Читать книгу Montana - Debbie Macomber - Страница 8

Sam Dakota bolted upright out of a sound sleep. His heart slammed against his rib cage with a punch almost powerful enough to hurt. Cold sweat dampened his forehead and clung to his bare chest. One ragged breath followed another as his body heaved in a near-desperate effort to drag oxygen into his burning lungs.

The dream always woke him. Whenever he had it, he would feel that panic again, the fear as vivid and real as the first day the prison door had clanged shut behind him. It had echoed against the concrete walls, reverberating in his ears. Twenty-four months into freedom, and he still heard that terrible sound. It invaded his sleep, tortured him, reminded him constantly that he was a living, breathing failure. Thankfully he didn’t have the dream often anymore—not since he’d started working for old man Wheaton.

Closing his eyes, Sam lay back down, his head nestled in the feather pillow. He swallowed and flexed his hands, trying to ease the tension from his body, forcing himself to relax.

It was over. Over.

Prison was behind him, and so was the life he used to live. Yet at one time he’d been a rodeo star, riding bulls, flirting with fame. Fame and women. He’d had his own following, groupies who chased after him. They stroked his ego, cheered for him, drank with him, slept with him and, on more than one occasion, fought over him.

The groupies were gone, the way everything that had once been important to him was gone. In his rodeo career and after his accident, he’d faced danger, injury, death, and he’d done it without a trace of fear.

Riding the wave of success, he’d achieved everything he’d ever wanted. That was at the rodeo championships in Vegas, six years earlier. But the silver buckle that proclaimed him the best of the best had been pawned to help an old man hold on to his ranch. These days Sam stayed out of trouble, kept his nose clean, minded his own business. When the urge hit him, he moved on.

Sam didn’t like to dwell on his rodeo days. That was all in the past, finished. The doctors had warned him of the risks of ever competing again. Another fall like the one that had ended his career could cripple him for life. Or kill him. It was that simple. The money, what little of it he’d managed to save, had been swallowed whole by doctor and hospital bills.

Friends had stuck by him for a time, but he’d driven them away with his anger and frustration. Even his parents didn’t know his whereabouts, which was just as well. Pride had prevented him from ever letting them know he’d landed in a Washington-state prison for second-degree assault. After two years of silence it hadn’t seemed worth his trouble to write and fabricate an account of where he’d been and why he’d stayed away.

It’d been a few years now since his last contact with family, and as the months went on, he thought about them less and less.

Until he ended up at the Broken Arrow Ranch, Sam had drifted across three or four states, depressed, miserable and mad as hell. The restlessness inside him refused to die.

He’d lasted longer here in Sweetgrass than anywhere else.

Mostly because of the old man. Walt was as mean as a grizzly bear and as demanding as a drill sergeant, but that didn’t keep Sam from admiring him. Six months earlier Sam had arrived in this backwoods Montana town; six minutes after that he’d crossed the sheriff. He hadn’t been looking for trouble, but trouble always seemed to find him. All he’d meant to do was help a lady in a difficult situation, a lady who was being bothered by a drunk, and in the process he’d stepped on the wrong toes. It turned out the drunk was a friend of the sheriff’s. Before he knew it, the sheriff had learned about his prison record and Sam was headed for jail, charged with unlawful conduct and disturbing the peace. The other guy—the man who’d been beating up on the woman—had walked away scot-free. Then, for no reason he could understand, Walt Wheaton had stepped in, paid his bail and offered him a job. Eventually the charges were dropped, thanks to some negotiating by Walt’s attorney.

Sam could deal with just about anything. Pain, disappointment, the reversal of fortune. But he’d discovered that he was unprepared to handle kindness. It embarrassed him. Made him feel uneasy. Indebted. The only reason he’d agreed to accept the foreman’s job was that he owed the old coot. The pay wasn’t much, but Walt had given him a small house on the property, rent free. It was the original foreman’s place—run-down but livable.

The minute Sam set foot on the ranch, he realized Walt was in dire straits. The Broken Arrow was in deplorable condition. No sooner had Sam started work when a series of mysterious and seemingly unrelated events began to occur. Pranks and vandalism, nothing serious, but a nuisance all the same.

Walt was an exacting employer, but never unreasonable. Sam worked hard and at the end of every day he felt good, better than he had in years. Partly because there was a sense of accomplishment in restoring order to the deteriorating ranch. And partly because the old man needed him. It was as simple as that.

He’d been working for Walt about six weeks when out of the blue the old man invited him to come for dinner one night. That was the first time he’d seen the photograph of Walt’s granddaughter, Molly. Set in a gold frame on top of the television, the snapshot had caught her in what he could only describe as a natural moment. She stood with an arm around each of her sons; one of them, the younger boy, grinned up at her, while the older one half scowled. The wind tossed her hair as she smiled shyly into the camera. What Sam noticed was her eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes that blue. He might have suspected she wore colored contacts if not for the photo of Walt and his wife. The other Molly. This Molly’s eyes were the identical shade of cobalt blue. Her hair was the same rich shade of auburn. Walt’s granddaughter was pretty, in an ordinary sort of way. Attractive but not beautiful. Sam had known plenty of women who could run circles around her in the beauty department, but he liked her picture. There was something about her that appealed to him. And he knew Walt cared deeply for her and his two great-grandsons.

Since his brief conversation with Walt’s granddaughter, Sam had found her drifting into his mind at the oddest times. Like now. Actually, it was easy enough to figure out why. He’d been celibate for too long. What he really needed was to drive into town one Friday night and let some sweet young thing take him home. But he couldn’t seem to dredge up the necessary enthusiasm.

In his rodeo days he’d enjoyed the occasional one-night stand, but over the years, he’d lost interest in sex for the sake of sex. When he crawled into bed with a woman, he didn’t want to worry about remembering her name in the morning. Besides, remembering names was a minor concern these days when it came to one’s bed partners. If he chose to self-destruct, Sam preferred to do it on the back of a bad-tempered bull, not in some bed with a lumpy mattress and a faceless woman moaning in his ear.

After that first invitation to share dinner, Walt and Sam began eating all their meals together. The old man routinely plied him with questions. Some he answered. Some he ignored. Walt depended on him, trusted him, and Sam tried to live up to the rancher’s faith in him.

The Broken Arrow was a good spread, with plenty of grass and a fine herd. If Sam ever considered settling down, it’d be on a place like this. Not that he could afford it. Some days he struggled against bitterness. If not for the accident, he might have had it all: fame, money, a good life. A demon bull had put an end to those hopes and expectations. But he’d endured.

In the process Sam had learned something about himself. He was a survivor. Fate might sucker-punch him again, only next time he’d be prepared. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t give a damn about anything–or anyone. Because if he did, he was vulnerable. It occurred to him that he was already becoming too attached to the old man, and that worried him.

By the time he’d sorted out his thoughts and calmed his raging heart, the alarm was ready to sound.

He climbed out of bed, put on a pot of coffee and dressed as the sun peeked over the Rockies, streaking the sky with translucent shafts of pink and gold. It’d become habit to check on Walt before he headed out for the day. He half expected to arrive some morning and find the old man had died in his sleep. He didn’t look forward to that, but as the rancher said, he’d lived a good life and suffered few regrets. That was the way Sam wanted it to be when his own time came.

The kitchen light was on when he stepped onto Walt’s back porch. Walt was rarely up this early anymore. With his heart as weak as it was, he spent half the day napping.

“Coffee’s ready,” Walt said when Sam let himself into the kitchen.

The old man seemed downright chipper, Sam noted, a pleasant contrast to his lethargic manner lately.

Walt gestured toward the coffeepot with his own mug.

“No thanks, I’ve already had a cup.” Sam had never been much for talk in the morning. A grunt now and then usually sufficed.

“I got a call from Molly last night.” Walt’s crooked grin took up half his face. “Looks like you’re going to meet her and the boys, after all.”

“She’s coming out?” Sam hoped to hell she was smart enough not to mention his phone call. As he’d told her, Walt wouldn’t appreciate his interference.

“Better than that.” Walt cupped the steaming mug between his callused hands. His eyes fairly glowed with happiness.

“How long is she staying?”

“For good,” Walt snapped as if it should have been obvious. “She’s finally come to her senses and sold what she could, packed everything else in a U-Haul and she’s driving on out. Should be here week after next.”

Sam lowered himself slowly into a chair. This was something he hadn’t expected. He folded his hands, resting them on the scarred pine table, as the old man’s words sank in.

“The ranch is hers,” Walt announced cheerfully. “There’s no one else. I just pray she’ll be strong enough to hold on to the place when I’m gone.”

Sam had done some thinking about the ranch and what would become of it after Walt died. He’d always known Molly would inherit the Broken Arrow. He’d even toyed with the idea of forming a partnership with her, running the ranch himself and sharing the profits. He’d make sure the arrangement was lucrative for them both, even if it meant working twenty-four hours a day. Eventually he could, maybe, save up enough to buy the spread himself.

His plans were still vague, but this was the first thought he’d given to the future in a hell of a long time. All that would change now. The last thing Walt’s granddaughter would want was an ex-con hanging around the place. In light of this news, it’d be best if he sought other employment. He’d write a letter or two that night, send out a few feelers now his confidence was back. He’d enjoyed working the Broken Arrow Ranch almost as much as he’d enjoyed the feisty old man who’d given him a chance.

“Don’t you have something to say?” Walt asked, glaring at him. Then he laughed, and the sound was like a sick calf choking.

This was probably the first time Sam had heard Walt laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“You.” Walt’s mirth died slowly. “I wish you could’ve seen your face when I said Molly was coming. Just wait till you see her in person. If she’s anything like her grandmother—and she is—you’ll be walking around with your tongue hangin’ out. That photo on the television doesn’t do her justice. She’s a real beauty.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Sam warned. Walt had misread the look, but Sam wasn’t inclined to correct him. He’d let the old coot have his fun.

“Ideas about what?” Walt was obviously playing dumb.

“Me getting together with your granddaughter.”

“You should be so lucky.”

Sam didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t up to this conversation. “It isn’t going to happen.”

Walt’s smile faded and he narrowed his pale eyes on Sam with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. “I doubt she’d have you.”

Sam couldn’t fault him there. “I doubt she would, either,” he agreed. Grabbing his hat from the peg on the porch, he headed out the kitchen door.

The sun broke over the horizon like the golden arm of God, ushering in another perfect California morning. Tom sulked in the bucket seat beside Molly, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. His posture told her that nothing she said or did would placate him for the grave injustice of moving him away from his friends.

Clay, on the other hand, bounced like a rubber ball in the back seat, unable to sit still. His excitement, however, did not appear to be contagious.

Because she wasn’t able to see out her rearview mirror, Molly checked the side one to make sure the trailer was all right. She wasn’t accustomed to hauling anything and the U-Haul was packed tight. Everything she’d managed to accumulate in the past thirty-four years—everything she hadn’t sold, donated to charity or given to friends—was jammed in it.

Although she was deeply concerned about her grandfather, Molly hoped the drive to Sweetgrass would be something the three of them could enjoy. A trip that would “make a memory,” as her grandmother used to say. She thought about her childhood summer visits and how her grandmother had let her name the calves and explore the ranch and gather eggs.…

The last year had precious few happy memories for her and the boys. This was a new beginning for them all. A challenge, too—building a new life, a new home. Few people were given this kind of opportunity. Molly fully intended to make the best of it.

“Are we there yet?” Clay asked, his head bobbing in the rearview mirror.

“Clay,” his brother groaned. “We haven’t even left California.”

“We haven’t?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Molly concurred.

Clay’s head disappeared as he sank down on the seat. His small shoulders slumped forward. “How long’s it going to take?”

“Days,” Tom said grimly.

Molly resisted the urge to jab him. From the first, her older son’s attitude about the move had been less than enthusiastic—although he’d approved of visiting Montana to go and see Gramps. But not to stay there forever, as he’d told her repeatedly this past week. He’d barely uttered a word from the time they started out a couple of hours earlier. As far as she could tell, he continued to blame her for making him repaint the gym wall. Molly didn’t know why she should feel guilty when he was the one who’d sprayed it with gang symbols.

If she needed confirmation that she’d made the right decision, Tom had provided it. The mere thought of her son involved in a gang turned her blood cold. She was terrified of the attraction a gang might hold for him—for any confused angry fatherless boy. Gangs weren’t an issue in Sweetgrass. The people were decent and hardworking, and she wouldn’t need to worry about big-city influences.

“Did I tell you about the Broken Arrow?” she asked in an attempt at conversation. If she displayed a positive attitude, perhaps Tom would start to think that way himself.

“About a thousand times,” he muttered, his face turned away from her as he stared out the side window. The scenery rolled past, huge redwoods and lush green forests, so unlike the fertile river valley of Montana.

“There’s horses, too,” Molly added. As she recalled, Gramps always had a number on hand. These were strong sturdy horses, kept for work, not pleasure or show.

Tom yawned. “How many?”

Molly lifted one shoulder, her gaze trained on the road. Interest. Even this little bit was more than Tom had shown from the moment she’d announced her plans.

“What about my report card?” Clay asked, launching himself against the front seat, thrusting his head between Molly and Tom.

“The school promised to mail it.” Molly decided not to remind her son that she’d answered the same question no less than ten times. They’d miss the last couple of weeks of school, but had finished all their assignments beforehand. Molly had feared even a two-week delay might be too long, considering her grandfather’s condition.

“You could’ve asked if I wanted to move.” Tom leaned his head against the back of the seat and glared at her. Apparently holding his head up demanded more energy than he could muster.

“Yes,” Molly admitted reluctantly, “you’re right, I should have.” This was a sore point with Tom. A transgression he seemed unwilling to forgive.

“But you didn’t ask me.”

“No, I didn’t. Gramps needs us right now and I didn’t feel we could refuse.” Perhaps she’d made a mistake; it wasn’t her first one and certainly wouldn’t be her last. Molly felt she’d had few options. Besides removing Tom from involvement in a gang, she had to get to Gramps as soon as possible, to be with him during his remaining days. And since she would inherit the ranch, the more she learned about the management of it now, the better.

“You’re taking us away from our friends.”

“Like Eddie Ries?”

It was clear to Molly that Tom needed a better class of companions. She worried incessantly about her son and wondered what had happened to the good-natured helpful boy he used to be. The transformation had come virtually overnight. He’d grown sullen, ill-tempered and moody.

In the beginning she feared he might have started using drugs. She’d gone so far as to call a drug hotline. She’d learned that the best way to figure out if her son was experimenting with illegal drugs wasn’t to dig through his backpack or his room for evidence. Kids were experts at hiding paraphernalia, and even better at convincing family they were innocent of anything so dangerous or devious. She suspected that was because parents didn’t want to believe their children were caught up in something so destructive and therefore chose to believe whatever the kids told them. Facing the truth was far too painful—and would demand action.

The true test, according to the pamphlet she’d read, was knowing your children’s friends. One look at the type of friends your son or daughter associated with was usually enough.

Until last fall Tom’s friends had been good kids, from good homes, who made good grades. She felt relatively reassured until he started hanging around with Eddie Ries. Even then it was difficult to gauge the truth.

According to Mr. Boone, the school principal, Tom’s friendship with Eddie had been a recent development. Molly hoped that was true.

“Will Gramps teach me to ride?” Clay asked, straining forward in his seat.

“Probably not,” Molly said with a renewed sense of sadness. “Remember, he isn’t well. I don’t think he rides anymore.”

“This is gonna be a bust,” Clay said, slumping against the window.

Molly shook her head in wonder. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you two?”

“We don’t have any friends in Montana,” Tom said sulkily.

“You’ll make new ones.” That was one thing she could say about her boys. Not more than a week after moving into the apartment they’d met every kid within a five-block radius. Neither Tom nor Clay had any problem forming new friendships. The ranch kids would be eager to learn what they could about the big city, and before long Tom and Clay would be heroes.

“Let me tell you about the ranch,” she tried again.

“Yeah!” Clay said eagerly.

“I’m not interested,” Tom muttered.

One yes. One no. “What’s it to be?” she asked cheerfully. “Do I get the deciding vote?”

“No fair!” Tom cried.

“Plug your ears,” Clay said, snickering.

Tom grumbled and looked away, wearing the mask of a tormented martyr. He had brooding down to an art form, one he practiced often. Molly couldn’t remember her own adolescence being nearly this traumatic, and Tom was only fourteen. She hated to think of all the high-scale drama the coming years held in store.

“Originally the Broken Arrow was over 15,000 acres,” Molly began. She said this with pride, knowing how difficult it had been for Gramps to sell off portions of his land. All that remained of the original homestead was 2,500 acres.

“How come the ranch is named the Broken Arrow?” Clay asked.

“Because they found a broken arrow on it, stupid.”

“Tom!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a stupid question. If I remember correctly, Tom, you asked me the same one.”

“Yeah, but that was when I was a little kid.”

“About Clay’s age, as I recall.” She recalled no such thing, but it served him right for belittling his younger brother.

“What about his foreman?” Clay asked next.

Gramps’s foreman. Molly had nothing to tell. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he was apparently devoted to Gramps. Devoted enough to make sure she knew of Gramps’s ill health.

She’d reviewed their short conversation a number of times in the two weeks since his phone call, afraid she might have missed something important. She wondered if there’d been something else he’d wanted to tell her, a hidden message beneath his words. She’d sensed his urgency, accepted the gravity of the situation. Yet when she’d phoned Gramps the next night, he’d sounded quite healthy. He’d been thrilled with her news, and she’d hung up equally excited.

Molly’s thoughts turned from Sam Dakota to employment possibilities. Eventually she’d need to find a job in Sweetgrass. While there might not be much demand for a translator, she wondered if the high school needed a French or German teacher. If all else failed, she could try getting long-distance freelance assignments. Perhaps she could tutor or give private lessons. Several of the upmarket preschools in San Francisco were beginning to offer foreign-language lessons to their three- and four-year-old clients. Hey—she could start a trend in Montana!

Molly sighed. She didn’t want to think about the dismal state of her finances. She’d sold everything she could—furniture, dishes, household appliances. She wasn’t carting away fistfuls of dollars from her moving sale, but with her meager savings and her last paycheck, she’d have funds enough to see her through the next couple of months. After that—“Mom,” Clay said, breaking into her thoughts, “I asked you about Gramps’s foreman.”

“What about him?”

“Do you think he’ll teach me to ride?”

“I … I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Why should he?” Tom asked, and rolled his eyes as if he could barely stand being in the same car with anyone so stupid.

“I can ask, can’t I?” Clay whined.

“Of course,” Molly answered, attempting to divert a shouting match.

After repeated warnings, Clay finally secured his seat belt and fell asleep, his head cocked to one side. Because the car’s air conditioner didn’t work, Molly had hoped to avoid the heat as much as possible by leaving before six that morning. Already both boys were tired and cranky. Not long after Clay dozed off, Tom braced his head against the window and closed his eyes.

The silence was a blessed relief after two hours of almost continual bickering. Molly was grateful for the quiet, grateful for her grandfather—and grateful to Sam Dakota for calling her when he had.

She hadn’t met the man and already he’d changed her life.

A cooling breeze came from the north. Walter Wheaton sat on his rocker on the front porch and enjoyed the fresh sweet morning air. He was weak, but even his bad heart couldn’t curtail his excitement.

Molly and the boys were on their way. They’d been on the road two days and by his best estimate would arrive around noon. He was already imagining how they’d turn from the highway and onto the meandering dirt road that led to the ranch. When they did, he wanted to be sitting right here on the porch waiting for them. Damn, but it’d be good to see Molly again. Good to see those young ones of hers, too. She hadn’t said so, but he knew she worried about being a good mother. The world was a different place now, compared to when he’d grown up, but love and discipline still worked wonders.

The older boy had a sassy mouth; Walt had heard it himself when he’d talked to her on the phone. And the younger one was like a puppy, making a mess wherever he went. In time they’d learn, though. Tom might require a little help adjusting his attitude, but Walt felt up to the task. What that boy needed was a man’s influence, a man’s guiding hand. That and a switch taken to his backside when he deserved it!

In the big city someone was liable to report him for suggesting the rod. Child abuse they’d call it and probably toss him in the clink. Walt believed that child abuse was ignoring your children, neglecting them, not giving them guidance or a good example. Those things hurt kids far more than an occasional smack on the rear. What was the matter with people these days? he wondered.

A plume of dust showed at the end of the driveway. Molly. He hadn’t expected her quite this early. His Molly and her boys.

Walter stood carefully, taking his time so as not to overtax his heart. My, oh my, he was looking forward to seeing his family. Thank goodness Molly had mailed all those pictures! Without them, he wouldn’t recognize the boys.

His eyes weren’t what they used to be and it took Walt far longer than it should have to realize it was a truck that barreled toward him and not a car pulling a trailer. Another minute passed before he recognized his neighbor, Ginny Dougherty. The woman didn’t have the sense God gave a rock chuck.

Walt grunted in annoyance. Ginny was a damn fool. The widow simply didn’t know her limitations; she was crazy trying to run a ranch on her own. Fred, her bachelor cousin—aged at least sixty—lived with her and helped out on the place. In Walt’s opinion, the two of them were like the blind leading the blind. And he’d told her so, too. Frequently.

Ginny’s truck squealed to a halt, kicking up dust. The door opened and she leaped out so fast you’d think the seat was on fire.

“Before you start shouting,” she began, “I suggest you hear me out.”

Walt didn’t have the strength to yell much these days, but he wasn’t letting Ginny know that. “What do you want this time?” he demanded. He wrapped his arm around the post and casually leaned against it, so she wouldn’t realize how weak he was.

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.”