Montana (6 page)

“Stubbornness. Pride,” she said, and kissed his weathered cheek. “I can't imagine where I got that.”

Gramps chuckled, looking past her. “Where are those young'uns of yours? I've been waitin' all day for this, and none too patiently, either.”

Tom and Clay stepped into the room. Tom had his arms folded and a scowl on his face. He lagged behind Clay, who was grinning and energetic, unable to hold still. “Hi, Gramps!” Clay's exuberant greeting was echoed by Tom's reluctant “Hi.”

Gramps studied her sons for what seemed like minutes before he nodded. It was then that Molly saw the sheen of tears in his tired eyes. He sat up and braced both hands on his knees.

“You've done a fine job raising these boys of yours, Molly. A fine, fine job.”

“That her?” Lance whispered, staring out from the alley between the café and hardware store. He motioned with his head toward Molly Cogan.

She walked out of the Sweetgrass bank, glancing up at the man beside her. He wore a Stetson and walked like a cowboy.

Monroe's gaze followed his fellow Loyalist's to the other side of the street. It surprised him that a cantankerous old guy like Wheaton would have a granddaughter this attractive. From what he understood, she'd been divorced a number of years. A woman who'd been that long without a husband might appreciate some attention from the right kind of man. He'd heard redheads could be real wild women in the sack.

He quickly banished the thought from his mind. It'd be a mistake to mix business with pleasure. And it could end up being a costly mistake. Once this matter of getting hold of the ranch was settled, he'd show her the difference between a Montana man and a city boy.

Oh, yeah. Monroe had heard all about those men in California, especially in the San Francisco area. Those gay boys sure didn't know what to do with a woman. Seemed they were stuck on each other, if you could imagine that! The whole damn country was going to hell in a handbasket—but not if he could help it. That's what the Loyalists were all about. They were a militia group—been around for ten years or so. At their last meeting, more than a hundred men had crammed the secret meeting place to show their support for the changes he and the other Loyalists were planning to bring about. Of course some folks who didn't know any better took exception to the cause. Walt Wheaton, for one. The old cuss was as stubborn as they came. Monroe had done everything in his power to convince the rancher to sell out. Subtly of course. Guarding his own identity and his position of power in the organization was crucial. Only Loyalists knew him as Monroe, and although he'd attended the last meeting, no one in Sweetgrass had any idea how deeply involved he was with the militia. His cover was useful and too important for Loyalist purposes to break.

After a careful study of possible sites for their training grounds, the group had decided old man Wheaton's property was the ideal location. But Walt Wheaton had remained inflexible. As his banker, Dave Burns was in a position to put the pinch on him, but it hadn't worked. When things hadn't fallen into place, the head of the Loyalists had sent Lance to help them along. Monroe didn't think much of Lance, but he kept his opinions to himself.

In a last-ditch effort to keep violence out of the picture—not that he was opposed to using force, if necessary—he'd convinced the powers-that-be to give him one last chance to reason with the old rancher. He hated like hell to see a hothead like that fool Lance get credit for obtaining the property when he might finesse the deal himself—with a little assistance.

That was when he put the pressure on a third cousin of his to make the old man an offer he couldn't refuse. Now that Walt's granddaughter was in town, they might finally make some headway. The ranch was on its last legs, Burns had seen to that, refusing Wheaton any more loans and calling in the ones he already had.

“How much longer is the old guy gonna live?” Lance asked, cutting into his thoughts.

“Not long,” Monroe said under his breath. If necessary he'd let Lance give Wheaton a good shove into the hereafter, but he'd prefer to avoid that. Too messy. And the last thing the Loyalists needed was a passel of state cops and reporters looking in their direction.

“Who's that with her?”

“Sam Dakota.” Monroe snickered softly, disliking the protective stance the foreman took with the woman. He could see the lay of the land with those two. Sam wanted her for himself, but Monroe wasn't going to let that happen. Dakota was a jailbird and once old man Wheaton found out, he'd send the foreman packing. Right quick, too, if he knew Walt Wheaton.

“Will he make trouble?”

“Unlikely.” Dakota wouldn't know the meaning of the word “trouble” until he tangled with the Loyalists. The foreman was admittedly a problem, but Monroe didn't expect Sam to stay around much longer.

“I thought you said we'd have the Wheaton land soon,” Lance grumbled.

Monroe frowned. “Takes time.”

“You're sure the old man doesn't know?”

“I'm sure.” Monroe's patience was growing thin. It wasn't the younger man's place to question him, and he let it be known he didn't appreciate it by glaring at him fiercely.

“I could convince him to sell in a week if you'd let me,” Lance muttered.

“We'll do this my way,” Monroe said from between clenched teeth. The necessity of maintaining a low profile was key to the group's survival. The government, especially the FBI, would go to great lengths to stop the militia movement. All you had to do was look at Ruby Ridge and Waco and you'd realize just how corrupt the feds had become. Well, that was all about to change.

“I'm not going to do anything stupid,” Lance assured him.

“Good.” Against his better judgment, Monroe found himself staring at Molly Cogan again. Her jeans stretched nicely across her butt. Not so tight as to invite a look and not so loose that they disguised the fact she was a woman. And just the way she walked proved she was a Wheaton, all right. Proud as the day was long, and if she was anything like her grandfather, stubborn, too.

“She's pretty, I'll say that for her.”

“Don't get any ideas,” Monroe said, struggling to hold on to his temper. “We've already got more complications than we need.”

“All right, all right, but let me visit one of the girls soon. I'm a growing boy, if you catch my drift.”

The kid might think he was clever, but Monroe failed to be amused. A large part of the Loyalists' financial support came from a prostitution ring that covered the entire state. The money they brought in was the lifeblood of the organization, but there wouldn't be enough with young bucks like Lance and his friend Travis helping themselves to the goods. He was guilty of taking advantage himself, but then he considered Pearl and a couple of the others his fringe benefits. He figured
he
was a hell of a lot more entitled to them than Lance.

“Stay out of town unless I tell you different,” Monroe instructed the other man.

Lance frowned.

“You heard what I said, didn't you?” He knew Lance had been sneaking into town behind his back. That boy better realize he had ways of learning about whatever went on here.

“I said I would,” Lance mumbled.

“Good.” Monroe sent Lance off and waited long enough to be sure he'd taken the road out of Sweetgrass. Then he climbed into his car; it was as hot as a brick oven. He was hot in other ways, too, and blamed the Wheaton woman for that. It was time to pay Pearl a visit—she'd probably missed him. He drove down several streets and stopped next to the community park. No need to announce where he was headed by leaving his car in front of her house.

He cut through the alley and walked across Pearl's backyard, then let himself in by the door off the kitchen. He didn't bother to knock.

Still in her housecoat, Pearl stepped out of the hallway. She looked shocked to see him. Noon, and she wasn't dressed yet. Not that he was complaining. It saved time.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, placing her hands on her hips. The action tugged open the front of her robe and offered him a tantalizing peek at her breasts.

“Guess,” he said with a snicker. He loosened his belt buckle, in no mood to play games.

Her bravado quickly disappeared and she backed away from him. “Our agreement was once a month.”

“That's not the way I remember it.”

Pearl might have been pretty at one time, but too many years of making her living on her back had spoiled whatever had been attractive about her. Her makeup was applied with a heavy hand—not like Molly Cogan's. Monroe frowned as he thought about the old bastard's granddaughter.

“I…I don't want you to tie me up this time.” Pearl's voice trembled a little. He liked that. Just the right amount of fear, enough to make her willing to do things she might not do for her other customers. But then he wasn't like the others. The Loyalists owned Pearl, and she did what he damn well pleased, whether she wanted to or not.

 

Gramps had insisted Sam accompany Molly into Sweetgrass, and although she couldn't see the sense of it, she hadn't made a fuss. The boys were far too interested in exploring the house and unpacking their belongings to be bothered with errands. So Molly had left them with Gramps.

Actually she'd hoped to use the time alone with Sam to find out what she could about her grandfather's health. The old man seemed pale and listless this morning, although he'd tried to hide it from her.

Gramps's old pickup had to be at least twenty-five years old. Molly could remember it from when she was a child. The floorboard on the passenger side had rusted through, and she had to be careful where she set her feet.

The ride started off in a companionable enough silence. Every now and then she'd look at Sam, but he kept his gaze carefully trained on the road ahead.

She'd spoken first. “Are you from around here?”

“No.”

“Montana?”

“Nope.”

“Where else have you been a foreman?” she'd asked, trying a different tack.

“I haven't been.”

“Never?” she asked.

“Never,” he repeated.

That was how their entire conversation had gone. In the forty minutes it took to drive into Sweetgrass, Sam didn't respond once in words of more than two syllables. Stringing together more than a couple of words appeared to be beyond his capabilities.

Molly had hoped to ease into her conversation, get to know him before she dug for answers concerning her grandfather's condition. But no matter how she approached him, Sam Dakota remained tight-lipped and uncooperative.

Molly gave up the effort when the town came into view.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

If the Broken Arrow Ranch had changed in nine years, Sweetgrass hadn't. Main Street seemed trapped in a time warp. Foley's Five and Dime with its faded red sign still sat on the corner of Main and Maple. Her grandmother had often taken Molly there as a child so she could watch the tropical fish swim in the big aquarium. The hamsters, racing about in their cages, had intrigued her, as well. In addition to pets, the store sold knickknacks and tacky souvenirs to any unsuspecting tourist who had the misfortune of dropping by. Not that there'd ever been many tourists. In retrospect, Molly decided it must be the bulk candy displayed behind the glass counter that kept Foley's in business.

The bank's reader board, which alternately flashed the time and the temperature, was directly across the street from Foley's. Sweetgrass Pharmacy and the barbershop were next to the bank. Molly wondered if the singing barber had retired. As she recalled, he'd done a fairly good imitation of Elvis.

The ice-cream parlor with its white wire chairs was exactly as she remembered.

Sam glanced at her.

“Everything's the same,” she told him.

“Everything changes,” he said without emotion. “Looks can be deceiving, so don't be fooled.” He eased the truck into an empty parking space and turned off the engine.

“I need to stop at the bank,” she said, looking over at the large redbrick structure. From there she'd go to the Safeway and buy groceries. The Safeway was at the other end of town, about six blocks away. A stoplight swayed gently in the breeze at Main and Chestnut. For a while it had been the only one in the entire county. But five years ago Jordanville, forty miles east, had its first traffic light installed, stealing Sweetgrass's claim to distinction. Gramps had taken the news hard; he'd written her a letter complaining bitterly about the changes in Montana. Too damn many people, he'd grumbled.

Without looking at her, Sam added, “I've got some supplies to pick up.”

Sam wasn't unfriendly, but he hadn't gone out of his way to make her feel welcome, either. Molly had no idea what she'd done or hadn't done to create such…coolness in his attitude. This morning he'd seemed neutral, but neutral had definitely become cool.

“I'll meet you at the bank when I'm finished,” he said.