“Did your real mom cook and bake?” Gus asked.
“Yes, Miss Gus, she did,” he said, savoring the warm tartness of the apples and cinnamon along with the tangy sharp cheddar melting in his mouth. “My dad worked the ranch and she sewed our clothes, did the washing and kept us and the ranch house together.”
Val heard the far-off dreaminess in Griff’s lowered voice, and found herself hungry to know more about him. He seemed attuned to helping out women in the kitchen, which surprised her. Looking up, she asked, “Did your mom make you boys work in the house? Dry dishes? Clean up the table up after dinner?”
“Yep, she did,” Griff fondly recalled. “My brother and I were like wriggling puppies growing up. Mom harnessed all that energy. We learned to dry dishes standing on top of a stool at the kitchen sink as she washed them and handed them to us. Slade hated dish duty, but he liked dusting and sweeping. So we made an agreement to each do the chores we preferred.”
“Did she teach you to cook?” Gus demanded.
“No, but I wish she had. Slade liked to cook, so he was always in there watching Mom. Sometimes, she’d let Slade make chocolate-chip cookies.”
Val saw the gleam in his green eyes as he spoke. There was happiness lurking in the depths of them. And for whatever reason, it made Val feel good. To her utter surprise, an ache centered in her lower body. She couldn’t help but stare at his strong mouth. Griff smiled often. He reacted to their questions and took them seriously. Part of her was relieved to realize Griff wasn’t one of those proud cowboys. They were such a pain in the butt to deal with.
“I preferred being outside helping our father,” he continued. “Slade was always mesmerized by recipes and mixing ingredients together to create new things. Mom swore he’d grow up to be a chemist.” He chuckled fondly over those memories.
“What did you do?”
“I liked riding, Miss Gus. Our father gave us each a mustang gelding when we were three years old. I rode my horse as much as I could.”
“That’s good.” Gus spooned into her dish. “Because you’re going to get a lot of saddle time around here. We have one real nice quarter horse and an Appaloosa left. I’m sure Val will assign you one of ’em tomorrow.”
“I will,” Val promised. Their black Appaloosa, Freckles, had a white blanket with black spots over its rump. Griff would be well matched with the gelding, as it stood sixteen hands tall.
“I think you’re gonna be good for the Bar H, Mr. McPherson,” Gus said.
“Could you call me Griff?” He knew ranchers were always respectful and would call a person by their surname, unless otherwise asked.
“Why sure I can.” Gus smiled. “Griff’s a good, strong name. Why’d your parents decide to call you that?”
“My dad got to name the firstborn, Slade, but the agreement was my mom would get to name the second twin. She loved King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. She was really into dragons and griffins in literature, so she called me Griff.”
“Griffins were often found on the shields of royalty,” Gus noted with pride. “They had the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle. In mythology, they were considered heroic, courageous, and represented strength.”
Smiling faintly, Griff was impressed with her knowledge of the ancient symbolic animal. “My mother shared many stories about griffins with me. She said that they would find gold in the mountains and make their nest out of the metal. I remember she told me that I’d grow up and be very rich someday.” His heart filled with pain. “And she was right about that. When I worked at my uncle’s company, I was worth millions. I wish she’d lived to see that.”
Val frowned and said nothing. Seeing the anguish in his eyes, she felt badly for Griff. No one should have their parents torn away from them.
Gus sighed. “I can’t even begin to know how it would feel to lose millions.”
“I stupidly tied everything up in derivatives. My uncle was always chiding me to put a chunk of it into the blue-chip stocks, instead. I didn’t listen.” Griff shrugged. “If I had, I wouldn’t be flat broke as I am today.”
Val absorbed the pain and the frustration embedded in his deep voice. When she glanced up, Griff was frowning down at the half-eaten dessert in front of him. She could see he was thinking about the past, about the horrendous mistakes he’d made. But didn’t everyone make mistakes? Oh, yes. Everyone made plenty. But to lose millions? Val couldn’t fathom that. She cleared her throat. “Maybe this is your chance to rebuild your life back here in Wyoming.”
Griff caught and held her blue gaze. For once, the walls that kept him from reading Val’s face weren’t up. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m hoping I can find the fabled gold of the griffin here, where I was born.”
Chuckling indulgently, Gus said, “Oh, I think you have what it takes to be successful, Griff. Now, your focus is different. I don’t know too many wranglers who get rich, but over time, you can build a nice nest egg.”
“That’s my plan.” Finishing off the dessert, Griff sat back and rubbed his belly. “That was really good pie. Thanks, Miss Gus. It’s almost like I’m home again...”
“Well, get used it, Griff.”
Val rose. “Will you help me clear the table, Mr. McPherson?”
Inwardly, Griff’s heart sank. He’d wanted Val to call him by his first name, too. The set look on her face and her tight jaw told him she was going to continue to keep him at arm’s length, though. “Of course.” He scooted the chair away from the table. “It’s the least I can do for such a great five-star meal.” When he aimed a smile over at Gus, she blushed like a teenager. Griff wanted to reach out and carefully hug the elder.
“Griff, you’re a delight,” Gus crowed. “I’m happy to see you here with us.”
As Griff thanked her and carried the empty bowls over to the sink, he wondered if Val felt the same way.
CHAPTER FIVE
“DAMMIT, ZACH, WORK faster!” Curt Downing’s fine, thin nostrils flared as he stood on the wooden dock at the Horse Emporium. The twenty-year-old kid, still gawky and pathetically thin, wrestled with an eighty-pound bale of hay. The bale was winning. There was no use trying to make a cowboy out of this kid. Placing his hands on his hips as he watched his three wranglers working efficiently to transfer a hundred bales on the waiting flatbed, Curt fumed. If he didn’t need Zach Mason, the grandson of Iris Mason, owner of the Elk Horn Ranch, he’d have fired his ass a long time ago. But the kid was useful to him in other ways.
With the two hooks, Zach hurled the bale onto the flatbed where another wrangler stood impatiently waiting for it. Releasing his heavy load, he saw Downing glare at him. Zach wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He hated what he was doing. Shuffling back inside the huge two-story barn to get another bale, he wished he was in his rented room in town, smoking a joint. Marijuana soothed and calmed him. His heart still ached, missing his mother, Allison. She was in a federal prison, serving out a twenty-five-year term for trying to kill Iris Mason, his grandmother, and Kam Trayhern. Kam, his stepfather Rudd’s illegitimate daughter, had come home to claim her inheritance. Allison had seen her, as well as Iris with whom Kam was bonding, as a threat and tried to have them murdered to save the inheritance for her own kids: himself and his sister Regan. He still blamed all of them for his mother being torn from him.
Stopping at a table, Zach grabbed a bottle of water, opened it and slugged down its tepid contents. His large Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly. Tossing the empty container into a barrel next to the table, he pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. The prickly alfalfa hay nettled his sensitive skin, turning it a splotchy red.
Zach knew he wasn’t cut out for ranch life, even though his stepfather and grandmother owned the largest and most prosperous ranch in the valley. But he wasn’t from their bloodline. His mother had be
en a Hollywood star. And his sister, Regan, who lived a block away from him in town, took after Allison. He tried to forget his promiscuous mother had had sex with an A-list Hollywood director. That was his real father. But Zacharius Blanchard refused to accept his illegitimate son. He refused to even talk to Zach. That hurt. Why did his Hollywood star mother have to screw with so many different men? His older sister, Regan, had a filthy rich film producer for a father. Patrick Dobson refused to acknowledge her as his daughter, too. What was wrong with these irresponsible bastards?
Until recently, Zach’s mother had led him to believe that Rudd Mason was his real father, and in the end, Rudd had turned against Allison and helped send her to prison. Damn him. Damn the whole, stinking lot. Again, Zach wished he was back in his room smoking pot and zoning out of his godforsaken, miserable existence.
“Hurry up!” Downing shouted into the barn. “You’re falling behind, Mason. Get a move on!”
“Screw you,” Zach muttered. Several wranglers, plus the hired help at Horse Emporium, were bustling like busy bees all around him. Not for the first time, Zach wished his real father would acknowledge him, because he was rich and could pay for his drugs. Then, he wouldn’t have to work for Downing, who was a son of a bitch to please.
Curt Downing stood on the dock but his attention turned from the lazy kid to notice his sister, Regan Mason, driving into the parking lot. Unlike her drugged-up brother, she was sharp and didn’t touch drugs. Regan had red hair like Zach, only hers was a dull red in comparison to his carrottop color. The very sight of her annoyed Downing, although he did like her from one standpoint. Regan was in her late twenties and had a killer body like her mother. Allison had known how to use sex to get what she wanted. What did Regan want? Downing tried to figure it out as he watched her climb out of her dark blue Chevy pickup and head directly toward the loading platform.
She was tall with full breasts, wide hips and long legs. Even though she wore a white cotton blouse and Levi’s, it did not detract from her sensual beauty. Downing saw the glinting look of a feral predator in her blue eyes as she quickly climbed the steps up to the bustling platform. Spotting him, Regan made a beeline for Curt.
“Is Zach here?” she demanded without preamble.
Curt nodded. “Yeah, but he’s busy earning his monthly paycheck.”
Regan disliked the millionaire rancher and her voice didn’t hide it. “I need to see him.”
“He’s working,” Downing said in a growl, glaring down at her. He saw the petulant set of her full mouth. Her red hair was in a single braid and hung down her long, curved back.
“When does he get a break, then?” she demanded, meeting his narrowed brown eyes.
Downing snorted. “He’s lucky to even have a break. Your candy-assed brother is weak and shuffles around like the pothead he is. For every bale of hay he manages to cart to the truck, my other wranglers have already put three of ’em in.”
Regan shot Downing a dirty look. He might be a tall, good-looking red-haired man in his midthirties, but his arrogance rubbed her the wrong way. He stood with his hands on his hips like he was lord of all he surveyed. “I should be grateful to you, Curt. You gave my brother a job when no one else would.” Before the ordeal with their mother, Zach had been holed up in his room smoking pot every day. He never took part in ranching. Even she knew he was lazy and spaced-out. But he was her half brother and she loved him.
Curt preened a little under Regan’s husky voice. He’d been trying to bed this woman for ages, but she always evaded him. “He does his best,” he said, giving her a slight smile. He knew from Regan’s many visits during Zach’s shifts that she was overly protective of her druggie stepbrother. When word got out in Jackson Hole about the Mason family’s poisonous, dysfunctional relationships, the town reeled in shock. Now, Regan and Zach lived in town and their every move was scrutinized by the citizenry. “So, what’s happening in your world?”
“I’m working on a Hollywood movie script.”
Curt was sure that Regan would send it to her estranged father, even though he refused to acknowledge her as his daughter.
“Word on the street is that you’ve written four scripts and all of them have been turned down by everyone in Hollywood.” Curt softened his tone a little. “Hollywood is the hardest place in the world to break into.”
Wrapping her arms around her chest, Regan muttered, “I’m not giving up. Once I break in, I’m leaving this place.”
Zach came staggering out with another bale between the hooks. He saw Regan, perked up and smiled a hello in her direction.
Regan lifted her hand. She watched her brother barely able to handle the bale. The other wranglers, all fit men in their twenties, were hustling back and forth with ease. Her heart sank as she watched her weak brother finally drop the bale onto the flatbed. “Mind if I take five minutes with him, Curt? I’m leaving unexpectedly for a job interview and he needs to know I’m leaving for a week.”
Curt didn’t want her hatred. And God knew, Regan hated with great ease. “Sure, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” She walked quickly toward Zach.
Standing there watching his minions work, Curt felt victorious. The world was literally in his hands. He felt strong and invincible. He had a damn good crew over at Ace Trucking who were very well paid to receive and help distribute the drugs he ran to six different states around Wyoming. Pride sizzled through Curt. He laughed to himself because he was the regional drug lord and not one bastard suspected him. Such was his stealth and cunning at keeping it a buried secret here in Jackson Hole. Everyone looked up to him. He was a successful rancher and an astute businessman. And he could have any woman he wanted. Except, perhaps, Regan Mason. Eyeing her, Curt promised himself to relentlessly pursue her until he got her into his bed.
Curt spotted another flatbed truck pulling into the gravel yard. The truck was at least fifteen years old, a beat-up red Ford that had certainly seen better days. Scowling, he recognized the driver: Griff McPherson. But who was the woman with him? Curt couldn’t place her. His focus shifted to the flatbed now backed up next to his rig.
“Well, well,” he said to himself as he saw Griff get out. “He’s finally got a real job….”
Val eased out of the truck. The door squealed as she shut it. Turning around and seeing Curt Downing on the platform, she frowned. Great. She recognized his features from many years ago, and since her return Gus had been warning her about him. He’d been the rebellious son of Red Downing who had taken over his parents’ ranch after their deaths. Since then, Gus had told her, he’d become a local kingpin and made it known to everyone how filthy rich he was. With so many ranchers struggling just to make ends meet, Val couldn’t stand to see the arrogant look on his face. It turned her stomach.
She walked around the front of the truck to Griff.
“You start putting bales on the truck. I’ll pay Andy for them in the store.”
Griff nodded. He knew the way things worked around here. “No problem,” he said as he tugged on his elk-skin gloves and scooped up the two hooks from behind the seat. Val was all business. She hadn’t talked much on their drive to the Emporium. While he wished she’d be a little warmer, Griff understood better why she continued to be standoffish.
Looking up at the platform that swirled with wranglers, Griff saw Curt standing off to one side. The red-haired cowboy stared belligerently back at him. In addition to the FBI fingering him as a suspect, Griff disliked Downing because he was a cheat and a liar. He’d heard from Slade’s wife, Jordana, that he’d tried to hit Thor with a crop during the endurance contest. Downing had forced her off the trail and was well-known for such underhanded tricks. Word had it that other endurance riders had been at the end of his attacks, too. And Downing always did his dirty work out of the sight of judges so no one had proof. And in the world of endurance riding, it had to be seen to be believed
by the judges.
Mounting the stairs, Griff saw Downing’s brown eyes go steely. He was Slade’s brother and there was automatic hate between them as a result. Griff had never done anything to Downing, but this man couldn’t separate them. He was a McPherson therefore, to be distrusted. Griff met his hard gaze with one of his own as he stepped onto the busy platform. He wasn’t going to make small talk with this bastard.
“Hey, McPherson, you finally get a gig?” Downing asked in a pleasant tone.
Griff halted about six feet away from the rancher. “Don’t you have better things to do, Downing?” He saw Downing’s mouth curve into a rueful smile.
“No, not really. Looks like you got a red-haired filly in that truck. Who is she?”
Anger moved through Griff. He saw the arrogant smile increase across Downing’s full lips. “That’s Val Hunter, owner of the Bar H.”
Brows rising, Downing said, “What?”
Seeing shock register on the man’s face, Griff moved past him and got on with the business of hauling fifty bales of grass hay to his flatbed. Griff figured few people knew Val had returned home. Chuckling to himself, he hooked the first bale and wrestled it out to the flatbed. He was sure Gwen Garner, the owner of the quilt store, would know. That was the place to go if anyone wanted to find out what was going on in Jackson Hole. He wondered if Downing would take a drive over there to talk with her. Probably.
Val emerged from the Horse Emporium. The sun was warm upon her shoulders. She looked toward the hay platform, filled with hardworking, sweaty men. What she didn’t like seeing was Curt Downing. He was such a pain in the ass.
Val retrieved her elk-skin gloves from the truck, intending to arrange the bales Griff had delivered to the truck.
“Hey!” Downing called, walking over to the edge of the platform.
Val looked up and frowned. “Yes?” she called, pulling on her gloves.
The Wrangler Page 6