The Maverick of Copper Creek (6 page)

“Just one thing.” His steely gaze pinned her. “Are you over him?”

“Chris, he's been gone for almost ten years.”

His eyes narrowed. “That's not an answer.”

When she held her silence, he crossed the room before holding open the door, a sure signal that his patience had snapped and their time together was up.

Brenna set aside her untouched coffee and caught hold of Sammy's leash.

As she brushed past him, Chris bent to kiss her good-bye. Against her mouth he muttered, “Maybe getting no answer really is an answer.”

“Chris, I—”

He cut her off with a quick, hard kiss. “I'll see you in a day or two.”

When his door closed, she walked to her battered truck and yanked open the driver's-side door. Sammy leaped inside and stuck his head out the passenger side window.

She climbed in and started toward home. But her thoughts weren't on her destination, or on the man she had just left in his office.

All she could think of was Ash MacKenzie.

After the shocking way he'd left her, she'd had way too much time to think about him, and wondering what her life would have been like if he'd stayed.

Did he have regrets for the way he'd betrayed her trust? Did he miss her the way she missed him, with an ache that never ended? Why had he never tried to contact her?

She'd always hoped that they would one day cross paths again. In her fantasies, she'd be wearing something stylish and chic, her hair and makeup perfect, her manner poised and aloof. It shamed her to admit that she'd secretly hoped that Ash would be old or paunchy or at least apologetic about the way he'd left.

He'd been none of those things. He'd been the same rugged cowboy he'd always been, only older, more muscled, and, if possible, even sexier.

He'd taken the news of her engagement in stride. And though she hadn't spotted a wedding band on his finger, that didn't mean he hadn't found someone to share his life. After all, she'd moved on. It was sensible to assume that he'd done the same.

But moving on wasn't the same as letting go. Though she'd tried desperately to get over him, all those old feelings came rushing back the minute they came face-to-face in the street.

And seeing him again, being held in those arms for a brief moment, had shattered her beyond belief.

“Ash.” Willow fell into her son's arms and hugged him fiercely before stepping back to study the rugged, craggy face of her firstborn son more closely.

“How are you holding up, Mom?”

“I'm okay. Lost without your father. My heart broken beyond belief. But I'll survive. Oh.” She hugged him again, as if to assure herself that he was really here. “I'm so glad to see you, Ash.”

When he released her, he leaned down to the wheelchair to hug his grandfather. “Mad. You're looking great.”

“I wish I felt great.” The old man returned the hug stiffly, before patting his grandson's shoulder to soften the welcome. “These are hard times, Ash.”

“Yes, sir. They are.” Ash straightened and turned to Whit, who had stood to one side watching the reunion. “Hey, Whit. You okay?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.” Whit stuck out his hand, sending a signal to his brother that he had no intention of being hugged.

The two shook hands solemnly.

Ash looked him in the eye, and realized his younger brother was now as tall as he. “You're not that fifteen-year-old kid anymore.”

“You got that right.” Whit's eyes narrowed on his brother. “How long you planning on hanging around?”

“I don't know. I came without any agenda except to bury Pop.”

Seeing Brady Storm just striding up the porch steps, Ash turned to the back door to greet the ranch foreman.

“Hey, Brady.”

“Ash. I figured that was your truck when I spotted the Wyoming plates.”

The two men shook hands, then seemed to think better of it and gave each other a quick, fierce, bone-jarring bear hug before stepping apart and slapping each other's shoulders. From the warmth of their laughter to the light dancing in their eyes, it was plain that the affection between them was as strong as ever.

“You got older, Ash.”

Ash grinned. “You didn't.”

“I guess that's what comes of having salt-and-pepper hair back in my thirties and forties. I looked old before I got there,” the foreman said with a laugh.

Ash turned to wink at his mother. “And you didn't age a year. How is that possible?”

Willow laughed and tossed her head. “I can see that you're determined to be on your best behavior.”

“Maybe I'm hoping that will earn me a big slice of your chocolate cake.”

Willow turned to her father-in-law. “I guess he doesn't know yet.”

“Know what?” Ash said.

“I'm chief cook and bottle washer around here now. I got sick and tired of sitting around watching everyone else working while I was feeling sorry for myself.”

“You're the ranch cook? What does Myrna do?”

“I've been demoted to laundry and household chores and being your grandfather's legs.” The old woman was grumbling as she waddled into the kitchen wearing an enormous apron that spanned her ample middle. Her gray hair had been pulled into a tight bun, from which damp tendrils had worked free to curl around her pudgy cheeks. Her blue eyes twinkled with a look of childish mischief.

“Hey, Myrna.” Ash gave her a hug and lifted her off her feet, swinging her around as he always had.

That had her smile returning as she settled on her feet and touched a hand to his cheek. “Ash, honey, if you don't look even more handsome than you did when you left.”

“Now that's the kind of appreciation I was looking for,” Ash said with a laugh.

“Appreciation was never the strong suit of the MacKenzie family.” Whit shot a glance at his older brother before adding, “At least while Pop was top gun around here, we all got shot down equally.”

Maddock slapped a hand down hard on the arm of his wheelchair. “You'll not speak ill of the dead.”

Whit flushed. “Sorry, Mad.”

“You'd better be.” The old man turned his wheelchair toward the stove. “Lunch will be ready in a little while. I'm making…”

At the sound of wheels on gravel, Maddock looked out the window. The others did the same and watched as a tall, muscled man stepped out of a dusty truck and started up the steps.

Willow wiped her suddenly damp hands down the front of her denim shirt. “That must be…Griff.”

At Ash's lifted brow, Whit said in an aside, “Long story short, Pop learned just before his death that he'd had a son with some slutty school teacher before he and Mom got married.”

“Whit!” Willow rounded on her son. “You mind that tongue.”

“What the hell…?” Ash's jaw dropped.

Before he could ask more, there was a knock on the door.

Willow hurried over to greet their guest.

Pasting a smile to her lips she pulled open the door.

And found herself staring at a face that was the exact image of her dead husband's.

G
riff?” When she managed to find her voice, Willow continued her wide-eyed stare.

Ash did the same. He couldn't help himself. The same dark eyes. The same strong jaw. The same firm mouth. There was no denying this stranger's heritage. He'd been cast from the same mold as Bear MacKenzie. Except for the difference in ages, and a knotted scar that ran from his ear to disappear below the collar of his shirt, they could have been twins.

“Yes.” The voice was low and deep. Bear's voice. The same growl. The same inflection. “Are you Willow?”

She nodded, and Ash realized that she was afraid to trust herself to speak, for fear she would burst into tears.

“I have a letter of introduction from Mason McMillan.” He held out the document, but instead of reaching for it, Willow continued staring at him for long moments.

Finally gathering herself, she stepped aside. “I'm sorry, Griff. I know about Mason's letter. He copied it to me. Please come in.”

“Thank you.” He looked beyond her to the others. Their gazes were fixed on him as if they were seeing a ghost.

When nobody stepped forward, he cleared his throat. “My name is Griff Warren.” He turned to Ash. “You are?”

“Where are my manners…?” Willow began, but Ash was already speaking.

“Ash MacKenzie. I'm the oldest…” Realizing the error of what he was about to say, his voice trailed off as the two shook hands. This stranger would have been born before Ash was even conceived.

Ash indicated the man in the wheelchair. “This is my grandfather, Maddock. Everybody calls him Mad.”

“Mad.” Griff stuck out his hand and the old man shook it, all the while staring at him with a look of stunned surprise. To make conversation, Griff added, “I hope that nickname doesn't describe your attitude.”

“Most days it does.” Mad's tone was solemn enough, but the corners of his mouth were curling in the merest hint of a smile.

“Griff, this is my younger brother, Whit.”

Griff offered his hand, and Whit glowered as he shook it, unable to hide his feelings about this man's presence in his family.

“Our ranch foreman, Brady Storm.”

“Brady.”

“Welcome to MacKenzie Ranch.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence fell over the group when they realized that Brady Storm, the only one of them who was not blood-related, had been the first to offer a word of welcome.

“I'm Myrna Hill. I've been with the family for nearly thirty years. Until recently”—she shot a knowing look at Mad—“I was chief cook and bottle washer around here. Now I guess I'm just the bottle washer.”

Her remark broke some of the tension as the others laughed aloud.

“Now
I'm
the cook,” Maddock said with a wry smile.

“I'm sorry, Griff.” Struggling to pull herself together, Willow kept her hands tightly gripped at her waist. “I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

“You're not the only one. I didn't know about you—” he nodded to include all of them “—
any
of you, until I got the letter from your lawyer.”

“Yes, well…that was a shock for all of us,” she admitted. “But seeing you…” She swallowed and tried again. “You see, you're the image of Bear.”

“I wouldn't know. I've never seen him.” The words were as challenging as the look in his eyes.

“Let me show you his portrait. It hangs in his office.” Willow opened the door that led down a hallway.

As she walked along beside Griff, the others followed, more out of curiosity than out of welcome.

Bear's office was a purely masculine room, with a stone fireplace that dominated one wall. A bank of windows offered a view of the rolling hills beyond, which were dotted with cattle. A massive desk stood to one side, faced by several upholstered swivel chairs.

Griff's attention was arrested by the portrait hanging above the fireplace mantel.

He couldn't have been more stunned if he'd been shocked by a cattle prod. It was like looking in a mirror. The man staring back at him had the same dark, curly hair, the same shape of brow and stern, dark eyes. He even had the identical cleft in that strong, jutting jaw.

While Griff studied the man in the portrait, the others were riveted by the man who could only be Bear's son.

Mad's gruff voice broke the silence. “I think we could all use some coffee.”

As they turned away, Ash stepped up beside his mother, who was struggling to think of something, anything, to say to this stranger.

“On the way back to the kitchen, why don't we show you the great room?” Ash led the way into a room filled with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an unbroken view of the hills in the distance. Another massive stone fireplace took up one entire wall.

Griff paused to study the portrait that hung above this mantel.

Ash followed the direction of his gaze, and the irony of the situation once again rendered him silent.

In the portrait, Bear MacKenzie had his arm around his younger son, Whit, while Willow stood proudly with her hand on Ash's shoulder.

A happy moment, captured for all time, of a united family.

It couldn't be made any clearer that Griff Warren was the absent one. The outsider. The illegitimate son of a man no longer here to claim him as his own.

“Something smells great.” Because the others had become so subdued, the ranch foreman made an effort to keep things light as they entered the kitchen.

“Split pea soup with ham,” Maddock announced. “It's been simmering since dawn. Sit.” He indicated the round wooden farmhouse table and high-backed wooden chairs that were the centerpiece of the kitchen.

The table had been set with baskets of rolls and pitchers of foaming milk, as well glasses of water and a carafe of coffee.

Maddock balanced a wide tray across his chair and proceeded to fill bowls with steaming soup.

“What's this?” Ash asked, pointing to the tray.

“An invention of mine,” his grandfather said with a trace of pride. “I figure, since I'm stuck in this thing”—he indicated the hated wheelchair—“I'd invent ways to make it more useful.”

“Pretty clever, Mad.”

At Ash's compliment, Myrna shot him a look. “Oh, yeah. Clever all right. Every time I look for something I've been using for years, I find it's been cut down or cut up to make something ‘clever.' And then I have to go to town and replace all the things I'm missing. Like my favorite serving tray.”

That had Mad grinning. And even Myrna's words held no sting. She nudged the old man's elbow as she waddled about, distributing platters containing chunks of ham as well as boiled potatoes, carrots, and cabbage in the middle of the table, where everyone could serve themselves.

At a wink from Mad, Ash stifled a grin. The friendly competition between Mad and Myrna had begun when the older man had moved in, and would no doubt continue until the day they were carried out. But, though Myrna's words were strident, there was really no anger behind them. Nobody listening to her was inclined to believe she had anything but affection for the old man she'd spent a lifetime complaining about. It was evident in the way the two playfully contradicted one another, only to break into laughter whenever one or the other managed a really clever barb.

When the others had staked their claim on their seats around the table, Griff held Willow's chair before taking the chair beside her. “Do you usually eat this much for lunch?”

Hearing him, Ash chuckled. “By noon, most ranchers have done more work than most businessmen would do in a week. There's something about hard, physical work that makes a body hungry.”

“And lean and mean,” Mad said with a grin. “You won't see too many overweight ranchers. We're too busy working off every calorie before it can turn into fat.”

Griff nodded. “It's that way in combat, too.”

Brady passed him the basket of rolls. “I'd guess being a target for enemy fire would burn off a whole lot of calories.”

“Yeah.” Griff helped himself to a roll and held out the basket to Willow. “I didn't see any overweight Marines where I was stationed.” He glanced across the table at Ash. “So you've been up since dawn working?”

Ash shook his head. “By dawn I was already on the road heading here.”

Griff raised a brow. “You don't live here?”

“I have a spread in Wyoming.”

“Have or had?” Maddock's head came up sharply. “Mason's son Lance figured you were about to lose it for back taxes.”

“I managed to sell off enough cattle to pay the taxes, and I made a deal with my neighbor to do a land exchange for repair of my irrigation system. So, for now at least, I still own it.”

The old man's face relaxed into a smile. “Good for you.”

Willow sat back and regarded her older son. “If you decide to settle here, there's more than enough land for you.”

“This was Pop's. Now it's yours, Mom.”

“It's ours, Ash. Your father wanted it to belong to all of us.” She glanced at Griff. “Once Bear learned about your existence, he added you to his will, too. He wanted this ranch to belong to the MacKenzie family for generations to come.”

“That's a nice dream.” Whit's tone of anger, as well as his words, had everyone looking at him. “But we couldn't even live together before Griff came along. What makes you think things are going to be any different now?”

“Because everything's changed.” Maddock slammed a hand down hard on the arm of his wheelchair. “Because we've lost my only son, and your father, and we suddenly see how quickly things can change. And if we don't learn how to work together now, we won't deserve a third chance.”

A pall of frosty silence settled over the table.

It was Myrna who broke the ice. “While the rest of you are choking on those loving sentiments, I'm starving. Please pass me the ham.”

Griff fought back a grin before passing platter after platter to Willow, who passed them to Brady, who passed them to Whit, who held them while Myrna helped herself to a heaping portion of ham, potatoes, carrots, and cabbage from each.

The rest of them followed suit, and soon they were too busy eating to argue.

Willow seized the opportunity to tell them her news. “I heard from Chief Pettigrew…”

Whit's fork clattered on his plate. “They found the bastard who shot Pop?”

Willow felt Griff bristle beside her and realized, too late, that Whit's choice of words had just added another layer of insult to a fatherless man who had probably suffered a lifetime of them. She fixed Whit with a look that every son recognized. “You will not use that word in my home again. Is that clear?”

Whit's gaze slid over Griff as the realization dawned. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean…” He changed the subject. “Did they identify the killer?”

“No. But Ira wanted me to know that they've completed their autopsy, which proved what they already knew. Bear was shot by a single bullet from a long-range hunting rifle. They've identified the weapon as a Remington bolt-action.”

“Great. That makes every rancher in the state of Montana a suspect,” Maddock muttered around a mouthful of ham.

“Exactly.” Willow sipped coffee. “I was hoping they would at least find some exotic bullet and weapon, or something in the area that would reveal more.” She sighed. “He used a long-range sight, so Bear didn't have a chance. He never would have suspected that he was being stalked by a killer.”

“Enemies?” Griff asked.

“Enough.” Ash's lips thinned. “Pop had a hair-trigger temper. Anything could set him off, and once he lost it, he usually went into a full-blown rant.”

“But they were only words.” Maddock was quick to defend his only son. “And once the tirade was over, Bear's anger was gone as quickly as it started. He was always able to forgive and forget.”

“Apparently his killer didn't have the same capacity for forgiving or forgetting.” Brady clenched a hand at his side.

Ash looked at the foreman. “You think the shooter was somebody who's been holding a grudge?”

“When somebody stalks his victim and waits to kill him, what would you call it if not a grudge?”

Ash nodded thoughtfully.

Willow glanced around the table. “Ira requested a list of possible suspects and reasons why we might suspect them of wanting to harm Bear. He specifically mentioned the recent spate of cattle rustling, as well as the names of people who owe Bear large sums of money. I've given him every name I can think of, but I'm sure I've overlooked any number of people. So I'd like each of you to make your own list and add it to mine.”

“Cattle rustling?” Griff grinned. “As in those old Westerns on TV?”

“This is high-tech rustling,” Whit was quick to explain. “They roll up in the night with a caravan of cattle-hauling trucks, and by the time a rancher learns that he's lost hundreds of head of cattle overnight, the thieves have crossed several state lines, covered the brands with new ones, and have already sold the animals to a slaughterhouse.”

Griff shook his head in wonder. “I guess that might be worth a man's life.”

“You'd be surprised what a man's life could be worth.” Mad slapped the arm of his wheelchair in disgust. “Some ranchers have died just because they threatened to report a poacher of wolves.”

“Wolves?” That had Griff's attention.

Whit told him, “Even though they're protected by the government, some ranchers are willing to pay a bounty to keep the predators from their herds. Especially during spring calving.”

“Ira even asked if there could be any old friends who might be jealous of Bear's success.” Willow set aside her fork and pressed a hand to her stomach.

Maddock, seeing the look of pain on his daughter-in-law's face, was quick to say, “I think we've speculated enough about this for now. Why don't we all make our lists and let the police chief do his job?” He turned to Willow. “When will they release Bear's…the body?”