Sweet Mountain Rancher

by Loree Lough

  Out in the hall, Nate pocketed his hands, and so did Thomas. They followed the shiny tiles to a dead end, where a bank of chairs overlooked the courtyard below. They sat, Thomas fiddling with a loose string on his jacket sleeve, Nate staring at the silent news broadcast on the TV hanging from the ceiling.

  “He’s gonna die, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. But I can tell you this. Everyone in that waiting room is pulling for your dad.”

  “I’m glad the cougar finally got killed.”

  “How did that happen, anyway?”

  Thomas gave one slow nod. “Well, it jumped out of the woods from way up high, like it had been in a tree. It came down real fast, making a weird, scary noise. It almost landed on my horse, but my dad yelled really loud. That’s when everybody freaked.”

  The more he said, the faster he talked. Nate opened his mouth to stop him, but Thomas rushed forward.

  “Then…then my horse reared up, and—and—and so did Dad’s, and the cat did this kind of a crazy somersault in the air.”

  He was talking with his hands now, mimicking the cat’s motions.

  “Dad…he shoved me. And I fell, hard. The cat landed over by where Dad was standing. And then, and then I looked away. I heard the stomping and turned around. But by then—”

  That must have been about the time Nate had reached them, already talking to a 911 operator as he knelt beside Burke..

  “Take care of him,” Burke had rasped. “Tell him…sorry…and…I love him.”

  Nate handed Thomas his unopened bottle and relieved him of the empty one.

  “Nate?”

  He reached across the chair arms that separated them and gave Thomas’s forearm a squeeze. “Yeah, kiddo?”

  “What did he say to you?”

  He’d thought Thomas was standing too far away to hear his dad speak. Apparently not. “He said he loves you.”

  Eyes closed, the boy said, “That’s what I thought.”

  A fat, shiny tear dropped onto the back of Nate’s hand.

  “Figures,” Thomas muttered. “Just when I get to where I almost like him, he leaves again.”

  “Have a little faith, kiddo. He’s not gone yet.”

  “Yes. He is. I can feel it.”

  Drawing the boy close, Nate searched his mind for something to say, something deep and meaningful that might offer a morsel of comfort to this confused, heartbroken kid.

  The sobs started slow and silent, then rose in volume and intensity.

  “Mr. Marshall?”

  He looked up, into the uncertain face of a uniformed officer.

  “We’d like to have a word with—”

  “Not. Now,” he snarled.

  “You’re right.” The cop put away his notebook. “This can wait.”

  Thomas sat up and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “It’s okay, Nate,” he said. “They just want to know what I saw.” He gazed up at the cop. “Right?”

  “You’re sure you’re up to this?” Nate asked.

  “Might as well get it over with,” he said dully. “Because when I go back in there, the doctor is gonna tell me that my dad is dead. And I probably won’t be able to talk at all after that.”

  The officer met Nate’s eyes. “Some kid,” he said.

  Nate would have agreed, heartily…if he thought he could get the words past the sob in his throat.

  *

  A WEEK AFTER Burke’s funeral, the state assigned a new boy to Pinewood.

  Connor Nelson, a month older than Thomas, spoke only in nods, grunts and one-word answers to specific questions. He’d been delivered, bruised and bloody, to the District 5 Police Precinct with a zipper bag safety-pinned to his jacket that held instructions for administering ADHD medications. Eden’s reputation for reaching kids like Connor preceded her, so for now, Pinewood was his home.

  Eden had taken Thomas aside and explained as much as she could about the boy’s background. “He’s terrified and probably doesn’t understand anything that’s happening to him. Can I count on you to look out for him, make sure he isn’t exposed to too much noise or activity, at least until he has a chance to adjust?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  She had a feeling it would be a good match. Connor was bright and resourceful, and although he communicated differently than Thomas, the boys had a lot in common. If they formed a bond, it would help Thomas continue to adjust to the loss of his father while helping Connor cope with his move to Pinewood.

  That very evening, she found them alone in one of the classrooms, talking quietly.

  “What happened to your face?”

  Connor put a careful fingertip to the butterfly bandage covering his eyebrow. “My mother lost her temper,” he said, running the tip of his tongue across his swollen, bruised lower lip. “But it wasn’t entirely her fault.”

  Thomas tugged gently at the sling that helped support the fingers-to-elbow cast on Connor’s left arm. “Still, she worked you over good, didn’t she? Does it hurt much?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “So is your mom a drunk or a drug addict?”

  “Depends on what she can get her hands on.”

  “Did the cops throw her in jail?”

  “They will, when she’s released from the hospital.”

  “Overdose, huh?”

  “Not this time.” He paused. “A neighbor complained about the noise. One thing led to another, and she fell down the stairs.” He heaved a shaky sigh. “This time when she gets out, they’re not gonna let me live with her.”

  Connor didn’t know it yet, but Eden had learned that in addition to beating her son, officers had found drugs and paraphernalia in their home. She faced numerous criminal charges and the possibility of decades in prison. Eden didn’t think she’d ever get used to hearing stories like Connor’s.

  Connor faced Thomas. “So I hear your dad died couple weeks ago?”

  Thomas nodded, and recited a coolly impersonal version of what had happened.

  “So he’s a hero, then,” Connor observed.

  “My dad?” Thomas harrumphed. “Please.”

  Connor crossed the room and grabbed a battered copy of Webster’s and read the definition. “Says here that a hero is a person admired for fine or noble qualities, ‘…as in putting one’s life in jeopardy to save another, such as police officers, firefighters and soldiers.’”

  He closed the book and returned to his seat beside Thomas. “I wrote a report about human DNA…got an A on it, too. It stands for deoxyribonucleic acid, the molecule that contains the genetic code of organisms.”

  Thomas slapped a palm to his forehead and whispered, “Oy. Not another Luke.”

  “Who’s Luke?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll meet him soon enough. I’ll give you a pair of my earplugs.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s like a walking Wikipedia. He never shuts up.”

  Connor put his fingertips together, raising and flattening them, like a spider doing push-ups on a mirror. “So anyway, like it or not, you’re preprogrammed to be like your dad. You’re gonna be a hero, too. Nothing you can do about it.”

  Thomas snorted. “Yeah, well, my dad was a drunk and a drug addict, and he served time in prison. Does that mean I’ll do all that, too?”

  Connor’s brow furrowed as he considered the question. After a while, he said, “Guess that’ll depend on the choices you make.”

  “How’d you get so smart?”

  Connor sighed. “My IQ is 162. I’m not bragging. It’s just a fact. I can’t help being smart any more than you can help being a hero. Or, more accurately, becoming one someday.”

  Eden watched as Thomas slowly nodded, absorbing information that allowed him to love and respect his father despite his past.

  Thomas slid an arm across Connor’s shoulders. “Y’know, you’re not so bad. Let’s get out of this stuffy classroom.”

  “You should know that I don’t like being touched.

  “Bu
nk,” Thomas said, giving him a sideways hug. “I’m not crazy about it, either. But since smart is in your DNA, you can figure out a way to deal with it. You know the old saying ‘practice makes perfect’? Well, it’s true. And you probably shouldn’t put it off, because a lot of pushing and shoving goes on around here. It’s the guys’ way of saying they like you. Or they’re mad at you. Or whatever.”

  They were walking toward the door. Eden didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping, but she didn’t want to miss a word of this, either.

  “I appreciate the advice, Thomas. And just so you know? I was right about you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, by alerting me to normal behavior here at Pinewood, you saved me from being razzed by the guys.”

  Thomas was nodding again. Then suddenly, he laughed. For the first time since Burke appeared—and left—his life, he laughed as if he meant it.

  “I hear ya, genius. But it’s not heroism, like rescuing somebody or defending a village. That was just one friend helping another.”

  “Same thing, if you ask me.”

  “Not to blow your theory, but I have a confession. I wasn’t always nice. It’s something I learned from hanging around with an old friend.”

  “Does he live here? Because I think I’d like him, too.”

  “You’ll meet him, but he doesn’t live here. His name is Nate Marshall. He’s a cowboy.”

  “Interesting. A cowboy hero…”

  Eden ducked into the kitchen so they wouldn’t catch her listening in. It felt good knowing that Thomas would be all right. That Connor would, too. And to think she’d almost decided against putting them together!

  She was filling her Orioles mug with coffee when they entered the kitchen. It was the mug Nate always reached for when he was here.

  “Hey, Eden,” Thomas said.

  “Hey, yourself. I hid some cookies in the microwave…”

  “Awesome. Thanks.” Thomas grabbed the plate and carried it to the table.

  She pretended to focus solely on chopping vegetables for tonight’s salad.

  “Okay if I ask a personal question?” Connor asked.

  Thomas poured two glasses of milk. “Depends…”

  “Which tendency is your ‘thing’?”

  “I might tell you if I had a clue what you’re talking about,” he said, delivering the drinks.

  Connor snickered quietly. “My ‘thing’ is electronics. Gets me into trouble. A lot. Because electricity can be dangerous.”

  It was an important detail, and Eden wondered why it hadn’t been included in the boy’s file.

  Thomas nodded thoughtfully. “Guess you’d say my ‘thing’,” he said, biting into a cookie, “is fire.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IT HAD BEEN a gray and miserable week, with sleety rain and biting gusts that twirled around the house like a giant squid, knocking on windows and rattling doors. The wind shook the satellite dish out of alignment, too, giving the boys little to do after school but read and watch DVDs they’d already seen dozens of times. After four straight days of that, they were only too eager to head for the Double M for Thanksgiving.

  A glance in the rearview mirror assured Eden that for the time being, Thomas was fine. But everyone handled grief differently. Some by putting their feelings out there every chance they got, others by not handling it at all. Thomas was one of the latter. Like a human chameleon, Thomas could mask his emotions. The night he’d run away to Nate’s was a prime example. Despite having more or less forced an impromptu session on him after his father left that afternoon, he’d seemed rational to her. But then, he’d been in her care long enough to anticipate what she’d ask and deliver the expected answer. Going forward, she intended to shake things up, not only with Thomas, but with all the boys.

  “Why are you doing all the work, Eden?” DeShawn asked.

  It was a good question. When she’d heard that Nate’s mom sprained her ankle, offering to pitch in seemed the right thing to do. If she’d known his aunts and female cousins wouldn’t share in the meal preparations, she might not have been so quick to volunteer.

  On second thought, she probably would have; the weather would force everyone to stay indoors, and all that time alone in the kitchen would be so much easier than making small talk with his family.

  “Yeah, what’s up with that?” Devon added.

  “Nate’s mom sprained her ankle, and his aunts and cousins…they have other stuff to do.”

  “We could help,” Ben said.

  Smiling, Eden said, “We’ll see.”

  “So how big of a turkey does it take to feed fifty-seven people?” Greg asked.

  A moment of silence was followed by Luke’s explanation.

  “An average-sized adult eats approximately one point five pounds of turkey,” he said. “Which means the Marshall family will need to provide Eden with eighty-five point five pounds of meat to cook. The largest turkey on record weighed eighty-six pounds with his feathers on and his innards in.” He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “So the question, Greg, is how many turkeys—plural—does it take to feed fifty-seven people. And the answer, based on the fact that the average supermarket turkey weighs sixteen pounds, is three point five-six-two.”

  “Where does he get that stuff?” Cody asked.

  “Same place I get it,” Connor replied. “We read.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Marshall has everything well in hand,” Eden said.

  DeShawn said, “She can’t do much with a sprained ankle, though.”

  “You’re right. Sometimes they’re more difficult to cope with than a break.”

  “Yeah,” Cody agreed. “You can walk on a cast.”

  And he would know, since he’d arrived at Latimer House wearing one.

  “So you gonna do everything, since Miz Marshall can’t stand?” Ben wanted to know.

  “I’ll help any way I can, and I’m sure if I need you, so will all of you.”

  They responded with feigned groans, and she looked into the rearview to say, “Spare me the theatrics. The Marshalls have been very good to us, and we’re going to show them how grateful we are.”

  “Even if we aren’t?”

  “I’m surprised at you, Nick. Are you forgetting that Mrs. Marshall has baked chocolate cupcakes every time we’ve visited since she found out they’re your favorite?”

  “Aw, gimme a break. Everybody likes chocolate cupcakes. She didn’t make ’em just for me.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, but just in case, Eden said, “Let’s table the attitudes, okay? It’s no trouble to turn this van around and drive straight back home.”

  Their voices rose in protest, telling her they’d be on their best behavior at the ranch, and upon arrival, the boys quietly settled into their appointed rooms at Nate’s house. Carl invited them to tag along as he inspected fences, and after they left, Eden started a big pot of chicken soup. While it simmered, she baked brownies and pies.

  With her to-do list complete, Eden tucked a tablet and pen into her jacket pocket, stepped into her boots and headed out to the barn, thinking to make a list of things she could do out there tomorrow to get it ready for the guests. The sun had set and it was beginning to get dark, but she had no problem making her way down the flagstone path, thanks to patio lights that lined the walk.

  Eden wouldn’t have needed them, though, if she’d followed the sound of her boys’ voices. She found them inside, cheerfully moving tables under Carl’s supervision. But the foreman had about as much knack for decorating as Nate’s horse.

  “Let me help with this,” she told him. “I’m sure you have better things to do than rearrange furniture.”

  He gave her hand a grateful squeeze. “You’re a lifesaver, girl.” Carl borrowed her pen and scribbled his cell number on her pad. “If you need anything, call.”

  She wondered if Nate had put him in charge of things like tables and helpers, or if, like herself, he’d volunteered. And where was he,
anyway?

  “Nate’s on his way to Fort Collins.”

  Was she so transparent that he could read her face? “I thought Travis was riding home with a classmate.”

  “I don’t write the news,” Carl joked, heading for the door, “I just deliver it.”

  Travis was safer with Nate behind the wheel than a boy his own age. How typical of Nate to change the plans without so much as running the idea by her.

  She sounded ungrateful and petty, even in her own head. If she’d grown up under the thumb of an angry, controlling man, her attitude might make sense. Except for losing her parents, her childhood had been idyllic. She blamed those tense, infuriating months with Jake for her irrational fear that Nate was trying to control her. The problem would vanish, if only she could stop comparing the two.

  If wasn’t as easy to dismiss other things she’d been doing—and saying—lately. She made a slow turn in the center of the barn, where recessed ceiling fixtures winked from massive ceiling beams and two-story windows glittered with a thousand tiny lights. The Denver Post’s coverage of Zach and Summer’s wedding had shown a fun and casual hoedown reception. Readers had seen an entirely different side of the space in the Denver Life Magazine spread, which concentrated on the glitz and glamour of the elegant decorations. It was a bit of a letdown, stepping inside and realizing the Marshalls didn’t decorate as elaborately for the Thanksgiving holiday.

  Eden had an idea, and dialed Carl’s number. “I hate to bother you so soon, but I was wondering…do the Marshalls hire caterers for most functions?”

  “Yes’m, they do.”

  “What about casual family get-togethers? I’m guessing they have their own tablecloths and dinnerware for those, right?”

  “Yes’m, in the kitchen. Just go through the door to the right of the stage. You should find everything you need in there. Anything else?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is something I’ve been wondering. Where are all the Marshall women?”

  He hesitated, as if searching for an explanation. “Everybody went to Denver to pick up stuff for Summer’s baby shower.”

  “Goodness. They don’t believe in waiting until the last minute, do they?”