Thankfully, he’d found a good place to hide should someone—like a nosy reporter—come looking. Hopefully, they’d stop first at his old ranch in Texas, where he and sometimes Manuel had spent their off time between events. Rafe was renting it out to one of his bull-riding friends in favor of motels and life in the fast lane and hadn’t lived there in nearly a year.
From the looks of it, that life had sped by him, leaving him in the dust. Or at least in a brace above his knee, an arm sling, and a very uncomfortable neck brace. Stefanie had the gall to get him a wheelchair, and he’d nearly rolled himself right off the porch when he arrived back at the Silver Buckle three days ago.
However, he couldn’t deny that coming back to the Silver Buckle had been the right thing to do. Stefanie had been correct in reading his need to recuperate, find a quiet place. The ranch seemed unchanged in the five years since he’d left, with its simple, two-story log home, the barns for the horses and calves, and the fences that corralled the horses. Even the carved Silver Buckle sign over the long drive had waved in the breeze, welcoming him back as if he’d left yesterday.
Only the absence of his father, leaning against the porch, arms folded in silent greeting, evidenced the changes on the ranch. Although Rafe had been back for the funeral, he hadn’t expected the silence that echoed in the house.
Or in his heart.
Wheeling himself out to the porch, he sat inhaling the breeze filled with the smells of sage and alfalfa from the fields. The Silver Buckle, eighty thousand acres of homesteaded land, sat in the shadow of the Custer National Forest, and from there, hills and meadows rolled out until they spilled into the hazy Bighorn Mountains to the west. The heifers that hadn’t calved lazed about the winter field, just down from the house, their tails swishing off flies, unaware of their impending doom. The new calves had already been rounded up, castrated, tagged, branded, and sent to Kelly’s field for the summer. Rafe remembered well the roundups from his youth and his overwhelming pride at wrestling calves into the dirt, hoping to hear his father’s praise.
It seemed Bishop always had plenty for Nick.
Rafe ran his hand through his hair. He needed a cut and a shave, but he wasn’t planning on having any interviews—at least for a few weeks. He tested his shoulder and felt hope at the minimal pain that spiked up his arm. So maybe he wasn’t quite ready for a ride yet. But give him a couple of weeks to recuperate . . .
He spotted a plume of dust kicking up and searched for the source—Andy’s dirty pickup headed back from town with the part for the carburetor. Rafe had spent the morning supervising from the porch as the two hands had tried to put the tractor back together.
A Jeep trailed Andy. The vehicles turned up the Silver Buckle drive.
Rafe sat in the chair, feeling almost defiant. He’d had more than one fan track him down at events, his home, even his hospital rooms. If they were toting home a fan, she’d see exactly the kind of hero she worshiped: Broken. Defeated. A sham.
Andy parked near the barn.
Quint got out of the passenger side and waved at Rafe. “Someone’s looking for you.”
Rafe didn’t smile as the Jeep slowed and stopped in front of the porch. A pretty brunette sat behind the wheel, but he refused to be impressed. Instead he raised his chin.
She got out of the Jeep. She was tall and curvy, with brown hair that fell past her shoulders. Except for the aviator sunglasses, she looked like she’d just stepped out of some Western catalog with her jeans, flowery shirt, and bright red boots. Apparently, her version of Old West mystique.
A moment passed between them when he felt sure she expected him to greet her. He said nothing.
She stared at him, probably comparing the image before her with his most recent appearance in America, Now! Then she blew out a breath and worked up a smile.
He must really look rough.
“Hi,” she said.
Rafe would have nodded, but his neck brace kept him from being that aloof, so he said, “Hello.”
She edged around the Jeep, holding on to her handbag with what seemed like a bull-rider’s grip. She looked him over with another long perusal.
Yeah, that’s right. This is what happens when you fall off a bull.
“You okay?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look okay?”
Maybe she was a reporter, wanting an exclusive on how it felt to watch your career vanish, along with your hard work and reason for living. Couldn’t she see that he just wanted to be left alone, to wallow in his shattered life in solitude?
“No, I guess not,” she said softly in answer to his question. She looked past him, toward Andy’s truck. “Oh, boy.”
Not quite the response he expected. “Something I can help you with?”
She tightened her jaw, and for a second he regretted his tone.
“I want . . .” She cleared her throat, then looked down at a torn piece of paper, as if it held a script. Then she folded it and slipped it into her back pocket with a small shake of her head. She looked up. “I know I didn’t call in advance, but I was hoping . . .”
“Oh, c’mon—just ask.”
“Huh?” She took off her sunglasses and stared at him. Big, innocent hazel eyes, hair tickled by the wind.
“Fine, you can have an autograph. But then I’m done. No interviews, no pictures. You leave, okay?”
Something sparked in her eyes. “I don’t think you underst—”
“Listen—” what more did she want? a date?—“if you can’t already tell, I’m out of the game. No more riding for me. I’m really sorry you came all this way, but I’m not in an interview mood. Now, I’ll sign whatever you have . . . just don’t tell anyone how you found me, okay?”
She stared at him a moment longer, and then anger sparked in her eyes. “Wow, you’re really a piece of work.”
Everything inside him tightened as if he’d seen his future flash before him. But he hadn’t ridden bulls since he was a kid without learning to hide his wounds. “Don’t you worry, sweet thing. I’ll be back in the game in no time.”
“I’m not your sweet thing.”
And right then, like he’d been kicked in the head, he heard the voice, the one that had been haunting him. The one that still made him feel like he’d up and run off with her daddy’s gold.
“It’s you.”
Katherine Breckenridge—she looked a lot less like the snarling coyote he’d imagined on the other end of the phone and more like a spooked filly.
As if to confirm his accusation, she turned as red as his father’s Ford pickup. “Okay, I thought I could do this, but you’re . . . such a . . . such a . . . I knew I shouldn’t have felt sorry for you. You really are as nasty in person as you sound on the phone. Are all bull riders jerks, or do you have the corner on that market?”
So much for spooked filly. “I can’t believe you had the gall to fly all the way—”
“Drove. I drove.”
“Drove all the way from New York just to—”
“Actually, I flew to Rapid City and—”
“I don’t care how you got here. You get back inside that Jeep, turn around, and head east.” And don’t look at me that way. He stood, hoping to put oomph to his words.
“If you’d only listen—”
“I’m calling the cops.” He turned, bumping into his wheelchair. Pain shot into his brain, and he started to fall. His hand went out, hoping to catch the wheelchair, but it rolled back, and he missed.
He landed on his knee, his shoulder, his back. It slapped the breath straight out of him. He lay there, openmouthed, feeling as if he’d been kicked by a bull.
“Are you okay?” Katherine Breckenridge stood over him, with what looked like real concern on her face. “Let me help—”
“Go away!” Where the volume came from, he didn’t know, but he pushed her hand away. “Get away from me!”
She recoiled. “You’re hurt—”
“You just figured that out?” He pulled himself u
p, gritted his teeth as he staggered to stand.
“I just . . . I thought—”
“I’m flat broke. So you can do your vulture picking somewhere else.” He stood, grabbing the porch beam to keep from falling.
“Can I help you?” Stefanie rounded the corner of the house.
Katherine glared at Rafe. Then she smiled and turned to Stefanie. “Yes, please. I was wondering if I can hire someone to show me ranch life.”
Rafe glanced at Stefanie. “Hey, she’s not—”
Stefanie held up a hand, wearing the same expression she’d had when she volunteered him to take her best friend to junior prom. “Yes,” she said with a slow smile, “I think we can accommodate you.”
John walked into the diner at his usual time, thirty minutes before closing, slid onto his regular stool, and ordered his usual, a Reuben.
Lolly gave him a smile before making change for the customer at the counter.
He’d lost count of how many years he’d been doing this, helping Lolly sweep up, then walking her over to her trailer, where they’d sit under the stars while she shared gossip she’d heard that day. He’d put his arm around her and lull himself into thinking that they were really married, that she wouldn’t eventually shrug out of his embrace and disappear into her trailer while he drove home alone.
Back in the days when he had high hopes for them, he’d steal a kiss or two. Lolly had never truly yielded to him, however. But, strangely, although he spent quite a few years trying to stamp out the flame of illicit rumor, she did nearly nothing to defend her honor.
As if she didn’t care.
It took him years to understand why and to accept the fact that she’d probably never say yes to his proposal. So John bought Reuben sandwiches instead.
She set down a piece of rhubarb pie in front of him and poured him a cup of coffee. “Did you get the truck fixed?”
“Nope,” he said, cutting the pie. “Fixed the hole in the fence, though.”
They could be talking about the weather for all the intimacy of their conversation. Or maybe, in ways, their conversation resembled true marriage, caring about the intricacies of the day, embracing the mundane, bearing witness to each other’s lives.
“Lolly had some interesting company today,” Egger Dugan said from the other end of the counter. He had the uncanny ability to know everything that happened in Phillips within moments, and Lolly’s Diner was his personal dispatch center. He started his mornings with a cup of stiff coffee and ended his days eating the leftover pie. John had never seen him out of his coveralls and oily canvas jacket.
This time, however, Lolly didn’t bite. In fact, she ignored Egger, pocketing a tip. “Want fries with that sandwich, John?”
Had he ever wanted fries with his Reuben? He frowned at her, trying to read her eyes, but they avoided his.
She took a washcloth and cleanser and went out to clean the booths.
John turned to Egger, raised one brow.
Egger took the bait. “Cute thing with a New York accent came in here. Recognized Bobby Russell’s autographed picture to his sister.” He glanced at Lolly. “I didn’t know ole Bobby had a sister.”
Lolly didn’t even look up as she scrubbed tables.
Yeah, Bobby had a sister all right. A pang went through John at Lolly’s obvious efforts to act as if the information didn’t hit her like a two-by-four. “Who was she?”
“Richard Breckenridge’s niece, I guess.” Egger finished his coffee. “Went up to the Silver Buckle, thinking they was still running the dude ranch.” He laughed, a deep rumble that ended in a cough. “Remember the trouble they had last summer, trying to start a dude ranch? Betcha Nick takes one look at her and sends her packin’.”
John gave him a look. Last summer had been different circumstances—and Nick had changed a lot since then. He didn’t miss the sharp look Lolly gave Egger at his prophecy.
Then she went back to spraying, washing, cleaning. As though her past hadn’t come knocking on the door today and shaken her world.
How John longed to get up, take the cleanser from her hands, and wrap his arms around her. To tell her that everything was going to be okay. That her demons weren’t so huge that they couldn’t be tamed by the right force in her life.
But he didn’t. Instead he sat there and watched the woman he loved carry her burdens alone, hating himself for not being able to say the words he could so easily type on the page.
Lolly reached into a booth and came out with a book. “I can’t believe Libby. She was glued to this thing for three days, then leaves it here.” She tossed the book onto the counter, where it landed next to John. He saw the cover, well-worn, and hid a smile. At least someone was reading Unshackled.
He picked it up, flipping it open, enjoying reading the words instead of anyalzing them.
WYOMING, 1935
Mary stood at her daughter’s bedroom window, watching the sky darken, wishing it would finally rain. Storms like these scared her the most. Not because of the dust that would pile up against the house and coat her clothes, her skin, the inside of her ears and nose, but because they frightened Rosie. And then she would cry.
Mary picked up her two-year-old and wrapped Rosie’s legs around her waist, holding her head against her body, wishing she had more padding on her to soften the curves. Wishing that, when her daughter held tight, it didn’t make Mary bite her lip to hold back the cry of pain. Apparently her ribs hadn’t yet healed.
Thunder pealed across the sky, and Rosie trembled.
“Shh.” Mary rocked the child, smoothing her coarse hair. Please let Matthias be so soundly drunk that he won’t hear the floorboards creaking above him. She’d left him where he lay on the sofa, thankful he’d fallen there last night and not in their bed.
Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to cry. She’d cried enough for three lifetimes. And tears wouldn’t water the land, feed their cattle, or bring Charlie back. She didn’t have time for grief, with the cooking and cleaning and farm chores. She stayed busy by choice. It kept her out of the house.
Sometimes, more and more often, it brought her into conversation with Jonas. Yesterday he’d helped her mound the potatoes in her garden. He sang as he worked, usually hymns, sometimes songs of his own making, and as usual, his voice soothed the wounds inside her.
For all the years I thought I was worth nothin’,
For all the times that I gave up on me,
For all the fears I hid that kept me from believing it could be,
Could I be worth the love that sets me free?
Sometimes just humming those words filled her with hope that she shouldn’t give up. That someday she, too, might be free.
She had no doubts Jonas had heard the shouting last night, had seen the fresh bruises on her arms, her chin. She’d long ago stopped trying to hide them. He’d become her protector of sorts, helping her with chores, and twice, running out to the field, alerting her that Matthias was on his way home. More than once, he’d even knocked on the door, hat in hand, intercepting Matthias’s savage mood.
Unfortunately, Jonas wasn’t always around. Legally, she was Matthias’s wife, and according to Wyoming law, Jonas couldn’t interfere. Besides, with people starving all over the country, who cared if a man took out his frustrations on his wife? Certainly not Sheriff Denny, in whom she’d confided. She’d spent two days in bed after he’d told Matthias her accusations.
Jonas had fed her, and when he thought she wasn’t looking, she’d seen anger cross his face. When Matthias went to town, Jonas silently rewrapped her bruised ribs, his eyes red-rimmed.
Jonas was in a prison of his own. Matthias carried the title on the land owned by Jonas’s family—his parents and his six brothers and sisters. She often saw him standing in the barn entrance, staring at the house, fists clenched.
Perhaps that was why she found an easy, healing friendship in him. They both understood being trapped.
Lightning flickered, and right behind it came another pe
al of thunder.
Rosie shrieked, and Mary shushed her, singing softly. “Hush, little baby . . .”
“Make her shut up,” Matthias bellowed from downstairs.
Mary stiffened. Thus far, he’d never harmed Rosie, but that didn’t stop the toddler from shaking. “Shh,” Mary said, trying to stave fear from her voice.
The lightning flashed again, and in that split second, she saw a silhouette in the doorway of the barn. Jonas.
Rosie’s crying heightened.
“Shh, baby, shh,” Mary said, moving in time with her hums.
Heavy footsteps thumped up the stairs. The door banged open. “I told you to shut her up!”
Mary refused to turn, even as she felt him lunge toward her. She kept her eyes on the silhouette until the last moment.
John closed the book, remembering the ache inside when he’d written that scene, hating the fact that he’d bound Jonas’s hands. He’d purposely made Jonas watch while the woman he loved suffered, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it because sometimes life worked out that way. He often wondered if the hands at the Big K had ever felt like that, watching John Senior go after his kids.
“Seems as if the entire town is reading that book.” Lolly took Egger’s plate away.
He tossed a couple of dollars on the counter.
“Maybe you should read it.” John pushed the book toward her.
Lolly rang in the bill, slipped the cash into the drawer. “No. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
As if her own words jarred her, she stilled and looked up at him. In that beat of time, something passed between them. A sadness or just the sense of inevitability.
Whatever it was, John knew he had his answer to the question he couldn’t ask. “Right,” he said softly. Of course she wouldn’t believe.
He was getting up to leave when the doorbell jangled. In the doorway stood the shapely brunette Egger had described. But John—probably only John—saw so much more.
He saw Bobby, courage in his eyes as he faced down his bull, and Felicia, poised, beautiful, and full of hope. Most of all, he saw Lolly, her pride wounded and desperation lining her face as she stood in a dusty street.
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