Travis

by Duncan Leigh

  “Mommy, is there a party?” Bree unsnapped her seat belt the second Emma found a spot wide enough to accommodate her compact car. “Can we have cake?”

  “Even if there is a party,” Emma cautioned, “we weren’t invited.” Despite Seth’s assurances that family came first on the Circle P, learning how much the hired help mingled with the guests was on her lengthy to-do list.

  Stepping from the car, Emma fanned air so thick with moisture her shirt instantly clung to her skin. Before she’d taken two steps, the jeans she’d worn while driving tugged uncomfortably at her waist, her knees. Knowing she’d need all the help she could get to project an image of poise and self-confidence when she met her new employers, she reached past Bree and tugged the jacket of her chef’s whites from its hanger.

  “Mommy, what stinks?” Bree scrambled from her car seat, her nose wrinkling.

  Emma gave a cautious sniff. A dank undertone floated in the breathless air. “Smells like cows,” she said. Well, what did she expect? They were on a cattle ranch, after all.

  She slid her arms into the snug uniform. From the trunk, she took the basket of cookies and other baked goods she’d carefully wrapped to withstand their twelve-hundred-mile journey.

  “Are you ready?” She ran a smoothing hand over Bree’s dark curls. “You remember everything I told you?”

  Bree nodded all too solemnly for a preschooler. “No running in the house. No yelling. Mrs. Wickles and me, we’ll be good.” Bree squeezed her much-loved doll to her chest. “Won’t we, Mrs. Wickles?”

  Emma shrugged. Having her active daughter underfoot in the kitchen was asking for trouble, but what choice did she have? She and Bree were on their own in the world. They were venturing into new territory. They’d have to find their way.

  She gave Bree an extra-reassuring hug.

  “Okay, then,” she said at last.

  Hand in hand, they crossed the open yard to a narrow strip of lawn. The temperature dropped ten degrees as they mounted the steps onto the shaded porch. At regular intervals, waxy flowering plants hung from the eaves. Emma drank in the sweet scent that overpowered the odor of manure. At the massive entryway, she squared her shoulders. Poised to knock, Emma quickly nudged Bree out of the way when the door sprang wide.

  A tall, masculine figure brushed past. Emma caught the barest glimpse of a chiseled jaw before the man stopped at the edge of the porch to tug a black cowboy hat low over thick dark hair.

  “Excuse me.” She juggled the heavy basket at her hip. “Do you know where I might find Mr. Judd?”

  The stranger frowned. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific. There’re six—” An odd expression twisted his lips. “Five,” he corrected. “There’re five of us.”

  Though his high cheekbones and sculpted nose reminded Emma of Seth Judd’s, this man’s expression appeared to be carved into a permanent scowl. One that deepened as ice-blue eyes scoured her jacket.

  “Deliveries go round to the back,” he said sharply.

  Without another word, he spun away, his boots ringing against the wide wooden planks as he stalked down the stairs. In an obvious move to put as much distance between them as possible, he strode across the yard toward the barn.

  So much for Southern hospitality. Emma stared at the retreating pair of wide shoulders that tapered to slim hips. Bree tugged on her hand.

  “Mommy,” she whispered, her eyes nearly as wide as her mouth. “Was he a real cowboy?”

  “I’m not sure, baby,” she answered. Neither Seth nor Doris had mentioned having a grown son, but then, their descriptions of the Circle P hadn’t mentioned the half-hour drive between the ranch and the closest town.

  She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Come on, honey,” she whispered. “Let’s go see if we can find the kitchen.”

  With a final glance toward the barn, she led the way around the corner, not stopping till they reached a small concrete patio shaded by an oak tree that towered over the house. There, two young men sat eating lunch at one of several picnic tables that dotted another patch of lawn.

  Emma mustered a bright smile. “I’m Emma Shane.” She tugged Bree forward. “This is my daughter, Bree.”

  One of the lanky young men half rose. “I’m Tim,” he said, extending a work-hardened hand. “He’s Christopher.”

  “Chris,” the second boy corrected. “You dropping something off for the funeral?” He peered expectantly at the basket Emma held.

  Funeral. Whose?

  Recalling the cowboy’s odd reference, Emma swallowed. “I’m supposed to see Mr. Judd. Mr. Seth Judd. Is he around?”

  Sorrow shimmered in Tim’s brown eyes. “Mr. Seth? He died.”

  “He’s…dead?” Emma blinked. Nausea rolled through her stomach. “How? When?”

  “Three days ago.” Chris spoke around the bite of pie he’d just forked into his mouth. “The service was this morning.” He gestured toward the main house. “Everybody’s come to pay their respects.”

  “Mommy, you’re holding me too tight,” Bree protested.

  “Sorry, baby.” Despite the fresh beads of perspiration that broke across her brow, Emma loosened her grip. She sipped air and tried to figure out what to do next. Had she come all this way for nothing? The job offer was in her folder, the contracts to be signed upon her arrival. Surely Seth’s replacement would honor their deal.

  “Do you work here? In the kitchen?”

  “In the greenhouse mostly,” Tim answered.

  “Sometimes we wash dishes,” Chris added.

  “I’m Ms. Judd’s new assistant,” Emma said, once more extending her hand to first Tim and then Chris. She paused when the boys stared at her as if she was some alien life-form. But until she could speak with Doris, or whoever was in charge, she’d been hired to do a job. There was no time like the present to start it.

  At last, Tim shrugged. “Ms. Doris, she’s busy right now.”

  Emma’s chest tightened. Memories of the days immediately after Jack’s death flooded back, and with them, the overwhelming sense of loss. “I’m sure she is,” she murmured. “So why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourselves, and then we’ll see what we need to do next.”

  Tim and Chris, it turned out, had bounced around the foster care system until the owners of the Circle P took them under their wings. Free to go wherever they wanted once they turned eighteen, they’d decided to stay on at the ranch in hopes of learning a trade. Today, that meant washing dishes.

  “Well, I’m sure Doris’ll appreciate your being here,” Emma said.

  Their introductions complete, she eased open the screened door and shepherded her daughter inside. Longing swept through her as she surveyed the spacious kitchen. Ignoring the dirty dishes and items that cluttered every surface, she focused on granite counters and high ceilings. She drank in the light that poured through windows over the sink. Contrary to her worst fears, not a speck of rust dotted the twin Sub-Zero refrigerators and freezers built into one wall. Opposite them, an enormous AGA stove glistened beneath a pile of pots and pans.

  Eager to get to work, she flexed her fingers. Though the kitchen wasn’t perfect, it had definite possibilities. But Seth’s death complicated things, and she swallowed a twinge of concern as she cleared a space for her basket on one of the counters. She glanced pointedly toward an enormous sink.

  “Tim, why don’t you and Chris start washing dishes while I get some of this food organized.” She took a second look, noting a wealth of plastic-wrapped platters on the long trestle table and some of the counters. “Where did all this come from?”

  “No one shows up to a funeral empty-handed.” Chris shrugged.

  Tim nodded. “There’s plenty more when the food on the buffet is gone. I been stickin’ casseroles in the fridge, but it’s full.”

  She hiked an eyebrow. Thinking of potato salad and meats left too long at room temperature, Emma stifled a groan.

  Tomorrow, she’d figure out where she and Bree would go from here and whether th
e new boss would honor her arrangement with Seth. But for now, there was a kitchen to run and, although the circumstances were far from what she’d expected, she intended to give it her best shot.

  His Sunday Stetson clamped firmly on his head, Colt Judd let his long strides take him wherever they wanted. He wasn’t a bit surprised when they stopped at the empty pen where he’d ridden his first bull. He propped his elbows against the top rail and stared, unseeing, at the ranch his father had spent an entire life managing.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before the shuffle of several pairs of boots broke the late afternoon stillness.

  “Thought we’d find you out here. You hanging in there?”

  At the familiar voice, Colt squared his shoulders. “I’m all right,” he managed despite an unmanly tightness in his throat. He scanned the faces of the men around him. Like him and his brothers, Luke had been born and raised on the Circle P. The presence of the other three had come as a shock although, if he’d been thinking clearly, he should have expected Brett, Dan and Travis to drop everything to attend his dad’s funeral. He’d have done the same for them in a heartbeat. After all, they’d become fast friends on a weekend cattle drive years ago and had had each other’s backs ever since. He felt some of his tension ebb. “Just needed a breath of fresh air.”

  He’d had to leave the house. Had to get away. Away from the well-meaning relatives. From the cloying scent of hothouse flowers. From the clink of ice in a dozen glasses. If he had to endure the carefully guarded conversations in the great room another second, he’d implode. He knew he would. He’d seen the censure in the eyes of every person who’d gathered to pay their respects. Even though, so far, no one had been brave enough—or foolish enough—to say it, behind their sympathetic words, he knew they blamed him.

  And rightly so. His father’s death was his fault.

  He should have hung up his spurs after winning a second gold buckle in Vegas three years ago. Should have come home, instead of signing on as the Professional Bull Riders’ advance man. Should have known there was more to his dad’s frequent reminders that there was always a place for him on the Circle P.

  He should have. He could have. He hadn’t.

  If he’d simply said I’m on my way instead of heading to Tulsa the last time they spoke, he could have eased his dad’s workload. Maybe then, grave diggers wouldn’t be lowering his father’s casket into a hole six feet deep.

  At the image, Colt bit back the urge to howl.

  “Tell me about it.” Luke Parker folded his arms across a nearby post. “I was the same way when Dad passed.”

  Colt scuffed one dress boot through the gray sand. It hadn’t been so long ago that his boyhood pal lost his own father and inherited the ranch that had been their childhood home.

  “I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. I was too young to understand what was going on when I lost my folks.” Dan smoothed one hand over his tie. “But I tell my patients to let themselves grieve. It’s only natural to be angry, want to blame yourself. Truth is, no one could have predicted this. Or done anything to prevent it.”

  Colt swallowed. He supposed, if anyone would understand the words on the coroner’s report, it’d be a surgeon like Dan.

  “Thanks,” he murmured. “It’s just hard to believe he’s gone. Every time I turn a corner, I expect to run into him. He was always there.” Tears clogged his throat.

  “We’re here for you,” Travis put in.

  “Yeah, if there’s anything we can do, just say the word,” added Brett.

  Colt let his friends know he appreciated their offers, but honestly couldn’t think of a thing he needed. Unless… He coughed and eyed the rancher. “Can we use your office in a bit? We’ve got some family business to discuss before everybody heads out in another day or so. Garrett plans to ask Mom to visit him and Arlene for a while.”

  Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Luke flinch, a move Brett evidently took as a signal to leave them to a private discussion. With the quiet authority that came with his job in police work, he herded the others toward the house.

  “The Circle P might not survive losing both your folks,” Luke offered when their friends had moved out of earshot. “There’s been a Judd here as long as there’ve been Parkers.”

  Colt nodded. He’d grown up on stories of the ranch and the two families whose lives were deeply entwined. Four generations of Parkers had owned the Circle P. Four generations of Judds had managed its thousands of acres and the cattle that roamed them. He shrugged one shoulder. “Gotta do whatever Mom wants. No matter what she chooses, the next few months are gonna be hard enough for her.”

  Luke’s long exhale filled the gap in the conversation. “Guess I’d better tell Sarah that month in Hawaii she’s got her heart set on is gonna have to wait…again.”

  “You never did get to take that trip, did you?” Colt squinted at his friend. “What happened last time? Mom told me but, for the life of me, I can’t remember the details.” Or much else he’d heard ever since the phone call that had summoned him home three days earlier.

  Luke’s mouth slanted to one side. “Jimmy came down with chicken pox on Christmas Day. I couldn’t get Sarah to leave him.” He chuckled. “Not even when I promised to let her take me skinny dippin’ in the ocean.”

  Two years had passed since then, but Colt barely raised an eyebrow at the delayed honeymoon. Ranching was more than a full-time job. It was a lifestyle. One that didn’t come with vacation or sick days.

  “Hold off on changing your plans for a bit. The boys and I—we’re working on a way to help out. We just have to clear things with Mom first.”

  “Doris can be a mite stubborn.” Luke resettled his own Stetson. “Whatever she decides, Colt, we’ll muddle through. But the Circle P will never be the same without your dad.”

  That damned tightness filled his throat again, but Colt managed an abrupt, “I hear ya,” before it closed completely.

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  Colt

  The Hometown Heroes Series, Book #5

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