Heart of Stone

by Ari McKay

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Ste 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Heart of Stone

  Copyright © 2013 by Ari McKay

  Cover Art by Reese Dante

  http://www.reesedante.com

  Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only

  and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-62380-598-2

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-599-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  June 2013

  1

  “STONE! Hey, Stone! You came back!”

  Stone stopped in the middle of uncinching Raider’s saddle and glanced up to find Little Sam coming toward him, pushing his way through the press of cowboys and horses crowding the stable. The young man’s face was split with a wide grin, and Stone answered it with a slight, tired smile of his own. Little Sam had been laid up with a broken leg when Stone and the other hands had left Yellow Knife, Texas, for Abilene two and a half months before, and no doubt he wanted to hear all about the cattle drive he’d missed, but Stone was too tired to talk much. Unfortunately, that didn’t deter the younger man, who followed him into the stall.

  “’Course I came back. Why wouldn’t I?” Stone asked as he draped his saddle over the stall door and turned back to remove Raider’s blanket.

  “Well, you were talkin’ about stayin’ in Kansas before you left.” Sam picked up a brush and began to work on Raider’s pale golden coat. “I thought maybe you meant it.”

  Stone shrugged. He had thought about it, but Abilene hadn’t seemed all that different from Yellow Knife―or San Antonio, Santa Fe, or Tucson, for that matter. He’d been slowly working his way east for the last ten years, but no matter where he went, it still didn’t feel like home. He was beginning to think no place ever would.

  Sam was watching him, pale blue eyes alight with curiosity, and Stone knew he would have to answer. He didn’t make friends easily, but Little Sam had attached himself to Stone from the moment Stone had arrived on the Circle J a bit over a year before, seeming to view Stone as an older brother. Sam was barely twenty and full of energy, with sandy hair, innocent eyes, and a puppy-like enthusiasm for everything that made him a favorite with all the hands. Cutting him off was more than Stone, who had a reputation for being as cold and silent as his name, could manage.

  “Changed my mind,” he said. “Kansas ain’t no better’n here. We made it in good time, didn’t lose too many head, and Stevenson got a good price at market, so we all got a bonus. I reckon I could stay on another year.”

  Sam nodded. Driving cattle from southern Texas to the railhead market in Kansas could be profitable or disastrous, depending as it did on factors like weather, the health of the cattle, the quality of the grazing, and whether or not they ran into rustlers. Jim Stevenson, the owner of the Circle J, drove five thousand head of Texas Longhorns along the Chisholm Trail every year, and mostly he made money at it, but some years were much better than others. Fortunately for Stone and the other hands, this year had been a good one.

  “Glad to hear it.” Sam grinned at him again. “You got to tell me all about the drive. But first, there’s news here, too. For you.”

  “What?” Stone blinked in surprise, and then he frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that; he was of no importance to anyone, and that was the way he preferred it.

  “It ain’t bad.” Sam bit his lip. “Or at least, I don’t reckon it’s bad. You got a letter, that’s all. Got here a couple of weeks after you left. Ms. Stevenson said she figured she’d keep it in case you came back with the others, and if not, she’d send it on to Abilene after you. Looks like it already got sent on a few times anyway.” He looked envious. “A real letter! I ain’t never got a letter in my life. Who could be writin’ you?”

  “No idea,” Stone replied. He’d never gotten a letter before, either. Why would he? There wasn’t anyone to write to him; his mother was dead, and he didn’t have anyone else, no friends or family but his horse. He was curious, but it was tinged with dread; surely it could only be bad news, if it had followed him who knew how far. When he moved on, he always told the foreman where he was headed and left on good terms, but that only made sense, because a man never knew what might happen. Stone might not have friends, but he tried not to make enemies, either. “It’s waited this long, I suppose it can wait until I get Raider settled.”

  “Sure.” Sam looked disappointed, but then he grinned. “Look, I’ll get water and feed for him so you can finish curryin’, okay?”

  No doubt Sam was hoping Stone would let him see the letter—not read it, but just see what it looked like—in return for the help, and Stone nodded as Sam scurried off. At least the boy hadn’t suggested Stone leave off dealing with his horse until after picking up the letter. Anyone with any sense knew a cowboy’s horse came before anything else.

  “Who in tarnation would write to me?” he muttered, and Raider twitched his ears.

  With Sam’s help, Stone finished taking care of Raider, but instead of heading to the bunkhouse with the other hands, he made his way to the large, neat timber house where Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson, the ranch’s owners and his employers, lived. He removed his hat and knocked on the back door.

  Mrs. Stevenson, a kind, sturdy woman in her fifties with iron-gray hair and a plump figure, opened the door. “Why hello, Stone! Glad to see you came back. I reckon Sam told you about the letter, eh? You’d have thought it was for him, the way he’s been carryin’ on about it. Come in, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

  Stone stepped into the kitchen, which was clean and tidy and smelled wonderfully of baking bread. “I’ll just stay by the door, ma’am.” He looked down at his dirty boots. “I don’t want to track all over your floor.”

  “All right,” she replied and then bustled out of the room. A few moments later, she was back, holding an envelope of brown paper that had writing all over the front. She handed it to him, shaking her head. “Looks like someone really wanted to get ahold of you. It’s been forwarded twice from the first address.”

  “Huh.” Stone took it, looking at the front. It had originally been sent to the Lone Pine Ranch in Oklahoma, where he’d been working two years before, and they’d sent it on to the Cut Notch, his last place before he’d come to work for the Stevensons. He supposed it was a good thing he’d told them where he’d been headed or the letter would never have reached him at all. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m much obliged to you for holdin’ it for me.”

  “Pshaw, it wasn’t a problem, Stone.” Mrs. Stevenson smiled and patted his arm in a motherly fashion. “You’re a good worker and a good man. I’m glad you didn’t stay in Abilene.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Stone felt his neck heating at the compliment. For some reason, praise always embarrassed him, and he shifted his weight from
foot to foot. “Er, if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I should be goin’.”

  “Of course,” she replied, shooing him toward the door. Then she paused. “And Stone, if that letter has somethin’ that you need help with, let me know. You’ve got friends here.”

  “Much obliged.” Stone turned and left the cozy kitchen. Now that he had the letter in his hand, he was burning with curiosity. And there was only one way to satisfy it.

  2

  MAY 14, 1887

  Barrow and Morgan, Attorneys-at-Law

  47 Main Street

  Reno, Nevada

  Dear Mr. Harrison,

  We represent the estate of your late aunt, Mrs. Priscilla Ann Harrison Rivers, who passed away on April 30th. As Mrs. Rivers had no children of her own, her will stipulated that all her worldly possessions were to pass to you as her only living relative. This makes you the sole owner of the Copper Lake Ranch in Washoe County, Nevada.

  As Mrs. Rivers was uncertain of your whereabouts, she made plans before her death for the ranch to be held for you for a period of one year, the taxes and salaries of her employees paid, and an overseer left in charge to allow the ranch to continue to function while we attempted to find you. If you would please send a telegram to our office as soon as you are in receipt of this letter, we will begin to make arrangements to transfer the ranch to your ownership.

  Sincerely,

  Stephen Barrow, Esq.

  For several minutes, all Stone could do was stare at the letter, unable to fully understand its meaning. An aunt? He’d barely known his father, remembering him only as an angry man who drank and hit both him and his mother; he certainly hadn’t known his father had any family, much less someone who owned a ranch and who would actually leave it to Stone, a man she’d never met. It made him wonder why his mother never said anything, although given her fear of the man she’d married, and her relief when he’d gotten himself killed in a fall from a horse, it was possible she hadn’t wanted anything more to do with his family.

  The letter was dated five months before, and given the distance from Nevada to Texas, Stone was amazed it had found him before the one year deadline. Which meant he had a decision to make: did he want to claim this unexpected inheritance, or just pretend the letter hadn’t reached him and let the ranch go to whoever next stood to inherit?

  He folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, then stared out across the dusty expanse of one of Circle J’s pastures, empty except for a few of the breeding cows that would provide the stock for next year’s market. The ranch was huge, and Stone knew that he, as a hand, saw only a small part of what it took to keep the place running. Mr. Stevenson and his foreman, Ben, worked hard every day and were responsible for every person and animal on the ranch. If there was a bad year, a cowboy could always move along to greener pastures, especially ones like Stone who didn’t have a family. But Mr. Stevenson had invested his whole life in this one place. If things went bad, he couldn’t just move on to the next place, the next job. He had to stay and do his best, no matter how bad it got.

  Of course, his father hadn’t taught him that. Paul Harrison hadn’t taken responsibility for anything in his life. Everything had always been someone else’s fault, especially his half-Indian wife’s. Stone couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d ever looked at his father with anything but fear and hatred, even though his mother had tried to make apologies for his father’s behavior. Perhaps she had even begun to feel as though she deserved the scathing words and the blows, after so many years of hearing how Paul Harrison could have been someone if only he hadn’t had a half-breed wife and son to tie him down.

  That hadn’t kept Paul from hauling the two of them from town to town, always looking for a way to make easy money. People had called his father no-account and shiftless, claiming he’d never done an honest day’s work in his life, and Stone could believe it was true. He’d been less than ten years old when his father died, and he couldn’t remember feeling anything but relief when it happened. From that moment on, he’d done everything in his power to prove he was nothing like his father. He’d taken care of his mother, gone to school, and worked hard at any job he could get to help them survive. He never wanted people to look at him the way they looked at his father. He did an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, and even though he’d not stayed on any one ranch for more than a couple of years, he always moved on in a way that left good feelings behind him.

  Over the years he’d encountered plenty of people who didn’t like him, mostly because of the color of his skin, but he’d dealt with it, and for the most part, he felt good about himself. He was a good cowboy, but could he handle running a ranch of his own? Did he even want to try? How would he feel if he failed?

  If there was one thing he’d learned about himself over the years, it was that he’d pretty much always tried to do things exactly opposite the way his father would have done them. Which meant accepting the responsibilities he was given and doing his very best to fulfill them. Now someone was entrusting him with a ranch. He didn’t know if it was a prosperous place or a rundown spread on the verge of collapse, but in his heart, he knew it didn’t matter. An aunt he’d never known had seen fit to entrust her place to him, despite the fact she must have known he could have turned out just like his father. She’d given him a responsibility, and Stone knew what he had to do: make every attempt to be successful at it.

  Exactly the way his father wouldn’t have done.

  3

  “WELL, I’ll be damned.”

  Stone pulled Raider to a stop, and stared at the sight in front of him. The mountains in the distance were breathtaking, but he’d seen them on the horizon since he’d arrived in Reno two days before. They’d gotten closer as he’d ridden southwest, and the terrain had become gently rolling foothills covered in luxurious green. As he’d crested a particularly high hill, he came upon a valley stretched out before him, containing a large lake of the most incredible, unearthly blue he’d ever seen in his life. It was positively dazzling in the sunlight, and he couldn’t move for a moment, struck by the beauty of it and an almost overwhelming wish that his mother could have lived to see it.

  This, then, was Copper Lake, and the neat buildings perched on the shore must be Copper Lake Ranch. According to the papers in his saddlebags, his ranch was a spread of nearly ten thousand acres with upwards of eight thousand head of cattle. It still didn’t seem quite real to him, but Stone knew what he had to do. He clicked to Raider, and the horse started forward again. He figured he’d best get down there and introduce himself so he could get a start on taking care of what needed to be done.

  Twenty minutes later, he dismounted in front of the ranch house. It was a solid wood and stone building, and it had been around a while, for it had a mellow, weathered look that new buildings couldn’t match. He slipped the reins around a post and started up the steps, hoping someone was home. He couldn’t hear any movement, but he knocked on the door and belatedly snatched off his hat and held it in his hands as he waited to see if someone would answer.

  He heard the familiar sound of boot steps on a hardwood floor, growing louder as they approached, and then the door opened, and Stone was staring into a pair of pale blue eyes.

  “Can I help you?” The man’s voice was a deep, lazy drawl, a good match for his relaxed posture. He looked to be a couple of inches shorter than Stone and maybe a few years older, and his light brown hair was cut short and neat. His face and hands were tanned, but Stone was willing to bet he was lily white where the sun didn’t shine.

  “My name is Stone Harrison.” He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to not show any nervousness. “I’m Mrs. Rivers’ nephew, and she left the ranch to me.”

  “Well, it’s mighty nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison. We’ve been hopin’ you’d turn up.” The man smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Luke Reynolds. I’m… I was Priss’s foreman.”

  Stone took the man’s hand, and his eyes widened as he
felt a tingle at the contact of their palms. He shook quickly and released, softening the abruptness with a brief, small smile.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said politely, knowing that things would be much easier if this man was on his side and inclined to help him. “To be honest, Mr. Reynolds, I’d be much obliged if you’d still consider yourself foreman here. A week ago, I weren’t nothin’ but a hand myself. I don’t know if Mrs. Rivers would have left this place to me if she’d known I’ve got no experience runnin’ a spread.”

  Luke nodded, his smile widening as if the offer pleased him, and he held the door open, stepping aside in a clear invitation. “I’d be glad to stay on. Truth is, I’ve been here so long, I wouldn’t know where to go anyways.”

  Relieved things were so far going so well—after all, he could have been met with a shotgun and an invitation to leave—Stone crossed the threshold. The house was as neat inside as out, and even bigger than the Stevensons’ had been.

  “Sounds like we’ll make a good team then,” he replied, fervently hoping it would be true. He was feeling out of his depth, but he couldn’t let it show. “I suppose you can tell me what needs doin’? The lawyers in Reno knew even less about ranchin’ than I did, and they wanted to talk in whys and wherefores till my head was spinnin’.”

  “Oh sure.” Luke nodded amiably. “I was practically runnin’ the place anyway. I had to,” he added, glancing at Stone as he led the way into the parlor. “Priss was too sick to do it herself that last year or two, so she started trainin’ me up.”

  The parlor was a far more comfortable room than Stone expected it to be, devoid of fussy little antimacassars and delicate china figurines like he’d seen in so many parlors. The furniture was sturdy and made of dark wood. The sofa looked to be made of leather, and the chairs were upholstered in thick brocade. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf took up most of one wall, and there was also a rolltop writing desk that looked neatly organized.