Montana by Debbie Macomber
“Do you want coffee?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. She opened the cupboard and reached for an extra mug.
“Thanks, but no, I’ve already had my fill.” He’d been working the better part of two hours and had downed half a pot before sunup. Sam’s routine was to rise around four in order to sort through an accumulation of paperwork, then head out to the barn.
Last week he’d hired two hands, high-school kids who worked cheap and were grateful for the jobs. They arrived early in the morning and returned home at the end of the day. Pete could shoe horses, mend fences and fix machinery. Charlie would work half the time as a hand and the other half as a wrangler; his particular responsibility was caring for the horses.
Some ranchers used all-terrain vehicles, instead of horses, but Walt would have none of that. A horse was the original ATV, he said, and while his opinion might be outdated, Sam tended to agree with him. He wasn’t opposed to taking the pickup onto the range and often did, but nothing beat riding. Nothing compared to the feeling of exhilaration and freedom he experienced on horseback. During his darkest days in prison, this was what he’d thought about, how he’d escaped the hell he was trapped in.
Sam forced his mind back to the matters at hand. Charlie worked well with the horses, but Sam guessed that by this time next year Tom would be knowledgeable enough to tackle the job.
Molly’s older son possessed horse sense. It was something you either had or you didn’t. For Tom, it seemed to come naturally. The boy had a real affinity for animals, especially horses, and he was a fast learner. He frequently reminded Sam of what he’d been like at that age—eager to prove himself, looking for ways to establish his manhood. Nothing better than ranch work for doing that.
Both Molly’s boys were good kids. Sam would have liked to tell her, but hesitated because the tension between them remained so strong. Probably because of that damn kiss.
Sam started into the living room where Walt was resting. He knew it was hell on the old man to sit idle, something he had to do more and more lately. That was one reason Sam made a point of visiting Walt every morning, consulting with him and seeking his advice, although he rarely needed it.
“Sam.” Molly stopped him as he left to find Walt. He turned around.
“I—there’s a question I’d like to ask if you don’t mind,” she said without meeting his eyes.
Ever since Saturday night, when she’d gone to dinner with Letson, he’d noticed a change in her attitude. He’d assumed it had something to do with the kiss; now he wasn’t sure.
“Gramps said you didn’t offer any references when he hired you,” she said, holding her coffee mug with both hands. “Why was that?”
“He didn’t want any.” He squared his shoulders in challenge. “Are you asking for them now?”
“Gramps doesn’t seem to feel he needs them.” A dubious quality in her voice told him she didn’t agree.
If he hadn’t demonstrated his ability and his commitment by this time, Sam doubted he ever would. He was about to tell her exactly that when she asked another question.
“I’ve heard there’ve been a number of…unexplained incidents around the ranch since you started here.”
“Unexplained incidents?” There had been, but they’d begun before he was hired; Walt had told him that. He wondered who’d mentioned it to Molly. Letson, no doubt. Any problems Sam encountered he’d dealt with promptly and efficiently. For the most part he didn’t see any need to worry Walt, so he hadn’t brought up any of the recent incidents. The old man knew about the mailbox being knocked over three times, but only because Ginny Dougherty had said something. The damaged fence posts, strewn garbage and rotten eggs thrown against the side of the barn were more a nuisance than a hazard.
The most dangerous incident had happened earlier in the week. A windmill used to pump drinking water for the cattle had been toppled. At first Sam suspected that wind and time had been the culprits, but on closer inspection, he’d discovered the damage was deliberate. It’d taken half a day for two men to repair it.
Molly’s right hand clasped the front of her robe. “Gramps suggested if I was concerned about any of this, I should ask you. He’s right—you should have the opportunity to defend yourself.”
Sam’s hackles instantly went up. “Defend myself?” His narrowed gaze locked onto hers as his anger simmered just beneath the surface. “Are you suggesting I’m the one responsible?”
“That’s not what I said.” The hesitation before she answered implied something else. “What I want is the truth. I can deal with anything but lies. If there’s some hidden agenda here, then I’d rather you told me about it now.”
“Hidden agenda?” He worked his fingers, clenching and unclenching his hands. “In other words you’re asking me if I’m causing these problems. That doesn’t make much sense to me. Why would I bite the hand that feeds me?”
“To prove how valuable you are.”
She’d apparently given the matter some thought. “I don’t have to make more work for myself to prove how much I’m needed around this place. Look around you—the ranch is in terrible shape! I can’t keep up with everything that needs to be done as it is. Trust me, the last thing I’d do is add to my own workload.”
She studied him as if to gauge the truth of his words. After a moment she nodded. “Thank you, Sam. I apologize if I offended you.”
“No problem.” She had angered him, but he admired her for having the courage to confront him directly. Most folks wouldn’t, and he’d be dismissed without ever knowing why. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to talk to your grandfather for a while.”
Walt looked pale and drawn when Sam finally entered the living room. Just sitting up seemed to drain him of strength. “Mornin’, Sam.”
“Walt.” Sam removed his hat and took the seat across from the old man.
“My granddaughter givin’ you trouble?”
Sam laughed softly. “None that I can’t handle.”
“Good.” Walt let his head fall back against the sofa cushion and closed his eyes. “Were you able to get the Stetson?”
“Yeah, I picked one up in town yesterday.” He didn’t mention that it had cost almost a hundred dollars—or that he’d paid for it himself.
Walt’s smile was full, rare even at the best of times. “Tom will be surprised, won’t he?”
“I expect he will.” Delighted, too.
“Good.”
It was time to get on with the business of the day. “I’m sending Pete and Charlie out to Lonesome Valley and I’ll have them check the—”
“Fine, fine, whatever you think.” Walt cut him off with a flick of his hand. “How are Tom and Clay doing? Molly told me they follow you around like shadows.”
The boys had taken up the role of sidekicks, asking questions and trailing after him, but Sam didn’t mind. Much of the time they were actually a help—Tom especially—doing small chores like cleaning tack and sweeping out stalls. He could always use a couple of extra hands.
“Tom’s doing well with his riding lessons,” Sam said. “I’d like to take him out on the range.”
Walt’s mouth quivered with a half smile. “Whatever you think,” he said again. “What about the younger boy?”
“Not yet. He’s too nervous. Needs his confidence built up first.”
Walt showed his agreement with an abrupt nod. “Didn’t you tell me Natasha recently delivered her pups?”
“A couple of days ago now.” Sam grinned. “Clay’s been spending his days baby-sitting them—when his mom hasn’t got him painting shutters or nailing down steps.”
“Good. Let the boy choose one of those pups for his own.”
The old man was wise; giving the younger boy a puppy was the perfect thing. “I’ll see to it.”
“And—” A clamor arose outside, followed by a shout.
Sam recognized Ginny’s frantic voice and knew it meant trouble. He leaped to his feet and raced through the kitchen, nearly collidi
Stepping away to avoid him, she lost her balance. Sam instinctively reached for her shoulders to steady her. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but his hand grazed her breast. The briefest of contacts, completely unintentional, and yet he felt a jolt of desire so potent it was as if someone had pounded a stake right through him.
Molly felt it, too, light as the touch had been, and her startled gaze flew to his.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but she shook her head, wordlessly conveying that an apology wasn’t necessary. She understood. He had more important matters to attend to.
“Sam.” Ginny’s Appaloosa pranced about the yard, his neck lathered from the long gallop. “I was out checking my herd and saw that your fence is down. You’ve got a hundred head or more making straight for the river.”
Sam slapped his hat against his thigh and swore. He’d already sent Pete and Charlie out for the day. First he’d need to find them, and then the cattle. He just prayed none of the herd was injured or managed to get lost before he found them. That wasn’t all he had to worry about, either. He’d recently planted seventy-five acres of alfalfa; those cattle could destroy the entire crop in ten minutes.
“Thanks for letting me know, Ginny.” He was already running toward the truck.
“What is it, woman?” Walt hollered from the doorway, his eyes flashing with more life than Sam had seen in a week.
Sam stopped abruptly and turned toward them. “There’s a fence down,” he explained.
Walt’s reaction was identical to his own.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Ginny muttered.
“There’s more?” Walt cried. “Dammit, woman, can’t you bring any news except bad?”
“It isn’t my fault, old man! If you’d gone out of your way to create friends instead of enemies, you might not be in this predicament.”
“Would you two stop bickering?” Sam shouted. He didn’t have time to stand around while they exchanged insults. If there was more trouble, he needed to hear what it was so he could deal with it as quickly as possible.
Ginny’s gaze traveled from Walt to him. “It was deliberate, Sam. Someone cut the wires.”
This time Walt and Sam swore in two-part harmony.
Molly didn’t understand the full significance of what had happened; all she knew was that she didn’t see Sam for three days.
She’d phoned the sheriff’s office to report the damage but heard nothing back. She wondered if this kind of thing was considered a routine crime in Montana—the way police in San Francisco viewed car break-ins.
Meals were hurried affairs during those days of crisis. Either Charlie or Pete would take something out to Sam, but he never showed up himself. Molly wasn’t sure when he slept. Almost against her will, as she worked on the garden she’d begun to plant, she caught herself watching for him, worrying about him. She was constantly aware of his absence.
Gramps was anxious, too, grilling her with questions, repeating the same ones over and over until her patience was gone. He fretted and stewed, and Molly knew it couldn’t be good for his heart. She worried about leaving him even for a short time, but Gramps hated her fussing over him. The atmosphere in the house seemed to crackle with tension. Molly gardened obsessively to escape it.
The boys were nervous and at loose ends, and Molly didn’t object when they started spending most of their time hanging around the barn. That was their way of coping with anxiety, as gardening was hers.
Saturday evening, the third day, just as the sun was about to sink into the horizon, Tom spotted Sam riding slowly toward the house.
“Mom! Mom!” Tom raced over to her, his thin legs kicking up dust. Molly set aside the hoe and rubbed her arm across her sweat-dampened forehead. She still wasn’t accustomed to seeing Tom in a cowboy hat. Not a cheap imitation, either, but a felt one that must have cost the earth. He’d found it on his bed the day they learned the fence had been cut. The only person who could’ve put it there was Sam. Why, she couldn’t guess. Not that it mattered to Tom. He’d placed it on his head and hadn’t removed it since, except to sleep.
“I see him, honey,” Molly said, looking out at the horse and rider. Their shape was silhouetted against the pink sky of sunset.
Despite herself, Molly felt her breath catch. The scene was classically, beautifully Western. Return of the Cowboy.
But this cowboy had barely slept for two nights. He’d eaten on the run. And he’d worked long backbreaking days.
Molly’s hand crept to her throat. Sam was slouched over the saddle; it looked as if he barely had the strength to stay on his horse. As he drew near the yard and saw Molly and the boys, he straightened.
Tom and Clay gathered around her. Sam rode still closer, and she searched his face for signs of trouble, fearing he’d come with more bad news.
Unsure what she intended to say, Molly hurried toward him when he stopped. There’d been so many things she wanted to tell him, had thought about over the past three days. Not a single one came to mind now.
“Hi.” That sounded incredibly stupid. Juvenile. She wanted to grab the word back the instant she’d said it.
“Hi, yourself,” he said. He grinned. It was the lazy tired smile of a man who’d been too long away from home. A man who’d finally returned and found someone waiting for him there. His gaze held hers an extra moment, then moved to her oldest son. His grin broadened. “Nice-looking Stetson, son.”
Son. The word slipped effortlessly from his lips, and Molly watched Tom’s reaction. It seemed he stood a little straighter, a little taller.
The tension between Molly’s shoulder blades eased. “Did you find all the cattle?”
“Think so. The last two were trapped in a bog hole, up to their knees in mud. I had a hell of a time freeing them. Are Pete and Charlie back?”
Tom answered. “Came back about an hour ago.”
“Good.”
For the first time Molly noticed that Sam was wearing some of the bog hole. His clothes were caked with dried mud. The hem of his jeans was thick with it, as were his sleeves. His face was splattered. Funny she hadn’t realized it earlier.
“I’ll take Thunder for you,” Tom offered. “I’ll give him a good rubdown and some extra oats—he deserves it.”
“Charlie should do that. It’s what we’re paying him for.”
“Charlie and Pete have gone home now,” Molly said.
Sam’s eyes flared briefly before he sighed. “Can’t say I blame them. I don’t think they figured they’d be working this hard on a summer job.”
“I don’t think anyone figured they would,” Molly added.
Holding on to the saddle horn, Sam slid heavily from Thunder’s back. The leather creaked and for a moment he braced himself against the horse. “I need a shower, something to eat and my bed, in that order.”
“There’s plenty of leftovers from dinner,” Molly assured him.
Tom took the gelding’s reins and led him into the barn. “Don’t worry about Thunder,” he said, not hiding his pleasure at helping Sam.
“I’m sure Gramps is going to want to talk to you, too,” Molly said. She hated to burden Sam with any more demands, but with the state Gramps had been in these past few days…
“I’ll give him a report as soon as I’ve finished eating,” Sam promised.
Molly wondered if Gramps would be able to wait that long.
Tom and Clay were still in the barn tending to Thunder when Sam entered the kitchen fresh from his shower. In a clean set of clothes, his hair wet and just combed, he made a striking figure. Trying hard not to stare, Molly turned the thick slice of ham sizzling in the pan while she warmed mashed potatoes and peas in another skillet.
Sam closed his eyes and for a wild moment Molly feared he was about to collapse. It turned out he was just inhaling the aroma of a home-cooked meal. “I swear I could eat a horse.”
“Don’t let Thunder hear you say that,” she joked.
Sam pulled out a
Molly brought him his meal, along with a letter that had arrived for him. He glanced up expectantly when she set the envelope on the table, then stuck it inside his shirt pocket, unopened. Not without a sense of guilt, Molly had studied that envelope long and hard. The return address was a well-known ranch on the other side of the state.
He was halfway through his meal when Gramps wandered into the kitchen. “So you’re back.”
“I’m back,” Sam agreed.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” Gramps said. “Fell asleep.” He pulled out a chair and sat across the table from Sam, who didn’t so much as pause in his appreciation of the meal. He reached for a second buttermilk biscuit and slathered butter across the warm top.
“You’ve had a few rough days.”
Sam nodded, biting into his biscuit with a look of pure contentment.
Molly brought Gramps a cup of coffee, then sat down beside him.
“Molly’s been hard at work herself,” Gramps said next. “She’s put in a garden. Exactly the same place my Molly used to have hers. That woman had a way with plants.” He shook his head wonderingly. “My guess is her granddaughter has the same green thumb.”
Only days ago, the spot where her grandmother had cultivated one of the finest gardens Molly had ever seen was covered with blackberry vines and weeds. With the boys’ help, she’d cleared the space, roto-tilled and enriched the earth, then planted vegetables and—she couldn’t resist—flowers. Low-maintenance flowers, like nasturtiums and impatiens. The work had been physically demanding and her body ached everywhere.
“We’ll have to wait and see about that green thumb, Gramps.” He embarrassed her with his praise. She’d weeded her grandmother’s garden during her childhood summers, but she’d never created one of her own. It would be an experience, especially planting as late as she had.