“I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.”
The psalm offered lyrical cadence of sweet belief, but lately she had a hard time taking her own oft-given advice: let go and let God prevail. Did that make her a phony? Or just confused?
Confused and impatient she decided as she swung by Wandy Schirtz’s free library to donate a stack of books. Determined to contain her negative emotions, she picked up tractor parts from the farm-supply store close to I-90, Sam’s new prescriptions from the drugstore, and the groceries for Lucy from Super 1 Foods. When each stop took longer than expected, she realized she wouldn’t have time to see Noah today, but tomorrow she would put ranch things on hold and spend time with her son. She held back aching tears. Each day she didn’t see her son was a day lost. There were so few days of childhood, and she was missing so many.
Right now tomorrow seemed like a long time away.
Colt’s cell phone vibrated as he reached for his thermos midday. He ducked behind a thick swell of Scotch broom, checked the display, and answered. “Hey, Jake. What’s up? Did you find anything?” He’d sent a Manhattan detective friend info on Angelina from his father’s files. He hoped the search hadn’t turned up anything bad. Despite the animosities between him and his father, protecting Sam—and the Double S—were important.
“You secure?”
Colt glanced around the snow-filled hillside. “About as secure as a body could ever be.”
“Your housekeeper is a Seattle detective.”
Colt was about to sip coffee. He didn’t. “Go on.”
“Mary Angela Castiglione was a decorated, highly respected Seattle cop who became a detective. They used her as a hostage negotiator when they needed a woman’s touch. She helped bring down some major players in the PNW drug networks. She went off the radar after her father was gunned down while walking the family dog. Father was a retired SPD captain, on the force for nearly thirty years.”
“She left the force of her own accord?”
“After his funeral, yes.”
“Was the killing retaliatory? Did they kill him to get to her?” It sounded like a TV crime drama put that way, but anyone working Wall Street understood the possible fallout of high-stakes games. Money and power acted as destabilizers on both sides of the law. He also understood the sudden, instant loss of someone you loved. Never far from his memory was that one last kiss and promise to his beautiful mother, a pledge that he’d try new things. And then she was gone.
“I don’t have those details, but the killer was caught and sentenced to life in prison. Still, enough to shake someone up. Hey, listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll send the info to your e-mail.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“I’ll collect as needed. Bye.”
Colt slipped the phone into the leather pouch attached to his belt, gulped his coffee, and tightened the lid to his thermos. He climbed back on the horse and moved through the invasive brush. As he scouted for calves, his mind circled the information. Angelina was a cop, and not just any cop. She was a decorated detective. So why had she been washing dishes at the Double S for two years?
He thrust aside old animosities toward his father. Sam wasn’t elderly, but he was compromised with his health conditions. If Angelina was here to take advantage of that, Colt would find out why. Unless she was here to investigate Sam and the Double S? But that didn’t make sense for the length of time she’d been there.
He skipped dinner that night and grabbed a sandwich instead, which he ate in the barn. He didn’t want to sit in the kitchen watching Angelina—or Mary or whoever she was—play her part with Tony Award–winning skills. It was better to keep a low profile while he assessed the information.
He guided two calves into the world, and when he finally trudged back to the house at eight thirty, the only person still moving around was Angelina. She sat upright at the kitchen table, scribbling things into a small notebook, which she flipped shut when he came into the room. “A long day,” she said.
It had been, so he might as well admit it. “My brain is used to it. My body? Not so much. But it’s getting there.”
“Ranching is certainly more physical than what you’re used to.” She tapped her pen against the cardboard cover of the notebook. “Nick said you found as many calves as he did and only two less than Murt.”
“The old guy’s still got the touch.”
Her smile made him long to sink into the chair next to her and ask for an explanation, but he’d been privy to good acting in New York. Angelina’s housekeeping gig seemed natural and unscripted, which meant she was good at improvisation. But Colt was in no mood to be played after falling victim to Tomkins Investments’ well-orchestrated scheme. “Nick took the girls home,” he said, grasping at something to talk about.
“Yes, but not before Dakota left you this.” She pointed to the countertop. A construction paper card had his name scrawled on the front, along with a really bad image of a cowboy. He flipped the card open and sighed. “I love you, Uncle Colt!”
Just that, a sweet, simple message. As far as he knew, no one made her write it. The kid had done it of her own accord, and that sent another spiral of warmth through him. If no other good came out of his forced homecoming, getting to know his nieces was a—
He paused before he thought the word blessing. He studied Angelina. She was living a lie while tossing out little God phrases like a parochial school teacher. He studied her for long seconds, wondering what parts were real and which were staged, but when she lifted her eyes to his, the direction of his thoughts veered sharply.
Soulful eyes, deep gray brown. Black lashes, thick and long. Sculpted brows, quick to arch. Her bronze-and-cream skin tone set off her features. Even though she wore loose-fitting pants and sweaters around the ranch, the way she moved in them was pure woman.
She watched him watching her, then calmly picked up her notebook and stood. “I think I’ll sew for a little bit before bed. Goodnight, Colt.”
Sewing. Cooking. Cleaning. Teaching grown men and little girls to mind their manners. She played the part to the hilt, and Colt wished she wasn’t so believable. No one could live a lie this well and not be well practiced. The truth in that disappointed him.
The silence of the great house surrounded him as he walked down the hall. He didn’t move through these rooms with any sweet nostalgia. He didn’t glance at an extra-wide chair and remember warm nights by the fire, listening to stories, or being tucked into bed by anyone, ever. But as he passed by the great room, the heat of the soapstone stove made him envision what this house could have been, if only his mother had lived.
But she hadn’t. The empty years that followed her death left him hollow hearted. He went up the stairs, wishing life was easy, wondering what kind of folk lived greeting-card lives. When he looked deep into Angelina’s eyes, a longing for that kind of existence rose within him. But the cards were as fake as Angelina’s facade, and Colt had lived reality for as long as he could remember. He didn’t like it much then. He liked it less now.
In the privacy of his room, he opened his laptop, entered the password, and brought up his e-mail account. There it was, as Jake promised. Not much more than what the Manhattan detective had already revealed, but one new sentence jumped out at Colt. “Nearest relations, mother, Isabo Castiglione, age 55, son, Noah Martín Castiglione, infant.”
A child.
Angelina had a child.
Suddenly her cryptic comments about pregnancy and her empathy with calving cows became clear. And so did something else. She hadn’t come inland because she was hiding something. She was hiding someone—her child—following her father’s murder. And for whatever reason, Colt suspected, the boy must be living in the cabin on the far side of the ranch.
Colt closed down the computer as a surge of western values reclaimed him. No matter who Angelina was, she and her kid deserved at least a chance at normalcy. And Colt Stafford was going to make sure they got it
.
Angelina called Sam from the car once she’d picked up supplies the next morning. “I’ve got one more stop to make, then I’ll be home. How’s everything there? You’re feeling all right?”
“I’m fine, just annoyed at what I can’t do, and that’s my own fault.”
“No argument there. I should be back in ninety minutes or so. Can you turn the oven down to 250 degrees in about thirty minutes? I want the pork to simmer all day.”
“I will. You got a call from someone named Lucy.”
“She’s your neighbor, Sam. It would behoove you to know this.”
“I’m new at this stuff.”
“Then practice harder. What did Lucy want?”
“I didn’t answer it.”
She sighed out loud on purpose. “Why not?”
“Because I only answer my phone. The house phone is your domain.”
“¡Es el colmo! There’s no reason for you to not answer the phone. It’s your house and your phone, I believe. I’m but a hired hand. If you truly want to be nicer to people, you need to come off your high horse and meet them at their level.”
His burst of laughter said he was messing with her. “This Carlton woman is dropping off a cake to say thank you for helping her.”
“Perfect. Dessert tonight. Answer the door when she comes, don’t scare her, and say thank you.”
“Fine,” he said in a teasing tone.
She set her phone on the console next to her. The thought that Sam was feeling better and joking around eased one concern. For Sam Stafford to repair the damage he’d done to his sons, he needed to live awhile longer. Brokenhearted little boys needed tender loving care, and it was up to Sam to make sure they got it, even if they were full-grown men now.
She parked the car beneath the shelter of tall, broad evergreens outside the cabin. She climbed out and stood straight and still, letting her ears and eyes work the area. All seemed calm.
She withdrew two sacks of groceries and walked up to the cabin door. She knocked lightly, and her mother opened the door almost instantly. “I am glad you’ve come! My beloved grandson has been missing his mother even more this day than usual!”
“Then it’s good I’m here.” Angelina flashed a bright smile as Noah raced toward her. She dropped the sacks of food and went down on one knee to scoop him up.
“I missed you so much!” Noah clung to her neck in a grip that said he never wanted to let go. “I kept watching the snow and the clock and the snow and the clock and it took so much time. And ’Buela kept saying, ‘She will be here, I promise you!’ ”
“And ’Buela was correct, it seems,” Isabo said as she lifted the bags of food. “ ’Buelas are very smart. This is good to remember at all times.”
Noah nodded earnestly. “I am glad you are smart, ’Buela.”
Angelina carried him into the warm, small living room and curled into the corner of the comfortable couch. “Did you like the storm?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“You didn’t like it?” Angelina pressed. “But it was so pretty and wild and fun, the snow flying every which way and the trees bending and swaying.”
“I would have liked it if we were together.” He whispered the words against her neck. Realization swept her. Noah experienced few of life’s changing moments with his mother. While he loved his grandmother, he was old enough to lament how things could be.
“We’ll do many things together. I promise.”
He lifted his face away from her neck, his expression one of innocent resignation. She’d made that pledge before, but he didn’t call her on it, and that made it worse.
“Did you make pictures of the snow? Did you go sledding with ’Buela?”
That brightened his face. “I did!” He scrambled down from her lap, started to race across the floor, then stopped cold when a sharp knock sounded at the cabin door.
Angelina’s heart froze, but her body had no such luxury. Waving her mother to grab Noah, she withdrew her gun from her back waistband, dropped low, and crept toward the window.
Noah started to speak. She turned and put a quick finger to her mouth to hush him.
His bright expression had turned to fear. Eyes wide, he obeyed, then buried his head against Isabo’s shoulder.
Compromised.
As a cop and a hostage negotiator, she understood the gravity of a mother and child in a dangerous situation. The most devastating way to hurt a parent was to threaten her child—which was exactly why she’d moved inland and tucked Noah and her mother away. If her father’s killers wanted further revenge, she wanted the defensive edge. She breathed deep, crept to the side of the window, gun raised, and peeked around the corner of the curtain.
Colt Stafford’s sharp-eyed gaze met hers. She’d seen pictures of ornery bears that looked friendlier than Sam Stafford’s son at this instant. She went to the door and pulled it open.
“Mama?” Noah said.
Noah’s voice caught Colt’s attention. He studied the cabin, then her, then back behind her again. He strode through the door, pushed it shut against the cold wind, turned, folded his arms, and took a deep breath. “Pack your things.”
Angelina wanted to yell. She wanted to rant and rave and tell him he had no cause to throw his weight around like this. But if the situation were reversed and some stranger seemed to be taking advantage of her mother, she’d do the exact same thing. But where would they go? What would they do?
Her brain scrambled for answers, then got even more confused when Colt shucked off his jacket, kicked off his boots, and dropped to the braided rug on the worn cabin floor. “Are these your cars?” He held up an ATV-styled model car and a muscled GTO to Noah. “I used to have races all around the house when I was a kid. Do you race these?”
Noah peeked down from Isabo’s embrace. He stared at Colt, mute.
“He’s not used to strangers,” Angelina began, but stopped when Colt raised those blue eyes up to her.
“Which is why we’re moving him and your mother.” He looked at Isabo, raising a hand in greeting. “Mrs. Castiglione, I’m Colt Stafford. Sam’s oldest son.”
“You know?” Angelina realized she was still holding her weapon. She double-checked the safety and tucked the Glock into the back of her waistband, where it would come in useful if she needed to murder a certain Stafford male. “How?”
“You’ve got connections. So do I. But we can talk about all that later, because right now we need to get this boy and his grandma—”
“Abuela,” Noah whispered.
Colt smiled broadly at the boy’s contribution to the conversation. “Abuela,” Colt corrected himself. “What’s your name, little guy?”
“Noah.” The three-year-old breathed the word as if testing new waters.
“Well, Noah, how would you like to come live in the big house with your mom?”
Noah’s eyes widened and the volume of his voice increased. “I can?”
“Yup.”
“Colt, I—”
He turned toward her, a mix of emotions on his face. She’d surprised him. Well, he surprised her too, so the feeling was mutual.
But then he furthered the surprise and the softening of her heart when he said, “A boy should never have to live without his mother. Not if there’s another choice, Angelina.”
In his expression and his words, she glimpsed the real Colt Stafford. She saw the scarred child within the grown man. Didn’t anyone see Colt that way after he lost his mother? Who had held the little boy who missed his mother? Who rocked him and cried with him at the gravesite in Grace of God Community Cemetery?
She was sure no one had.
She could tell by the lift of his chin that he was determined to get his way on this, and, given time, maybe on other things too. The thought of that warmed her from within, a tiny flame, ignited by Colt’s strong demeanor and wounded soul—a precarious combination. She recognized the mix of emotions and appreciated them. “Mami?” Angelina turned toward her mothe
r.
“Yes?” Isabo moved forward, and while her attention was trained on Angelina, her posture said she was keeping a firm eye on the man who had just offered hope out of their shadowed existence.
“Let’s pack.”
Excitement brightened her mother’s face for the first time in two long years.
Colt chugged a team of SUVs over the carpet at a snail’s pace. Noah slipped down from his grandmother’s arms and took a place on the floor, opposite Colt. He looked at Colt with disbelief and scoffed his lame efforts. “I th-think when I work on the ranch someday, my four-wheelers will go much faster. Like th-this!” He screeched a four-wheeler along the nubbed rolls of the carpet weave. As his vehicle banked a sharp turn around a couch leg, Colt looked up at the women. “We’ll be fine.”
Looking down at him, Angelina believed the words for the first time in years. And it felt wonderful.
As the SUV bearing Angelina’s family and their necessities pulled away, Colt mounted his horse and called Nick on his cell phone. “We’ve got a new situation at home. I mean at the house.”
Nick sighed. “You might not like to admit it, but it’s still home. Get to the point.”
“Two new occupants. I’ll explain when we’re done moving them in. Then I’ll rejoin you shortly.”
“No need. It’ll be too dark soon. But if you can take barn duty later, that’s a help. You gonna tell me who’s moving in?”
“Angelina’s mother and son.”
Nick paused. “Well, then. I’ll see you at the barns.”
“I’m on it.”
He directed the horse down the hill and through the fields. Angelina would have to take the long way around, so his beeline riding Yesterday’s News got him into the ranch yard ahead of her. He finished taking care of the big, red horse as the SUV circled around to the kitchen entrance. He crossed the broad, stony yard to the house. Just as he reached for the door, it opened from within. His father met his eyes, then saw Angelina, her mother, and the boy climbing out of the SUV. Sam’s lack of surprise said a lot. He stepped aside. As Angelina’s mother and son moved toward the door, Sam smiled down at the boy, and a quick memory took Colt by surprise.
Back in the Saddle Page 9