by Janet Dailey
His smile reached across the room to Jessy, who stood near the massive stone fireplace. “A fascinating display. I have heard a great deal about the ferocity of your summer thunderstorms. It far exceeds anything we get in England.”
“You’ll get used to them now that you have taken up residence in our part of the country,” Jessy replied, referring to his purchase of the Gilmore ranch four months ago, which made him the Triple C’s newest neighbor.
“I expect I will,” he conceded. “Still, it’s lucky I arrived when I did. I should hate to be driving in that.”
“It can definitely be dangerous, but these storms tend to be fast travelers. Fortunately the worst should be over soon.”
John Montgomery Markham, who preferred to be called Monte, was quick to catch her choice of adverbs. “Why ‘fortunately’?”
“Because we lose more cattle to lightning strikes than any other cause. In flat country like this, they stand out like lightning rods.”
“I hadn’t considered that possibility,” he admitted with typical frankness. “It seems each time I visit the Triple C I learn something new about raising cattle in the American West.”
His openness to new methods or ideas was just one of the many things Jessy had come to admire about their new neighbor. Another was his failure to adopt western attire since moving to Montana. No blue jeans, cowboy boots, or Stetson hat for him. Instead he opted for English riding boots, jodhpurs, and an Aussie hat. Monte Markham was English through and through, and proud of it.
Jessy ran her glance over his aquiline features, thinking, not for the first time, that they reminded her of a poet or a scholar. His brown hair had a touch of red in it, and his hazel eyes occasionally held the glint of his dry British wit. Like herself he was barely forty and single, in his case the result of a divorce several years ago.
It had been almost two years since Ty was killed, and the pain of that was just as strong. Ty had been her first love. There were times, especially at night, when she ached to feel the touch of his hand and the strength of his arms around her. She also knew it was natural that she would. She was a woman with the needs of a woman. What with the ranch to run and two children to raise, most of the time she successfully pushed them aside. Yet at odd moments they surfaced.
“There is always something to learn in the cattle business,” Jessy said.
“Indeed.” Monte lifted his drink in acknowledgement of the fact as another sharp clap of thunder shook the glass in the window frames.
“Mommy, tell the storm to be quiet. It’s being too noisy.” Three-year-old Laura sat with her legs folded under her in the big leather desk chair as she worked diligently at coloring the picture in her activity book, red crayon in hand.
“I’m afraid it won’t listen to me.” Jessy smiled at the little girl behind the desk, fair like her mother, but with more golden lights in her hair than were held by Jessy’s tawny shade.
Laura paused long enough in her coloring to release a dramatic sigh. “I wish Grampa was here. He’d tell those cowboys to chase the cattle away.”
“What cattle is that?” Monte switched his indulgent smile from Laura to Jessy. “I believe I missed something.”
“Chase told them that the cattle up in heaven stampeded and they were hearing the thunder of their hooves,” Jessy explained.
“And the lightning is their hooves on rocks,” Laura was quick to insert, then cocked her head to one side, gazing at him with her deep brown eyes. “Didn’t you know that?”
“I confess I was totally ignorant of the cause,” Monte declared in mock regret.
Laura’s eyebrows furrowed together in a perplexed frown. “What does ig’rant mean?”
“The word is ignorant,” Jessy corrected, enunciating it carefully. “And it means he doesn’t know.”
“Oh.” Satisfied, she bent her head over the coloring book. “Grampa can tell you about it when he gets back.”
“I shall make a point to ask him,” Monte replied with a slight bow in the child’s direction. A series of whoops, clumps, and vocalized bang-bangs came from the living room. Monte arched an eyebrow. “I do believe a shootout is in progress.”
Jessy paused to listen. Long ago she had learned a mother’s trick of blocking out sounds of boisterous play, allowing only cries of pain or panic to filter through. “Trey and Quint,” she said, needlessly identifying her son and nephew. “I think the posse finally caught up with the outlaws.”
His mouth curved in an amused smile. “And who is the outlaw?”
“Trey, of course. Being a sheriff would be much too tame for him.”
Monte laughed as he was meant to do, ending with a mild shake of his head. “I don’t think you quite realize how very much I enjoy spending time here. I suspect I miss my own family. My brother and his wife have three very rowdy youngsters—older than yours, of course, and all boys, full of pranks and rough-and-tumble play. I find myself looking for an excuse to come here. I fear that I will ultimately wear my welcome thin.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jessy said, dismissing the suggestion. “You will always be welcome at the Triple C.”
“And I promise that I will do my best not to take your hospitality for granted.”
His air of formality had a tongue-in-cheek quality to it that made it easier for Jessy to tolerate. She had always been a down-to-earth person, frequently speaking with a man’s bluntness.
She did so now. “To be honest, when I first met you, I assumed that if there was anyone in Montana you would want to spend time with it would be Tara.”
He feigned a shudder of distaste. “Please,” he dragged out the word in emphasis, “don’t tell me I made that poor of a first impression.”
It was so dryly said, with so many undertones of criticism of Tara that Jessy laughed warmly and richly. If nothing else, the fact that Monte shared her dislike of her late husband’s first wife was enough to endear him to her.
“It wasn’t anything you said or did,” Jessy assured him. “It was merely an assumption on my part.”
“Frankly, I don’t know if Tara is fascinated by my brother’s title or hopeful that I might introduce her to the current Earl of Stanfield.”
Laura sat back on her heels, bright-eyed with excitement. “Is Aunt Tara coming tonight?”
“No. She’s off on a trip somewhere.” Thankfully, Jessy added to herself.
“Is she in Texas with Grampa?”
“I don’t know where she went this time, honey,” Jessy replied, despairing that her daughter would ever get over her idolization of Ty’s first wife.
The corners of Laura’s mouth turned downward. “I want a red dress like this one.” She referred to the picture she was coloring. “If Aunt Tara was here, she’d get me one.”
“I don’t want to hear you asking Tara for one, Laura,” Jessy warned, mollified that maybe it was only the presents Tara showered on the twins that attracted Laura to the woman.
Suppressing a smile, Monte inquired, “How old did you say she is?”
“She will be four.”
“Ah, that explains it. She is nearly a woman grown.”
“And very particular about what she wears. Everything has to match.” Even worse, she loved dresses. Jessy blamed Tara for that. As a child, Jessy had been too much of a tomboy to ever want to wear a dress. Her daughter’s desire for anything and everything feminine was totally alien to her.
“Good news.” Cat sailed into the den, carrying a serving plate crowded with appetizers. “Sally says dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. With any luck, Logan will be here by then, but with this storm I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets called away to an accident scene.”
She offered the assortment of appetizers first to Monte, then to Jessy. Standing side by side, the two women were a study in contrasts. Cat, with her glistening black hair and green eyes, was petite and strikingly beautiful, gifted with a tremendous capacity for emotion, which she rarely concealed. On the other hand, the fair-haired and hazel-eyed
Jessy was tall and boy-slim, projecting a steady calm and innate strength. It was rare that she ever revealed what was going on inside her head, whereas Cat was an open book.
“The two of you do understand that I am accepting this dinner invitation only on the condition that you come to my ranch on Sunday.” After a scant pause, Monte added, “Chase will be back by then, won’t he?”
Jessy nodded. “When I spoke to him yesterday, he said he planned to fly home on Friday.”
“Good.” He nodded decisively. “I am eager for him to see my new arrivals.”
“What new arrivals?” Cat asked.
“Your cattle arrived, then?” Jessy used the lift of her voice to turn the statement into a question.
“They did,” he confirmed.
“You imported some cattle,” Cat guessed and helped herself to a cracker mounded with crab salad.
“Not just any cattle,” Monte asserted with a hint of pride. “These are registered Highland cattle.”
“Highland,” Cat repeated. “Aren’t those the ones that have shaggy hair hanging around their horns, making them look like they have bangs?”
“Their appearance is quite distinctive,” Monte agreed with his typical flair for understatement. “But their attributes are many and valuable. Once the American public learns of them, the demand for Highland beef will soar.”
“What makes Highland beef better than any other beef?” Cat showed her skepticism.
“In my opinion, it tastes better, and the Queen agrees with me. But more than that, it is a naturally lean beef with lower amounts of cholesterol. In short, it is the ideal product for consumers who love beef but have to watch their cholesterol intake for health reasons.”
“Is that true?” Cat frowned and glanced at Jessy. “Is he pulling my leg?”
“Delightful as that exercise might be, I assure you that everything I said is absolutely true.” His mouth curved in a smile of understanding. “But please don’t take my word for it. Read up on the breed yourself.”
“Don’t Highland cattle have long horns?” Cat’s frown deepened in an effort to recall more about the breed.
“Yes, but nothing as impressive as those.” Monte gestured to the set mounted above the fireplace mantel.
Impressive they were. Taken from a longhorn steer named Captain, the horns were long and twisted, the span of them measuring more than five feet across. The brindle steer had led the first herd of Calder cattle north from Texas to Montana and each subsequent drive thereafter. When the longhorn had died of old age, Benteen Calder had kept his horns and mounted them above the mantel in the steer’s honor, making him forever a part of the family lore.
“Few modern-day longhorns grow sets like that pair of old mossy horns,” Jessy remarked.
In the living room, Cat’s nine-year-old son, Quint, let out a shout, and the big house echoed with the rapid thud of feet running across the hardwood floor. Quint dashed by the doorway toward the foyer. Trey raced after him, skinny arms pumping, his expression grim with determination to catch up with his older cousin.
“Hey, Dad!” Quint’s happy greeting reached all the way back to the den.
“Logan must be here,” Cat realized, throwing a glance at the rain-lashed windows. “I didn’t hear him drive in.”
“With all the lightning and thunder, that’s hardly surprising,” Jessy said.
Quint’s voice came from the foyer. “It must be really raining hard out there. The rug’s all wet where you’re standing.”
“Howdy, Sheriff.” The smaller voice belonged to Trey, who insisted on calling Logan by his official title rather than uncle. “Did ya catch any bad guys today?”
“ ’Fraid not,” was Logan’s low reply.
“Maybe tomorrow ya will,” Trey suggested, optimistic as always.
“Maybe,” Logan agreed, then asked Quint, “Where’s your mom?”
“In the den with Aunt Jessy and Mr. Markham.”
Three sets of footsteps of varying weight approached the den. Flanked by two boys, one the spitting image of himself, Logan walked into the room, minus his hat and raincoat, with his face still wet from the rain.
Seeing him, Laura grabbed up her coloring book and bounded off the chair. She ran up to him. “See the red dress I colored, Uncle Logan.”
Gray eyes skimmed the three adults standing near the fireplace before he bent his head to look at the picture. “Good job, Laura.” The comment had a perfunctory ring. Turning, he laid a hand on Quint’s shoulder. “Take the twins in the other room, Quint, and keep them occupied for a while.”
Alerted by something in his father’s tone, Quint tipped his head back and inspected his father’s face. When Quint was barely out of the toddler stage, the Triple C cowboys had dubbed him “little man” for his quietness and adultlike seriousness. His basic nature had changed little during the intervening years. As a result, Quint was quick to pick up subtleties that most nine-year-olds would have missed. His father’s somber expression made him uneasy.
“Is something wrong, Dad?”
Logan replied with a slow nod. “I’ll tell you about it later. Take the twins to the living room for me.”
Quint knew something bad had happened. As much as he wanted to stay and find out, he understood that he had been given the responsibility of the twins, and he had been taught that a man shouldered his responsibility; he didn’t protest or try to wiggle out of it.
Without another word, Quint herded the twins out of the den and into the hall. A short distance from the doorway, curiosity got the better of him. He steered the twins over to the wall and raised a finger to his mouth to shush them. Trey was quick to obey, certain it was the start of some new game. Laura twirled about, making the skirt of her sundress flare out.
“Are we gonna sneak up on somebody?” Trey asked in a stage whisper, causing Quint to miss the question his mother asked.
“Sssh,” he admonished and cocked his head to listen, grateful that his father hadn’t closed the doors to the den.
The low timbre of his father’s voice responded in answer. “About an hour ago, I received a phone call from the Fort Worth police. The news isn’t good.”
“Daddy.” There was fear in his mother’s voice. “Something happened to him.”
“There was an accident . . .”
The instant he heard the words, Quint felt all sick and scared inside. It was his grandfather, that big, tall man who had always seemed so rock-solid and strong. He had been hurt.
“He’s all right, isn’t he?” his mother rushed the words, then never gave his father a chance to answer. “We’d better call and have the plane fueled so we can take off as soon as the storm lifts.”
“Cat.” The name was spoken with firm command, and something died inside Quint. He didn’t even notice Trey making like a monster, teeth bared and fingers curled in menace as he stalked his pirouetting sister. “It’s no use. He was killed on impact.”
Not wanting to hear any more, Quint swung blindly away from the den. It felt like there was a hand at his throat, choking off his air while not letting a single sound escape. In a kind of trance he moved toward the living room, barely aware of Trey racing to get there ahead of him while Laura skipped alongside him, blond curls bouncing.
He threw himself onto the sofa, slumping in a heap, conscious of the tears welling in his eyes and the awful pain in his chest. Trey clambered onto the cushion beside him and bounced on his knees.
“Come on, Quint. Let’s play,” Trey urged with growing impatience.
“No.” His voice sounded strangled to his own ears.
Trey pushed his face close to Quint’s and peered intently at him. “Are you crying?” he said in disbelief.
Laura tipped her head to one side. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.” Quint worked to recover his speech. “It’s Grandpa. He died.”
Laura immediately propped her hands on her hips and declared with exaggerated scorn, “He’s not dead. He’s in Texas.”
Looking at the twins, he forgot his own pain and struggled to find a way to make them understand. “You’re right, Laura. He went to Texas. But he had an accident while he was there, and he died. Now he’s in heaven with your daddy.”
Her brown eyes grew big and dark, the brightness leaving them. “But Grampa said he’d come back.”
“When he told you that, he didn’t know he’d be in an accident,” Quint explained.
“He died and went to heaven like my daddy.” Laura spoke the words slowly as if trying to grasp the exact significance of them. “Does that mean he’s only gonna be a picture for me and Trey to look at?”
“That’s right.” But the thought that he would never see his grandfather again, never ride on roundups with him, never hear him tell the stories about the cattle drives, was beyond Quint’s imagination. His grandfather had always been there for him. Always.
“No!” Trey’s denial was instant and explosive. His mouth took on a mutinous set. “My grampa is not dead.”
“He is so, Trey,” Laura declared with great importance. “He’s up in heaven with Daddy.”
“He is not!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
As he listened to their war of wills, his own feelings of grief washed over him. Suddenly Quint didn’t know how to stop this battle of tempers. When his father appeared in the living room, he looked up with gratitude.
“All right, that’s enough shouting.” Logan broke up the pair.
Trey glared up at him, chin quivering in a mixture of rage and hurt. “I don’t care what she says—my grampa’s not dead!” With that, he raced for the stairs.
Logan threw a sharp, probing glance at Quint. Quint ducked his head, admitting, “I listened at the door.”
“I see.” Logan sat down at the sofa’s edge next to him and cupped his hand over the boy’s knee in silent comfort. “I’m sorry, Quint. I know how close you were to him and how much you are going to miss him. Anybody who knew him will—including me.”
The tears came in earnest. Quint tried to sniffle them back. “Why, Dad?” he murmured brokenly.
Logan curled a hand around the boy’s neck and pulled the nine-year-old into his arms. “I wish I knew.” He slid his fingers into the boy’s raven black hair, unconsciously ruffling it. “Your mother and I are going to fly down to Fort Worth in the morning.” He continued to talk in a calm, even voice while Quint sobbed against his shoulder. “We need to make arrangements to have his remains brought home for burial. While we’re gone, Jessy would like you to stay here and help her look after the twins. Can you do that?”