Montana (10 page)

For all those years the family had stuck together. Survived. During two world wars, the Wheatons had held on to the land; they'd struggled through the long lean years of the Great Depression. Through it all, cattle prices had plummeted and then risen, over and over, like a wild roller-coaster ride, and through it all, the Wheatons had managed. They would again, God willing.

The ranch was Molly's heritage from her grandfather and from the father she barely remembered. One day it would belong to her sons. Briefly she closed her eyes. As angry as the offer made her, Russell had done her a favor by forcing her to acknowledge her responsibilities to her grandfather and the ranch.

“This is very difficult,” she whispered, “but…”

Russell relaxed and smiled as if to say he knew he could count on her to be reasonable. “Then you'll consider the offer?”

Molly stared at him dumbfounded. He'd misunderstood completely.

“Let me assure you right now the money is good,” he told her warmly. “Damn good. You won't need to worry about finances for a very long time.”

“I'm not selling, Russell,” she announced flatly. “Not while I live and draw breath. I'll do whatever needs to be done in order to hold on to the ranch.”

Russell was right about one thing—she would definitely need help. If that meant swallowing her pride and asking Sam Dakota for his expertise, then she'd do it. Pride, even female pride, had its limits.

“How are you planning to do this? Who's going to help you?” Russell demanded. His face had contorted slightly, masking his striking good looks.

“Sam Dakota, for one.” There'd be others too, Molly knew. Gramps had lived in this community all his life. She didn't doubt for an instant that, when the time came and she needed help, someone would step forward and lend a willing hand.

Russell settled back in the booth and held her eyes for a long moment. He seemed to be carefully gauging his words. “I wasn't going to say anything, but now I realize I must. Molly, exactly how well do you know Sam Dakota?” he asked.

“This is the second time you've mentioned Sam. Gramps hired him and he's—”

“Don't let your judgment be clouded by your grandfather's relationship with him. You need to form your own opinion.”

“I only met him a few days ago.” Molly was beginning to wonder if she
should
trust her instincts regarding Sam. They'd been muddled, confused by his kiss. Confused by a lot of things that had nothing to do with her grandfather or how good a foreman Sam was.

Russell nodded thoughtfully. “Sam Dakota is a stranger, a drifter. No one knows exactly where he came from or anything about him. He showed up in town one day, down on his luck.”

“There's nothing wrong with that.”

“True enough, but it's what happened afterward that's cause for concern.”

“What?” she asked, not entirely certain she wanted to hear this.

“Trouble, Molly, lots of trouble. He wasn't in town more than an hour before he became involved in a…an altercation at Willie's tavern and—” He stopped. “I'll leave it at that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it would be best if you asked Sam yourself.”

She hesitated, watching Russell intently.

“Molly, listen to me, please. I'm not sure you should trust him.”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“You think that's what I'm being?” The attorney was obviously uncomfortable. “All I ask is that you be damned careful, understand?” His face was somber, concerned—as if it was all he could do not to divulge further information.

“Oh, no, you don't.” Molly wasn't about to let it go at that. If Russell knew something she didn't, she had every intention of getting the facts, even if it took half the night. “Tell me what you know, Russell. I have a right to know the truth.”

“I can't, Molly. I'm stepping out of line as it is.” He looked away before slowly releasing his breath. “Let me put it this way. Wherever Dakota goes, trouble follows. There've been a number of unexplained incidents around the area recently. Strange incidents. Has Walt mentioned them?”

Molly shook her head.

“None of this started until after Sam Dakota arrived.”

“What are these incidents?”

“Ask your grandfather. I'm not a distrustful person, but I'd find it mighty coincidental if Sam wasn't involved.”

“Involved in
what?
” Her immediate concern was for her children. With Gramps at the ranch they were probably safe, but he was feeble and in ill health. She couldn't imagine what Russell was trying to tell her.

“I can't say, Molly. I probably shouldn't have said anything at all, but I felt it was my duty to warn you.”

“Strange, you said. What is it? You're blaming Sam for some mysterious alien sightings?” The suggestion was enough to make her laugh.

“It isn't that kind of strange,” Russell was quick to inform her. “Ginny Dougherty and her cousin were in town not more than two days ago and reported a case of vandalism. Apparently someone knocked over Walter's mailbox. It's the third time this month. She's had trouble herself.”

Molly could vaguely recall Gramps saying something about the box being vandalized.

“That isn't all.”

“What else has happened?”

“Ask Ginny Dougherty,” he said.

“Ginny?”

“I've said more than I should have already.” He pinched his lips together and Molly could see it would take a crowbar to pry any more information out of him.

 

That evening Tom sat on the front porch with a dog by his side. Natasha, the pregnant collie. Sighing, he stroked her silky ears. He'd heard about people experiencing withdrawal, but he never thought he'd have to deal with it himself. Only he wasn't on drugs. No way—he wasn't
that
dumb. What he missed to the point of wanting to scream was television. Good old-fashioned color television with a remote control and a twenty-three-inch screen.

Gramps got one channel on an old black-and-white set. Tom was surprised to learn there were still black-and-white televisions left in the United States. What irked him most was that Gramps refused to buy a dish or bring in cable, and the only station his tinfoil-wrapped rabbit ears delivered was from somewhere up in Canada. An educational channel! If he wanted to learn something, he'd go to school. Even sadder was that Gramps didn't have a clue what he was missing. The old man didn't know what MTV was, and furthermore he didn't care.

Gramps was asleep on the recliner now, with the television on Mute, the picture fuzzy. What Tom could make out convinced him he wouldn't want to watch it even if the picture came in clear.

Sweetgrass's lone radio station was just as bad. Every morning at ten-thirty the entire town apparently went into a frenzy for radio bingo. Tom knew certain people enjoyed playing bingo. In San Francisco the Catholic church down the street had bingo nights twice a week, but he'd never heard of anyone playing it over the
radio.

And if that wasn't enough, Tom had been subjected to a litany of farm prices from about noon on. He hated to disappoint Gramps, but he didn't really care about the price of pork bellies. Then the extension agent would come on and talk about the fall fair and something called 4-H. Mostly his little discussions had to do with how to grow vegetables and groom cows. Tom didn't know what an extension agent was or what he did, other than talk about animal grooming. And when the radio station actually played some music, it was this horrible stuff from the 1940s and 1950s. Stuff that was around before his mother was even born!

Now she was off on some hot date. His mother dating? Tom wasn't sure he liked that idea, but had decided he'd be mature about it. Still, he thought, if she was interested in an evening on the town, she should check out Sam.

Tom liked Sam. Clay did, too. Neither of them knew anything about Russell Letson. They'd met him when he'd come to pick Mom up, and Tom didn't have feelings toward him one way or the other. Letson was all right, he guessed. Sam, however, was terrific.

Okay, so the foreman wasn't as good-looking as the lawyer, but Sam had the advantage of knowing everything there was to know about horses. The attorney looked clueless, on
that
subject, anyway.

For the past two nights, Sam had spent time with Tom after dinner, teaching him about horses. He'd seemed distracted this evening, though. Maybe it was Clay's fault. Clay had been a pest, but Tom was used to his younger brother making a nuisance of himself. Sam wasn't.

He would say one thing about Gramps's foreman—Sam hadn't once talked down to either him or Clay. He spoke to them both as if they were regular guys.

Clay was sound asleep, but Tom had come downstairs and sat in the dark, waiting for his mother's return. He'd heard about mothers waiting up for their kids to come home from a date. He'd never thought
he'd
be the one sitting there killing time until
she
showed up. But with Gramps asleep, someone needed to keep an eye on the clock.

Headlights appeared in the distance. Tom knew the car could be miles away. He'd never known anyplace to get darker than Montana. In California in the middle of the night, no matter where he was, Tom could look out the window and find a light. Somewhere.

Not in Montana. When night came, it settled over the land like…like black ink. It covered everything. Except for the moon and the stars, he couldn't see a thing. The first night when he looked out the window, he'd been astounded. At the darkness. And the quiet. It was enough to unnerve anyone.

The headlights missed him as the car took a sharp turn and followed the road around the back by the outbuildings. Tom almost made the mistake of walking into the house, but he didn't want to stumble on his mother and her lawyer friend kissing. That would embarrass everyone. Besides, Tom wasn't sure how he'd feel if he saw the attorney with a lip lock on his mother. He might do something stupid, like punch him out.

Tom returned his gaze to the heavens. Away from the city lights, the night sky was ablaze with stars. He'd had no idea there were that many. Suddenly he noticed that the car was leaving, its lights stretching out toward the highway. Well. That hadn't taken long.

“Gramps, are you awake?” Tom heard his mother ask from inside the house.

He stiffened. His mother's voice was agitated. Letson had tried something and she was telling Gramps. Damn. Tom knew he should have gone inside, but it was too late now.

“Gramps, I hate to wake you, but I have a few questions.”

The urgency in his mother's voice brought Tom up short. Letson would be sorry by the time Tom was finished with him. No one messed with his mother!

“Molly, darlin',” Gramps said and Tom heard the old man yawn. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Gramps, we need to talk.”

“Talk?”

From his position on the porch, Tom could look into the living room through the screen door and not be seen. Gramps was on the recliner and his mother sat on the ottoman in front of him. She learned forward and folded her arms around her knees.

“What do you know about Sam Dakota?” she asked abruptly.

“Sam?” Gramps scratched the side of his head. “You went to dinner with Letson and discussed Sam?”

“Tell me what you know about him.”

“Why?” The word was a challenge.

“Because…I need to know if we should trust him.”

Tom wasn't sure he liked the tone of his mother's voice or her questions, but he wanted to hear what she said even more than he wanted to run in and defend Sam.

“Why are you asking me such a thing?”

His mother threw back her head and stared at the ceiling as if counting to ten. She did that sometimes when she wanted to keep her cool.

“Did you check his references?” she asked quietly.

Gramps rubbed the sleep from his face. “I don't recall that he provided any.”

“Then why'd you hire him?” Her voice rose slightly.

“'Cause I needed help.”

Gramps seemed to think that was all the explaining necessary. But Tom knew his mother wasn't about to let it drop. No, she'd hang on until she got what she wanted. All mothers weren't like that, but his was. Stubborn, and she wouldn't let you get away with changing the subject.

“Sam Dakota is a good man, Molly.”

“But you don't know that for sure, do you?”

“I didn't need a piece of paper with a bunch of people's names to tell me what two hours on the range said a whole lot better.”

“Okay, so Sam's good on the back of a horse.” She made that sound like a small thing.

“He handles cattle like a pro,” Gramps added. “He's one of the best cattleman I've worked with in years. Now tell me why all the questions. You're not makin' a lick of sense, girl.”