The last three horses were in the barn—and the very last one Mattie led up to the trailer was Rosie. “Hey, girl,” was all Mattie could say, before her voice choked over with tears.
She stumbled going up the ramp, and she could feel Rosie grow tense, then hesitate. The horse was sensing her distress, and didn’t want to go further.
Mattie took a deep breath. She had to get a grip. She didn’t want to make this experience any more stressful for Rosie than it had to be.
“It’s okay, Rosie.” She called on all her inner strength to make her voice calm and firm. “Come on, girl.”
Rosie’s ears moved forward first, then her body. Obviously reassured by Mattie’s newfound composure, she allowed herself to be led into the fourteenth box stall, where Guy snapped her into place, then looped the lead rope so it couldn’t get tangled in her feet.
Rosie gave Mattie one last look, and Mattie was certain she could read in the mare’s soft brown eyes a message along the lines of, I’m not too sure about this, but since you seem to think it’s okay, I’ll go along with it.
Trouble was, Mattie didn’t think it was okay.
It was damn treason.
She stumbled out of the trailer, searched both pockets of her coat for a tissue and when she didn’t find one, dried her eyes with her sleeve. How could Wes have sold these horses out from under her like this?
“I’m real sorry Ma’am.” Guy passed her a clipboard. “I need your John Henry. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Her pen hovering over the signature line, she hesitated. “This Western Sky outfit. What kind of a crew does this TV star have working for him? Did he hire competent people at least?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I’ve been in this business a long time and I can size up a person pretty quick. Once I’m done, I’ll send you a message. Give you my gut feel on whether they’re in good hands.”
“I’d appreciate that. Here, let me give you my number.”
They exchanged contact information, then Mattie turned away. She didn’t want to watch Guy drive off with her horses. But she wasn’t ready to return to the house, either. So she trudged with heavy footsteps to the barn. At the barn door, she heard the engine roar to life, then the trailer creak as Guy shifted into gear.
She steeled herself not to look, instead stepping inside and sliding the door closed.
Closing her eyes, she thought back to the first time she’d visited Bishop Stables and the awe she’d felt when Wes had given her a tour of the main barn. He’d been so proud—and with good reason.
Back then, the stables had been full to capacity. Now, all the stalls were empty. The horses that remained—Whiskey Chaser, Princess Bride, Madame Curie, Copper, and four two-year-olds not yet ready to be ridden—were turned out in the south pasture.
She waited for silence. And when it came, she knew her horses were gone. Most likely she’d never see any of them again. She wanted to weep. But she’d done so much of that in the past month and she was so terribly tired of it all.
Her gaze swept the wide aisle, lingering up high where blue and red ribbons proudly proclaimed the past successes of Bishop Stables. Every year of her and Wes’s marriage, the winnings had been a little less than the year before. The trend hadn’t worried her. She’d figured they were treading water, waiting for the day when Wes would retire from the rodeo and devote himself fulltime to their ranch.
Looking back, she realized that it was after his father’s death that his commitment to the business had really dropped.
There had been signs. All sorts of them. But she’d missed some and misinterpreted others because she hadn’t wanted to face up to the truth. It was she who loved Bishop Stables. Not Wes.
And yet it was Wes’s name on the legal papers. Wes who signed checks. And Wes who made the deals...
Dragging her boots along the concrete floor, Mattie entered the feed room, and the half-loaded cart. Tuff lifted her head to look at her, then dropped back to sleep. The cat didn’t move a muscle.
Mattie stood in front of the cart, feeling defeated. None of this was needed now.
Oh, lord... she sank to the floor, with her back against the wall. Jake would be showing up soon, expecting to do evening chores like usual. She should try to catch him before he left, save him the trip.
But as she pulled her phone out of her pocket, it began to ring.
She didn’t recognize the number. But she answered anyway.
CHAPTER TEN
Wes’s voice came over the line, so clearly it was like he was sitting right next to her. Mattie cradled the phone with both her hands, as if to take firm hold of the connection between them.
“Wes? Where have you been?”
“I’m still tied up here.”
“Where is ‘here’ exactly?”
He didn’t answer. “I tried to make it for Thanksgiving. Were the girls home?”
“Of course they were. Didn’t you get my messages? Not to mention theirs?”
“I—lost my phone. Had to buy another.”
That explained the strange number. But how convenient that he’d happened to lose his phone just when they’d all been so desperate to get hold of him.
“You promised you’d be home for the holiday. That we’d talk to the girls together.”
“Like I said, I tried.” His sigh made it sound like she was the one being unreasonable.
“So what stopped you? Were you in an accident or something?”
“No. It’s hard to explain.”
“I’ve got time. Lots of it, in fact, since I don’t have much in the way of chores to do anymore.”
“Um—what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I now have only eight horses to look after. How could you do it, Wes? I suppose it’s too much to hope that you would consult me. But a heads-up would have been something, at least.”
He was silent for a bit. “I take it Guy Medley showed up today?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “He was supposed to come tomorrow. That’s why I’m calling. To let you know.”
“To let me know what? That you’re breaking up our herd? Selling horses I’ve raised and trained from birth to be toys for some reality TV show star?”
“Calm down, Mat. You should have expected this. I told you, already. I’ve got to sell everything. No one wants to take over a Tennessee Walking Horse operation these days. That means selling off whatever I can, and then putting the land on the block.”
“You’re not wasting any time, are you?” Mattie pulled herself up from the floor, dusted off her jeans. When she’d initially heard Wes’s voice on the line, she’d experienced a tiny flicker of hope.
That he was coming home. That he was ready to talk.
She’d even dared to hope that he might rescind the sale, call Guy Medley and tell him to turn his rig around and bring back the horses.
But that flame was extinguished now. She knew with a certainty that felt like a ball of lead in her heart that Wes wasn’t going to change his mind. About any of this.
“What about the rest of the horses?”
“I’ve got a buyer lined up for Whiskey Chaser. A young steer wrestler from Helena. He’ll be coming by with his trailer later this week.”
She swallowed. “And the others?”
“Going to a nice family outfit down by Ronan. I know the people. They’ll treat the horses well.”
“This is going to break Wren and Portia’s hearts.” They’d been six when Princess Bride and Madame Curie were born, within days of each other. Wes had told them, “If you take care of these foals, when they’re old enough to ride, you can help your mom train them—and then they’ll be yours.” The girls had been devoted to their horses ever since.
“It’ll be easier for them this way.”
“You mean it’s easier for you.” He never had liked saying good-bye. When it was time to head to a rodeo, he’d always waited to drive off until the girls were in school and she was out working
with the horses. Even his homecomings were low key. Usually he’d slip in during the wee hours of the night, inserting himself back in her bed, and their children’s lives, with the minimum of fuss or fanfare.
“Look, I’d better go. I’ll—”
“Wait!” She had things to say and this might be her only chance. “I spoke to Stan earlier today. He told me you’d been talking to him about—” She might as well say the word. Put it out there. “About our divorce.”
“Yeah...?”
“You might have told me there wasn’t going to be any discussion. That your mind was made up.”
“I thought I had.”
This cold, cold man. Had he really ever loved her? It was so hard to believe now. “Fine. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. But this stunt you pulled with the horses—don’t you dare do the same thing with our land. Our house.”
“I aim to give you a fair settlement, Mat. But the land and house—they’re in my name.”
“Don’t I know it.” She’d been such a naïve fool, to think she didn’t have to worry about legal technicalities once she was married. “But I have rights, too. And I want some say on the timing of the sale.”
She’d find a lawyer, just as Stan had suggested. She’d see if there was anything she could do to block Wes’s plans. Only a few days ago, Wren and Portia had found out their family was breaking up. Now their horses had been sold out from under them. They couldn’t lose the family house, as well.
* * *
With only eight horses, and none of them in the barn, chores took less than thirty minutes. Mattie was all done when Jake pulled up in his truck. She’d expected him to notice the missing horses right away and come running, but he took measured steps toward her and they met by the patch of raspberries Wes’s mother had planted between the main barn and a smaller one that was used for weaning foals.
The sadness on Jake’s face took her by surprise.
He knew.
But she had to say it, anyway. “Wes sold the horses. Fourteen of them.” She almost started crying again, and had to press her lips together and stare out at the road.
“He called me an hour ago.”
Before he’d phoned her. The blows kept coming. She couldn’t believe how much they still hurt.
“Not sure what you’re going to do around here anymore, Jake.” She tried to smile, like it was some kind of joke, but couldn’t.
“Not an issue anymore, Mattie. He laid me off.”
“What?”
Jake shrugged. “I saw it coming. But I have to admit. I don’t like it.” He touched her shoulder. “I’m going to miss those pies of yours, Mattie.”
No more Jake coming round the property two times a day, like clockwork. She couldn’t imagine it. But then, if Wes had his way, she wouldn’t be here much longer, either.
Damn it. Damn him.
“This is temporary. Don’t go taking another job Jake.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. Figure I’ve done enough talking about Arizona, I might as well drive down there and check it out. Maybe you should get in your truck and take a trip, too, Mattie. Head to Marietta and stay with your family a spell. According to Wes, the rest of these horses will be gone by the end of the week.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do it. I hate the idea of you all on your own out here.”
But she was alone. And she’d actually been that way for quite a while. It was time she faced that. No more wishing for the past, or crying about her future. She was pulling herself together. Starting now.
She felt as if she’d reached a sort of turning point and that the moment needed to be marked in some special way. “Jake, want to come out to dinner at the Smoke House with me tonight?”
Jake looked surprised. “What for?”
“It was just a thought.” She shrugged, a little embarrassed, hoping he hadn’t taken her offer the wrong way.”
“And not a bad one. But I’ve got a fellow coming over tonight to look at my old car. Wren put a sales notice up on that Internet Kijiji thing for me and I just may have myself a buyer.”
“That’s good news.” He’d been wanting to sell his car for over a year now. And if he was going to travel to Arizona, that plan made more sense than ever.
“We’ll go out for that dinner another time,” Jake promised.
“Sure,” she said. But she was still going tonight. Even if she was a party of one.
* * *
Mattie checked her reflection in the restroom mirror of the Smoke House Bar & Grill. She’d curled her hair, put on a bit of makeup, a dress and heels, and the results were satisfactory, if she did say so herself. She exited the door and headed to the bar, where Ryan Garry, owner of the local Lake County Gazette, was waiting for her.
He’d been sitting at the bar when she first came in, twenty minutes ago. She’d been nervous.
It had been a long time since she’d gone by herself to a bar—actually she never had—and though the Smoke House was far from a pickup place, she still felt conspicuous.
But she knew the bartender. Blake Coffey was in his mid-twenties, cute and charming. When he was younger she’d given him and his sister riding lessons. They chatted a little, and his good-humored banter helped eased her tension. She ordered a cranberry and soda, and kept an eye on the football game playing on TV screens positioned strategically so almost everyone in the room had a view.
Shortly after that, Ryan had come in. Forty, a divorced father of three kids, besides his newspaper, his main passion in life was protecting the ecosystem of the Flathead Watershed. Last time she’d spoken to him, he’d sold her a membership to the Flathead Lakers, a grassroots organization that worked to ensure responsible land and water stewardship.
As soon as he’d spotted her, he headed for the empty stool next to her.
“Hey, Mattie. Were the girls home for Thanksgiving?” Ryan was a tall, reed-thin man, with very curly, sandy-colored hair. His trendy, dark-framed glasses gave him an intellectual appearance, but Mattie knew he loved fishing every bit as much as his beloved books.
“They were. I just drove them back to the airport this morning and I miss them all ready.”
He shook his head. “Hard to believe you have kids in college.”
Mattie was used to comments like this. She and Wes had started their family young—not necessarily on purpose, but she had no regrets. “How are your kids doing?” The older boys were Murray and Shane. She couldn’t recall his daughter’s name.
“Ah, you know. Teenagers.” He gave a rueful shrug. “The boys were bad enough, but Katie just turned fourteen and wow. All of a sudden I can’t do anything right. I used to be her hero.” He paused, then added, “They’re with their mother for the holiday.”
Mattie remembering hearing that he had a complicated joint custody arrangement with his ex, Amanda, who lived about forty-five minutes away in Big Fork. She wondered if Ryan’s current predicament would one day become hers. Was she going to have to share her daughters with Wes in future? Right now, it seemed impossible to predict.
Ryan held out a hand to signal Blake. “Rye and ginger, here.” Then he glanced at Mattie. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Mattie hesitated. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything with alcohol. Maybe champagne last New Year’s Eve? But—she’d had a really bad day, topping off a dreadful month. And she could always call a cab to drive her home.
“Sure. I’ll have the same.”
So now, coming out of the washroom, Mattie slipped up onto the barstool and took her first sip of the drink. It tasted pretty good. “When’s the next meeting of the Flathead Lakers?”
That got Ryan started. And after fifteen minutes’ discussion of the latest conservation initiatives, he ordered them both a second drink.
And suddenly the conversation stopped being so serious. Mattie found it easy to laugh at Ryan’s jokes. And to make a few of her own.
Then a local band, a guy on a fiddle
, a female with a banjo, and another guy on bass, took their places on a small stage, and started playing bluegrass. Soon couples were getting up on the dance floor, and when Ryan held out his hand, Mattie smiled and thought, why not?
It was good fun, at first.
But after three heel-kicking numbers the bass line slowed and the fiddle turned soft and sweet. All of a sudden Ryan was holding her a little too closely. Mattie realized she must have been sending out the wrong signals. She pushed back on his chest. “How about we sit this one out?”
Ryan didn’t look pleased.
* * *
It was just past dinner, when the phone rang. Eadie had left for the day and Nat took the call in his office, door open to the foyer. He sank into the leather chair that had once been molded to his father’s frame and now to his. Not that there was much difference between his father and him. They’d both topped six feet, had strong frames, broad shoulders, and a metabolism and work ethic that kept the accumulation of pounds to a bare minimum.
Nat put his feet up on the walnut desk and stared at the oil painting over the fireplace. His mother had commissioned a local artist to paint the scene that he saw every morning when he went out to start his day—Mission Mountains at Sunrise.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Nat. Wes Bishop here.”
Nat felt a knot form in his gut, but he kept his tone relaxed. “What’s up?”
“I’m checking back to see if you’re interested in Bishop Stables. You asked for a week, I’ve given you a month.”
He’d weighed the pros and cons and had come up with this: the purchase didn’t make sense, given his goals to downsize. But if he didn’t buy the land, Mattie would almost certainly lose her home.
“I’m interested.” He named a price that was borderline acceptable.
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