The paramedics worked their way over to him, asking their routine questions as they quickly garnered him onto a stretcher. They needed to clear the way; there were other battles to be lost here.
Cole offered a low grunt as they lifted him up. He’d have preferred to walk, but he just couldn’t muster the gumption to demand that they let him.
He took his trampled hat when it was offered to him and reached his thumb into the air as they carried him out of the ring. The shouts came like a freight train roaring through the crowd. Feet stomped the cheap aluminum stands, the sounds vibrating excitedly through air fragranced with dirt and manure.
He smiled weakly and pulled his hat over his eyes as the loudspeakers announced that he had moved into first place.
It had been a hell of a ride.
****
Cole turned off the ignition of his ’57 Chevy and stepped out of the truck, holding the injured arm close to his ribs. The drive from Cheyenne took twice as long as it should have, and he could have wept with the relief of being home. The green rolled out for miles, surrounded by rugged mountains topped with year round snow. Although it was late spring, a thick fog clung to those peaks, bringing to mind the countless mornings he had awoken to the same view.
In the crisp morning air his boots crunched on the gravel, the only sound to be heard, save for the call of a dove somewhere in the distance. He walked up the old wood porch steps, past the swing he could not recall sitting in for some time, and opened the heavy double doors to the house.
He removed his hat and hung it on the rack by the door, taking in the scent of leather and sandalwood. Going away for a time made the scents more potent when he returned. For that, Cole was grateful. He may have strayed often, but this was still his home and it welcomed him warmly.
There were things to see to at the ranch. One of his favorite mares had recently given birth to a filly and Cole had yet to see mother and baby. There were details to discuss with ranch hands and plans to make for the summer; problems with the arena to sort through. But he would do that later. Now the feeling of home was his only thought.
He had been born in this house. He had learned to walk on the Spanish tiled floors. His mother had scolded him for spilling his grape juice on the cushion of the brushed leather sofa. The stain was still there, the cushion flipped over so that it did not show.
He shook his head and tossed his keys onto the kitchen table. He was no longer a boy, yet there were times he missed those days. As he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk, he tried to remember what it was like to run across that tile with bare feet and mischievous intentions. The memory was dim and faded. Frowning, he took a sip directly from the carton and put it back on the shelf.
He wandered beneath the exposed rafters and into the living room. The cold fireplace took up the largest wall, waiting for winter. Cole sank onto the couch, his body fitted to the cushions as if a lover had taken him in her arms. He closed his eyes and willed his exhausted body to sleep, resting his throbbing arm on a pillow.
It is good to be home.
Two Angela drove beneath a canopy of leaves and branches. The midday sun cast broken shadows through the trees, cloaking Grace in a dim glow that would change only slightly from the spark of dawn to the waning light at dusk.
She supposed some might call it quaint; a typical image of an average small town, winding through a grassy valley carved out by Beaverhead River and its tributaries. The same old oak tree still guarded the corner of Maple and Eighth, its thick roots lifting the sidewalk and working their way into Mrs. Hammerby’s yard. The town center still boasted its wooden boardwalk stretching between cobblestone streets and painted storefronts.
The red brick church with the thatched roof loomed over the treetops as it had for the last hundred years. It discerned the town like an old aunt; both pleased and disappointed by what Grace had become.
Angela stopped at the town’s only red light and looked up at the cross atop the steeple, rising over the trees toward a blue sky. Her mother had made her go to church as a child, but the hope they preached about didn’t change the fact that she was always so afraid to go home. She broke bit by bit to remember the things that had died in a small girl‘s heart. The light turned green. She fixed her gaze back on the road and put her foot on the gas.
Turning into the driveway of what had been her father’s office, Angela reminded herself that this trip was all business. There were no personal effects of her father’s to sort through
– her brother had taken care of that detail when he had been in town for the funeral – and there were no friends to see, no family of which to pay the obligatory visit.
She intended to immediately begin the process of assessing the arena’s operations. The attorney had informed her over the phone that her father had maintained only half of the stock shares. That would make things easier; she had only to find someone to purchase her father’s shares and she would not have to get involved in the messy details of operations.
Angela shut the car door, settled her briefcase strap over her shoulder and walked up the numerous steps to the wrap around porch of the aged Victorian house, which had been converted into office spaces.
She cringed at her reflection in the glass door. The tenhour trip, including a long layover in Chicago and a two-hour drive from Missoula, was dreadfully apparent. Her gray pantsuit was a mess, the delicate linen fibers crunched and wrinkled. Her long red-blond hair fell past her shoulders in unruly waves.
Propriety and logic nagged at her. It might have been best to check into her hotel and regain some equilibrium before tackling the matter at hand, but impatience and anxiety had her ignoring that logic and walking into her father’s office.
She wanted to get this part of it over with.
A teenage girl sat behind the lone desk in what might be considered the lobby, with its trio of folding chairs and an old serving tray with remnants of that morning’s coffee.
“Excuse me.”
Startled, the girl looked up from a book and brought herself out of whatever fictional world had captivated her. Her brown hair settled at her shoulders, tufts of blue and burgundy peeking strategically through the strands. The girl studied Angela from beneath heavy lashes; her mouth curved into a smile, the upper lip slightly larger than the lower.
Angela took a step forward. “Hello, my name is Angela Donnelly.”
“I’m Tina.” The girl set down her book and folded her hands over it. “They told us you’d probably be coming, but when you didn’t show for the funeral, we weren’t so sure.”
“Yes, well the arena has been left to my care,” Angela said, “and I’d like to speak with the manager.”
“He’s not here.” Tina leaned back in her chair. “You’re from New York, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time,” Angela said. “If you could give your employer a message…”
“If you want, I can just tell you where he is.” The girl reached across the desk and grabbed a pen and a piece of paper. “He’s at home today. Cole’s got a ranch on the outskirts of town.”
“Cole? Cole Jordan?”
“Yeah. He’s at Starhorn ranch, just off I-85. I’m sure he won’t mind you dropping by. He said you two knew each other as kids.”
“Yes,” Angela replied stiffly, “we knew each other. Thanks for the info.” She gathered her things, nodded politely and walked out of the office.
****
Angela drove toward Starhorn Ranch, the rough country highway stretching for miles alongside fields sprinkled with barns and stables. Green covered nearly every inch of ground, reaching to tease the foothills of the huge mountains in the distance.
The past was all around her, closing in as surely as those storm clouds building over the mountains would bring the rain.
She parked in the gravel driveway and walked to the house. The porch steps still creaked in the same spots. A breeze knocked the old swing against the railing
with a familiar thump, thump, thump. She couldn’t help but wander over to see if the ridges – caused by that constant thumping of the swing against the railing year after year – had ever been repaired. They were still there, although someone had painted over them. She resisted the urge to linger, to sit and to remember. She and Doug Jordan had sat and talked in that swing for hours at a time.
Cole’s father had filled a void. He had opened his heart to her, but the son had not been as kind. Cole had great fun in teasing the gangly girl next door, her knobby knees, frizzy hair and sour disposition giving him ample opportunity. Even so, Angela had made it a point to be near Cole whenever possible, using excuses to play on the ranch or to watch him practice in the rodeo ring every Tuesday afternoon when she was supposed to be mucking stalls.
Angela shook her head. Her country roots had long ago shriveled, and a schoolgirl crush was just a bittersweet part of a less than ideal past. She found herself worrying over Cole’s reaction at seeing her on his doorstep after all these years. The doors to the house loomed ominously.
“Can I help you?”
She startled at the sound of his voice; a smooth tenor with a hint of gravel. He walked up the porch steps, his stride easy and confident. One arm was secured in a sling, the other loose at his side. She dared herself to look at his face as he came up that last step. She saw what she had expected: the day-old stubble of a beard, deep blue eyes, and a slightly crooked nose from getting punched by Harvey Jenkins in the ninth grade.
The air stuck in her throat and she felt like she was twelveyears-old again – shy and uncertain. She was not sure if her reaction was from seeing her childhood nemesis and remembering the animosity that had been between them, or if it was a more basic response to seeing Cole grown up and looking like….well, like this.
He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and flashed a welcometo-Montana smile. “Howdy.”
“Hello, Cole.” She wondered if he could hear her heart beating against her ribs. She lifted a fist to her chest in a futile attempt to stifle it.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow in a way that told Angela he had no idea how this stranger on his doorstep could know his name.
“I’m here about The Bullpen Arena.” She could have told him who she was, but she shouldn’t have to introduce herself to Cole. He already knew things about her that few others did. And yet, he did not recognize her. “I understand you manage it?”
“That’s right.” He shifted his stance. His smile faded.
“Could we go inside?”
His eyes darted to her briefcase. “Is this business?”
“Yes.” She nodded and stepped through the door when he held it open it for her. She breathed in the familiar scents of leather and earth. It was the aroma of her childhood, of those afternoons she had spent in that house. She turned to Cole and saw him as a boy, half expecting him to whine and tell his father she didn’t belong there.
She stepped down from the closed foyer to the open living room, its exposed rafters high above her head. Not a thing had changed except for the man who walked into the room behind her.
“You kept it the same. Doug would have liked that.” She turned to him and offered a wavering smile, widening her eyes as the recognition dawned in his.
“Angie?” He let out a hoot and shook his head, a childlike grin stretched across his face. “Well, I’ll be….it’s Angie Donnelly. You’ve come back after all!”
She looked around the room and smiled, catching a bit of his contagious grin. “I’m not back, just here to take care of some things.” Her eyes settled on his again and the room started to tip. The blood drained from her face and rushed to her toes.
“Are you all right?” He took her arm.
“I’m fine.” She wished her heart would stop beating so fast.
Cole led her to the sofa. Through the thin material of her suit, the cool leather forced the blood to drain out of her toes and gush right back into her head. She took a deep breath and leaned her elbows on her knees, desperately hoping she wouldn’t faint, or worse, be sick.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“Don’t be.” Cole sat in the chair adjacent to the sofa. “You okay now?”
She nodded.
“Good. I didn’t think you’d come, Angie.”
“Neither did I.”
He chuckled and settled back. “Glad to see you. And a little relieved, too.”
“Relieved?”
“That you didn’t pass out, for one. Besides that, I’ve been back only a day, two weeks ahead of schedule.” He lifted his injured arm. The bitterness crept into his voice, so slight that Angela would not have noticed if she hadn’t also seen the narrowing of his eyes. “Henry’s will has been hanging out there, and we’ve all been wondering what would come of his shares of the arena.”
“Well, mystery solved.” Angela closed her eyes briefly and pulled her briefcase onto the coffee table. “Apparently the arena’s become my problem to deal with. And you should know I fully intend to sell it. So let’s start with the basics: when did you become manager?”
“Angie.” He stood and took her elbow, guiding her up. “You’re two breaths away from passing out. Why don’t you let me have Nadine cook you up some supper? We can talk later.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.” She took a retreating step back and reached into the front pocket of her briefcase for a business card. “This is obviously a bad time. I’ll be at the hotel on Cherry Street. Call me on my cell and we’ll arrange a meeting. I suppose I should have called first.”
Cole looked at the card she held out to him as if it were a pile of dung. “So the rumors are true, as if I didn’t already know it by that fancy suit. You’ve become quite the businesswoman. Is that that the only reason you’re here, Angie, to talk business?”
“I’m here to deal with the arena. Nothing more.”
“That sounds like business,” he said reflectively. “But there is something else here, something you left behind besides your daddy.”
“What would that be?”
“An old friend.” He moved closer and smirked companionably. “Glad to have you back.”
She frowned at her childhood foe, taking in the scents of her youth. Cole grinned. Her lips twitched into a smile. “You and I were never friends.”
His grin faded and a sad glint moved into the Caribbean blue of his eyes. “We should have been.” He gestured to the stairs. “Use the guest room at the top of the stairs if you’d like a minute to yourself. I’m gonna go call Nadine in from tending the laundry. She usually starts preparing supper for the hands around this time, so it’s no trouble. I’ll just have her fix you up something real quick before the boys start coming in from the fields."
"I don't know if-"
"It may be business you want with me, but let’s save it for later. Let me do this one friendly thing.”
Glancing toward the top of the staircase, she realized she could use a meal and a bit of freshening up. She nodded to Cole and muttered “thank you” before moving toward the stairs. She turned on the first landing and looked back at him. He watched her intently. A tickle in her stomach quickened her pulse when his eyes met hers and held on.
Three
Cole watched her walk up the stairs. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of her as the years passed. In fact, he thought of her quite a bit, wondering where life had taken her. But they were cursory thoughts, as people often have when remembering those who had passed through their lives.
He hadn’t recognized her at first, but the moment she had stepped into his house she had dropped the hoity-toity act and let the sadness in. It was the haunted eyes and the freckles across her nose that gave her away.
Shame swept over him as he walked through the house, toward the back door. It surprised him to realize he had been holding onto the guilt after all these years. He had rejected her as so many others had, making it a game to tease the awkward little girl who wore
a permanent frown and never cried a single tear. He now knew all too well that her frowns and the tearless eyes had really been the worn and vaguely wise expression of a child who had known too much.
He stepped onto the back porch, letting the screen door slam. Taking long strides across the pasture, he reached the stables and opened the door with more force than was necessary. It bounced back against the structure and sent up a cloud of dust.
The vet popped his head into the isle at the commotion. When he saw Cole he waved and stepped out of the stall. “Dakota jumped a full two feet with that ruckus. What are you all about?”
“Nothing.” He jutted his chin toward the filly in the stall. “How is she?”
“She’s a strong one!” The vet smiled. “Almost kicked me lame, just to avoid that shot. I almost didn’t give it to her. Thought of waiting for you to hold her down, but I managed. She’ll make you a lot of money, I’m guessing.”
Cole slapped a companionable hand on the vet’s back. “That’s good, Jack.”
“So how long ya back for this time?” A sparkle flashed in Jack’s eyes. “Maybe for good this time? Settle your roots a bit?”
Cole shook his head at the man who had cared for his father’s horses, just as he now cared for Cole’s. “My roots are already settled. Ever try to move a granddaddy oak? You can pluck off its leaves, saw off the branches, but the stump won’t budge. Those roots run deep. And so do mine.”
“Sure, but you gotta tend to those roots, give ‘em something to feast on. You keep leaving. I hope you’ll stay awhile this time. Even after the healing’s done.”
Cole cringed, sensing the beginning of a familiar argument. To head it off, he stepped into the filly’s stall and bent to run his hand along her rough mane.
“Now Cole,” Jack continued, “when I heard you got injured again, I’ll say I was worried. But now I’m thinking it’ll do you good. Town’s got a bunch of gals just ripe for the pickin’.”
Heart of Grace (Return to Grace Trilogy #1) Page 2