Montana (12 page)

She'd phoned the sheriff's office to report the damage but heard nothing back. She wondered if this kind of thing was considered a routine crime in Montana—the way police in San Francisco viewed car break-ins.

Meals were hurried affairs during those days of crisis. Either Charlie or Pete would take something out to Sam, but he never showed up himself. Molly wasn't sure when he slept. Almost against her will, as she worked on the garden she'd begun to plant, she caught herself watching for him, worrying about him. She was constantly aware of his absence.

Gramps was anxious, too, grilling her with questions, repeating the same ones over and over until her patience was gone. He fretted and stewed, and Molly knew it couldn't be good for his heart. She worried about leaving him even for a short time, but Gramps hated her fussing over him. The atmosphere in the house seemed to crackle with tension. Molly gardened obsessively to escape it.

The boys were nervous and at loose ends, and Molly didn't object when they started spending most of their time hanging around the barn. That was their way of coping with anxiety, as gardening was hers.

Saturday evening, the third day, just as the sun was about to sink into the horizon, Tom spotted Sam riding slowly toward the house.

“Mom! Mom!” Tom raced over to her, his thin legs kicking up dust. Molly set aside the hoe and rubbed her arm across her sweat-dampened forehead. She still wasn't accustomed to seeing Tom in a cowboy hat. Not a cheap imitation, either, but a felt one that must have cost the earth. He'd found it on his bed the day they learned the fence had been cut. The only person who could've put it there was Sam. Why, she couldn't guess. Not that it mattered to Tom. He'd placed it on his head and hadn't removed it since, except to sleep.

“I see him, honey,” Molly said, looking out at the horse and rider. Their shape was silhouetted against the pink sky of sunset.

Despite herself, Molly felt her breath catch. The scene was classically, beautifully Western.
Return of the Cowboy.

But this cowboy had barely slept for two nights. He'd eaten on the run. And he'd worked long backbreaking days.

Molly's hand crept to her throat. Sam was slouched over the saddle; it looked as if he barely had the strength to stay on his horse. As he drew near the yard and saw Molly and the boys, he straightened.

Tom and Clay gathered around her. Sam rode still closer, and she searched his face for signs of trouble, fearing he'd come with more bad news.

Unsure what she intended to say, Molly hurried toward him when he stopped. There'd been so many things she wanted to tell him, had thought about over the past three days. Not a single one came to mind now.

“Hi.” That sounded incredibly stupid. Juvenile. She wanted to grab the word back the instant she'd said it.

“Hi, yourself,” he said. He grinned. It was the lazy tired smile of a man who'd been too long away from home. A man who'd finally returned and found someone waiting for him there. His gaze held hers an extra moment, then moved to her oldest son. His grin broadened. “Nice-looking Stetson, son.”

Son.
The word slipped effortlessly from his lips, and Molly watched Tom's reaction. It seemed he stood a little straighter, a little taller.

The tension between Molly's shoulder blades eased. “Did you find all the cattle?”

“Think so. The last two were trapped in a bog hole, up to their knees in mud. I had a hell of a time freeing them. Are Pete and Charlie back?”

Tom answered. “Came back about an hour ago.”

“Good.”

For the first time Molly noticed that Sam was wearing some of the bog hole. His clothes were caked with dried mud. The hem of his jeans was thick with it, as were his sleeves. His face was splattered. Funny she hadn't realized it earlier.

“I'll take Thunder for you,” Tom offered. “I'll give him a good rubdown and some extra oats—he deserves it.”

“Charlie should do that. It's what we're paying him for.”

“Charlie and Pete have gone home now,” Molly said.

Sam's eyes flared briefly before he sighed. “Can't say I blame them. I don't think they figured they'd be working this hard on a summer job.”

“I don't think
anyone
figured they would,” Molly added.

Holding on to the saddle horn, Sam slid heavily from Thunder's back. The leather creaked and for a moment he braced himself against the horse. “I need a shower, something to eat and my bed, in that order.”

“There's plenty of leftovers from dinner,” Molly assured him.

Tom took the gelding's reins and led him into the barn. “Don't worry about Thunder,” he said, not hiding his pleasure at helping Sam.

“I'm sure Gramps is going to want to talk to you, too,” Molly said. She hated to burden Sam with any more demands, but with the state Gramps had been in these past few days…

“I'll give him a report as soon as I've finished eating,” Sam promised.

Molly wondered if Gramps would be able to wait that long.

Tom and Clay were still in the barn tending to Thunder when Sam entered the kitchen fresh from his shower. In a clean set of clothes, his hair wet and just combed, he made a striking figure. Trying hard not to stare, Molly turned the thick slice of ham sizzling in the pan while she warmed mashed potatoes and peas in another skillet.

Sam closed his eyes and for a wild moment Molly feared he was about to collapse. It turned out he was just inhaling the aroma of a home-cooked meal. “I swear I could eat a horse.”

“Don't let Thunder hear you say that,” she joked.

Sam pulled out a kitchen chair and sat at the table. “Or Tom,” he muttered with a laugh.

Molly brought him his meal, along with a letter that had arrived for him. He glanced up expectantly when she set the envelope on the table, then stuck it inside his shirt pocket, unopened. Not without a sense of guilt, Molly had studied that envelope long and hard. The return address was a well-known ranch on the other side of the state.

He was halfway through his meal when Gramps wandered into the kitchen. “So you're back.”

“I'm back,” Sam agreed.

“Didn't hear you come in,” Gramps said. “Fell asleep.” He pulled out a chair and sat across the table from Sam, who didn't so much as pause in his appreciation of the meal. He reached for a second buttermilk biscuit and slathered butter across the warm top.

“You've had a few rough days.”

Sam nodded, biting into his biscuit with a look of pure contentment.

Molly brought Gramps a cup of coffee, then sat down beside him.

“Molly's been hard at work herself,” Gramps said next. “She's put in a garden. Exactly the same place my Molly used to have hers. That woman had a way with plants.” He shook his head wonderingly. “My guess is her granddaughter has the same green thumb.”

Only days ago, the spot where her grandmother had cultivated one of the finest gardens Molly had ever seen was covered with blackberry vines and weeds. With the boys' help, she'd cleared the space, roto-tilled and enriched the earth, then planted vegetables and—she couldn't resist—flowers. Low-maintenance flowers, like nasturtiums and impatiens. The work had been physically demanding and her body ached everywhere.

“We'll have to wait and see about that green thumb, Gramps.” He embarrassed her with his praise. She'd weeded her grandmother's garden during her childhood summers, but she'd never created one of her own. It would be an experience, especially planting as late as she had.

Gramps frowned. “I had to stop Molly from climbing up on the roof, though. Fool woman seems to think she can patch a leak, too.” He shook his head. “She's beginning to act like Ginny—thinks she can do everything herself.”

“I've been meaning to get to that roof myself,” Sam said, and his face darkened briefly. “It's just one of those things I've put off.”

“You have enough to do as it is,” Molly protested. She wasn't entirely helpless, and she wanted both her grandfather and Sam to know that she intended to do her part. While she didn't relish the thought of maneuvering her way across the steeply pitched roof, it had to be fixed before the fall rains started.

“Your grandfather's right—you shouldn't be on that roof,” Sam told her. “If I don't get to the repairs within the next week, I'll have someone else work on it.” He looked straight at her until she met his eyes. “Understand?”

“Yes,” she grumbled, but she had to admit it felt good to hand the responsibility over to him. Other than during the first few years of Tom's life, there hadn't been a man around to help her with things like that. She'd had to learn to handle small repairs and fix what needed fixing—knowledge that came in handy now.

A short silence followed. “There was a call for you this afternoon,” Gramps muttered.

Something about her grandfather's voice told her this was more than a casual comment.

“For me?” Sam's head jerked up.

“Curly Q Ranch outside of Laramie. Ever heard of it?”

His expression decidedly uncomfortable, Sam shifted in the chair. “What'd they want?”

Molly glanced from one man to the other, puzzled by the undercurrent of tension. Now that she thought about it, Gramps had been agitated since answering the phone, muttering under his breath and asking about Sam again and again.

“The foreman said he'd gotten a job inquiry from you. Is it true?” Walt demanded.

Sam slapped the biscuit down on the edge of his plate. “Yeah, it's true.”

“I'm not dead yet!” Gramps barked, his voice shaking.

“Maybe not, but Molly's going to sell out. All I'm doing is protecting my interests.” Sam pushed his plate aside, his appetite apparently satisfied—or ruined, she didn't know which.

“I'm not selling the ranch,” she insisted, wanting that clearly understood.

Sam's expression said otherwise.

“You may not think so now, but when the offers—”

“I've already turned down one offer,” she interrupted. Her anger seared each word. Sam was like everyone else. He could see the vultures circling overhead and he was going to bail out at his earliest convenience. What struck Molly hardest was the thought of running the ranch without him. She was a novice at this, a greenhorn, and without his help and guidance she'd be at a terrible loss. If Sam left, she might not have any choice but to sell.

Both Gramps and Sam were staring at her.

Molly blinked. “What?”

“You've already had an offer for the ranch?” Gramps asked. “Who from?”

“I'm not exactly sure who Russell's client is. He never said.”

“Letson brought you the offer?” To Molly's alarm, Gramps's face turned a deep red, and he let loose a string of swearwords—some of which she'd never heard before.

“Gramps!” She was grateful the boys weren't around.

“That son of a bitch is not to be trusted.” Closing his eyes, Gramps took several deep breaths, apparently hoping to calm himself.

“I'm not selling the Broken Arrow,” Molly repeated, directing the comment at Sam. It felt as if the foundation of everything she'd planned was cracking. Without Sam to manage the ranch for her, to sell off cattle and teach her what she needed to know, she'd be hopelessly in trouble within days. There was no one else she could ask. The hands he'd hired were only high-school boys, and they'd be back in school soon.

“I apologize if I disappointed you, Walt,” Sam said, and he did sound contrite, “but I've got to look out for myself. You and I both know that I'll stay as long as
you
need me.”

Molly didn't miss the emphasis. He was saying his loyalty belonged to Gramps and not to her or the boys. The foundation of her future had not only cracked, the entire structure was about to crumble at her feet. But pride had carried her a long way, and she wasn't about to let this…this fickle foreman know how badly he'd let her down.

“He's right, Gramps,” she stated breezily, as if Sam's defection was of little concern. “It would be unreasonable to expect Sam to stay on any longer than necessary. He's got his own life to worry about.” Even as she spoke, her blood heated at the thought that this man she'd chosen to trust—against her better judgment, dammit!—would do anything so underhanded. It'd been a mistake to put her faith in him, to believe he'd care enough about the ranch, care enough about anyone here other than Gramps, to want to stay on.

She'd begun to lower her guard with Sam and so had her boys, who admired and trusted him implicitly. That had been a mistake, all right.

She stood abruptly and grabbed the dirty dishes from the table, clattering cutlery onto the plate.

“Molly.”

“It's all right, Gramps.” Thankfully something in her voice revealed that she was in no mood to discuss this further. With her back to the two men, she slammed the plate into the sinkful of hot water and scrubbed it forcefully enough to remove the floral pattern.