Seeds of Summer (3 page)

J
ARED STROLLED DOWN THE DIRT ROAD, HIS FIBERGLASS ROD PROPPED ON
his shoulder and a coffee can of earthworms in his hand. The late-afternoon sun ate up the blue sky while meadowlarks nested in the lush green pastures, their plaintive
see-you see-yeeer
carrying in the wind. He admired the rolling hills of Charris County, eager to try out his new stainless reel in the murky waters of the Cottonwood River and reclaim a piece of his childhood he'd been too long without. Sunday afternoon fishing—a pastime he'd enjoyed with his granddad on many occasions.

Though the man died years ago, Jared had every intention of drawing near to his memory despite the troubles they'd faced before his death. It somehow seemed fitting to do this on his granddad's birthday. Maybe he'd even cook the fish for supper—pan-fried with a cornmeal batter.

Able to imagine the salty taste on his tongue, he grinned, content with the day and pleased with his morning's sermon—a drastic change from the angst that tore at him the night before. All week he'd struggled to find the right words to say to his new congregation. Then late last night, beat down and ready to admit defeat, he finally
gave his fears over to God. Once he did that, the words began to flow onto the paper.

His granddad always told him the easiest lessons were often the hardest learned. He carried that message with him as he cut through the pasture and headed for the river.

The directions Jared had been given brought him to a slope on the inside of a wide bend in the river. From here, he noted the shallow riffle over a limestone shelf where the water cut deep into the riverbed to form large swirling pools. Time and current had eaten pockets in the muddy bank beyond. That's where the flathead were, and in those pools they fed. With images of a twenty or thirty-pounder, Jared broke through the new undergrowth and scooted down the embankment, his boot heels digging into the damp earth.

When he reached the gravel bar, he prepared his line, wadding sod worms on his hook. It took a moment to remember what he once knew well…lessons on the Republican River back home with his granddad.

Now mid-May, tufts of cottonwood seed floated from the trees and into the river. The height of spawning season, the channel was sure to be crawling with catfish. In anticipation, Jared rubbed his casting thumb, tender and no longer calloused from summers of riding and breaking the spool. His years in seminary had softened him.

Thanks to an abundance of spring rain, the water ran swift over the rocks and gushed down into the pools. Jared targeted the area of his choice—a sixty-yard throw. With timed calculation and both hands gripped around his rod, he cast his line.

Careful, ride the spool—don't bird-nest.

As he reeled the line in, he glimpsed a movement from the other side of the river. A young boy in jeans and a red ball cap headed due south in a jaunty manner.

Jared gave a nod and noted the boy's fishing pole, most attentive to the string of fish dangling at his side.

He cast again as the boy hiked past through the thick brush. An
hour later, he caught sight of the sandy-haired youth, this time on Jared's side of the river, his pant legs soaked to the knees.

“Getting any bites?” the youngster asked.

Jared preferred not to acknowledge the bites he'd missed. He eyed the two big carp and three flathead on the boy's string. “Nothing to speak of.”

“You new here? I don't recall seeing you around.” The boy appeared too young to be crossing rivers on his own or asking so many questions.

“Yeah, I am. I'm not intruding on your fishing hole, am I? Some men at my church told me this was a good spot, so I thought I'd try it out.”

“I'm done and heading back.” The boy pressed the bill of his cap down and peered in the direction of what must be home.

Jared dug another worm from his can to thread onto his empty hook. “What's your name? Where's home?”

The boy squinted at him, and Jared noticed the many freckles dotting his cheeks and nose. “Name's Dillon. I live a couple miles from here.”

“Do your folks know where you are?”

Dillon looked away. “It don't matter as long as I'm home before dark.”

The boy's confidence reminded Jared of himself when he was young. Jared hoped that self-assurance wouldn't get the boy in trouble as it had for him. He noted the long shadows from the tree line and suspected the sun was glowing reddish pink against the rolling prairie above. “Best be moving on then, so you don't worry your mom and dad.”

The slamming of a truck door carried in the wind, and Jared's eyes roamed the top of the riverbank. After a few minutes, he caught sight of a sleek-haired beauty, her long, black hair fluttering in the air, and her hands on her hips. She called Dillon's name.

“Is that your mom?”

Dillon grimaced.

Her posture noticeably relaxed when she spotted them, then almost as quickly bristled with irritation. The slender woman charged down the rocky slope, her arms pumping.

“I've been looking everywhere for you, Dillon. Do you know how worried I've been?” She glanced at Jared, and her light blue eyes offered a strained apology. “Who's your friend?”

The boy shrugged.

Jared swiped his palms on his jeans. “I recently moved here from St. Louis. My name's Jared Logan.” He extended his hand, and too late, noticed his fingers marred with mud.

She ignored his greeting. Dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a button-up shirt tied snug at the waist, she came across as one who wouldn't care to get her hands dirty.

“I was visiting with your son.” Jared lowered his hand with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “From the looks of his stringer, he appears to have good fishing sense.”

Her eyes narrowed. “My brother might know about fishing, but I question his good sense.”

She turned to Dillon and thumped him on the head. “The next time you get an urge to leave home, you better tell someone where you're going. Chelsey's got supper on the stove, and your chores need done.”

Dillon frowned down at his catch, then offered the stringer to Jared. “Guess I won't have time to clean these. You want them?”

Jared glanced between the boy and his sister and wondered at the considerable age difference. “Are you sure?”

“Help yourself. We have plenty in the freezer,” the young woman answered for her brother. As though she had no time for indecision, she grabbed the fish from Dillon's hand and shoved them at Jared, the stench of the muddy river clinging to their scales. “Enjoy your supper.”

She turned and prodded the boy up the riverbank. Jared stumbled after them. “Wait, I didn't catch your name.”

Her blue eyes flickered back at him. “I'm sure we'll see each other again.” She smiled, and her white teeth gleamed against her perfect olive complexion.

Jared couldn't remember when he'd seen such a vision. He watched as she ascended the rocky bank, but her countenance stayed with him. He couldn't decide which was more impressive—her eyes, her smile, or the black crown of hair that floated about her face. All had stirred his senses.

N
ATALIE PEERED AT HER BROTHER AS SHE DROVE UP THE DIRT ROAD TO
their ranch. “You'll catch more,” she said at the crushed expression on her brother's face.

Dillon stared at his lap, his sullenness intensifying her guilt. “Like you said, we have lots in the freezer.”

She nodded. “Just tell me next time, so I don't have to worry. Okay?” Natalie had searched in every barn and outbuilding on the ranch and called his name so much her throat still felt raw from the effort. If Willard hadn't spotted Dillon walking toward the river with his pole, she wasn't sure what she would have done.

It had to be a guy thing—fishing on the river. She considered the dark-haired man, a city boy from St. Louis, probably hoping to commune with nature or some such nonsense. Judging from his pale complexion, the man didn't get out much.

“You think Dad was in a lot of pain when he died?”

Dillon's question jerked Natalie out of her thoughts and back to the real world—right where her father had always instructed her to live. She debated lying to the boy. As intuitive as he was, he'd probably see right through her.

“I don't know, Dillon. It's better not to think about it.” At least,
that's what she tried to do. She smiled and reached across the seat to squeeze his shoulder. “Concentrate on the good times you had—all those overnight trips you took to the river, and helping him at roundup. I know how much you liked herding steers.”

His brown eyes brightened. “Especially hunting strays. Or drinking from the windmills.”

“More like swimming in the water tanks.” She pinched his ear, and he pulled away.

“Do you miss him?”

The tires hit a chuckhole as Natalie turned into their lane, and the two of them jostled inside the cab of the truck. “What kind of question is that?”

Dillon cracked his knuckles, a habit she loathed almost as much as her sister's nail biting. “You haven't been around much lately. I thought maybe you and Dad…that maybe you didn't get along so well anymore.”

Natalie pulled up to the house and shut off the Ford's diesel engine. Sometimes her brother saw things through a magnifying glass, things she'd rather not acknowledge. But it was true. Life hadn't been the same since Vegas.

“It's not that we didn't get along.” She opened the truck door and the hinges groaned. “I've been busy…trying to figure out what to do with my life. Sometimes we grownups don't always see eye-to-eye.”

Dillon frowned. “Are you sad about the contest?”

She fought back the emotion, allowed it to deaden her senses. “Not so much.”

“What about that guy…Ryan. You still dating him?”

“No, I'm not.” Natalie scowled. Ryan was the last person she cared to think about. Unwilling to say more, she headed for the house.

Chelsey met her on the back porch, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder. “A guy's waiting for you in Dad's office—says his name's Mr. Thompson.”

A curse slipped from Natalie's tongue as she checked her watch. She'd forgotten about her appointment with Dad's attorney. One glance in the hall mirror confirmed her hair was a mess, and she quickly raked her fingers through the black strands before entering her father's office.

The man sat with his back to her, his balding crown framed by dark tufts of hair on each side.

“I'm sorry for keeping you.” She reached out her hand and offered him a warm smile.

“No problem.” He started to stand. “Since I've been out of the office all week, I figured you'd want to get this over with as soon as possible, but if today isn't convenient we can reschedule for another time.”

“You said on the phone that my father had a will?” Natalie noted his briefcase and cleared a space on the oak desk.

“Yes, albeit a short one.” Mr. Thompson laid half a dozen papers on the desk, spreading them out for her to view. He then withdrew two scrolls of paper each tied with a string and handed them to her. “Before we begin, here are a couple of items your father gave me to go along with the will. They're addressed to your brother and sister. I believe he mentioned they were poems.”

Natalie lifted an eyebrow, never knowing her father to write an ounce of poetry. Willard, yes, but not her dad. She stared at the scribbled names, wondering why he'd given them to his lawyer and why there wasn't one for her.

“Your father was a unique man.”

She glanced up from the scrolls. “That's putting it mildly, wouldn't you say?”

“What I mean is that while he wanted his legal matters in order, he failed to do the same with his finances.”

Natalie eased into the wooden desk chair. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“Trust me, your father planned for your futures, but his plan had a few…kinks.” The attorney rushed on. “As his only heirs, he
left you and your brother and sister the entire estate, to be divided equally among you when they reach the age of twenty-one. Until then, he appointed you guardian of the children and conservator of the ranch. You're also the executor of the estate.”

She skimmed the papers on the desk. “Then I don't understand.”

“The problem isn't the real estate…he owned his land free and clear.” The man twisted in his seat as a bead of sweat formed on his upper lip. “The dilemma comes in determining your father's cash assets. He once told me he had a great dislike for financial institutions. Said he could protect his money better than a bank. I guess he wasn't kidding.”

“I'm afraid I'm not following…”

“Well…” The attorney drew out the word before he continued. “I've spoken to your father's accountant. We have his tax records, and his quarterly ledgers. Your father had an account at the bank for his business transactions, but we're quite certain there was more. We just don't know where.”

Natalie stared at the man in disbelief. “What about investments?”

Mr. Thompson frowned and shook his head. “We have no records of any such business. Maybe he gambled the money or gave it away. We have no way of knowing.”

Natalie scrunched her brow. Her father didn't gamble. “But there's money in the ranch account?”

“You have enough to cover operating expenses—for a few months, anyway.”

As Natalie digested what this meant, her hand began to tremble.

The attorney offered her a consoling shrug. “I'm sorry. I know how much he loved all of you. I'm certain it wasn't his intention to make your lives difficult. That's really all I can offer.”

“There's no savings? Nothing I can draw upon?”

“You have the ranch, all fifty-six hundred acres. And who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and find the money hidden in a shoe somewhere.” He rose and gave her a weak smile. “Stranger things have happened.”