“Yes. Better let her cool down for a few days first.”
A slight smile hovered on Mattie’s pretty face. A face, he realized suddenly, that was very similar to Callan’s. Of all the sisters these two were physically the most similar, though he wouldn’t say the same about their personalities.
Now that he’d met Callan, Court wasn’t so sure she ever would cool down.
And she’d probably be even more angry if she knew the rest of it. That as far as biology went, he and the Carrigan girls truly were strangers to each other.
Court had every intention of giving Callan some breathing room. He needed some, too. After a dinner at Ren Fletcher’s house, where the lawyer’s newly pregnant wife, Tully, served him pot roast and huckleberry pie, he felt restless. He couldn’t imagine settling down at the movies or reading a book in his hotel room at the Graff. It was too late to go to the gym, and his stomach was too full for a run.
So Court walked up and down the streets of Marietta until he came to the sort of bar he didn’t see often in St. Paul, Minnesota. Grey’s Saloon looked like the rough-edged place a city slicker ought to think twice about entering without back-up.
But he wasn’t going to be a city slicker much longer.
Court placed his hand on the door handle, which pulsed with the rhythm of the music inside. As he pulled, the music became louder, a song about someplace, sometime, sung by a man whose voice sounded vaguely familiar. Other sounds chased the music around the darkened room, sounds of laughing and challenging, flirting and teasing. The air smelled like hot deep-fryer oil, spicy chicken wings and wood that had been soaked in beer, with a top-note of desperation cologne.
Court went to the bar and ordered a beer.
The place was busy and he expected to be able to sit, unbothered, and soak in the atmosphere.
He was wrong. Ten minutes into his first beer, an attractive lady with generous curves packed into a pair of jeans and t-shirt at least two sizes too small asked him to dance. “I’m Shelli-Ann. I haven’t seen you here before.”
She took his hand, clearly intending to lead him to the crowded dance floor.
“I’m from out of town. And I’m sorry but I don’t know how to dance to this music.”
She looked perplexed. “Well, what kind of music do you dance to? I can change the juke box.”
“I’m not really up for dancing tonight. Sorry.” He had to pull his hand surprisingly hard to wrest it from her. She stood there as if she didn’t want to leave, but thankfully the seats on either side of him were occupied and eventually she took the hint.
The bartender, a tough-looking guy who showed no interest in small talk, was speedy at bringing him a second beer. “Shelli-Ann’s got a good heart. Don’t mess with her.”
Whoa. He’d just been sitting here, minding his own business. Clearly he had to watch his every step in this place. Court took a long drink of the second beer and when it was gone, ordered a third. He was trying to relax, to wash away the drama of meeting the Carrigan girls and the reading of the will.
But no matter how hard he tried, he didn’t feel right in this bar with the loud country music and the cowboys with their hats and sun-darkened faces. Even the sexy girls, curves displayed to advantage by low-cut jeans and lacy tank-tops, didn’t seem like his type.
It bothered him that he couldn’t make himself like this place.
Because it made him doubt the rest of it, the plan to give up his job at his father’s accounting firm to become a full-time rancher. Hawksley, and his father, had assured him that he would love it. Maybe he didn’t know much about ranching, but he was a natural around horses, had been riding since he was six. Plus, he’d have an experienced foreman working for him, and if Hawksley was right, after she’d cooled down, he’d have Callan on the payroll, too.
“I know that girl better than anyone,” Hawksley had told him. “She’ll be spitting mad, but she’ll come around once she has time to think about. It’s not like she has much choice. She isn’t the type to live a life of leisure, no matter how much money she has. And ranching is all she knows.”
Court pulled out the money for his beer. Time to retreat to the Graff. This had been a bad idea. He felt more stressed now than he had when he’d walked in. He was almost to the door when, in a lull between songs, a woman’s voice shot out from the back of the long room.
“That’s right, Dillon, walk away. You know you can’t beat me.”
It was Callan.
Court pivoted, considered leaving quietly, then decided he had to check this out. A crowd had gathered around one of the pool tables, and he had to push in to see the man and woman holding the pool cues. The man who must be Dillon was a big, muscular guy. But he seemed to be almost cowering as Callan pointed her cue at him. Next to him, Callan looked like a peanut. A hot and sexy peanut, Court amended. She was small but she had curves, and her jeans and tank top fit them exactly right.
“Like hell, Callan,” the tough guy said. “The stakes are too high, that’s all. Who the hell gambles five thousand dollars on a pool game?”
“I do. Because I’m rich.” Callan picked up a glass from the table and finished off a good two inches of amber liquid. Probably bourbon. Most likely not her first of the night. While she drank, she jabbed the cue stick toward Dillon, causing the man to jump back and the crowd to gasp.
“You’re smashed is what you are.” Court hadn’t meant to step in. But this was killing him, because he could see the pain in her eyes and hear it, too, behind her brash words. “Put down that cue stick before you hurt yourself.”
He’d surprised her, otherwise the maneuver he pulled never would have worked. But he managed to get right up to her and snatch the stick out of her hand before she could defend herself.
Her face contorted with anger and she came at him with her fists, pummeling him rather than punching, an attack that was easy to neutralize. Court grabbed her wrists then swung one arm over her head, as if they were dancing. She ended up with her back pressed to his chest, arms crossed at her waist.
“What the hell? Help me Dillon!”
Court locked his gaze on the bigger and undoubtedly stronger man. “I’m Court McAllister, Hawksley’s cousin’s son. She’s had a few bad days and I just want her to calm down and not hurt herself.”
For a minute he thought it was going to be lights out. Then Dillon surprised him by laughing. “Good luck with that, Court McAllister.”
Callan stamped her feet. “Dillon? Don’t you walk away from me, you low down piece of—”
“He’s gone, Callan,” Court said, stating the obvious. Dillon had walked off to a booth at the other end of the bar and the rest of their audience had scattered, as well. “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”
“Let go of me.”
He did it.
Once she was free, she rubbed her arms as if trying to remove stains from the skin. Her eyes blazed angrily at him. “How dare you touch me like that?”
He looked away, feeling guiltily aware of how great she’d felt in his arms. Never had he suspected that he’d be attracted to Hawksley’s youngest daughter. But it seemed he was. “You were out of control,” he replied calmly. “I was defusing the situation.”
“Like hell. You’ve only made me angrier.” She stuck out her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Since you’ve scared away all my friends, I suppose I might as well go home.” She pulled out a set of keys, but then gave a harsh laugh. “Hang on a minute. I don’t have a home anymore, do I? I have a house, I guess. But it sits on a ranch that no longer belongs to me.”
“Maybe so, but it’s still your home and always will be.”
Callan’s dark blue eyes were pretty, even when unfocused. “You think I’m going to wake up every morning and look out my window at a piece of property that isn’t mine?” She pressed her finger into his chest, which was an improvement from her fist. “You don’t know me very well, if you believe I would ever tolerate that.”
“I may not know y
ou well yet, but one day I will.”
She narrowed her eyes angrily. “Not ever. Once my sisters leave, I’m moving out of that house, too. I’ll be damned if I’ll gnaw on an old bone my dad decided to toss me.”
With that, she flung her keys toward a group of cowboys at a nearby table. One of them, a young, bright-eyed guy in his early twenties, caught them.
“Good reflexes, Garry,” Callan said. “You been drinking tonight?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you, lucky boy, can drive me back to the Circle C.”
Court was surprised when Garry jumped out of his seat, clearly prepared to do Callan’s bidding.
Who was this woman? Court couldn’t help but suspect Hawksley had seriously underestimated her.
The headache Callan woke up with the next morning seemed the least of her problems. Lying in bed, she stared out her bedroom window and watched—for one of the few times in her life from this vantage point—the beauty of the sunrise. For as long as she could remember that sunrise had been her seasonal alarm clock, the signal that it was time to jump out of bed and get busy with chores.
But she would be damned before she’d work at the Circle C now that it belonged to Court McAllister. She couldn’t believe his nerve last night, wrestling her down, humiliating her, in a place where she should have had home town advantage. There had been something especially appalling about the way she’d felt when he’d pinned her close to his body. Whatever that feeling had been...she didn’t like it. Damn Dillon and all the other guys for not stepping up in her defense.
Most of all, damn her father. She’d been so sure not just that he loved her but that he respected her. When her sisters had complained about his bad moods and surly nature, she’d stayed quiet, certain that she was the one who truly knew and understood him.
Turned out she’d been so, so wrong about that.
It was Mattie, Dani and Sage who’d been right. Hawksley really had been a mean old bastard. So what if he’d left them all that money? What was she supposed to do with her life? Maybe she’d take Montana Sapphire, buy an acreage outside of town and...find a job on another ranch?
Her stomach hurt just thinking about it.
She’d lived her entire life on the Circle C. She loved this house, the animals, the land—they were a part of her. Now that her father was dead, no one knew the ins and outs of this place like her, not even Red the foreman. He’d only been here five years, compared to her twenty-six.
Why had her father done this to her? Had he really cared that much that she wasn’t male? She’d proven she could work as smart and as hard as any guy. It just wasn’t fair...
For the first time since Ren had told them about the will, Callan let her tears fall without checking them. The beautiful corals, greens and blues of the sunrise shimmered and blurred.
Slowly the sun emerged, first a deep red then so bright she had to turn away.
She stared at a cross-stitch picture her mother had made for her when she was a little girl, a poem about a mother’s love for her child. Beverly Carrigan had made one for each of her daughters, but Callan was the only one who still kept hers on the wall. She’d never cared much about décor. In their teens, her sisters had plastered their rooms with posters of movie stars and cowboys, horses and cute puppies and kittens.
For her, the bedroom was just a place to sleep and change her clothing. As the youngest, she’d landed the smallest in the house, but even after all her sisters left home she hadn’t moved into one of the larger ones because she didn’t see the need to change.
The aroma of coffee and bacon finally became too tantalizing to resist. Someone—probably Mattie—was already awake and preparing breakfast.
Callan crawled out of bed, wincing as her head throbbed. Okay, yes, she’d had way too much to drink yesterday. But she felt entitled. She pulled on clean jeans and a flannel shirt then went to the washroom and stared at her face in the mirror.
Not the prettiest sight.
She dipped her head, splashed cold water over her eyes. Good enough. Time to head for the kitchen to see who else might be awake. Turned out she was the last to appear.
Portia and Wren, Mattie’s beautiful twin daughters, so like their mother, were setting the large table while Mattie flipped pancakes at the stove.
Sage had spent the night here again, and was chopping fresh fruit at the island, while Dani sat in a quiet corner, breastfeeding baby Bev.
All three of her sisters turned to look at her with worry and concern as she entered the room.
“You okay?” Dani asked quietly, so she wouldn’t disturb her baby.
Callan nodded and poured herself some coffee. “Sorry I slept in.”
“You were out late,” Mattie said, with no judgment in her voice. “Nat and Eliot are helping with chores. When they come in, we’ll be ready to eat.”
“Eliot doing chores? That’s amusing.”
Dani smiled. “I know. He doesn’t have a clue. But he’s such a good sport.”
Callan leaned against the counter and sipped at her coffee, which tasted especially good this morning. It was nice having the house full of people, noise and activity. What was she going to do when her visitors left?
She decided not to think about that right now.
About ten minutes later, the guys returned to the house and washed up in the mud room. Mattie put out platters of pancakes and bacon, and Callan heated the maple syrup in the microwave before setting out the pitcher. With the added touch of Sage’s fruit salad the meal was delicious and no one stopped eating until the food was all gone.
“So what’s the plan today?” Wren asked. She was Mattie’s studious child, quiet to the point of being a loner at times. “I’d like to work on a research paper that’s due next week, if there’s time.”
“Absolutely,” Mattie said. “What about you, Portia? Do you need study time, too?”
Portia, the more social of the twins, glanced at her aunt Dani—who had been her psychology prof last year— then shook her head. “Nope. I’m good. I was hoping we could go on a trail ride?”
Callan’s heart plummeted. Normally she loved nothing more than taking her nieces out for a good long ride. But with her father’s death and the stupid terms of his will, she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to enjoy horseback riding on the Circle C again.
“Eliot and I were talking about taking a ride to check on the progress of the fencing,” Nat said. “Dawson was going to join us after he dropped Savannah off at school. Why don’t you come with us?”
Suddenly Wren looked tempted, as well. “I suppose I could work on my paper later.”
“Good plan,” Mattie said. As she exchanged glances with Sage and Dani, Callan realized this had been set up earlier. Her sisters had just cleared the deck so the four of them could have some spare time together.
An hour later, Callan found out why.
“This is our chance,” Mattie said. “I’ve been dying to check those boxes of mom’s since I arrived, but I felt we should wait until the reading of the will, at least.”
“Oh. Right.” Callan had forgotten about the boxes their father kept locked in a trunk in his closet. “Except—I have no idea where he keeps the key.”
Sage pulled a small crowbar out of a canvas bag she’d tucked under the table. “Not a problem.”
Callan laughed. They all did.
“This is crazy,” Dani said. “But I’m all in. Just let me settle baby Bev in her crib. She’s due for her morning nap, anyway.”
“Oh, let me!” Mattie said, holding out her arms. “I need a cuddle.”
Twenty minutes later they were all in their parents’ bedroom, a room Callan rarely entered since Nora did the vacuuming, dusting and laundry. The room was neat. Hawksley always made his bed and put away his clothing when he changed. Few traces of his personality could be found in the room that had been decorated by Beverly Carrigan more than thirty years ago. The quilt was threadbare, but it was still the one that had bee
n stitched together by great aunt Mabel for their parents’ wedding.
“I feel weird being in here,” Sage said.
No doubt she was still bothered by her memories of their mother and Bill Sheenan. Callan was glad she hadn’t been the one home sick from school that day. She felt certain the sight would have scarred her for life.
“Let’s get to it.” Dani opened the closet and grabbed one side of the trunk. Mattie grabbed the other and together they slid the trunk over the floor and out to the center of the room.
Callan took the crowbar from Sage and jammed it into the space between the lid and the box. The lock gave more easily than she expected.
For a moment they just looked at one another. Then Dani nodded at Mattie. “You’re the oldest. Open it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
With theatrics befitting a Hollywood horror film Mattie eased the lid upward and the old hinges obligingly creaked. Callan knelt in front of the trunk beside Mattie and was soon joined by Dani and Sage.
Four yellowed envelopes sat on top of a pile of folded quilts, each of their names written in their mother’s script.
“Oh my God.” Tears started flowing from Mattie’s eyes. “If I’d known this trunk contained a letter to me from Mom, I’d have opened this years ago.”
“Me, too,” Dani agreed.
And yet they didn’t snatch up the envelopes. Callan felt spellbound. “Mom was the last person to touch them.”
“It’s like a gift from heaven,” Sage whispered. “Or a dream. I’m afraid if I reach for it, my envelope will disappear and I’ll wake up.”
Callan knew exactly how she felt. And yet they only had a few hours before the others returned from their horse ride. “Mattie go first.”
“Okay.” Mattie reached out her hand and touched the paper. She smiled. “It’s real.” Then she picked it up and turned it over. Whatever adhesive might have held down the flap had long ago broken down and she pulled out a single seat of paper filled with writing.
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