Back in the Saddle

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “Possibly a rude awakening.”

  “Not if it means we’re both going to be around for a while. A guy could get used to that, Ange.”

  His words reassured her because, even though it was impossible, she could get real used to it too.

  Angelina was right, Colt realized as he drove to the burned-out town two days later. Bearing responsibility for people you cared about raised the emotional stakes. He’d come back to Gray’s Glen because he had to, but as he made the descent into the haggard town, he realized he’d committed to help because he wanted to. No one was more surprised by that than Colt Stafford.

  His father had been released from the hospital and now was home, resting uncomfortably. Narrowed choices were still frustrating the older Stafford. After all this time, he finally wanted to help others and help the town, and he was stuck at home in ill health. But there was nothing wrong with Colt’s health, so he headed into town, determined to make a difference.

  Center Street looked desolate despite the afternoon sun. Big equipment had been parked after a hard day’s work, ready to continue demolition in the morning. The results of their work today had intensified the stench of wet burned wood. The blocks-long visual of overwhelming destruction prickled his physical and emotional senses. A town the size of Gray’s Glen didn’t need much to tip it into misery.

  He’d watched coolly from his comfortable New York office as small companies folded and little towns struggled when bigger firms or banks pushed in and drove them out of business. Now he was part of that downside, and Colt wasn’t a downside kind of guy. One way or another, he’d help make things right. He parked opposite the cordoned-off church, climbed out, and approached the debris field.

  The church property was half cleared. Construction barriers and yellow caution tape blocked off the perimeter. Colt ignored them, stepped over, and surveyed the damage close up.

  “Colt, shh. We’re in church, honey.”

  He heard his mother’s soft reminder like it was yesterday. He remembered walking out of the church, his hand tucked in hers, when he longed to run and race free after sitting quietly—well, not so quietly—inside. She lifted him, holding him tightly as cars moved about the parking lot. She smiled into his eyes and said, “You can run all you want at home, I promise. But there are too many cars here, Colt. You could get hurt.”

  “Why do we have to come to stupid church anyway?” Had he scowled when he said it? Had he pouted? He couldn’t remember. He just remembered the look on her face, as if calling church stupid hurt her feelings. “Daddy doesn’t come. I want to stay home with him next time!”

  She held his gaze for what seemed like a long moment. “We need to pray for Daddy, Colt. Every day, okay? Because even the busiest daddies should take time for church.”

  “Do I have to?”

  She’d nuzzled his cheek so softly and so gently he could almost feel it now. “It would make me happy.”

  “Okay.”

  Colt faced the ruin before him and could honestly say he’d never once prayed for his father, and he was pretty sure his father hadn’t sent up prayers for him until lately, so did that make them even or just evenly stupid?

  The latter, Colt decided. He turned to go, when a voice called his name.

  “Colt? That you?”

  “Mrs. Irvine?” Colt crossed the cinder-strewn grass and took the elderly woman’s hand. “How are you? How’s Coach doing?” Bob Irvine had coached the Gray’s Glen high school basketball program for nearly three decades before Colt, Nick, and Trey played and for several years after. “Gosh, it’s nice to see you.”

  Sweet wrinkles dimpled her face when she smiled up at him. “And you. I heard you and your brother are going to help put things back together. So when I saw you standing there, I wanted to come over and say thank you.”

  “Are you living in town now?” The coach and his wife had lived on a two-lane south of town, a small property filled with an odd shake of animals and a mishmash of fencing. “You still have Coach’s menagerie?”

  “Gone,” she told him. Her soft voice sounded sad. “Bob’s in Ellensburg now. They’ve got him in one of those memory care centers. That’s a nice way of sayin’ they don’t let him wander. He’s got the Alzheimer’s, and I couldn’t take care of him, the critters, and the place. About six years back, when he started to get sick, we moved here.” She pointed to a small gray village house behind him, east of the square and untouched by the fire.

  “Easier for Coach that way?” Colt asked, but was surprised when she shook her head.

  “I thought it would be, but once he got in town, he spent the next three years trying to find his way back home. Only home was gone, of course.”

  His heart heavy, Colt envisioned the scenario. “Can he have visitors, Mrs. Irvine?”

  “He can, but he doesn’t remember much of anyone or anything these days. It’s best to go early in the day. He gets nervous-like when dusk comes, so I go in the morning and talk to him.”

  She and Coach had never had children, so the boys in the basketball program had become their brood. “Mrs. I” had attended every evening practice and every game, supporting Coach and the kids with her cookies and her presence over the thirty-plus years he worked for the high school. “Was Ellensburg the closest place for Coach?” he asked.

  “Well, Gray’s Glen is small and getting smaller, so there isn’t much in the way of nursing care hereabouts,” she explained. “And Bob bein’ such a homebody, I wonder if I could have made his last years better by stayin’ put. But it’s too late to fix that now.” She studied the burned-out church and sighed. “So much loss, so much sorrow, and time marches by. Well! I didn’t come over here to make things worse; I came by to say thank you for wanting to help. It does an old heart good to hear it.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” he said and meant it. He took her arm and escorted her back to her little house, slowing his pace to match hers. The gray house needed work. The roof looked worn. Peeling paint mottled the four porch supports, and while the front steps looked warped, the back steps were solid and firm. “Nice stairs back here.”

  She smiled. “Josh Washington came by and put those in last year when he was between jobs. You know he lost Susan to cancer. So now he’s got those kids of his on his own. With the hard times here in the valley, he’s not had much contracting work. It was real nice of him to come by and take care of this.” She patted the sturdy handrail. “We’ve got good folks here.”

  A few weeks ago Colt would have scoffed, seeing the “good folks” as insignificant compared with the high-powered men and women in the financial world. Shame flamed within as he thought how he’d dismissed a lot more than Sam Stafford with his ignorance. He’d negated all the other relationships he’d built in this town as if they didn’t matter. But seeing Mrs. Irvine, hearing about Coach and Josh showed him they did matter—very much.

  He’d wanted to punish his father by staying away and ended up hurting others in the process. Like Josh. He and Josh had been good friends throughout high school two decades back, playing varsity basketball together under Coach. To hear that Josh had lost his wife to cancer deepened Colt’s shame.

  “Do you need anything, Mrs. Irvine? Anything I can bring you?”

  “Oh no.” She pretended all was well, but he couldn’t miss the sorrow in her eyes. “I’m fine, really. Things certainly aren’t how I envisioned them a dozen years back.” She glanced about, a little lost.

  He opened his arms and drew her into a hug—not because he was a hugger but because she needed one. When her eyes filled with tears, he had to blink back moisture himself. “It was good to see you, ma’am. I’m glad you came over to say hello.”

  She pressed her hands against his arms and offered him a look of gratitude. “Me too.”

  He waited until she was safely inside before he returned to the church. He walked up and down the street, studying the remains of the church and the rest of the town. He had his phone out, tapping notes into it as h
e went, and bit by bit a plan came to mind. Nothing huge in and of itself, but there was always hope that it could begin a domino effect.

  When he was done, he climbed into the SUV and headed back to the ranch. He called Nick and asked him to stay at the ranch until he got there, then he called his father’s cell phone. “Dad, are you awake?”

  “I am now.”

  He sounded more amused than cross. Meds, most likely. “I need to talk to you and Nick about an idea I have. An idea that might help the town.”

  “You close to home?”

  “About to pull into the driveway.”

  “I’ll meet you in my office.”

  “We’ll be there.” He parked the SUV and went inside.

  “You must have called from just up the road,” Nick said when Colt walked in. Cheyenne was sitting on a stool, her schoolwork fanned out on the breakfast bar. A pencil lay alongside the papers. Nick fixed himself a mug of coffee and faced Cheyenne. “Study those spelling words and then write them three times each.”

  She looked down, sullen, then propped her chin in her hands and said nothing.

  “My homework’s all done, Daddy!” Dakota called from the living room carpet where she’d gathered four baby dolls and propped them on a clump of pillows. “We’re having a party.”

  “It’s easy to do homework when it’s baby stuff,” Cheyenne muttered.

  “I’ve got tickets for the new princess movie coming out,” Colt announced. “But all homework has to be done and checked for two weeks.”

  “Can we have popcorn, Uncle Colt?” Dakota asked, excited.

  “Absolutely.”

  She fist-pumped the air. “Then I’ll get mine done for sure!”

  Colt was one hundred percent certain she’d earn her ticket. Cheyenne’s outcome was more doubtful.

  Glum, Cheyenne picked up the pencil and stared at her paper. If Colt was a gambling man, he’d hedge his bet when it came to Cheyenne Stafford. She was stubborn and mad at the world—two traits he remembered real well.

  He let Nick lead the way into Sam’s office then shut the door behind them. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Sam was already seated behind his desk. “The phone call was a clue.”

  “Is it about the ranch?” Nick asked.

  “No.”

  Nick sighed deeply and strode toward the office door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m all in on the ranch, and I pledged my efforts to the church. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got two kids who need the occasional father. I can’t do anything more and maintain my sanity.”

  “Sit.”

  Nick hesitated a moment, then sat himself in one of the leather wingback chairs. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “When I was in town, I ran into Coach’s wife.”

  “It’s a shame about Coach,” Nick said. “It’s hard to see such a vital person go downhill like that, but at least he’s safe now.”

  “Safe and forty minutes away,” Colt said. “And Mrs. Irvine looks mighty frail to be making that drive daily.”

  “So your suggestion is what? Bus service?”

  Colt pulled out his phone and showed them a picture. “These are the burned-out properties on Chelan Pass.”

  “Yes.” Sam drew the word out slowly as Colt slid to the next two photos on his phone.

  “And here is the property you bought on speculation six years ago, at the opposite end of town where that small tool-and-die place used to be.”

  Sam looked at the pictures. “And your point is?”

  “We flip-flop the locations. We take this location here”—he pointed to the upper end, close to the churches and the mercantile and the smattering of small businesses along Center Street—“and we build a small over-fifty community complete with an adult-care facility. Not a full-scale nursing home but an adult living center with a memory care unit. A street of shops at ground level”—he swept his hand across the sidewalk-facing windows—“to replace the ones damaged in the fire. And apartments above. As people age, they can stay in their hometown and have friends and neighbors nearby.”

  Nick looked skeptical, but then Nick wasn’t the most observant of human beings, so Colt ignored him. “Then we rebuild your rental houses on the west end of town. No one can argue too much about that since the properties are already zoned appropriately. The residents will be closer to school and the playground. The younger folks who usually rent your properties are more capable of going up and down steps to get to the store.”

  “And we’re doing this because we want Coach to be close to his wife?” Nick asked. “That’s a mighty big thank-you, isn’t it? Couldn’t we just send him a card?”

  Colt would have thought the very same thing a few weeks ago. Something had changed. Wait, not something. Someone. Him. He made a face at Nick. “Very funny.” Colt tapped the phone back to the original picture of the burned-out buildings. “We’re doing this because the Double S owes this town after decades of shrugging things off.” He locked eyes with his brother, then with his father. “It’s the right thing to do, and it’s a plan that not only helps others, but will pay off the initial investment easily. An adult-care community would bring jobs to the town and offer an anchor and a place for our aging citizens to live. This frees up affordable housing for younger families, which in turn creates momentum and brings growth. On top of that it will bring the Double S a much-needed tax deduction for next year.”

  Nick acknowledged that, but Sam bristled. “You checked my books?” He squared his shoulders, and when Colt just looked at him, he sighed. “You probably didn’t need to, did you?”

  “That’s for amateurs,” Colt replied. “I simply looked at the numbers and production ratios beside beef futures versus the ratio of seed cattle to—”

  “I get it.” Sam looked impressed. “Building nursing homes—”

  “Adult care communities,” Colt corrected him.

  “Right, well, we’re out of my range of expertise here. Since I’m not one to leave a job half done, and your brother’s busy enough running both sides of the cattle operation, if something happens to me, who oversees this project?”

  “First, I’m hoping nothing’s going to happen to you,” Colt told him, and his sincere words put a look of hope in his father’s eyes. “But I intend to oversee the project if you decide to do it.”

  “This is going to take awhile,” Sam warned him.

  Colt nodded. “I’m all in.”

  Sam gazed up as if wanting to say more but kept silent. Nick’s expression was flat. Either he wasn’t listening or he didn’t like it.

  Colt knew what he was promising, and he kind of surprised himself. But the minute the full picture of the project came to him, he knew the idea had merit. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to contact an architect I know. He designed a similar project four years ago. It’s been quite a success.”

  “What kind of rezoning are we looking at here?” Sam asked.

  “From what I recall, the zoning on the upper piece should be fine for the planned community, and then if we do single family residential on the lower end, we won’t need any additional permissions there either.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “That makes it easier for the town council to approve the plans.” He cleared his throat and pushed his chair back from the desk. “Are we done here? I need to get my meds, or Angelina will have my hide.” He stood too quickly. When Colt reached a hand out to steady him, he frowned but accepted the help. “I hate being weak.”

  “Illness and weakness are two different things,” Colt said. “FDR won a world war from a wheelchair, and no one considered him weak.”

  Sam grunted, regained his equilibrium, and started moving on his own. “You can get a set of the blueprints that quick?”

  “I can have the originals overnighted. They’ll need tweaking to make them more western friendly, but we can do that later.”

  “Good.” He patted Colt on the shoulder and headed down the hal
lway with more purpose in his step.

  Nick led the way to the kitchen looking rather glum, edging out of Angelina’s way as she entered from the opposite side.

  “What?” Colt asked Nick. “You hate the idea that much?”

  “It’s not the idea,” Nick confessed, his expression shifting until he looked more admiring than angry, a nice switch. “It’s that the stupid prodigals get all the kudos. I’ve spent the last ten years working night and day, and you show up and start talking diversifying investments and community service crap, and all of a sudden you’re the good son. How does that work exactly?”

  Angelina stashed the girls’ snack bowls in the dishwasher and reached for a dirty plate. “If you two are looking for biblical confirmation, I believe the parable of the lost sheep is as good as the lost son. God mourns the loss of a believer as a mother mourns a child. He looks and looks until he finds his own and gathers the lambs in his arms.”

  “Can we get lambs, Daddy?” Dakota bounded in, throwing herself at her father. He picked her up so they could be face to face. Fresh from a bath and cozy in pink pajamas, she was the picture of sweetness. “I would love to help with little lambs.”

  “I said yes to the kitten. Don’t push it, kid.”

  She grabbed his cheeks and gave him a kiss on the end of his nose. “I will love Stripey so much, Daddy.”

  “You picked the striped one?” Colt asked.

  She looked up at him, puzzled. “The orange and black one, Uncle Colt.”

  “The calico.”

  She bobbed her head. “She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “She is. But you’re naming her Stripey?”

  “Just like my old kitty that died. He was Stripey One. This will be Stripey Two.”

  “Except the old kitty actually had stripes, stupid.” Cheyenne came in from the great room looking pretty haughty for an eight-year-old.

  Hobbs and Brock came through the back door just in time for the argument.