.”

“They OD on sagebrush?”

He shrugged and gave her a deserved chuckle.

“How do you come up with the names of your fields?” When she moved ahead of him slightly, he mentally traced the shape of her jaw, her neck. He noticed her delicate hands.

“We name them after their former owners. The Buckle has bought out a number of struggling ranchers over the years.”

“It’s a hard life from what I can tell. I saw a big man with blond hair working in the barn this morning. He didn’t look like a relation.”

“That’s Dutch—I’ll introduce you later. The only other Noble is my brother, Rafe. Rides bulls in the PBA. Has won a couple national championships.”

“A bull rider. That’s dangerous.”

She had no idea. But they had all dealt with Mom’s death in their own way. Sometimes he wished he’d had the guts to do it like Rafe did—head-on, attacking the pain with his teeth clenched.

“So, your sister runs the ranch, and your brother rides bulls. What do you do?” She looked back at him and smiled.

Sweet. Naive. The kind of naive that could get a girl in trouble, just like Jenny. “Right now I’m trying to right an old wrong. Before that I was in the army.”

Piper’s smile dimmed slightly, briefly. “Wow, a soldier. How long were you in?”

“Six years. National Guard and then a four-year stint in the army. Used it to help pay for college.” No, that wasn’t exactly true. He’d used it more as a get-even-with-Dad strategy. Like Rafe’s bull riding, it had also helped him work out some of his anger after their mother’s death.

Some.

“What was your specialty?”

“I was an MP.” He urged his horse up a hill, watching for prairie-dog holes. “Stay on my tail.”

“Okay, boss.” She moved her mount behind him. The horses huffed as they walked.

“So you were a cop?”

That woman could talk. Or maybe he was the talker. He frowned as he nodded.

Overhead a hawk circled, and he wondered if it was on the lookout for mice. “There’s another redtail,” he said, pointing. He glanced over his shoulder.

She shaded her eyes and looked up. He’d need to get her a hat. “Beautiful.” She didn’t pursue her question but remained quiet.

The silence settled a sweetness in him. Yes, very beautiful.

Cutter’s Rock overlooked nearly their entire spread, from the field to the southwest to Hatcher’s in the east, the winter pasture,
and the bluffs and draws beyond. Below the ridge, boulders scattered across the mint-tinged prairie grass.

Reining in his horse at the top, Nick dismounted, then held Piper’s mare as she followed him.

“This is gorgeous, Nick. I feel like I’m at the top of the world.”

He looked at her, smiling. “Actually, there’s something else.” He nearly reached out his hand but caught himself. Then reconsidered. To his astonishment, she slipped her hand into his.

He led her to the edge of the ridge and down, picking their way through the tumble of rock and sage and yucca plants until he reached a large rounded boulder. “We have one of the best collections of petrified wood in the county.”

He watched her eyes widen. “This is a piece of petrified wood?” She placed her hand on a tree stump as big as a kitchen table.

“It’s all petrified wood.” He dropped her hand and opened his arms in an arc, gesturing toward the valley, dotted with other stumps, now turned to rock.

“But they’re huge.” Piper crouched before the stone. “I can see the texture of the bark and the rings!” She picked off a loose piece to examine it closely, and he was caught by the look of wonder on her face. She scanned the valley, her mouth open at the geological treasure. “This is amazing. It’s like a giant ax went through and took the trees out with one swipe. And they’re all petrified? How?”

“We don’t know. But I used to love coming here to examine the stones, ponder their fragility as well as their strength. It amazed me, and I wondered what elements took these trees down and what’s happened since then to turn a living plant to stone.” He pried off a piece of the tree, held it in his hand, and then ground it to dust
with his thumb. “Even more interesting is how easily this rock, this ancient living thing, is turned to dust by the right force.”

Piper stared at him a moment, her smile gone, her eyes troubled. “I guess all things have their breaking point.” She turned away, taking her piece of petrified tree with her, and sat on the ground, studying it.

There it was again—that uneasy feeling that blew through Nick, making him wonder what had really brought Piper Sullivan to the Silver Buckle Ranch.

CHAPTER 8

“G
IVE IT TO
me straight, Doc. How long do I have?” Cole sat with his plastered leg propped up on the ottoman in his doctor’s office, enjoying the contours of the sofa after being poked and prodded for two days, every known fact about his existence pried out of him by eager medical students.

Doc Lowe closed the office door behind him.

By the look on his lean face, Cole knew his words weren’t far off the mark. Clearly he’d put too much stock in the hope that his jest would be countered with “You’re just tired. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Instead, Dr. Wilson Lowe, a longtime friend of the family, rounded the desk and sat in his leather chair. He wore the years in his face and now looked every inch like a man who’d known Cole from the beginning. And apparently to the end.

Lowe sighed, then looked at his folded hands.

Cole stared out the window at the outline of the mountains ringed with clouds.

“Your liver is failing, Cole. That accounts for the lethargy, the trouble sleeping, the itching, even your depression. We still don’t know why, but without a liver transplant—” he sighed again—“your son will need to be checked for a possible match.”

“No, absolutely not.” The last thing Cole wanted was to have CJ subjected to dozens of tests, to pain and infection, only to discover that he couldn’t help his father. “Even if he was a match, which he isn’t, I’m not letting you cut his liver out of him. He could die.”

“You will die if we don’t find a match.”

“We’re all going to die someday.” Cole watched a small plane fly in over the mountains.

Dr. Lowe leaned back, folding his arms. He shook his head, but Cole ignored him. Finally the doctor said, “Fine. We’ll put you on the transplant list and pray.”

In the silence, Cole heard the ringing telephones and the intercom system of the Sheridan hospital. He could smell the antiseptics still lingering on his skin. For a moment he wished he’d let Maggy accompany him. She’d practically thrown herself in front of the truck as he’d left, furious when she’d discovered he was going alone. But he wasn’t interested in two days of her fawning over him, making him feel like an invalid. And he wanted the facts, not Dr. Lowe’s soft words meant to ease Maggy’s pain.

Yes, this was much, much better. Cole pressed his hand against his roiling stomach, feeling fatigue wash over him. How would he tell her? He’d called her last night, and she’d limited their conversation to a ranch report—an overview of the day, total calves birthed, details about the upcoming roundup at the Silver Buckle. He could hardly believe that she was planning on attending. He stopped just short of forbidding her.

But he couldn’t stop his frosty tone and the way he didn’t respond to her “I love you” before he hung up.

Cole clenched his fists on his lap, suddenly wishing he had Maggy’s hand to hold. “How long, Doc?”

Lowe swallowed. “I don’t know. Could be as long as the end of the summer. Or sooner. ”

Cole nodded, but he was only half listening. Instead, his mind cataloged his to-do list—the things he’d have to accomplish before he left this world.

Like helping CJ win the junior nationals. He’d settle for watching him take first place in the Custer County Rodeo.

Buying Maggy a house in the city, one that didn’t shudder when the snow piled against it.

Or even facing his so-called blood brother and telling him what he thought of his betrayal.

“I have to make it to the end of this month, Doc,” Cole said without looking at him. “CJ has his roping event . . . and I promised him I’d be there.”

“We’ll do everything we can to make sure that happens.”

“You sound exhausted. Are the nightmares back?” Carter’s voice, her connection to civilization, felt surreal as Piper stood on the highest point near the lodge, faced north, and didn’t move an inch. In this exact position, she had one bar on her reception, and she needed to tap into Carter’s expertise if she hoped to pull off another week—no, another day—of this charade. After returning from the petrified forest two days ago, she’d searched Chet’s recipe books for something—anything—she might be able to make.

So far her only hope was stew, and even that could turn into paste if she wasn’t careful.

Piper rubbed her eyes. “Yeah,” she said in answer to Carter’s question.

“I thought so. I can tell when you’ve had a rough night. You get crabby.”

“I’m not crabby. Just in over my head. And desperate. I need some cooking tips and pronto. The Nobles want me to cook for the roundup this Saturday.”

Stefanie had cornered her yesterday to confirm that Nick had relayed the message. It was all Piper could do to look at the woman, see the hope in her dark brown eyes, and lie. Oh yes, she’d be delighted to put on a bash for the entire county.

“You’re kidding. How many people?” Carter asked.

“Thirty.” She’d spent yesterday scouring the cookware. Amazing the layers of dirt caked on the cast-iron pots. “We’re going to go out on the range. Please tell me you know something about campfire cooking.”

“No, but I’ll bet Google does.”

She could hear Carter at the computer and longed for the insanity of the newsroom, the arguments, the smell of coffee, and most importantly the fact that having a buzz constantly in her ears kept her from thinking. Out here, only silence met her mornings, and memories too easily camped out to torment the nights. Last night had been the worst—she’d woken up in a sweat, feeling as if her father, Russell, had actually been in the room hovering over her.

“Says here on this Web site that campfire cooking is easy and fun,” Carter’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“Does it? What a relief. And here I was worried.”

“You cook in big cast-iron pots over an open flame. And the fire has to be a certain temperature to cook the food through. Or you can use charcoal briquettes. It’s a matter of math—you put a certain amount of briquettes on the pot in order to get the right temperature.”

“You’re making my head hurt.”

“First you have to have the right pots. You have to season them. Most likely yours are already seasoned, having been used for years. Says here to look for rust—”

“I washed them yesterday. They’re fine.”

“Washed them how?”

“I dunked them in the river a few times—how do you think? With dish soap and hot water.”

“Bad, bad, Chef Piper. You needed to only rinse them out. Soap and cast iron don’t mix, sorta like you and a juicy porterhouse.”

“Oh, swell. Now what?”

“You’ll have to season them. Says here that you need to rub oil on them, then put them into the oven, upside down or over a campfire, for four hours.”

Piper shook her head in frustration, and Carter momentarily cut out. “Are you there?”

“. . . text you these recipes, if that will help?”

Piper blew out a breath, keeping herself still. “I have these recipe books, but really, I just wish you were here.”

“What happened to the world famous Piper Sullivan, purveyor of truth? Remember, feel the story, be the story.”

“Stop. And get on a plane. I need you.”

“You don’t need me. Wash and cut up some vegetables, throw in a hunk of meat—I’m sure you can find that somewhere around
there—and add a bit of water and salt. You’ll make what my mother made every Sunday afternoon—beef roast.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of Pad Thai noodles.”

“What are you eating?”

This morning she’d had an apple, a bottle of water, and a package of crackers. She was saving her antacids for a midafternoon snack. “Not much.”

“You know, antacids aren’t a food group.”

Sometimes she seriously thought he could read her mind. “I’m fine, Carter.”

His voice turned soft. “Piper, this is the part where I ask you again—are you sure about this? This isn’t a news story, not really. This is personal. And you could get into big trouble and not just with the Nobles. I know you want to get to the truth—”

“Carter, I know Noble set up my brother for Jenny’s murder. And this is the only way I can find the truth.”

“I just don’t want you getting hurt. Especially if he is the kind of man who could kill someone.”

Piper said nothing, watching as Nick Noble stepped out of his house and walked across the yard toward the barn. Could he kill someone? “Even more interesting is how easily this rock, this ancient living thing, is turned to dust by the right force.” Was that some sort of killer’s foreshadowing? Yet his words had felt personal, as if directed toward himself.

All the same, they had stung her and hung around her thoughts the entire quiet ride home. Petrified trees. Living things turned to stone.

“Have you gotten anything on Noble yet?” Carter pressed.

“Other than that his family started the ranch at the dawn of time
and that he’s a real-life cowboy?” And that she’d really liked it when he helped her on and off her horse.

“Starting with the basics, huh?”

“I don’t know, Carter. I need more than this.”

“You know, if you plan on airing your dirt on Noble, you don’t need an ironclad case. Find some circumstantial evidence, even simply a tendency toward violence. Journalism is all about perspective these days.”

“Where did you go to journalism school, anyway?”

“Cable News University. Listen, a history of duplicity will be enough to convict him in the media. It’s all in how you craft the story. That will probably be enough for the DA to open an investigation. And isn’t that what you’re after?”

Piper didn’t answer.

“Piper?”

“I guess so.” She cringed at her mealymouthed tone. “Yes, of course. You’ve got a good idea there, Carter. Nick’s been tight-lipped about why he left the ranch—and why he returned. But the townspeople might have a few insights.” Her mind went to Lolly . . . and the editor at The Phillips Journal.

“That’s my girl. Thinking like a pro.”

“I wonder if our cop keeps any pictures of Miss Jenny Butler. . . .” She shot a look toward the house.

“Be careful, Piper.”

“Careful is my middle name.”

“No, I don’t think it is—”

“Stop acting like my mother and tell me what to make for the shindig this Saturday.”

“Sweetheart, I’m better than your mother. How about I call Joe’s
BBQ and ship you eighty pounds of their special-order ribs, twenty- five pounds of potato salad, and enough homemade biscuits to feed a hundred?”

“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“Don’t get my hopes up. I’ll call you later.”

Piper closed her phone as she watched Nick disappear into the barn.

Nick stood at the entrance to the barn, smelling the hay, dirt, and manure, a yeasty scent that brought back memories of Saturday mornings with a pitchfork in his hand. He tucked his hands into his jacket, advancing past the tack room and the few stalls occupied by laboring cows toward Dutch, who was milking a cow in the farthest stall.

The big man’s hands worked the udder with practiced grace, white milk streaming into the bucket. The fact that Dutch had been relegated to hand work told Nick how far the Buckle had fallen from grace. Years past it had been Nick’s job, then Rafe’s and Stef’s, and finally the local teenage hands they hired to milk the cows and feed the bums. But on a ranch, especially one in financial straits, they all pulled their own weight.