Sweet Mountain Rancher

by Loree Lough

  One by one, the ranchers weighed in, and when they finished, Nate turned to Hank. “What’s the tally, sis?”

  “Six steers, five horses,” she said, shaking her head. “And half a dozen near misses.”

  A moment of edgy silence followed her announcement, and then Amos Wagner got to his feet and tugged at the droopy ends of his white handlebar mustache. “Time to lay traps along the tree line,” he said, hitching his faded jeans higher on his narrow hips.

  “Aw, c’mon now, Amos. That ten-galloner of yours must be two sizes too small. If your brain was getting any blood, you’d know we can’t do that.”

  “Why in tarnation not?”

  “Because we’re liable to catch our own animals, for one thing,” Carl said.

  “And it’s against the law,” Nate’s dad added.

  Notes of assent and dissent, shrugs and whispers floated around the room.

  “What, then?” Amos demanded. “Get us some of those live animal traps and set ’em out, like a bunch of tree huggers?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Nate raised a hand. “We’ll never get anything settled if we talk over one another this way.”

  “The boy’s right,” Phil said. “This is worrisome, costly business, no question about it. But let’s just settle down, hear each other out.”

  “We all know good ’n’ well there’s but one way to solve this.”

  All heads turned toward the gravelly baritone voice at the back of the room. It was Cam Mitchell, leaning against the doorjamb, calmly walking a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.

  His gaze scanned the room. “Y’all know me. I ain’t no tree hugger.” He removed the toothpick and used it as a pointer. “But I’ll have no part in tearin’ up a cougar—or any other critter, for that matter—in a steel trap. Trappin’ it in some confounded cage won’t work, either, ’cause sure as we’re sittin’ here, some pencil pusher down at CPW will decide the solution is to take it for a half-hour ride in his fancy SUV and rerelease it.”

  Grumbles of agreement circled the room.

  “Now, by my count, we’ve got purt’ near a hundred ranch hands between us. We’ll write up a schedule and make assignments, so as to spread out the workload. Our boys will have instructions to hunker down and keep their eyes peeled. Anything looks like a cat?” Squinting one eye, he peered through an imaginary rifle scope and quietly said, “Pow.”

  “But that ain’t legal, either, Cam. Not unless the cat is attacking.”

  “Well,” he drawled, “don’t know how y’all feel about it, but I say my land, my law.” With that, he bit down on the toothpick again and fired off a two-fingered salute. “Happy huntin’, neighbors.” He left them to mull over what he’d said.

  When Nate’s double-wide front door clicked shut, Phil cleared his throat. “Hate to say it, boys, but Cam’s right. My land, my rules.” He walked toward the door, stopping to say, “Hope to see y’all at the fall hoedown.”

  One by one, the neighbors departed, leaving Nate, Hank and their dad alone.

  “I have a bad, bad feeling about this,” Hank admitted.

  Every rancher who’d been there likely owned two or three long-range rifles, and equipped his men with the same.

  And in the right hands, the powerful long guns could hit targets from three or four hundred yards away.

  “Sounds to me like we’d better call a family meeting,” his dad said.

  And Nate knew why: to let Carl and the boys know they’d better keep their eyes peeled—especially when riding the Double M’s boundaries—to protect themselves.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NATE SHRUGGED INTO his jacket and headed onto the porch.

  Leaning into a slat-back rocker, he rested his boot heels on the railing and crossed both arms over his chest. Moonlight drew his eye to Mount Evans, where snow clung to the peak. “Evenin’, Rosalie,” he said.

  A common nighthawk dipped and zigzagged across the sky, its plaintive peent-peent fading as it disappeared into the trees pines beyond the corral.

  A splinter of light sneaked through the opening in the curtains behind him, and he could count every breath that clung to the chill September air. Shoulders hunched into the breeze, he blew into his cupped palms, and lured by the quiet purr of a single-engine plane, he looked up. Nate envied the pilot, for on a clear night like this, the man could likely see—

  “There you are.”

  Startled, Nate nearly overturned the chair. “For cryin’ out loud, Zach, you just shaved ten years off my life.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, taking the rocker beside Nate’s.

  “For scaring me out of my boots?”

  “I hear the last ten years are the roughest, so…” He shrugged. “So you’re welcome.”

  The cousins enjoyed a moment of companionable silence before Nate said, “So what’s your take on tonight’s meeting?”

  “I think we might want to invest in body armor.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what Dad and I were saying earlier.”

  “The right night, the right weapon, the right ammo…” Zach shook his head. “A bad combination in the wrong man’s hands.”

  “If it was Cam out there, I might not worry. But as somebody said tonight, there are a hundred or more hands working these ranches. Who knows which one will end up eyeball to the scope of a Winchester 270.”

  “Couple of the guys have grandkids on their payroll. Put one of them on the business end of a deer rifle,” Zach said, “all by their green-as-snow-peas selves? In the pitch-dark? They’ll fire at the first thing that moves—coyote, leaf, mosquito…”

  “Man,” Zach said.

  Nate’s mouth went dry just considering the grim possibilities.

  “Let’s look on the bright side. Maybe one of the grandkids is a sharpshooter, like Cam. Or maybe the cat will rub a bear the wrong way, and it’ll solve our problems.”

  “Oh, that’s a fine trade-off…a grizzly for a cougar.”

  “Good point.” Zach got to his feet and stretched. “Well, cousin, it’s getting late. I need to get home to my pretty pregnant wife.”

  Nate stood, too. “Remind me Summer’s due date?”

  “Christmas week, give or take a candy cane.”

  They crossed the porch side by side, and stopped at the top of the steps. “Did they tell you yet if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Zach bounced down the steps. “Yup. But you know the old saying—”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” they said together.

  “You going inside to call Eden?”

  Nate pocketed both hands. “Nah, I’m beat. Think I’ll call it a day.”

  Zach slid into his pickup. “Just be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons,” he said before slamming the driver’s door.

  Doing what? he wondered as the truck roared away. But Nate didn’t really need an answer. He’d bet his view of Sweet Mountain that Sam and Zach had talked about him recently.

  Individually and as a team, they’d reminded him that Miranda had been an adventure junkie. She could just as easily have died rock climbing, they’d said, or skydiving, or any one of the dozen risky things on her bucket list.

  What they didn’t understand, and probably never would, was that blame couldn’t be weighed and fault couldn’t be meted out in portions. All that mattered now was that her parents lost a daughter, her siblings a sister, and Miranda the chance to cross even one more item off her list.

  The only person who did get it was Eden, he thought, remembering the Malik story.

  *

  IF THOMAS WITHDREW any further, Eden thought, he’d become one with the sofa cushions.

  “It’s just a visit, Thomas,” she said. “Kirk and I will be right in the next room, and I promise, you aren’t leaving with him.”

  At least, not today. She’d been down this road before. Parents who wanted to regain custody— and could demonstrate their fitness—were almost always reunited with their child. Ev
en if she could spare Thomas this, Eden wouldn’t do it. In-person visits provided the only measurable proof of a parent’s interest in a child. If Mr. Burke really had cleaned up his life, Thomas was better off in his care.

  Leaning forward, she patted his knee. “You have a few minutes to change your clothes and comb your hair before your dad gets here…”

  “No way. If I’m dirty and smelly, maybe he’ll go away. Forever.”

  “All right then, that’s your decision to make. But I think I’ll put some drinks and snacks on a tray. That way, you’ll have something to occupy your hands, in case you don’t feel like talking.”

  He narrowed one eye. “Huh?”

  The rules said she had to cooperate with Mr. Burke. Nowhere did it say she had to make it easy for him. In her opinion, the more difficult it was, the better. Any moms or dads who complied with months of court-ordered, regulated sessions to remain in their children’s lives were more likely to survive the day-to-day stresses that came with parenthood once the arrangement became full-time.

  “Well, it isn’t polite to talk with your mouth full, right?”

  That, at least, encouraged the hint of a smile, and she headed for the kitchen to prepare the tray. She’d already made sure the rest of the boys were busy in other parts of the house. The maternal side of her hoped Burke would change his mind or forget to show up, but the counselor in her understood how either scenario would remind Thomas of the many times his dad had neglected or abandoned him.

  Thomas was understandably wary of the man. Part of Eden’s job involved weekly counseling sessions with the boys. During his very first meeting with her, Thomas seemed eager to declare that it was his parents’ fault that he’d been forced to live at Latimer House; he had nothing to do with the crimes they’d committed, so why did he have to serve time, too? It pained her to think he felt that way about Latimer House, but in his shoes, Eden might have seen it that way, too.

  It was a question every boy asked upon arriving, and Eden told them the truth in ways she believed they could safely process. As time passed, sessions tended to center more on schoolwork, friends and their hopes for the future rather than family-related issues of the past.

  Thomas was the exception.

  The quiet roar of a Harley told her Mr. Burke had remembered the meeting. In fact, he’d arrived a full ten minutes early. Eden carried the tray into the living room as Mr. Burke rapped at the screen door.

  “Would you like to invite your dad in?” she asked Thomas.

  He tightened his crossed arms and said a firm, flat, “No.”

  “It’s okay,” Burke said, letting himself in.

  It must have been the black leather that made him seem taller that day in the yard. He’d traded the do-rag for a leather band that held his ponytail in place and replaced his stainless gauge earrings with flesh-colored ones. The eagle, tiger and American flag tattoos were hidden under a long-sleeved white shirt, and he’d removed the chrome chains from his newly polished boots. And unless she was mistaken, he’d pressed a crease into his dark blue jeans.

  His dark eyes went immediately to the coffee table, where three glasses of lemonade and three napkins flanked a saucer of cookies. Oatmeal raisin, Thomas’s favorite. Eden fully intended to stay in the room until she was sure Thomas felt comfortable to be alone with him. Supervised visits meant she needed to stay within shouting distance, and Eden believed father and son would accomplish far more if she didn’t hover.

  “You’re sticking around, right?” Burke asked.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She focused on his son. “Thomas, aren’t you going to say hello?”

  The boy grabbed a cookie and gave his dad a dull greeting.

  “Please, have a seat, Mr. Burke, and help yourself.”

  Wisely, he chose the short end of the L-shaped sofa—directly across from his boy instead of beside him.

  “It’s good to see you again, Tommy.”

  “I told you a hundred times, they call me Thomas now.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” He looked at Eden and shrugged helplessly.

  “Good things come to those who wait,” she said. And to Thomas, “Why don’t you tell your dad about your project for the county science fair.”

  “Why don’t you tell him.”

  It would have been easy to feel sorry for the man. His every effort had been met with rejection. But looks could be deceiving.

  “Do you have any questions for Thomas, Mr. Burke?”

  “Please, call me Tom.” He helped himself to a cookie and said to his boy, “Oatmeal raisin. You remembered.”

  “Eden baked ’em ’cause she knows they’re my favorite.” He leaned forward, balanced both elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in the space between. Exactly like Nate. “I didn’t tell her they’re your favorite, too.”

  Eden chose that moment to leave the room, but heard Burke say, “So what’s the hypothesis of your science project?”

  After Thomas summarized his work, Burke shared two stories from his own school days. At the end of the hour, Eden peeked around the corner, and saw that the boy had inched to the other end of the couch, handshake distance from his dad. “Not exactly a lovefest in there, is it?” Kirk whispered.

  “Mr. Burke is trying. If he doesn’t push too hard, too fast, Thomas might just meet him halfway.”

  Kirk headed for the sunroom-turned-classrooms. “I need to set up for Monday’s lesson.”

  Earlier, she’d seen him carry in four huge chunks of modeling clay and a bag containing sculpting tools.

  “We’re making turtles,” he said from the hall. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll discover a prodigy.”

  “Is it okay with you if I send Thomas in when his dad leaves? Maybe while he’s helping you, he’ll share something that’ll help us figure out how he feels about these meetings.”

  “Sure. That’s a great idea.”

  On her way back to the living room, Eden wondered why she wanted Nate to share in this moment—what could be a major breakthrough for father and son.

  “Guess my time’s up, huh?” Burke said when she joined them.

  She smiled. “Actually, it was up half an hour ago.”

  On his feet now, the man extended a hand. “Thanks, Miss Quinn, for suggesting we meet here. Things were a whole lot more pleasant than in that dingy old office downtown.”

  “Please, call me Eden.”

  He made a move as if to tousle his boy’s hair. When Thomas pulled back, Burke tucked his fingertips into his jeans pocket.

  “Maybe next time,” she said.

  “Saturday? Same time?”

  “Sounds good. Thomas? Your dad is leaving.”

  Shrugging, he studied a hangnail. “Bye.”

  Eden walked Burke to the door. “These things take time.”

  “I know. And I know it’s my own fault that he’s behaving this way.” He faced Thomas. “See you next week, buddy.”

  Thomas only rolled his eyes.

  “I’ll call if anything changes,” Eden said.

  Lowering their voices, they exchanged a few more words, and once he was gone, Eden sat beside Thomas. “That went better than expected, didn’t it?”

  “I wish he’d quit calling me Tommy and buddy. I’ve told him I hate it, but he doesn’t care what I want.”

  “He’s trying. That’s all you can expect for the time being. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if you tried, just a little, too.”

  He was on his feet in an instant. “I don’t want things to be easy. I hate him.”

  She knew better than to say something like, “You don’t really mean that.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Does everybody think I’m stupid? I read a bunch of stuff online. I can petition the court to make sure he can’t regain custody. And if they say I have to live with him, well, I’ll just have to resort to extreme measures.”

  Extreme measures? Scary words, made more terrifying by the malicious look on his face.

  “Kirk is in the art roo
m,” she said. “Would you mind helping him set things up for Monday’s art project? It’s something to do with clay.” She forced a smile. “And turtles.”

  “Clay turtles.” He harrumphed. “Like that’s gonna make everything better.”

  He left the room, but Eden couldn’t help but notice that his fists were still balled up at his sides.

  She’d have to keep him busier than usual these next few days to keep his mind off the next visit with his dad…and lessen any chance that his heated mood would flare into something more.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NOTHING COULD HAVE surprised or hurt Thomas’s feelings more than when Eden said that his dad could come back next week.

  At first, he hadn’t wanted to pack any of the cookies she’d baked. Wasn’t it bad enough that his hair and eyes were the same color as his dad’s? Did he have to share his favorite cookie with the loser, too? Now, as his stomach rumbled, he was glad he’d taken them.

  Adults could be so arrogant. First of all, talking quietly within range of people with perfectly normal ears was just plain rude. When they started whispering out there on the porch, right beside the screen door, did they seriously think he couldn’t hear what they were saying?

  “How many more of these supervised visits before I can take him home with me?” his dad had asked.

  He’d expected Eden to say, “This is his home,” or “If you want to see him, you’ll have to see him here, at home.” When she said, “Let’s just play it by ear,” he almost wished he hadn’t been paying attention.

  They must have thought he couldn’t think for himself, either, or wasn’t smart enough to get on the computer and investigate some stuff before the visit. Stuff that would protect him in case his worst fears came true. Such as the fact that he was old enough to decide whether or not he wanted to live with his father. And the article that explained how adults could get in a lot of trouble if they took a runaway into their home.

  The law paints a thin line, the reporter wrote, between kidnapping and helping a good kid escape a bad situation. An adult who did that could be charged for getting involved. Thomas was glad he’d taken the time to read that one because Nate shouldn’t get into trouble on account of him.