The Marriage Pact (Hqn) (8 page)

So, here they were, a mere two years from turning thirty, all of them successful in their chosen careers—Melody was a talented jewelry designer, Bex owned a thriving fitness club she was about to franchise and Hadleigh was nationally known for her artistry as a quilter. And the three of them were no closer to finding and marrying the men of their dreams than they’d been that first night at Billy’s when they’d come up with the initial concept.

Hadleigh, having been distracted by these thoughts, suddenly splashed down into the flow of conversation.

“Maybe we were taking too narrow a view,” Bex was saying. “Not considering men we already know as possible husband material...”

Melody nodded, brow creased with concentration. “It could be fate.” She swirled the last of her before-supper whiskey in the bottom of the supermarket glass. “Tripp coming back to Mustang Creek to stay, I mean, and stopping off to see Hadleigh before he’d even been out to the ranch.”

Hadleigh blinked. “Wait a second,” she said. “In the first place, who said Tripp was home for good? His dad’s been pretty sick, and it’s about time he came for a visit, but he’s got a company to run, after all. He might still have a wife, too, and maybe a couple of kids.”

Both Melody and Bex looked mildly surprised.

“You haven’t been listening,” Bex accused, though not unkindly.

Melody grinned. “Obviously,” she added. With an index finger, she tapped the screen of her smartphone, resting nearby on the table. “The miracle of search engines,” she went on. “Very recently, Tripp sold his company for megabucks. Leased his condo in Seattle out long-term and jettisoned most of its contents. And there’s no mention of a current wife—only an ex. Her name is Danielle, she’s been married to an L.A. architect for eight years and they have two children and a standard poodle named Axel.”

Hadleigh opened her mouth, closed it again. Words escaped her.

“Axel,” Bex mused, almost sadly. “Poor dog.”

“Are you for real, Hadleigh?” Melody asked. Before she’d taken up jewelry design, she’d planned on becoming a trial attorney. Sometimes it showed. “You’ve never checked up on Tripp, not even once, in all these years?”

Hadleigh felt color bloom in her cheeks. Muggles, asleep under the table last she knew, got to her four feet and rested a sympathetic muzzle on Hadleigh’s right thigh. “No,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “I was in denial, okay? I’m only human, you know.”

Melody and Bex exchanged a glance, but neither of them responded.

“Apparently,” Hadleigh pressed, “neither of you did any checking, either.”

“We weren’t crazy in love with the man our whole lives,” Melody said.

“He hurt you,” Bex added, watching Hadleigh. “I didn’t
want
to know anything about him. For all I cared, the man could have signed up for a one-way mission to Mars or any other planet—the farther from earth, the better.”

“I was never and am not now,” Hadleigh reiterated, “in love with Tripp Galloway. He was my big brother’s best friend. I looked up to him. There might even have been some hero worship in play—before I got my braces off, that is. But I was never, I repeat,
never,
in love.”

Melody and Bex exchanged another glance, smirking a little in the process. “Right,” Melody said sweetly.

“Whatever you say, Hadleigh,” Bex agreed.

Chapter Four

T
RIPP
SPENT
THE
better part of the next week riding the fence lines, counting cattle bearing the Galloway brand and rounding up strays to be returned to neighboring ranches. He checked out the roofs of the house and barn, both of which needed serious repairs, took care of the horses and assessed the state of the hay shed on the range.

Basically a roof supported by poles set in crumbling concrete, the shed was empty except for various nests and a lot of bird droppings. The whole shebang listed to one side and was sure to come crashing down with the first snowfall.

Looking up at a slate-gray sky already hinting at the approach of a Wyoming winter, the collar of the sheepskin coat he’d forgotten he owned drawn up to shield his ears from the wind, he’d made a mental note to rebuild the open-sided barn and order several tons of hay, pronto. Once the blizzards began, it would be next to impossible to haul feed to the cattle by truck, so there had to be a supply out on the range, ready and waiting. Since horses wouldn’t be able to get through if the snow was too deep, most ranchers owned at least one snowmobile.

In any event, water wasn’t a problem; a creek bisected the spread, too fast moving to freeze over, although that had been known to happen once in a great while. When the ice was too thick, the cattle couldn’t drink, so the surface had to be broken by hand, with posthole diggers or sledgehammers or, in extreme cases, melted beneath a few strategically placed bonfires. Snow would have slaked a cow’s thirst, but the beasts didn’t have the brains to know that, so they’d go right ahead and dehydrate, even if they were up to their chins in the stuff.

All of which added up to a lot of cold, hard work for a cattleman and any ranch hands he might be lucky enough to have on the payroll.

Now, after spending years dressed in three-piece suits instead of jeans and a shirt and boots, after flying a desk instead of an airplane and riding a swivel chair instead of a good horse, Tripp relished the prospect of using every muscle in his body, despite the inevitable aches and pains, and not, as Jim would have phrased it, just the ones between his ears.

“It’s a damn wonder this place didn’t fold up and disappear into a sinkhole,” he announced to Jim as he walked into the ranch house kitchen one evening, the barn chores done.

Jim was seated at the table, a cup of fresh coffee steaming beside him while he pored over a sheaf of colorful travel folders. A single week of taking it easy had done wonders for his disposition; he was starting to flesh out, and that sickly pallor was gradually fading.

So far, so good, by Tripp’s reasoning.

Jim acknowledged the remark, or maybe just Tripp’s existence, with a distracted nod. Ridley, that traitor, had thrown in with Jim after spending a single day on the range with Tripp—some sidekick
he
was—obviously preferring to lounge around in the house, where it was warm and there was always a bowl of kibble close by.

Both resigned and amused, Tripp had saddled up and ridden off by himself after Ridley flaked out on him.

“I’m thinking I might like to go on one of these singles cruises,” Jim said, while Tripp ran hot water at the sink and reached for the requisite grubby bar of soap to scrub his hands and forearms. “They’ve got some fine ones, it looks like.”

So that was the reason for all those glossy brochures. Jim must have called an eight-hundred number—he was computer phobic—had them sent and gotten them in that day’s mail, since this was the first Tripp had seen of them.

A singles cruise?

Tripp couldn’t help smiling at the image of his dad, decked out in polyester pants, a loud Hawaiian shirt and a couple of gold chains. As far as he could remember, Jim had never worn anything but jeans, work shirts and boots, though he did own one outdated suit, taken out of mothballs only for weddings and funerals.

“I’ll say this for you, old man,” he responded, grinning. “You’re full of surprises.”

Jim waggled his bushy eyebrows. “Lots of man-hungry females on those boats,” he said. “I might have lost some of my charm along the way, but maybe I can work the sympathy angle.”

This time, Tripp laughed outright. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.

“Hell, yes, I’m serious,” Jim answered. “Ellie’s been gone a long time. A man gets lonesome, knocking around all by himself, like the last dried bean in the bin.”

Tripp dried his hands, still trying to imagine his rancher father whooping it up with the ladies on some ship. It was a hard concept to grasp.

“I’ve been hounding you to ramp up your social life for years now,” he pointed out with pretended annoyance. He and Jim hadn’t really talked in any depth or at any length since the day Tripp got home, but the gentleman’s truce was holding so far. “You wouldn’t join the singles group at church or do anything else that might have led to female companionship. What’s different now?”

He knew the answer, of course, but getting more than two consecutive sentences out of his dad was like trying to herd feral cats through a nail hole in the wall. Being on a roll, he meant to keep the conversation going if he could.

“It’s a funny thing, when a man gets to thinking about dying,” Jim replied, leaving his chair and his brochures to stroll over to the counter and lift the lid off the Crock-Pot, where a batch of elk stew was bubbling away. The scent was tantalizing; turned out the old man had become a pretty fair cook, living by himself. “It gives a fella some perspective. Life is short—that’s the message. And damn unpredictable, too.”

Tripp, leaning against the counter and folding his arms while Ridley roused himself enough to sniff at the knees of his jeans, indicated the colorful pile of glossy paper heaped on the table. “All right, then,” he said. “So what’s your first port of call?”

Jim frowned, turning from the Crock-Pot. “My what?”

“Where do you want to go?” Tripp translated patiently, heartened by what was, for Jim, a pretty wild plan.

Jim grinned and eased himself down into his chair again, causing Tripp to wonder if he was in pain, though he knew better than to ask. “I reckon Alaska would be my pick,” he replied. “Always wanted to see some glaciers and maybe a polar bear or two.”

“You might have to go a little farther north to find polar bears,” Tripp said. He was no wet blanket, but he didn’t want his dad to travel all that way and then be disappointed.

Jim rolled his shoulders in a shruglike motion. “It’s really the ladies I’m interested in anyhow,” he admitted. “Totem poles, too. I’d like to see a few of those.”

Tripp’s stomach rumbled as he passed the simmering pot of stew to join his dad at the table. “When are you taking off?” he asked mildly.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to get rid of me,” Jim said, his eyes dancing with good humor. A moment later, though, the sparkle faded. “I’ve got to check with my doctor first, and then there’s the matter of paying the fare.” He tapped one of the brochures with a calloused index finger. “It’s half again as much for a cabin of my own, and I’m not of a mind to bunk in with a total stranger just to get the lower rate.”

Tripp was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “I had no idea you were such a high-grader,” he joked. “You planning on flying first class when you head for the departure city? Putting up in a five-star hotel for a few days?”

Jim laughed. “Not me,” he said. “I figure a person gets where he’s going just as fast in the back of the plane as up front.”

“So I guess a private jet is out as a mode of transportation?”

“What?” Jim shot back jovially. “No spaceship?”

Tripp smiled. “A vacation would be good for you—and things are going to be pretty crazy around here for the next month or so. You probably wouldn’t get much rest if you stayed put.”

Jim’s expression was serious again. “I repeat—are you trying to get rid of me, son?”

Tripp shook his head, briefly exasperated. “I’m having new roofs put on the barn and the house, and the hay shed needs to be replaced. The fences are down in more places than they’re up, and the whole outfit will be crawling with construction crews. There won’t be much peace and quiet around here.”

The projects he’d named were a sketchy outline of what he had planned. He’d be buying cattle, hiring a few ranch hands—an expense Jim had always avoided if he could—and bringing in trailers to house them, arranging for electrical hookups and digging at least one well, acquiring a truck or two and several horses, since the current barn population wasn’t good for much except pleasure riding. Figuring Jim would feel he ought to stay home and lend a hand if he knew exactly what bringing the ranch back up to speed would mean, to say nothing of fretting over the costs, Tripp wasn’t inclined to elaborate further.

“I always meant this ranch to be yours,” Jim said, very quietly. A faint flush appeared under his cheekbones. “I was never sure you’d want it, though, what with that high-falutin’ life you were living, flying jets and running with the big dogs.” He sighed. “I admit I had hopes you’d come to your senses one day. Hightail it back here, settle down with a good woman—like Hadleigh Stevens, for instance—and have a bunch of kids.” Another sigh, this one deeper than the one before. “I did expect things around here to be in better shape when I handed the place over to you, however.”

The backs of Tripp’s eyeballs burned something awful for a few moments, and his voice came out sounding croaky. As for the part about marrying Hadleigh and raising a family, well, he couldn’t even think about that just yet.
“No matter where I went,” he said, “this ranch was always home, and I’m glad you trust me to keep it going. I just wish I’d come back sooner, that’s all.” The words chafed his throat raw, as if they were made of coarse-grit sandpaper. “Dad, you knew I had money. Why didn’t you
tell
me you needed help?”

“Because I have my pride, that’s why,” Jim almost growled. His brows were lowered and his eyes flashed. “But I’m tired, son—plumb wore out. I can’t run this ranch any longer. I don’t even want to
think
about keeping a few scruffy cattle alive through another hard-ass Wyoming winter, or the pump freezing up, or the furnace breaking down. Be that as it may, if you don’t want to be saddled with this sorry excuse for a spread, I’ll understand, and I won’t blame you one bit. You’re used to big cities and everything that goes with them.” He paused, and his voice softened to the point where Tripp could barely hear him. “If you’d rather be somewhere else, well, that’s fine—all I ask is that you haul off and say so straight-out. No beating around the bush. We’ll put the place on the market as it is, get the best price we can and go on from there.”

Tripp was quiet for a long time. The ranch was Jim’s; it had been in the Galloway family for over a hundred years, in fact. The old graveyard on the other side of the cottonwood grove a mile west of the house served as the final resting place for a lot of sturdy folks, most of them related to Jim by blood.

Ellie, Tripp’s mom, was buried there, too.

“I’ll maintain the place for you, Dad,” he said quietly. “You know I have the resources to do that. You don’t have to sign it over, though. It’s rightfully yours.”

“This ranch,” Jim said crisply, “has always been passed down from father to son. And you’re
my
son, in every way that counts. I’d like to think that someday these acres will belong to
your
son, and his son after him, but things have changed. I realize that. The old ways are gone for good, more’s the pity, but you can’t fault a man for hoping.”

“No,” Tripp managed to reply. “You can’t fault a man for hoping.”

“I loved your mother more than I ever thought it was possible for a man to love a woman,” Jim went on, pushing out the words as though he was determined to say them before his fierce pride stopped them altogether. “And when she came into my life, she brought a fine boy along with her. I was proud to claim you then, and I’m proud to claim you now.”

They were both quiet for a while, Tripp bruised by the depths of his feelings for this man who had taken him in, raised him well, loved him without reservation, and Jim thinking thoughts of his own.

Eventually, Tripp broke the silence. “Suppose you go on this cruise and you meet the perfect woman and you bring her home to Mustang Creek. Then what? You’ll need a place to live—a threshold to carry her over.”

Jim raised one eyebrow and replied with a twinkle, “I reckon I could figure something out. And any woman I met on a cruise would probably have a few ideas of her own when it came to living arrangements.”

Tripp shook his head. For most of his adult life, he’d have bet money that ten tons of dynamite couldn’t blast Jim Galloway off this place, and now here he was, talking about singles cruises and opting out of ranching and taking up with women who had minds of their own. Not that Tripp’s mother hadn’t had one of those herself, because she definitely had, but she’d been a little on the old-fashioned side, too, expecting Jim to head up the family, deferring to him most of the time. “I know,” he said now, as though struck by a revelation. “Aliens kidnapped the real Jim, and you’re an imposter. Some kind of clone.”

Jim chuckled. “And here I thought I had you buffaloed,” he said.

Ridley whined just then, reminding Tripp of his presence, and headed for the back door, where he proceeded to scratch at the wood.

Tripp let the dog out, went to a cupboard and took two bowls down from the middle shelf. “Go on your cruise,” he told his dad. “I’ll get the repairs rolling, and we’ll talk about living arrangements when you get home. As for the expenses involved, let me worry about that.”

Jim acted as if Tripp hadn’t said anything at all. More surprising yet, he didn’t kick up a fuss about who was going to pay for what. “Speaking of brides,” he said craftily, “the way I see it, you owe Hadleigh Stevens a wedding.”

“
Were
we speaking of brides?” Tripp retorted lightly, while everything inside him turned molten at the thought of marrying Hadleigh, then settled painfully in his groin.

Jim merely chuckled again.