In a way, Stefanie Noble reminded Piper of her mother—the mother who’d emerged after they escaped Russell McPhee. The mother who worked from six to six at a school cafeteria, then waited tables to put a roof over her and her daughter’s head. The mother who had taught Piper to be strong, to hope, to have courage, and who had died too young.
“I like your land,” Piper said in response to Stefanie’s question, surprised a little that the words flowed from an honest place inside her. “It’s beautiful, all those bluffs and valleys. I can smell the flowers in the wind, along with a little manure—”
“A lot of manure.” Stefanie looked over at her and grinned. “We can admit it. That’s how we make a living.”
Piper laughed, and it felt good, even freeing. “Okay, a lot of manure. But I also like the whisper of the breeze across the grass, the squeak of the prairie dogs. I can understand why they call it Big Sky Country. The sky seems to touch the ends of the earth.”
“It is beautiful. I hope we get some rain, though, or we’re in for another dry year. And that won’t be good for anyone.”
“Nick said you lost some cattle recently.”
The little lines around Stefanie’s mouth tightened. “Yep.”
“Is that why Nick returned? To help with the ranch?” Piper hoped that Stefanie might be a tad more revealing than her brother had been this afternoon. To hear Nick speak, he’d simply erased from his mind his stint as a cop. And along with it any thoughts of her brother.
Well, she hadn’t. Wouldn’t.
Stefanie shook her head. “I don’t really know why God brought Nick back. But I hope he stays.” Sadness touched her eyes as she glanced at Piper. “I hope he treated you better today than yesterday.”
Well, since that first rough meeting he’d started a fire for her, helped her settle into her cabin, and saved her from a raging bull, so Piper wasn’t sure how to respond. “It sounds like you and he have different agendas for the ranch.”
“With the drought, all the ranchers are looking for creative ways to keep afloat. The Breckenridge raises bulls, the Big K is hosting a fancy celebrity roundup, and Lovell’s turned to coal-bed mining for methane, trying to eke the last little bit of resource out of his land. Nick’s simply upset because he hasn’t been here to rule his kingdom. He’s always fancied himself as the prince of the Silver Buckle.”
“Why did he leave?”
Stefanie didn’t look at her as she shrugged, but Piper recognized family secrets buried inside her gesture. Something had driven Nick away, and it only ignited her investigator’s instincts. Piper stared out the window, as if not interested in the subject.
The first time through this stretch of ranch country, Piper had noticed only the collection of tract houses and mobile homes on the outskirts of town, but driving in through the sweeps and curves of the land now, she spotted homes tucked into valleys or sitting on top of bluffs, grand houses built for leisure and vacation. It seemed an odd contrast to the one-horse town of Phillips. She pointed one home out to Stefanie.
“That’s owned by someone in Sheridan. Most of these nice places are. They’re vacation homes or hunting cabins. Some of the Phillips folks live out here, but mostly those who don’t own ranches live in town. Even the day hands who work on the big ranches live in town with their families.” Stefanie slowed for the stoplight, then turned right into the parking lot of the Watering Hole Café.
“How big is Phillips?”
“’Bout eighteen hundred. But they keep expanding the town borders.” Stefanie climbed out of the truck.
Piper slid out of her side. She felt as if she were in a Louis L’Amour novel, with the false-front buildings, the saloon, the rain barrel at the end of the roof of the feed store, the barbershop with the candy-cane pole. “Do you have a newspaper here?”
Stefanie came around the truck. “A weekly.” She pointed across the street to a small stand-alone building wedged between a bookstore and the Red Rooster grocery store. “The Phillips Journal.”
Piper wondered if she should drop in and see if she could nose around the paper’s microfiche—if they had any—for mention of Nick. Some history would add color to her report.
“I want to introduce you to Lolly. You’ll do all your ordering through her.” Stefanie climbed the steps to the dining-car café.
Piper forced a smile, donned her chef’s aura, and followed her. She entered the dining car to find it surprisingly homey and larger than she expected. Orange booths lined the wall against the windows, and a few Formica tables gave it a fifties-era feel. Behind a long counter with wooden stools, a woman who could have stepped out of the seventies, with her blonde hair falling out of a high bun, wearing tight jeans and a tighter shirt, held a coffeepot and flashed them a smile.
Stefanie motioned Piper to a stool and took one beside her. “Lolly, this is Piper—our new cook. Could you fix her up with your food distributor, like you did Chet?”
Lolly set two white ceramic coffee cups on the counter. “Yep. I’ll get you that order list.” She poured Piper a cup of coffee. “Glad to meet you, Piper.”
Piper gave her a vague smile, hoping the woman didn’t see right through her. Lolly looked street savvy, with years of experience in her eyes, something she couldn’t have picked up in this small town. If anyone would see through Piper’s facade, it would be this woman.
Piper blew on the coffee before taking a sip. Even so, when she sipped, the liquid seared her throat. She forced it down and gasped. “That’s hot. And strong.”
“Sorry. Around here we like it with some bite.” Stefanie looked at her over the rim of her own cup.
Piper wiped her mouth with a napkin, searching for the sweetener, the creamer, wishing she could order a chai.
Lolly set a book on the counter in front of Piper and beside it a piece of key lime pie. “Order goes in every Thursday—delivered on Mondays.”
Piper picked up the book, saw that it contained food lists.
“We have an account with the company, so the bill will come to me,” Stefanie said. “I trust you, but I’d like to see your menus before you order anything, okay?”
Piper nodded, her eye on the pie, her stomach nearly leaping. She’d had a package of cheese crackers for lunch after Nick had dropped her off at the cabin, and her stomach felt on fire.
“So, where’re you from, Piper?” Lolly asked, serving Stefanie a piece of pie.
Piper had a bite in her mouth, so Stefanie answered for her. “Kalispell. Bon Appétit Culinary School.”
Piper washed the pie down with the coffee, more careful this time. “I’m nearly finished. This is just a summer internship.” She felt the lie lodge in her mouth as she took another forkful of pie. What was her problem? She’d lied to drug dealers, smugglers, and even to a man connected to the mafia—so why did her mouth feel like glue now?
“Ever worked on a ranch before?”
She shook her head in unison with Stefanie, who flashed her a warm grin. The fact that Stefanie Noble had given her a chance—a chef who had no experience, even if she wasn’t a chef—made Piper wish she could cook just a little.
“So, what’s your specialty?” Lolly asked.
Piper scrambled for an answer. Her mother had loved . . . ah, tuna casserole. “Seafood,” she answered quickly.
Lolly raised a penciled eyebrow, smirked at Stefanie, who shrugged. “Do you also fish?” she asked.
Piper heard a jest in her tone. She smiled and took another forkful of pie. “Oh yes,” she said easily, “I love to fish.”
Nick found the grave easily, without asking Stef. Why he’d avoided it until this evening—well, he knew it had something to do with shame, but until today, when he’d tromped his old trails, he hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Bishop was gone. And with his passing vanished any hope for reconciliation. Now his father had a power over him he’d never escape. Nick dismounted and draped the reins of the horse over the wrought-iron gate that ringed the tiny cemetery. Every N
oble had been buried here since old Benedict Noble had homesteaded the place. Twelve graves in all. Twelve stones—some at angles and worn, others solid and engraved—marked the legacy that went before him.
Nick felt a sickness welling inside him, heard the disappointment of his ancestors in the chilly wind. To the west the bruised sky seemed to sense his wounds, and a breeze scurried across the fields, pushing brittle yellow tumbleweed.
Bishop lay in the northeast corner, his name added to the stone that already read Elizabeth Noble, beloved wife and mother. Stefanie and Rafe had done their father right by burying him beside their mother, despite his behavior after her death. Nick remembered the days after her passing, the pain that nearly suffocated him. The few times he’d wandered out here he found himself sitting in quiet sorrow, wishing he could see her one last time—her long dark hair like Stef’s, her solemn eyes that could surface his secrets, his fears. His mother had believed in him, and she had loved her older son with a fierce mix of confidence and unconditional love.
For a long time he’d felt as if the cancer had eaten through him also. Had left him hollow.
Nick’s choices since then had filled up that hollow space with fury. His eyes burned now, hoping that she couldn’t look upon him from heaven to see the mess he’d made.
The dirt over Bishop’s grave had begun to prickle with new grass. Nick took off his hat, then closed his eyes. He heard a sigh, troubled and deep, and realized it was his own.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
He cleared his throat, and his voice came out weak and stupid in the vastness of the landscape of all that had been. “Hey, Dad. I’m back.”
Last time they’d been here together, his father had pulled him into a rare embrace. Nick could still remember feeling like a little boy, needing to know that his world wasn’t over. Now, seeing Bishop’s grave, the old fears surfaced. How he longed to see Bishop’s smile, the dark eyes that knew him so well, his wide work-worn hands curling the brim of his Stetson or slapping him on the back.
“I know I let you down. I know that I should have come home sooner, said I was sorry. I . . . don’t know why you did what you did, but I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. I was angry and hurting . . . and wrong.” Nick curled the felt of his hat into his fists. “I know Cole has something on you.” He shook his head, emotion filling his throat. “I should have been here to make sure he stayed away.”
The image of Cole, the fury on his face that night Nick had left only made Nick’s voice stronger, the anger spiking through. “But I’m here now. And I promise, Noble land will stay our land. Stef and I will get the Buckle running again. We’ll carry on what you started.”
He ran a thumb under his eyes, catching the moisture there, wiping it on his jeans. Then he knelt before the grave and pressed his hand against the etching in the stone. Bishop Nicholas Noble. Psalm 103. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.”
The sun had completely vanished, leaving only a burn in its wake by the time Nick returned to the ranch house. Stefanie’s truck sat parked in the yard. From the lodge on the hill, dim lights from the windows pushed into the shadows. He stifled the impulse to pay Piper a visit and build her another fire. He didn’t know quite what to think about their new cook. Something still nagged him, a feeling that the math didn’t add up. Yet Piper seemed . . . friendly, if not naive to the life here. Curious George—she had more questions than a CIA interrogator, and his answers only encouraged more questions.
Still, after a while he’d realized he enjoyed talking to her. Enjoyed putting to words things he’d known his entire life, feelings and impressions of ranch life he hadn’t let himself consider for a long time. Eventually he’d abandoned his hope of talking her off the ranch and surrendered to the fact that they’d hired on a romantic, someone enthralled with the cowboy way, the big skies, the open range.
Someone frighteningly like himself.
If he had to, he’d admit the morning hadn’t been sheer torture. Not at all.
He rode to the barn, unbuckled his horse’s saddle, and swung it over the sawhorse, then loosened the bit and bridle. Working that free, he grabbed a curry brush.
He could smell Piper, as if she still sat behind him, the scent of wildflowers and the sound of her laughter trickling into his senses, lingering there. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had gotten close enough to leave an impression.
Then again he’d been dodging women with 100 percent accuracy since Jenny Butler’s death. Not that he and the rodeo instructor had particularly hit it off, but in the end, if he hadn’t been in the picture, maybe she would still be alive. If the prosecution was to be believed, McPhee had been looking for payback when he went after Jenny. The last thing Nick wanted was to have anyone else hurt because of him.
The old barn smelled of hay and horse sweat, and the scents felt so familiar that a new wave of regret rushed over him. What would his life have been like if he had never left home?
At the least, Cole wouldn’t have his name listed in Bishop’s last will and testament.
Nick finished rubbing down the horse and freed him into the corral. He whinnied to the other horses, shaking free of the feel of the saddle. Nick poured out the feed before he sauntered toward the house. The cicadas were out, buzzing in the sunset hours, and the smell of bacon drifted from the house.
“Stef?” Nick called as he entered, hooked his boots into the bootjack, and worked them off. His stocking feet felt cool against the stone floor of their entryway, ledgestone polished to jewel tones under years of Noble feet. He shucked off his jacket and hung it and his hat on the hook before entering the kitchen.
Stefanie stood in her wool socks, sweatpants, and sleeves of her chamois shirt rolled up past the elbows, stirring a pot of baked beans on the stove.
“When did you learn how to cook?” He came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
She leaned into his half hug. “Never. I just open a can and pour it in a pot. Chet spoiled us all.” She blew on her spoon and gave the beans a taste. “But I know when a pot of beans needs some liquid smoke.” She added the liquid, along with a few drops of Tabasco.
Nick took out the brown sugar, pinched some in. “Maybe you should let me do the cooking.”
“Are you disrespecting my beans?” Stef gave him a slight push to match her mock smile.
“No.” Nick held up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to keep you from burning a hole through my gut.” He tugged on one of her braids, an old gesture from their childhood, then sat down at the table.
“Well, in a few days Piper will cook for us. And I’ll bet you won’t run from her cooking.”
Nick poured himself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher sitting on the table. “Are you sure we can afford her? I was looking over the books—”
Stef turned, wooden spoon in hand. A blob of beans dripped onto the floor. For a moment, Nick expected their old sheepdog to appear and gobble it up. A pang went through him when he didn’t. “She’s practically working for free, Nick. It’s part of the school program she’s in. She has to have one quarter of hands-on experience—”
“And cooking out on the trail is going to give her the training she needs?” He reached for the newspaper and angled it toward him, scanning the headlines.
“Her boss said she makes a mean stew. Trust me; hiring Piper is a good investment. This is what we need to really put the Silver Buckle on the map with the tourists. ”
Nick pushed the paper away. “It already is on the map. We have one of the largest spreads in eastern Montana. We don’t need a dude ranch to make our mark. The Buckle brand has always been known for quality beef in every stockyard from here to Nebraska. We’ll be the laughingstock of the cattlemen’s association.”
Stef turned back to the stove. “I don’t go to those meetings anymore.”
It had to be difficult for the men of the cattlemen’s club to take his sister seriously. Not only was she a woman—and very few wo
men besides legendary Libby Collins had made it in the cattlemen’s world—but Stef was also young and beautiful, and he had a feeling that she’d heard one too many remarks to that end. Cattlemen were nothing more than cowboys who owned a few or many head of cattle. It didn’t necessarily tame the maverick in them and make them gentlemen.
“Piper knows nearly nothing about ranching, Stef. I spent the morning with her, showing her around, trying to explain why this job is over her head. The more I talked, the more she ate it up.” Perhaps that’s what bothered him. She seemed too . . . idealistic. Too taken by the life he lived.
Then again, once upon a time, he’d been idealistic too.
“Then she’ll do fine. I took her into town today to meet Lolly. Did you know Piper’s a connoisseur of fish?”
“I’ll head right out and catch her a trout.”
Stef threw a washrag at him. “Where she comes from there are plenty of trout streams. And maybe we should all have more fish—”
“We raise beef—”
“My point is that she’ll bring flair to our down-home Western hospitality.” She grabbed the chili pepper and began to shake it into the beans.
Nick stood, taking the pepper from her. “It’s just that in my gut—”
“Please, Nick, I don’t want to hear about your gut feelings ever again!”
The sudden explosion from Stefanie stopped him cold. He braced himself as she rounded on him like the bull after Piper. “Your gut feelings have caused this family—and others—enough pain!”
Her words found the shame inside, the churn of regret that had been dogging him all afternoon, and twisted. He wanted to turn away from her, to let it go, to start over. But, as if he’d reverted into the rebellious teenager from the past, his mouth wouldn’t obey. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
Stefanie stood there, mouth agape, then threw her spoon back into the pot. “Ten years and you still haven’t figured it out,” she said before storming from the room.
Figured what out? That he shouldn’t follow his instincts? shouldn’t stand up to secrets and betrayal and lies?
Reclaiming Nick Page 9