by Susan Wiggs
The sound of car doors slamming made him wince. Shit. He was nervous.
Going to the window, he expected to see Michelle’s Range Rover. Instead, he spied Ruby and Molly Lightning getting out of their old Apache pickup. Scout’s “who-the-hell-are-you” barking changed to “I’m-all-yours” whimpers of ecstatic greeting.
Sam gritted his teeth and tried to smile. Ordinarily he’d be glad to see Ruby and her daughter. But it wasn’t an ordinary day. He was expecting Michelle, and he didn’t look forward to entertaining her, the kid, and now these two.
He went out onto the porch. Sunlight glinted off the snow in the yard and driveway. A row of icicles dripped from the eaves. The Border collie nuzzled Molly’s hand.
“Hey, ladies,” he said. “You’re out bright and early this morning.”
Ruby propped an elbow on the battered hood of the pickup. She had a broad, pleasant face, one gold tooth, and an ease around people that made her a popular teacher at the high school. “Hey, Sam,” she said.
“Hiya, Sam.” Molly scratched the dog behind the ears. “Nice ride last night.”
“You, too,” he said.
Ruby opened the door of the truck and started rummaging around. “I heard you wanted to buy a blanket.”
“Ma’am, I wanted to buy them all.”
Molly rolled her eyes.
“I did,” Sam said. “It gets mighty cold up here in the winter.”
“Well, I brought you one.” She held out a folded blanket.
At that moment, another car turned off the highway and started up the drive. The Range Rover. Scout launched into her watchdog routine.
Sam took the blanket from Ruby. The thick wool felt warm against his hands. Plenty warm. “Hey, thanks.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
Ruby reached around behind him and grabbed his wrist, holding it firmly. “Sam McPhee, don’t you dare. It’s a gift because you never let me pay you for delivering Glenda’s babies.”
He laughed. “Glenda’s an Irish setter. She didn’t need much help.”
“Whatever. The blanket’s to say thanks.”
Michelle parked and got out of her car. And there stood Sam with Ruby’s arm halfway around him, her hand pressed against his hip pocket.
He stepped back. “Morning, Michelle.”
She inclined her head politely. Distantly. “Hello, Sam.” The collie hung back, head tilted to one side, waiting to see how friendly this one would turn out to be.
“This here’s Ruby Lightning and that’s her daughter Molly over there.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Although Michelle smiled readily, the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. “Look, if this is a bad time—”
“Not at all. You ladies want to come in for coffee?”
Ruby shook her head, winking at him. “I better get going. We’ve got church this morning.”
Molly walked over from the paddock adjacent to the barn. A few of the horses, their coats thick with inch-long hair, stood at the fence waiting for their morning feed. “I could stay and help out with the horses,” she called out.
Then Michelle’s son got out of the Range Rover, looking as sulky and undernourished as a Calvin Klein ad. Interest sparked in his eyes when he spotted Molly, but he was quick to hide it with a squint that reminded Sam eerily of Gavin Slade. The kid would probably love having her around all day.
“Not today, Molly, but thanks for the offer,” Sam said. He didn’t want her to have to put up with the little hoodlum.
“My son’s name is Cody,” Michelle said, motioning him over.
It occurred to Sam that he didn’t know the boy’s last name, or if Michelle had a married name now. The kid shook his hair back. Stuck his thumb in the top of his belt. “Hiya.”
“Hi,” Molly said, transparent in her interest. She regarded the kid with the same fascination Red Riding Hood had for the Big Bad Wolf.
Ruby climbed into her truck. “See you around. Nice meeting you both.”
Molly took her time getting in. “ ’Bye, Sam. ’Bye, Michelle and… Cody.” The smile she sent him was way more than the kid deserved.
As the truck pulled away, a sense of amazement crept over Sam. Michelle had been dead to him. For seventeen years she had been gone, as permanently and irrevocably as if she had been buried six feet under. Now here she was, back again in all her beauty and all her strangeness, and he found himself vacillating between elation and rage. He found himself with a hard-on that made him glad his jacket was zipped.
“Cody’s ready to get to work,” Michelle said.
“Is that right?” Sam asked Cody.
The kid shrugged, slouching in the time-honored fashion of teens with attitude. “Guess so.”
Sam flicked his gaze over him from head to toe. Shining light-colored hair cut too long in some places, too short in others. A leather jacket that would get him knifed in certain neighborhoods. Black jeans and designer combat boots.
The humane thing to do would be to give the kid one of the Filson coveralls from the stable lockers, but Sam wasn’t feeling too humane about this guy.
“Let’s go to the barn,” he said, putting on his John Deere cap. “I’ll introduce you to Edward and he can get you started.”
“Started on what?”
Sam thought of the heap of manure Diego had left unshoveled. “Oh, I’ve got a real treat for you, Cody.”
He turned to Michelle, flashing her a grin. She blinked at him as if his smile startled her. “Go on inside, Michelle. Make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and went toward the house. He stopped for a second and looked at her on his porch, and their gazes caught and held.
Though he made no move, a part of him stepped back, and he caught his breath. Michelle, here at his house. Looking as pure and brittle as the sun-shot icicles that lined the eaves above her, a dripping frame of cold and light. Sam felt as if he was in the middle of a dream. This wasn’t real. She wasn’t real.
Just then, the sun won its battle with the ice, and the row of icicles crackled and fell, coming away in slow motion and then falling all at once, stabbing into the snow-covered hedge in front of the porch. The sudden, glittering tumult seemed to startle her into action. She gave a brief, taut smile and disappeared into the house.
Sam started toward the horse barn, the collie leaping at his side. He didn’t look back to see if the kid was following.
Situated inside the barn door was an office with papers, certificates, and permits plastered all over the wall, a cluttered kitchenette and coffee bar, and a refrigerator with a keg tap on the door. A pellet stove heated the room.
Edward Bliss sat with his feet up on a battered metal desk, a phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, and a beatific smile on his face.
“Morning, Romeo,” Sam said.
“I’ll call you later, darlin’,” Edward crooned into the receiver. He hesitated, listening, and his grin widened as he hung up. “You took the purse last night, boss, but I was the one who celebrated.”
“So what else is new?”
“That biff on the back of your trailer. Did you see that? Looks like some idiot nailed you last night.”
“As a matter of fact…” Sam stepped out of the doorway and motioned the kid into the office. “This is Cody. He’s going to be helping out around the place. Cody, this is my partner, Edward Bliss.”
Edward glanced up distractedly. Then he did a double take, looking from Sam to Cody and back again, his eyes wide. “Jesus H. Geronimo Christ—”
“Something wrong?” Sam knew Edward didn’t care for punks, but he’d never known his partner to make such a snap judgment. So the kid had hit the trailer, so he’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the end of the world.
Edward stood up, gathering the papers on the desk into a stack. “Nope, not at all. Cody’s going to take Diego’s place, then?”
“That’s what I
figure. For a while, at least.” Sam hadn’t even had time to ask Michelle how long she’d be visiting.
Scout lost interest in the entire situation and trotted out to the yard. Edward kept staring at the kid as if to drill a hole through him. Cody stared back, eyes narrowed.
“All right.” Edward snapped his suspenders and reached for his battered plaid coat, flecked with hayseed and oat grains. “Let’s get started.”
Most of the stalls were empty, the horses turned out for the day since it promised to be sunny. The barn had the feel of a cathedral. Daylight streamed through high windows under the eaves, and the echo of footsteps sounded loud in the hush.
“So what do I do?” Cody asked, dubiously eyeing the area. Mild suspicion tinged his voice.
Edward opened the door to one of the stalls. “Simple. You move the manure out and the cedar shavings in.”
The kid swallowed, staring at the floor of the stall. “Just this one?”
“Nope.” Sam gestured down the length of the barn. “What’ve we got here, twenty jugs?” Sam told himself not to enjoy this, but he couldn’t help it.
“Great,” said Cody.
“Don’t go into this one without Edward or me present.” Sam showed him a roomy stall in the middle. “That’s Sylvia. She’s expecting, and she’s getting kind of cranky.”
Cody peered over the top of the half door. The roan mare flared her nostrils at him and laid her ears back in warning. Her sides fanned in and out like a set of bellows.
“Yeah?” Cody asked with the first spark of interest he’d exhibited since seeing Molly.
“The foal could come tonight,” Sam said. “Sylvia’s showing signs of her labor. We’ll be bathing her today and getting the birthing stall ready.”
The mare glared white-eyed at the stranger. The boy glared back. Sam added, “Just relax, act a little friendly, and she’ll warm up to you.” He made a clucking sound in his throat. The mare’s ears eased up, and she stuck her head out of the stall. Cody hung back a moment, then put out his hand. The mare sniffed his shoulder. He rubbed her nose and cheek, hesitantly at first and then with more force.
“Don’t put any cedar shavings in Sylvia’s stall,” Sam said. “Sawdust and chips are bad for the foal. Straw only. Edward’ll show you, and you can help hose her down, too. But remember—she’s cranky.”
“Just wait till we give her that phosphate enema,” Edward said.
Cody winced. “I can wait.”
Edward held out a pair of leather gloves and rubber pac boots. “Put these on and let’s get started.”
Cody looked askance at the boots, but took them and sat on a plastic milk crate to unlace his faux-biker shoes.
“I’ll leave you guys to get after it.” Sam started walking back toward the house, then turned.
“Glad you showed up,” he called.
“Yeah, right.” Cody tossed his hair out of his eyes and rammed his foot into one of the boots.
When Sam reached the doorway, he turned back one more time, intending to tell Cody to help himself to a drink from the barn fridge if he needed one. But the words froze in his throat.
The light from outside slanted down just so, and in the uneven yellow glow, Cody stood out sharply in profile. He straightened up and hitched back his hip, stomping his foot down into the boot, a motion so familiar to Sam it was like looking in a mirror.
He leaned back against the door of a stall, feeling as if he’d just been sucker-punched. He couldn’t seem to grab a breath of air.
Slow down, McPhee, he told himself. Take it easy and think for a minute. Think think think. Think of the kid, and of Michelle’s cold manner, her nervousness. Think of the look of amazement on Edward’s face when he’d seen Sam and Cody standing side by side.
Think of the calendar, the years that had passed. Do the math.
Count the years.
Piece by piece, he put it together. The kid looked younger than sixteen, but Sam’s first impression had been wrong. Cody was sixteen.
“Holy shit,” Sam said under his breath. “Holy goddamned shit.” An icy wind blew over him from outside, but he barely felt it. He stood motionless in the doorway of the barn and watched Cody wield the shovel. His slim form bent and straightened; the light from the cracks in the eaves streamed down over him, down over the shining sandy hair and the clean profile and the unsmiling mouth and the eyes that were not quite blue.
“Holy shit,” Sam said again. Then he turned on his heel and strode away from the barn.
Chapter 7
Sam McPhee’s kitchen appeared lived-in but not fussed over. Stainless-steel appliances, tile countertops, a garden window with a few tired-looking potted herbs struggling along. A coffeemaker hissed beneath a set of wall hooks with an array of mismatched mugs bearing imprints of various feed brands and drug names. Drug names? Atarax. Was that a veterinary drug?
Brad would know, thought Michelle. Brad the pharmacy franchise owner. Her “boyfriend,” Gavin called him.
Feeling like an intruder, she helped herself to coffee. She had a devilish urge to poke around the rest of the house, but she resisted and sat down at the table. A tabby cat leaped onto the seat of the chair next to her, peering solemnly through crystal eyes.
“Hi there.” She offered a finger for the cat to sniff, then rubbed its fur. It turned its head nearly upside down beneath her scratching finger. “I bet you wonder what I’m doing here,” she said, and sipped her coffee. “I’m wondering the same thing myself.”
Outside, the wind kicked up whirlpools in the snow. The Border collie pounced on the snow dervishes, making a joyous game of it. In her wildest imaginings, Michelle had never dreamed she would find herself sitting in Sam McPhee’s kitchen, drinking his coffee and petting his cat. He wasn’t the sort she even thought of as having a kitchen, much less a cat.
It took all her self-control to stay seated, to keep from running outside, grabbing Cody, and driving away, not stopping until Seattle. She dreaded telling Cody the truth. She wasn’t stupid; she knew her kid. Sam represented the sort of dad—the fantasy dad, the Disneyland dad—Cody had been secretly wishing for all his life. The swift ride, the cheap thrill.
What Cody was too young to realize was that the minute he gave himself to a guy like Sam, he was a goner. Sam would break the boy’s heart the way he broke Michelle’s so long ago.
But she was going to stay in Crystal City no matter what her instincts urged her to do. Because when it came to self-control, Michelle Turner was an expert.
On some level, she might even savor the visit, she told herself, watching the cat curl into a ball on the braided seat cover of the chair next to her. This morning she had awakened early to sunshine and new snow that had come silently in the night, covering every flaw of age and softening all the sharp edges of the world. The landscape looked as clean and stark as an unpainted canvas. The miles of white meadows and the mountains rearing against a tall cerulean sky had a calming effect on her; they always had. Here, she felt a sense of drama and richness she had been missing ever since her adolescence had given way to the brutal chaos of instant adulthood.
Though her mother had raised her in the hushed elegance of Bel Air, Sharon Turner had lived way beyond her means. Her unexpected death had left Michelle a legacy of unpaid taxes and debts. By the time all accounts had been settled, there was nothing left but grief.
Michelle could have prevailed on her father for help even after she’d left Crystal City. Writing checks was what Gavin Slade did best. But she had never asked. All the money in the world couldn’t provide what she needed far more than monthly rent—love, support, stability. Money was the least of her problems, and it was the first one she solved.
On her own she built a life she could be proud of—a kid who, until recently, had been great; a waterfront town house filled with furniture from Roche-Bobois, a Lexus, a ski condo in Whistler.
Hers had been a life that hadn’t slowed down since she’d fled Montana all those years ago. And now
she was back, and she had no idea what to make of it, what to think, how to feel. Slowing down and giving herself time to think was dangerous. Seeing Sam again was even more dangerous. He had broken her heart once. She wanted to believe he had no power to do it again. But when she saw him at the arena last night, she knew a secret, fragile part of her still belonged to him.
All her instincts had rebelled against bringing Cody here this morning. But honor demanded it. Cody had trashed Sam’s trailer, and he had to make amends.
Truth to tell, Michelle had been incredibly curious. She had always assumed Sam had never amounted to anything more than a rodeo bum, rambling from show to show until the inevitable injuries of his sport retired him. She used to picture him battered and stiff at age thirty, tending bar in some little Western town. He’d wear his champion’s belt buckle, and behind the bar amid the array of beer nuts and whiskey bottles, there would be a few dusty trophies and photographs of him looking like a young Paul Newman.
There wasn’t a single photo in sight in this kitchen, not even one taped to the refrigerator. Odd.
She finished her coffee and rinsed the mug, taking a long drink of icy tap water. The window over the sink framed the distant mountain peaks rearing against the sky. As she gazed out across the empty, perfect meadows, a wave of nostalgia had swept over her. She’d spent so little time in Montana, yet it seemed like the place where her soul had always dwelt. What a magnificent sight to greet Sam when he got up in the morning. How different it was from the soulless cocoon of her office at the agency in downtown Seattle.
Sam had managed to confound her expectations. He didn’t seem to suffer any permanent injuries from the rodeo. He had a horse ranch with a comfortable house, sturdy outbuildings, covered and open-air arenas and pens. But in a way the place seemed as empty as her own town house.