by R. C. Ryan
The young banker looked him in the eye. “I’m not authorized to handle something like this. I’ll have to take it upstairs.”
Ash nodded, knowing that upstairs meant asking permission from Jason’s father, Jason Collier III. The Collier family owned the only bank in this tiny town, and they treated every dollar like their own.
“I’d be happy to go with you and present my case.”
“That’s not the way it’s done.” Jason pushed back from his desk and walked to the door. “I might be a while.”
“Take your time.” Ash leaned back and stretched out his long legs, crossing his feet at the ankles, watching the young man’s retreating back. Though he looked relaxed, it was only a façade. Inside, his muscles tensed as he thought about the importance of this request.
Since he’d left his family ranch all those years ago, his workload had doubled. But at least now, he was working to please nobody but himself. Though he missed his family with an ache around the heart that would never heal, he didn’t miss his father’s constantly finding fault with everything he attempted to do.
Mad might have believed that Bear just wanted the best for his sons, but to Ash’s way of thinking, it simply meant that he would never be able to please his implacable, rock-headed father, no matter how hard he worked. Now, at least, he was no longer busting his hide for someone else. If he chose to spend his life working like a dog, he had the satisfaction of doing it for himself.
Oh, he’d had years of working on other men’s ranches, while he saved every dollar and plotted and planned for his own future. But he had a good piece of land now, and a working ranch, and though his life was lonely without the comfort of family and friends, he was not only surviving but thriving.
He frowned. Not really thriving. More like just barely getting by. But at least he was doing it on his own terms. He just needed one more break, and he could be free of the dark memories of the past.
Ash’s musings were interrupted with the return of the young banker.
He made his way to his desk without looking at Ash. “I’m sorry. The bank just can’t take the risk of giving you any more money.”
Ash fought to keep his tone level. “I’ve made every payment on time. I never missed a single one. Besides, if I default, the bank holds my mortgage. The way I see it, you won’t be risking a thing.”
“We’re not in the business of owning ranch land.” Jason glanced at the documents before passing them back to Ash. “And from the looks of all this debt, you stand a very good chance of losing yours.”
“I’d stand a better chance of holding on if you’d extend my loan.”
The young man stood. “Sorry. I tried.”
“Mind if I talk to your father?”
“It was my father who said emphatically no.” Jason held the door, indicating an end to their meeting. “Unless you agree to ask your father to cosign the loan.”
And there it was, out in the open.
“You know how I feel about that.”
Jason nodded. “I know. I told my father you’ve already said you’d never ask your father to cosign.”
Without a word Ash left the bank and stalked to his truck. Once inside he turned off the radio and drove the entire distance in silence.
His father.
That was what it all came down to. Even here in Wyoming, it seemed, everyone knew Bear MacKenzie was good for the money. Hell, he could probably hand over a million dollars without even going to the bank. Petty cash for Bear MacKenzie. Chump change, he’d call it.
Ash swore. He’d rather lose the ranch and everything he’d worked for than ask his father for one red cent. It would be an admission of defeat. An admission that these past years had all been a mistake, and now he was ready to crawl home and become the good, docile son his father wanted.
His father. There was no pleasing Bear MacKenzie. Hadn’t he spent half his life trying? That part of his life was over.
Come hell or high water he’d make it on his own, or move on and start over yet again, with nothing but the clothes on his back.
MacKenzie Ranch
Bear MacKenzie stood on the banks of Copper Creek, his all-terrain vehicle idling nearby. For the third time he glanced at the threatening storm clouds and swore loudly before walking over and turning off the ignition. The sudden silence was a shock to the system until his ears caught the lowing of cattle, the buzz of insects, the chorus of birdsong. At any other time he would have taken a moment to enjoy the serenity of his land. For as far as the eye could see, this was all his. His little slice of the Scottish Highlands, where his ancestors had ruled. His heaven on earth.
But for now, he was simply annoyed at this waste of his precious time.
He kicked at a stone, sending it spiraling into the creek. While he studied the ripples on the surface, he felt a sudden prickling sensation at the base of his skull, like cold fingers on his spine. Or eyes watching him.
Before he could turn, the sound of a gunshot broke the stillness. Liquid fire seared his veins. His legs failed him and he dropped to the ground. Blood formed a dark, sticky pool around him.
While cattle and birds and insects continued their songs, the life of one man was slowly seeping away.
Willow MacKenzie stopped her pacing when she spotted headlights through the rain-spattered window.
“Finally. Bear had better have a good excuse for being this late for supper.” She patted her father-in-law’s arm as she hurried past his wheelchair and through the mudroom to throw open the back door of the ranch house.
Instead of her husband, the man striding up the porch steps was Chief Ira Pettigrew, the tall, muscled head of the Copper Creek police force. A force that consisted of three men.
Ira’s great-grandfather, Ingram Pettigrew, had been a legendary hunter and trapper in Montana, and he had been a bridge between the Blackfoot tribe of Native Americans and the homesteaders who’d settled the wilderness. Keeping the peace had become a way of life for the men who followed, including Ira’s father, Inness, and now, Ira. The father of four, Ira had worked for the state police as a trained marksman before accepting the position of police chief in his hometown. Ira knew every square mile of land in his jurisdiction, and he zealously guarded the people who lived there.
Willow managed a smile, despite the tiny shiver of apprehension that threaded along her spine. “Ira. What brings you out here on a night like this?”
Instead of replying, he whipped his hat from his head and took a moment to hang it on a hook by the door, watching it drip a stream of water on the floor, before laying a hand on hers. “I’ve got some news, Willow.”
He shut the door and led her past the rows of cowboy hats, parkas, and sturdy boots, and into the kitchen. With a nod toward Maddock MacKenzie, he indicated the high-backed kitchen chair beside Mad’s wheelchair. “Sit down, please, Willow.”
She was about to protest, until she caught a glimpse of the tight, angry look on the police chief’s face. Woodenly she sat, stiff-backed, suddenly afraid.
The door was shoved open, and Whit MacKenzie and Brady Storm blew in, shaking rain from their wide-brimmed hats and hanging them on hooks before prying off their mud-caked boots and jackets.
When they spotted the police chief, both men paused.
“Hey, Ira.” Whit stepped into the kitchen ahead of Brady.
“Where’re you coming from so late?” Ira words were not so much a question as a sharp demand.
Whit frowned at the impertinence of it. “Checking the herd like always.”
“And you, Brady?”
The foreman nodded toward Whit. “With him.”
“Which pasture?”
Catching the note of tension in the chief’s voice, Whit bristled slightly. “North pasture, Ira. What’s this about?”
“It’s about my reason for this visit.” Chief Pettigrew turned his full attention on Willow.
At fifty-one she was still the tall, graceful model she’d been at Montana State, when she’d t
urned the head of every boy and man on campus, until Bear MacKenzie, ten years her senior and already a seasoned rancher, had claimed her for his own. From the moment he’d set eyes on her, Bear had been head-over-heels smitten, and determined to make her his wife. And who could blame him? Thirty years later she was reed-slender, with a dancer’s legs and muscles toned from years of ranch work. With that mane of fine blonde hair and green eyes, even in faded denims and a soiled cotton shirt, and without a lick of makeup, she was still the prettiest woman in town.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Willow, but Bear’s been shot.”
“Shot. My God.” She was up and darting past him when his hand whipped out, stopping her in midstride.
“Hold on, Willow.”
“No. I have to go to him. Where is he, Ira? Did you send for an ambulance?”
“No need.” He put his hands on her shoulders and very firmly pressed her back down to the chair. “Willow, honey, you have to listen to me now. There’s no easy way to tell you this. Bear’s dead.”
Time stopped. The utter silence in the room was shattering. No one spoke. No one even seemed to be breathing.
The four faces looking at the police chief revealed a range of intense emotions. Shock. Fury. Denial. And in Maddock MacKenzie’s eyes, a grief over the loss of his only son that was too deep for tears.
Except for Willow’s hiss of breath, nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They seemed frozen in disbelief.
“How?” This from Bear’s son, Whit.
“A bullet to the back.”
“Where?” Brady Storm’s hand clenched and unclenched, itching to lash out in retaliation.
“On the banks of Copper Creek. North ridge.”
“How long ago?” Maddock demanded.
“Couple of hours at least.” Ira didn’t bother to go into detail about the temperature of the body, or the tests that would be run in the medical examiner’s lab in Great Falls, or the amount of days or weeks that would be needed to determine the exact time of death. Copper Creek was too far away from the facilities afforded by big cities. Ira and his three deputies had learned to take care of their own needs. When they couldn’t, they knew how to wait. And wait. Small-town crimes in the middle of cattle country were low priority for big-city authorities.
“You said he was shot in the back.” Willow’s voice nearly broke. She swallowed and tried again. “Do you think Bear would have known the one who shot him if he’d been able to face him?”
“I won’t know anything until all the tests are concluded. My guess is that the shooter was a good distance away when the shot was fired. Probably relied on a long-range sight.”
Willow’s lips quivered and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “So this could have been done by anybody? An enemy? Even a friend?”
“Or someone who calls himself a friend.” Mad MacKenzie hadn’t just earned his nickname because it was an abbreviation of Maddock. In the blink of an eye, he morphed from grieving father to avenging angel.
Pounding his fist on the arm of his wheelchair in fury and frustration, he looked from Whit to Brady. “We’ll find the son of a bitch who did this, lads. And when we do…”
“You’ll do the right thing and let me handle it, Mad.” Ira’s voice was pure ice. “If any of you learn anything at all, you’re to call me immediately. Got that?”
He fixed his glare on Maddock, and the old man returned his look without a word.
Whit gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. “I hear you, Ira.”
Finally the chief turned to Brady, who mouthed the word yes grudgingly.
Satisfied, Ira turned his attention to the widow, closing a hand over hers. “Willow, I’m sorry that I can’t allow you to take possession of Bear’s body until the authorities have concluded their tests. I hope you understand.”
She blinked twice, the only sign that she was listening. She’d gone somewhere in her mind, locked in her pain and grief.
“Good. Good.” Fresh out of words, Ira started toward the door. Then, thinking better about it, he paused and turned. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You’ve lost a good husband, son, father, and friend. And the town of Copper Creek has lost a born leader. Bear will be mourned by a lot of people.”
He plucked his hat from a hook by the back door and let himself out.
In the kitchen, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
The headline in the Copper Creek Gazette read:
BEAR MACKENZIE KILLED BY A SINGLE BULLET IN THE BACK
GUNMAN STILL AT LARGE
The news spread like a range fire through the tiny town of Copper Creek, Montana.
The headline and news article were read and discussed in every diner and saloon and ranch, where cowboys and their women speculated on the shooter and the motive for the killing.
And though everyone in the small town claimed to know everyone else, there was the nagging little thought that one of them just might be the vicious gunman who’d ended Bear MacKenzie’s fabled life.
Willow’s mount was lathered by the time horse and rider topped a ridge and the house and barns came into view. The chestnut gelding had been running full-out across the meadows ever since its rider had left the stables and given him his head. Now, sensing food and shelter, the horse’s gait increased until they were fairly flying down the hill.
At the doorway to the barn Willow slid from the saddle and led her mount toward a stall. Snagging a towel from the rail, she removed the saddle and bridle and began wiping him down. After filling the trough with feed, she picked up a pitchfork and began forking dung, even though the stalls had been thoroughly cleaned earlier in the day.
She worked until her arms ached. When she could do no more, she hung the pitchfork on a hook along the wall and dropped down onto a bale of hay. Burying her face in her hands, she began sobbing. Great wrenching sobs were torn from her heart and soul.
“Hey now.” Brady Storm stepped out of a back room and crossed to her.
Without another word he wrapped his arms around her and gathered her close, allowing her to cry until there were no tears left.
When at last she lifted her head, he handed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes before saying, “Thanks. Sorry.” She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. “I got your shirt all wet.”
“It’s okay, Willow.”
When she continued staring at her feet he caught her chin and lifted her face until she met his steady look.
Her voice was choked. “I thought I was alone. Don’t tell Mad or Whit. I never want them to see me like this.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve got a right to grieve. We’re all grieving.”
“I know.” She stepped back. “But I need…” Her lips trembled and she fretted that she might break down again. “I need to be strong while we sort things out.”
He kept his hand on her arm to steady her. “You’re the strongest woman I know, Willow.”
“I’m not feeling strong right now. I feel…” She looked up at him, and tears shimmered on her lashes. “I feel broken, Brady.” She turned away and hugged her arms about herself, as though trying to hold things together by the sheer strength of her will.
The foreman placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of tenderness, before quickly withdrawing it and lowering his hand to his side. His voice was gruff. “You stay strong, Willow. What’s happened has you down on your knees. I know what it feels like to be that low, when your whole world ends. But each day, you’ll find a little more of your strength. And one day, when this is behind you, you’ll realize that no matter what life throws at you, nobody and nothing is going to break you.”
She turned and pinned him with a look so desolate, it tore at his heart. “What if all my strength really came from Bear? What if I never find any of my own? How do you know it will get better, Brady?”
His words were laced with pain. “Because I’ve been where you are now. And know this—I’ll be here for you whenever you need t
o lean on someone until your own strength returns.”
He turned on his heel and strode from the barn in that loose, purposeful way he had.
Watching him, Willow thought about what he’d just said. It was the most he’d ever revealed about himself.
Though Brady had been in Bear’s employ since she first had come here as a bride, she knew little more about him now than she had in the beginning. Whenever she’d asked, Bear had insisted that Brady’s past was nobody’s business. When pressed, Bear had told her that he would trust his life, and the lives of his family, to Brady Storm, and that should be good enough for all of them. He’d explained that he’d found that one-in-a-million cowboy who he believed would put their interests above his own. When she’d asked how he knew, Bear had said only that Brady’d been through more of life’s trials than most men, and he had come out the other side stronger than steel forged in fire.
And now she had to face a fire of her own. She had her doubts that she would morph into a woman of steel. For now, she would settle for the courage to face one more day.
She took in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and wiped her eyes before making her way to the house.
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