Читать книгу The Man From Montana - Mary Forbes J. - Страница 10

Oh, yeah, Ash thought. He got the old man’s meaning loud and clear. Tom’s past. Like the Flying Bar T was Tom’s ranch. And Ash, the stepson aka hired foreman. Stop being an ass. Tom was there when your mother didn’t have two nickels to her name.

Ash had been two, his sister Meggie one, when their biological dad died in a chopper crash in some Vietnam swamp toward the end of the war. Six months later, their mother became Tom’s nurse. A soft-spoken woman with a broken heart that Ash couldn’t heal, no matter how hard he tried.

Yes, Tom had given his name as well as his heart to Ash and his sister. He loved them as he’d loved their mother, God rest her soul.

But not enough.

Not enough to change the deed of the land into a partnership with Ash when he turned twenty, twenty-five, thirty. Not even on his last and thirty-seventh birthday.

And now here was Tom again, deciding to give interviews to Rachel Brant, pushing Daisy into the “moving on” mix. Daisy was Ash’s daughter, not Tom’s.

And what the hell was the old man up to prodding Ash to rent Susie’s cottage to Rachel Brant? Not that he hadn’t thought it over, but still. That guest cottage was his. His money, his time had gone into its construction.

Tom might have final say in matters of the Flying Bar T, but not on the cottage. The thought rankled. Why, Pops? Why haven’t you changed the deed? Afraid I might cause a financial disaster with my nonexistent reading skills?

In school, Ash had endured countless methods designed to interpret the printed word. A few strategies had helped somewhat, others caused more confusion, and later there had been an adult support group in Billings.

In his midtwenties, because Susie had wheedled him to take a course, he’d worked daily with a tutor specializing in reading difficulties and learned a measured technique that, at the time, allowed him to decipher enough words for comprehension. A laborious and painful process which, over ten years, Ash let slide. Too damned difficult to fumble over on his own.

“To hell with it,” he muttered.

In the barn’s office, he grabbed the ear-tagging pliers and a sack of tags, then headed for the calving barn where his cows, his cows, were sheltered from snow, cold wind and frozen nights.

Concentrate on the animals. They’re what matters.

Rolling aside the doors, he stepped into the warm cavern. At the Dutch door closing off the hallways, he ordered the dogs to stay before wandering through to the cattle.

Large box pens ran up and down the perimeters while the interior’s free space spread like a rectangular field for the animals to take shelter.

This morning, the double rear doors stood open. With the milder temperatures, most of the herd huddled outside around feed he’d forked onto the snow and into the bins.

A pair of newborn Angus calves lay on fresh straw inside the barn. Twins. The cow’s rough pink tongue cleaned their wet coats. Lifting her broad black head, she eyed Ash.

“It’s okay, mama,” he crooned softly, walking toward the pair. He clipped tags onto the calves’ left ears, number one hundred and two and three.

He read the tags five times to make sure, though, oddly, numbers had always been easier than words. He studied the twins. Of the calves born so far, these two tallied forty-eight bulls. Good odds for beef sales.

“Dad?” Dressed in high-topped work boots and her red parka, Daisy came across the barn. “You mad at Grandpa and me?”

“No, honey.” Nothing I can’t deal with.

She dogged him out of the barn, into the herd. “Then why are you hiding out here instead of eating lunch with us?”

Ever the perceptive one, his Daiz. “I’m not hiding. Just checking to see if we have more calves. The pair in the barn were born in the last hour.”

“You think Grandpa’s wrong letting Ms. Brant interview him, don’t you?”

“Not for me to say what your grandfather can or cannot do. He’s his own person.”

“Okay, then you don’t want me helping with the story. I saw it on your face.”

“We don’t know anything about this Ms. Brant. She blew into town two weeks ago. My question is why? To write an old war story? What for? More to the point, why now?”

He pushed through the hulking cattle. Snow breezed into his face along with the scent of hay and hide.

Daisy trudged after him. “You can’t judge every journalist because of Mom’s death.”

“It has nothing to do with her death.”

“Yes, it does. You even said so when I wanted to write our high school column last September. The first thing out of your mouth was, ‘You want to be like that guy who killed your mother?’ Jeez, like I’d run out, get my license and crash a car into some innocent person, all for a story.”

He swung to a stop. “Your mouth’s getting way too brazen, young lady.”

She threw up her hands. “Argh! You’re impossible! No wonder no one wants to be your friend.” Wheeling around, red hair flying, she stormed through the cattle, back into the barn.

Ash watched her go. His heart hurt. His pixie-girl was on a fast track to independence and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. Oh, yeah, he knew she had a flare for the written word. In first grade, she was already reading the scroll line on CNN.

That same year, Susie bought their daughter the first Harry Potter novel. The book had caused a horrible argument between Ash and his wife.

Bottom line: he’d felt the content too advanced for his tiny daughter with her missing front teeth. And Susie, eyes flashing, had retorted, “How would you know? You can’t read.”

Something had died in Ash that day.

Something of Susie and of himself.

She had hoisted his dyslexia as an obstacle flag in the road of their child’s education.

He hadn’t expected to feel inadequate in his marriage. But that day he had. He’d felt unskilled as a man and inept as a father. Later, Susie had apologized, but the words remained. Dangling in his ear for all time.

He stared around at the cows. Dim-witted beasts. Like him. Daisy was right; his friends were few. Caution learned the hard way.

Rachel Brant’s soft voice whispered through his mind. “You’re a kind man.” He shook his head. Hell.

The last damn thing he needed was another woman in his life. Daisy was his life. Tom. The cows.

Damn straight.

They were his life and they were enough.

On Wednesday, Rachel tapped her fingers on her Rocky Times desk. Should she call the Flying Bar T about the guesthouse? Yesterday, the greasy-haired manager at the Dream On Motel had sputtered about a month’s commitment. The thought of Charlie in that grubby room another night sickened her.

At two-forty-five, she called the ranch.

Tom answered and gave her Ash’s cell phone number. “He’s the one you need to talk to,” the old vet told her.

Of course. It was his wife’s guesthouse, after all.

Ash picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Ash,” she said cheerfully. As if she called him every week, as if her pulse hadn’t executed a nervous kick. “Rachel Brant here. I was wondering—”

“It’s ready.”

“Oh.” Were you planning to let me know? “We can move in, then?”

“Yeah.”

She fisted her hand in a yes-gesture. “Would this afternoon be too soon? Say right after school? I’ll rent a U-Haul right away to take our stuff to the ranch. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours, tops.”

“What time this afternoon?”

“I work till three, then I get Charlie from Lewis-Clark Elementary.” And she needed to check out of the motel, buy some groceries for a decent supper. “Say four-thirty-ish?”

“Four-thirty it is. I’ll leave the key with Inez.”

“Inez?”

“Our housekeeper. I’ve left instructions with her, in case you have any questions.”

“So you won’t be there?”

“Probably not.” Pause. “Will someone be helping you?”

Was he concerned? “We only have a few boxes and some clothes.”

“No furniture?”

“No.” What was the point when she moved every other year to yet another town, chasing yet another part of the series?

“I see.”

Actually, he didn’t, but explaining would incite questions she had no intention of answering. “We’ll be out shortly.”

“Right.”

“Bye—”

Dial tone.

“—Ash.”

The McKees were not men of long conversations.

She dropped her camera into her briefcase—a habit she’d established years ago in case an unexpected story presented itself—and pulled her purse from under the desk. Time to get her child from school. Time to start the ball rolling on why you’re in this hole-in-the-wall.

Shrugging on her long gray coat, she called to the lone reporter left in the newsroom, “See you tomorrow, Marty.”

His blond head lifted.

Marty, of the fatal crash that killed Susie McKee. A foolhardy, energetic kid raring for the next story. You should be in Iraq or the Congo, not in Podunk, USA.

“You moving out to the Flying Bar T?”

He’d eavesdropped on her call.

“I am.”

His mouth twisted. “Don’t let Ash McKee bite you on the ass.”

Hooking her scarf behind her neck, she stopped. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s a loner.”

“He has family, Marty.”

He frowned. “Take care, okay? You’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg with him.”

No, she thought, sitting in the car, waiting for Charlie to exit Lewis-Clark Elementary. Marty was wrong. What you saw with Ash McKee was exactly what you got. No secrets there. Portraits of his wife proved the point. He’d loved her. As he loved his daughter and father.

When she arrived in an hour with the U-Haul, would he be at the house protecting his inside flock rather than outside with his cows? At the thought of seeing him again, her heart hastened. She leaned a little to the right and checked her hair in the rearview mirror. Good grief. What was she doing, preening for a taciturn man with a snarky disposition?

You need a life, Rachel. Well, the minute Charlie was finished second grade, she was out of here. Leaving town on a jet plane at the speed of light. His next school year would be in Richmond, Virginia, and they would be living in a little house with a backyard and she would work for American Pie. She hoped.

Charlie ran down the steps of the school, parka flapping open to the wind, book pack swaying from an arm. After hopping onto the backseat, he tugged the door closed.

“Hey, baby.” Rachel smiled between the front seats. Her little guy, her pride and joy. “How was your day?”

“Okay.”

Perpetual kid answer. “Any homework?”

“Have to do some math problems.”

Second grade and already homework was arriving two or three times a week. Rachel needed to schedule an appointment with the teacher who continually wrote in her son’s agenda: Charlie read a novel again during lessons today. Class work not completed.

From the day she brought home Barbara Park’s book Junie B. Jones Has a Peep in Her Pocket for his fifth birthday, he’d loved reading. But the ability hampered his progress in emotional and social areas. Fantasy offered comfort amidst the angst of new schools and new friends for a lonely little boy.

And she was to blame. Restless Rachel.

Disillusioned, she pulled onto the main road.

“Can I play first, Mom?”

He always asked, no matter that her response was the same, that she was a stickler about getting homework out of the way.

“You won’t have time for playing tonight, Charlie. We’re moving out to the ranch right away.”

“We are? Yippee! I get to see the horses now.”

Rachel chuckled. “Not so fast, partner. First we buy groceries for supper, then we pick up the trailer, and then…” She paused. “You’ll do homework while I unload our stuff.”

“I want to help.”

In the mirror, his bottom lip pouted.

“Homework first, Charlie. And push up your glasses.”

He did. “Will Mr. Ash be there all the time?”

“Yes. He runs the ranch.”

“But will he show me the horses?”

“Let’s not bother him about the horses just yet.” Or any part of the ranch. She did not need those dark looks boring into her soul.

“I wanna see the horses,” Charlie persisted.

Thrusting horses and Ashford McKee from her mind, Rachel pulled into the grocery lot and centered on what she and Charlie needed to eat.

What’s on your supper table tonight, Mr. Rancher?

Most of all, why did she care?

He saw her the instant he rounded the juice aisle. She stood in the first checkout line with her son, her dark head bent to the kid’s wheat-colored one. At twenty feet, Ash studied her face. She had those clean, fine Uma Thurman lines. Sophisticated with a mixture of sweetness.

He debated. Go back up the aisle, or head for the checkout?

His feet chose for him and he walked past the second cash register with its two customers to stand behind Rachel. Like him, she carried a basket and was busy unloading items onto the counter. Potatoes, lettuce, a quart of milk, steaks. A grin tugged his mouth. “Steaks, huh? Good choice.”

She snapped around. “Ash.”

“Rachel.” He reached for the separation bar, set his own filets behind hers on the counter. He couldn’t think of another word to say, not with her eyes glued to his face.

Charlie stared up at him behind round-rimmed glasses. Kid had her nose. Small and straight and slightly freckled. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

“Hey, Charlie.”

“Hey.” The boy moved timidly behind his mother; she set a protective arm around his shoulders.

Had Susie given Daisy the same sense of support at that age? He couldn’t recall. Susie had been guiding guest riders up ridges and across ranch woodlands when Daisy was seven.

Rachel looked at his purchases. “I thought ranchers ate their own beef.”

“Where do you think stores get their beef, if not from ranchers?” he teased, setting his empty basket on the rack.

A smile lifted the corners of her lips. If he bent his head, he figured his mouth would fit there just fine.

Hold on. Where had that come from?

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, suddenly spellbound by the cashier’s scanner.

He dug out his wallet. “You don’t expect me to eat?”

“That’s not what I meant. I thought maybe you’d be—”

She looked so flustered, he couldn’t help chide, “Where? Home on the range? Down on the south forty?”

Suddenly, he liked teasing her, liked the sound of her little gust of laughter. Liked a lot of things about her. Things he hadn’t thought of in years. Things he hadn’t experienced in years. She made him feel. He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

“You should laugh more often,” he remarked suddenly. “Does something to your eyes. Makes them bluer.”

This time she flushed pink. “Are you flirting, Ash McKee?”

His teasing died. “No,” he said curtly, thinking of the last woman he’d joshed around with—Susie, the night before she died.

“Don’t worry,” Rachel said, but the sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “I’m not interested, anyway.” Pulling money from her purse, she guided Charlie forward, then paid the cashier. “Bye.” She flung the word over her shoulder and left the store carrying two bags.

Ash watched through the store’s wide windows as she walked Charlie through the dark parking lot, then climbed into her car.

He wanted to hurry after them, tell her he had been flirting, that he liked the way her laugh lit her eyes and, oh yeah, he was glad she’d be living ninety feet from his house.

Grabbing up his meat package, he strode through the electronic doors. Hell. Next he’d be admitting he fancied Rachel Brant, reporter for the Rocky Times, as a potential date.

She wasn’t interested in flirting, dammit. Not in the least. And certainly not with Ash McKee with his frost-lined attitude.

She understood his abrupt mood change, understood it as if he’d lectured an hour. Flirting meant he thought of her as a woman. He did not want to think of her as a woman. He did not want her living in his dead wife’s dollhouse. Well, tough. He’d made his decision and she was moving in.

Snow fell again. Confetti flakes that came out of a nowhere night and zeroed in on the headlights and windshield in long, gossamer needles.

She drove with care and caution on the road out of town. One slip and they could wind up in a ditch, miles from help, impotent against the cold. With a U-Haul trailer on top of us.

Tonight, the radio forecasted temperatures dipping to twenty below with the windchill. February, galloping like the great lion, Aslan of Narnia, through winter. On the ranch those mothers with little calves would hunt for protection inside the barns.

Or will you herd them inside, Ash?

Unlikely. His animals no doubt were descendants of the Texas longhorns Nelson Story and his cowboys had driven to Montana in 1866. Cattle that died by the thousands in blizzards twenty years later, but evolved over the past hundred and forty years into sturdy range creatures with hardy hides and thick coats, barriers against freezing winds and drifting snow. Historic details she picked up from the old-timer talk at the coffee shop and in the archives of the Rocky Times.

Nonetheless, Rachel shivered for those tiny newborn calves, and looked in the rearview mirror to check her own offspring. “Okay back there, champ?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to sing a song?” He loved singing in the car.

“No.”

“Something happen today, Charlie?” His mood had been off-and-on from the moment she’d picked him up from school.

“Nuh-uh.”

“You’d tell me, right?”

“Maybe.”

Uh-oh. Something had happened. Though Rachel understood her son was a quiet student, Mrs. Tabbs may have had a bad-hair day. Or gotten frustrated with the novel reading and daydreaming.

“Have a fight with Tyler?”

“No. Tyler’s nice. He’s my bestest friend.”

“What happened then, baby?”

“I want to live here forever. I don’t wanna leave anymore.”

“Oh, Charlie, you know that’s impossible.”

“Why? Why do we have to move all the time?”

“Honey, I’ve explained it lots of times. The old soldiers live in different states and it takes a while to build up their trust for the story. Besides, we like living in different areas,” she added cheerfully. “Right?”

“But I want to stay in one house forever.” In the mirror his eyes were hard blue jewels.

One house forever. She had grown up in one house forever and it hadn’t been happy. With Charlie, happiness had come naturally—from the moment she knew of his existence, Rachel had loved her child. “Next house,” she promised him. “Richmond will be the one forever.” If she had to flip burgers for extra money, she’d get him that home, that school, those friends, the dog, a tree house.

“Okay,” came his little voice.

“I love you, champ.”

“Love you, too, Mom.” He drove the Hot Wheels car over the window glass where it left toothpick tracks in its wake.

Through the dark, she saw the ranch house ablaze with light. The collies, black shapes in the night and yellow eyes in headlights, crept around the car as she cut the engine.

The green truck Ash drove was nowhere in sight.

He said he wouldn’t be here.

Had he bought those steaks for someone in town? A lady friend? One who enjoyed his company, his flirting? Who didn’t get the evil eye one minute and a sexy grin the next?

What on earth had her assuming he wouldn’t have a woman in his life? Naturally, he’d be seeing someone. It’s been fifty-five months, Rachel. Hadn’t he quoted the exact time frame last week?

She and Charlie climbed from the car. Her nose picked up friendly scents—cows, barns, wood smoke and the perfume of beauty: mountain snow and wind and night.

A sweet-faced Latino woman with a braid that touched the curve of her spine answered Rachel’s knock. “Mrs. Brant?” She smiled down at Charlie. “I’m Inez, the housekeeper. Ash let us know you’d be on your way.” She offered a set of keys. “For the cottage. There’s room to park around the side. Follow the graded area. Ash plowed it out this morning.”

So. He’d been expecting her today.

“Thank you.” She took the keys and then, following the sheared path rapidly filling with snow, towed the trailer around to the guesthouse.

Someone, probably Inez, had turned on the lights; the windows glowed with warm welcome. Rachel pulled up and shut off the motor. “Home sweet home,” she murmured.

Charlie leaned forward. “Do I get to pick my bedroom?”

“Absolutely.”

Warmth greeted them the moment she opened the door. Had Ash left the heat on all day in anticipation of her arrival?

Charlie kicked off his boots and ran for the stairs.

“Remember, you have math to do,” she called, as he scrambled puplike to the loft. His feet thundered back and forth. She gave him a minute.

“I’m taking this one, Mom,” came his shout. “It’s got a window bench and everything! You can have the fireplace.”

Rachel shook her head. A fireplace in a bedroom? She couldn’t wait to see.

A thought rooted. Had Ash and his wife…?

She hurried into the snowy night. If she was to save an extra day’s rent on the trailer, they would need to return the U-Haul to the dealership by six-thirty.

The snow had mutated into a storm. A white wall that hit before she reached the county road three miles from the ranch. Three miles of snow and wind battering the car, swaying the empty trailer and swallowing the headlights. Please. Show me the track, the ditches.

“Mom?” Charlie’s voice, small and frightened from the rear seat. “It’s really, really snowy.”

“We’ll go slow, baby. We’ll get there.”

“Maybe we should go back to Mr. Ash’s place.”

She would, if she could turn around, if she knew for certain the road would still be in front of her when she pointed the nose of the car in the other direction. Best to keep going.

She drove five miles an hour. The wipers strained against snow buildup and wind blasts.

A shape emerged in the headlights.

“Mom, look out!”

She saw the red eyes a millisecond before the deer leaped—one long, high bound—into snow and night. But already she’d reacted to the animal’s sudden appearance. Braking, swinging the steering wheel to the right to miss the animal.

The Sunburst’s front tires thumped against a thick drift that spewed snow up and over hood and roof.

“Nooo!”

The rear wheels spun on the icy pavement. She jerked against her seat belt as the car shifted sideways and slid. Slid with the ease of a skater, nose-first down into the ditch.

She heard the scream of metal before she realized the trailer had ripped from the hitch.

“Charlie!”

The U-Haul slammed into the rear of the Sunburst.

Ash left town at 6:55 p.m., earlier than planned. A couple days ago, he’d seen the sun dogs—rainbowlike spots on each side of the sun—and knew a storm brewed before the radio confirmed the weather system hailing from the north this afternoon.

When he’d phoned home, Inez told him Rachel had arrived.

That he inhaled long and loud hearing the news meant he didn’t favor the idea of anyone out in this weather. It had nothing to do with her. Nothing.

Hell, he’d practically forgotten her when he’d left the grocery store and taken the steaks over to Meggie’s house. And when he and his teenage nephew, Beau, stood, bundled up in parkas and wool hats, grilling the meat on her outdoor barbecue, he hadn’t thought of Rachel at all.