He surveyed the interior, which was in far better condition than the other two cabins up the hill that had been empty for years. Betty had clearly done her best to make this one welcoming.
The windows were open to let in the crisp mountain air, a Mason jar on the table held a bouquet of wildflowers and through the open bedroom door, he could see a stack of fresh towels waiting on a bright patchwork quilt. The hardwood floors gleamed.
Chloe came inside behind him and dropped her backpack by the door with a soft gasp of wonder. “It’s almost the same as when I was a girl.”
She stood close enough that he heard almost every word clearly before she walked into the center of the main room and turned slowly, taking in the stone fireplace, the pine paneling, the sofa draped with a quilt and the dark pine rocking chair in the corner. Beyond an L-shaped counter with a breakfast bar and three bar stools, the rustic pine cabinets and updated kitchen appliances gleamed.
“This was always the foreman’s cabin, but I hear the last one left last November. Looks like Jess has done quite a bit of work in here.” He backed toward the open door and spun on his heel to leave.
At the touch of Chloe’s hand on his sleeve, he froze.
“Thank you,” she said. “This will be perfect.”
He nodded and made his escape without turning his right side toward her, avoiding the inevitable for a little while longer.
Initially, he’d been self-conscious, and had become adept at concealing his scars with collared, long-sleeved shirts and by the way he angled his face away during a conversation.
Now it was just a reflex.
For the most part, he’d learned to mask his more invisible and aggravating losses. The significant loss of his hearing, even with hearing aids. Loss of perfect vision in his right eye.
But even though he no longer cared what people thought of his appearance, he did dread the automatic gush of sympathy and empty platitudes from strangers who could surely care less.
But it was all relative.
Seeing Chloe again brought back his dark, helpless sense of being damaged, though his war injuries didn’t hold a candle to the crushing burden of what had happened on this ranch when he was just a kid.
Why did she have to show up while he was trying to start his life over?
Until last spring he’d been a Marine, an invincible warrior in control of his life. Now he was a disfigured man with disabilities, with nightmares that could hit without warning.
He’d spent the past six months recovering from multiple surgeries, knowing the military would never take him back for active duty. But last month, that sense of hopelessness had changed, thanks to an old buddy from the Marines who recommended him for a job. A perfect job.
And so he’d applied for a field position with a nationally acclaimed, high-tech security company. The recruiter had been doubtful, wondering if Devlin was still capable, but had given him until the first of July to prove he could handle the job.
And Devlin would do it. No question.
He would focus on regaining his strength, his dexterity. His accuracy with a weapon. And by July 1 he would be packing his bags for New York so his could reclaim his life, and a future. Having a firm goal had given him a new sense of hope.
But now, with Chloe’s arrival, instead of peace, he felt as if he were wavering on a fragile precipice with unknown, dangerous water below.
Was it the memory of her endlessly cheerful smile? The way she’d always tried to convince him that everything in his world was rosy, when as a young boy he was dealing with grief and guilt that never faded and a father who...
Even without hearing her footsteps, he sensed her coming up behind him. Stifling a sigh, he stopped in his tracks and spun around to face her.
“Look, I know we weren’t exactly friends when my dad was the foreman here. In fact,” she added with a rueful smile, “I suspect I was an awful pest.”
That much was true.
She’d shadowed his every move and asked a million questions every day, so in return he’d learned to retaliate by being a relentless tease—taunting her about her carrot-red hair, her freckles, her skinny legs—anything to just make her go away.
Never in a million years would he have told her that her hair was the prettiest color he’d ever seen, or that he’d always thought her freckles were cute. Looking back on his cruel younger self, he felt a flash of remorse.
“We were just kids. And you were almost like a sis—” He stumbled over the word.
“Sister,” she said softly, her eyes all too knowing. “I never knew the right things to say. But I saw the pain you and your brothers went through after your little sister died. And how cruel your dad was to you boys afterward. I just wanted to make things better somehow. Instead I probably drove you all crazy.”
His sense of guilt sharpened.
Life hadn’t been easy for her either, with an alcoholic father and a mother who’d ditched them both. Yet there she’d been, a little girl earnestly trying to help everyone else at the ranch after Heather’s death. Grandma Betty had called her a pint-size Pollyanna, but in return, he hadn’t been kind at all.
“Um... I can see my arrival is a surprise,” she added with a fleeting, wistful smile. “But don’t worry. I’ll be working in my cabin, making my own meals, and I won’t be a bother. You’ll hardly ever see me. Promise.”
The impact of her words hit him like a fist to the gut.
He’d put in his latest set of hearing aids from the VA this morning to give them one last try—though they sure didn’t help much and were aggravating to boot. Now he almost wished he hadn’t, because her meaning was all too clear. She figured making herself invisible was the best way to make him happy, and the sad part was that she was right.
Feeling like a jerk, he started to dredge up an apology, but she walked away without turning back.
* * *
After finishing up the late afternoon chores, Devlin glanced at the time and headed back to his cabin.
He’d felt edgy and off-balance since Chloe’s unexpected arrival, though there certainly was no reason for it.
She planned to keep to herself.
He planned to do the same.
In fact, once the rest of the family came home from California, Dev would work on remodeling his cabin—when he wasn’t running and lifting weights—and their paths would rarely cross again.
He collected a .22 Winchester 190 rifle from a padlocked closet and some boxes of ammo from a locked cupboard in his bedroom. The intense, laser-like focus of target practice had never failed to settle his thoughts. After a few hundred rounds or so, he’d definitely have everything back into perspective.
He headed over the rise just beyond his cabin. Below, the ground fell sharply into a broad, grassy meadow rimmed on three sides with a high, curving hillside that created a perfect rifle-range backdrop, while the fourth side opened up into a heavy pine forest leading up into the foothills.
Sure enough, the old wooden target frames were still there, though several were falling into disrepair. He sauntered over, found a dozen old tin cans scattered on the ground nearby and then lined them up on the almost-horizontal crossbar of one of the targets. Then he strode back to a triangular boulder marking a distance of a hundred yards and loaded .22 LRs into the magazine.
It had been almost nine months since he’d felt the weight of an assault rifle in his hands. The simple .22 in his hands had been his grandfather’s and felt like a toy in comparison.
But before he could raise it high enough to look through the site and fire, a searing jolt of pain tore through his damaged shoulder.
He winced.
Forced himself to continue.
Struggled to focus.
The shot went wild, pinging off a distant boulder with a puff of dust and rock chips.
One after another were t
he same, until he’d burned through a hundred rounds and had hit one of the tin cans maybe thirty times, his frustration and anger at himself growing with each pull of the trigger.
He’d refused to believe what the VA docs had told him. He’d been a crack shot—scoring 349 at his last marksmanship qualification—so what did they know?
But lifelong skills and sheer strength of will weren’t enough to overcome the truth.
He had just partial vision in his right eye, due to irreparable damage. His shoulder-replacement surgery six months ago had been only a partial fix at best, so it would never be the same.
Was this pathetic performance his future? Or could he regain his strength and skills by July, and qualify for the career he’d been offered?
Maybe it was just a foolish dream, but from now on, he was going to work at it every single day. Weight lifting. Running. Target practice. And he wasn’t going to stop until he reached his goal.
A twig snapped. He suddenly sensed that someone was watching. He spun around and froze, scanning the hill behind him, all of his senses on high alert.
But no one was there.
* * *
Devlin stopped at the main house, let himself in through the back door and unlocked the pet door so the twins’ puppy could go out into the fenced yard at will.
Even with a half-grown pup chasing around the kitchen after a tennis ball, the house felt empty with everyone gone.
He’d arrived late Sunday night, and during the first two days he’d been here, he’d discovered that the little blonde twins seemed to be everywhere all at once, playing with their rascal of a puppy. Building forts with blankets. Trying to be “good helpers” when Grandma Betty or Abby—who had been hired as their nanny and who was now Jess’s fiancée—were trying to make a meal. Which meant a lot more spills in the process, though no one seemed to mind the extra mess.
There was so much more laughter in the house now—nothing like the grim silence Devlin and his brothers experienced while growing up. Even with Grandma Betty’s best efforts to make it a happier home after Heather’s death and Mom’s passing the next year, it had felt as if the life had been drained from the house and everyone in it.
Devlin looked in the fridge and found a 9ʺ x 13ʺ pan on the middle shelf, read the directions on the sticky note affixed to the foil wrap and snorted.
Reheat at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Don’t worry about pre-heating the oven. Frozen microwave-ready bags of veggies in freezer. Coconut cake on the counter. Tell Chloe to come to the house for supper. She’s had a long trip today. J
Betty had added Chloe’s cell number in larger print and underlined it twice, apparently guessing that Devlin might not follow through.
He sighed as he turned on the oven and shoved the pan inside, imagining a meal with Chloe across the table, chattering away. Maybe he could just ignore the note...
Nope.
He’d been career military; as tough, hardened and relentless as any of his buddies. But he still didn’t dare ignore his grandma’s orders. She’d always loved Dev and his brothers to pieces, but she’d also instilled in them a deep sense of respect and responsibility.
If he failed to be thoughtful, just the disappointment in her voice would make him regret it.
He dutifully made the call on his amplified cell phone, though when Chloe politely declined, he breathed a sigh of relief and said he’d drop off some dinner on his way up to his own cabin, anyhow.
Just as he was pulling the casserole out of the oven, he heard a loud knock on the back door and Chloe let herself inside. “I figured I’d save you the bother and just come down.”
She gave a startled laugh as the pup raced over to her and collapsed at her feet, a mass of waving paws and wagging tail. She bent down to rub his fat belly.
She looked up at Devlin, her head cocked. “What is he? Some golden retriever mix, I’d say.”
“I’ve been told his mom was a golden, father unknown.”
“What’s his name?”
Devlin shot a quick, pained glance at her over his shoulder as he settled the hot casserole on a trivet. Then he turned back to face her so he could read her lips as she spoke. “Uh... Poofy. Thanks to the twins.”
“Not exactly the name of a hardworking ranch dog, but he’s such a big fluff ball that I can see why.” Chloe laughed. “Do the twins belong to Jess?”
He hesitated, debating over how much to say. “He adopted them this past winter. Their mom is Lindsey, our youngest cousin. She...well, she just couldn’t handle raising them.”
He searched the freezer for frozen vegetables and held up microwavable bags of corn and green beans. “Preference?”
“Either.”
He tossed the green beans into the microwave and pushed the buttons for about four minutes.
When he turned around again, Chloe was staring at him, and he realized that she’d finally seen the scars.
Multiple operations had repaired much of the visible damage, leaving a jagged scar that trailed from his right temple to the corner of his jaw, but as it descended along his neck and into the collar of his shirt, the scarring was heavier.
At least his shirt covered the worst: the twisted, gnarled flesh that draped over his shoulder replacement and upper arm, where much of the bicep muscle was gone forever.
“Devlin.” She rose slowly and moved closer, lifting a hand to cradle the side of his face. “What happened?”
He jerked away, resenting the pity in her voice. Alarmed at the unexpected warmth that flowed through him at the touch of her hand.
He didn’t talk about the details with anyone. Not the shrink back at the VA hospital, not his docs. And here in Montana, he certainly wouldn’t be talking to Jess or Abby or anyone else. However ugly, his scars were nothing compared to the ultimate sacrifice paid by his closest buddies—and he didn’t talk about that, either.
It did no good to dredge up the day when three of them were killed in an ambush and he was the only one to walk away. It only fed the nightmares and the guilt, and stirred feelings of desperation because he knew the past could never change.
He silently pulled the green beans from the microwave and dumped them into a serving bowl, then grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard and gave her one. “Help yourself. I’ve no idea what’s in the casserole.”
Clearly ill at ease after his rebuff, she avoided looking at him as he pulled a metal spatula from a crock on the counter that held serving utensils and handed it to her. “The casserole looks wonderful. Ham and scalloped potatoes, I think. Thanks.”
He gave her a plate and waited until she served herself, then scooped ample portions onto his own. The tantalizing aroma of this simple home-cooked meal flooded his senses. When had he eaten anything that smelled this good?
Chloe lingered uncertainly by the round oak table in the kitchen, as if debating whether to stay or go. An awkward moment lengthened between them.
“Well,” she said finally, “I got a late start from Minneapolis yesterday, so I had to drive the final seven hundred miles today. If you don’t mind, I’ll take this back to my cabin and return the plate in the morning. I need to settle in and get to work.”
With a little wave of her fingers, she let herself out the door.
Work at what? What could she possibly plan to work on in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere?
And for that matter, where had she been all these years? What made her come so far out West when there must have been endless places to stay that were much closer to Minneapolis?
His curiosity about her life was growing.
Poofy followed her for a few steps, then looked back at Devlin, his tail drooping.
He looked down at the crestfallen dog. “Yeah. Lucky it’s just you and not Abby or Betty here. I’m sure they’d have something to say about my manners.”
Chloe had apparent
ly grown up in more ways than one.
As a kid, Ms. Perpetual Questions had been relentlessly persistent, but she’d clearly gotten the hint and was tactfully planning to give him all the space he wanted.
So maybe he had his peace and quiet back...yet from the strange wrenching in his heart, maybe that wasn’t what he wanted after all.
Or was it?
Copyright © 2019 by Roxanne Rustand
ISBN-13: 9781488042874
Her Oklahoma Rancher
Copyright © 2019 by Brenda Minton
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Her Oklahoma Rancher (Mercy Ranch Book 3) Page 19