The Maverick of Copper Creek (7 page)

“Ira told me to contact Mitch Weatherby to arrange a pickup tomorrow at the county morgue. Which means I can plan a funeral service as soon as I talk to Reverend Hamilton at Copper Creek Church. Depending on his schedule, we ought to be able to have something by the weekend. I thought I'd call the pastor today and see if I can arrange the service for this weekend. That way, more of the ranchers will be able to attend.”

“Yeah. They'll be in town anyway and can drop by church just before they pick up their feed and grain order, stock up on groceries, and lift a couple at Wylie's,” Maddock muttered. “In Bear's honor.”

While the others flinched, Willow glanced at Ash and then Griff. “Do either of you have to leave sooner?”

Ash shook his head. “My neighbor agreed to tend what's left of my herd while I'm gone. I'm not on any kind of timetable.”

“Griff?” Willow turned to him.

“The Marines sent me home with a pocket full of money, and I'd just as soon spend it in Copper Creek as anywhere. Let me know the date and time of the service, and I'll be there.” He thought a moment. “That is, if there's a place in town where I can stay until then.”

“You're welcome to stay here, Griff.”

He shot a glance at Whit. “I don't want to intrude on your grief.”

“You're not intruding.” Willow put a hand on his arm. “I know this is awkward for all of us, but you're family now. When Bear and I built this house, we'd designed it so that we could watch our children and grandchildren grow up here without feeling crowded. We have more than enough room for you.”

“And half your Marine buddies,” Mad added with a laugh.

Griff grinned at the old man's joke before saying to Willow, “You're sure?”

“Positive. Ash, you can have your old rooms back. And you can show Griff the east wing.”

To Griff she added, “You can have as much privacy as you want, and when you're in the mood for company, some of us are always around.”

“Especially here in the kitchen,” Maddock said with a chuckle. “You can almost always find me here.”

“Inventing something that will cost a fortune to make and then won't work anyway,” Myrna growled.

Ignoring her, Mad continued as though she hadn't said a word. “And when the rest of the family gets hungry enough, this is where they congregate.”

“If I'm going to stay here, I expect to do my share of the work.”

“Oh, you can count on that.” Brady gave him a knowing smile. “Ranch chores are never really done. By the time we get to the end of the list, it's time to start over.”

“Especially mucking stalls,” Whit added. “Pop always said it was good for building muscles.”

“As well as character, as I recall,” Ash said with a quick glance at his grandfather.

“Bear learned that from me. I raised him to believe that mucking stalls was one of the constants that a rancher can never walk away from. So, since you can't beat it, you may as well learn to use it for some good.”

“You'd know how good manure is, wouldn't you, Mad?” At Whit's remark, the others burst into gales of laughter.

Griff shrugged. “Okay. What am I missing?”

“I guess we could say that Mad was the butt of Pop's joke. He loved to tell us about the time Pop and Mad got into a real knock-down, drag-out fistfight, and Mad shoved Pop off the hayloft. By the time Mad had climbed down the ladder, Pop was spitting flames and wound up shoving his own father into a mound of fresh manure he'd just shoveled from the stalls. Gram wouldn't even allow Mad to come in and shower until he hosed himself off in the barn,” Ash said.

Griff was laughing and shaking his head at the image. “I don't blame her. I wouldn't have let you in either, Mad.”

The older man wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “What Ash didn't tell you is that it was below zero that day, and by the time I'd hosed myself off and walked back to the house, my clothes were stiff as a board, and so was my hair. I looked like a damned scarecrow.”

Around the table, the others joined in the laughter.

Willow took in a deep breath, surprised at how much the sound of laughter lifted her spirits.

“Your rooms are in there.” Ash led the way up the stairs and along a hallway until he and Griff paused in front of closed double doors. “If you need anything, just let Myrna know. Mad may claim to be in charge of the cooking, but Myrna runs the entire household.”

“Thanks.” Griff opened the doors and set aside his bags. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Ash continued along the hallway until he came to a second set of double doors. Inside, he dropped his bags and stared around with interest. This had been his room when he was growing up. Even though he'd been gone for almost a decade, little had changed. The bedroom had a huge walk-in closet and a king-sized bed. A desk and chair had been custom-built along one wall. Along another was a wood-burning fireplace. Atop a low, flat dresser something new had been added since he'd left home: a flat-screen TV.

He was deep in thought as he set up his laptop on the desk before crossing the room to the wall of windows.

Here was another thing he'd missed. This view. This land.

His legacy.

He'd been willing to leave it all behind in his eagerness to escape the constant battle of wills with his father. But now, seeing it all again, he felt an overwhelming sense of what he'd missed. Not just the land, the shared work, the comfort of his family. What he'd missed more than he ever realized was the presence of his father.

He tried to remember those times before the anger. Before the constant butting of two heads that refused to soften.

He'd loved his father. Had grown up wanting to be like him. And yet, each time Bear MacKenzie had started one of his tirades, something inside Ash's heart had closed a bit more, until one day, it slammed shut, and there was no solution except to go. To make his own way, and hope that one day he and his father would make things right between them.

Though he'd never given it too much thought, he'd always assumed that they would find a way to heal the wounds.

That day would never come now. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would have to live with that gnawing regret for all his life. No chance to say he was sorry. No chance to mend the terrible, gaping wounds that had left his family bloody and bowed. His family.

Though his mother and Brady seemed to have barely aged, the change in Whit was shocking. Ash had left behind a kid brother and had returned to find a man in Whit's place. An angry man. And who could blame him? He must have felt completely abandoned by the big brother he'd shadowed for all his life. Ash could only imagine how much of his father's temper had transferred to Whit, since there'd been no one else around to deflect all that anger.

Ash hoped he could be around long enough to establish some kind of relationship with the now-grown Whit. But such things took years, and he'd already wasted nearly a decade.

And what of Griff Warren? Ash had been prepared to deny any sort of relationship with the stranger claiming to be his father's son, until he'd seen his face. There would be no way any of them could deny Griff's claim. It was there on his face, in his eyes, the shapes of his nose and mouth. And even in the deep timbre of his voice. He was a younger, stronger Bear MacKenzie. And that fact had Ash wanting to resent him. But he couldn't. Not if he wanted to mend his relationship with his mother. She'd made it perfectly clear that she would not permit any disrespect while Griff was here.

Maybe, Ash thought, once they'd buried Pop and he and Griff returned to their lives elsewhere, he'd have time to sort through all that had happened and make some sense of it.

Ash wiped an arm across his eyes and turned away, feeling an overpowering weariness. This was all more than he could take in.

He kicked off his boots and, without bothering to turn down the bed linens, stretched out on the comforter.

He was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

A
sh awoke, confused and befuddled, from a deep, soundless sleep. It took several moments before he realized where he was. His bed. His room at his family's ranch.

He sat up and looked around, allowing all the old, familiar sights and sounds to wash over him. Cattle lowing in the distance. From the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans, and the wonderful aroma of pot roast in the oven. The
flop, flop
of Myrna's slippers on the stairs and the distinct sting of disinfectant in the air, left behind from her cleaning.

Had it really been nearly ten years? So much of the life he'd left behind remained as fresh, as familiar, as though he'd been gone no more than a day. And yet, it had all changed. His mother a widow. His brother a man. A half brother who hadn't even existed in his mind yesterday. And Pop dead.

That realization sent a series of shock waves through his system, leaving him sucking in a quick breath.

A glance at his watch told him he'd been asleep for over an hour. After his long journey, that much-needed sleep had him feeling ready to tackle the rest of the day, and to see what other surprises life had in store for him.

Pulling on his boots, he headed downstairs to join the others.

Mad looked up from the stove. “Caught a little lie-me-down, did you?”

“Yeah.” Ash nodded toward the back door. “Where's Whit?”

“In the barn with Griff. I hope they haven't come to blows. Whit's mouth tends to get ahead of his brain at times.”

“Yeah. It's the family curse. Guess I'll join them. I can be the referee.”

As he started toward the mudroom, Mad's words stopped him. “You've been gone a long time, laddie-boy.”

Ash paused and turned to look at his grandfather. “If you've got something to say…”

Mad held up a hand. “I'm not looking to pick a fight. I just want you to know I'm glad you came back, even though it took you longer than I'd expected.”

Some of the strain left Ash's eyes.

“And I know your ma's glad to have you home, too. She said so, just before she left with Brady to check on the herd in the south meadow.”

At the mention of his mother, Ash smiled. “She looks good, Mad. How's she holding up?”

The old man shrugged. “You know your ma. She may be hurting inside, but she won't let us see her fall apart. She's a strong woman, Ash.”

“Yeah. And how about you, Mad? How're you doing?”

His grandfather looked down at his hated chair. “I never thought anything could be harder than this. But losing my son…” His words faltered. “This time the Lord's given me a mountain.”

Ash yearned to go to his grandfather and hold him, but he knew the old man was close to breaking down. One sign of sympathy, and he'd probably fall apart. That was something neither of them could bear. So he stood his ground and said simply, “You'll climb it, Mad.”

“You sure, laddie?”

Ash nodded. “That's what a MacKenzie does. You told me that yourself the time I got bucked off that spotted stallion and broke both my arms.”

“Cracked a couple of ribs, too, as I recall, and bled buckets of blood on your way to the town clinic.” Mad blinked away the tears that threatened and managed a weak smile. “You scared the hell out of me. But you never even cried. You were always one tough kid.”

“We're both tough, Mad. That's what you and Pop taught me. If you want to be a MacKenzie, you have to take whatever life throws at you.”

As Ash turned and walked out the back door, Maddock watched in thoughtful silence.

His grandson was all man now. There was no trace of the quick-tempered youth who'd driven off in a trail of dust, leaving them all wondering how he'd survive.

He'd not only survived, he'd thrived. He'd grown up. And hopefully he was a better man than those who'd gone before him.

Mad found himself wishing Bear could see his son now.

Hell, maybe he could.

With all his might, Mad hoped and prayed Bear could see all of his sons.

What a high price they'd all paid for that trademark MacKenzie temper.

“…prefer working in the high country.”

At the sound of Whit's voice, Ash paused in the doorway of the big barn.

Whit and Griff were busy mucking stalls, forking filthy straw and dung into the honey wagon and carrying on a running, if guarded, conversation. It was clear that Whit was struggling to be civil, though the fire of resentment was still burning in his eyes. And why not? Except for that scar, the man facing him was a mirror image of their father.

That fact alone would be enough to swallow, but knowing that Bear hadn't had time to share his newly discovered knowledge of Griff with his family before his untimely death made it all the more awkward. It was so unfair, especially to their mother.

“Do you prefer it to other ranch chores?” Griff asked.

Whit worked the pitchfork into a corner of the stall. “I guess there isn't any one chore I prefer over the other. But I like the solitude in the hills. I like being with the herds and feeling like I don't have to make small talk with people.”

Griff leaned on his pitchfork. “Sorry. If you'd rather work in silence, we don't have to talk.”

“No. I didn't mean now.” Whit dumped a load of dung and returned to the stall. “Well, maybe I did. I don't know what to say to you.” His mouth twisted into a frown. “Cows don't care if I praise them or curse them.”

“If you feel like cursing me, go ahead.”

When Whit held his silence, Griff moved closer to touch a hand to his sleeve. “Look, Whit. We're both new at this. I was raised as an only child, by a mother who refused to answer any of my questions about my father. Every time I tried to engage her in a conversation about him, she shut me down. After a while, I gave up asking. And I was resigned to never knowing a thing. Then, out of the blue, a letter arrived from a lawyer telling me I'd been acknowledged by a man I didn't even know.” He paused for a moment before saying, “So if you think having a new half brother sucks, think about this. I've now acquired two half brothers, a stepmother, and a grandfather, and all of them strangers. On top of that, the man I'd always dreamed of meeting is dead, robbing me of the chance to ever meet him, to judge for myself whether or not he was a jerk or a good guy. Oh, and one more thing—his killer is still at large, and for all we know, he wants to slaughter the entire family.”

Whit stared at him for long minutes before giving an unexpected grin. “I guess your situation trumps mine. So for now, let's just call a truce and figure things out.”

“Fair enough.” Griff returned to his work. “So you enjoy your solitude. Is that your nature, or just something that's happened since your dad died?”

Whit shrugged. “My nature, I guess. But after Ash left, the urge got stronger. I started volunteering to be with the wranglers up in the hills. It was easier than working alongside Ma in the barns, because she was always sad. And working with Pop was impossible, because of his temper. At first, after Ash left, there was no talking to Pop.”

Ash absorbed a quick jolt to his system. He'd known, of course, that a kid brother would suffer the loss of a brother he looked up to. But he hadn't really thought about just how deeply Whit had been affected. It sounded as though Whit had felt completely abandoned.

Ash's feelings of guilt grew.

“Pop always…”

Seeing Ash's figure in the doorway of the barn, Whit let his words trail off before calling, “You finally awake, sleepyhead?”

“Yeah.” Ash crossed the space between them and picked up a pitchfork. “I was hoping you two would have this done by the time I joined you.”

“We figured as much.” Whit shared a knowing look with Griff. “We decided to go slow so we wouldn't deny you your chance to share the load.”

“Thanks.” Relieved that Whit could make a joke of it, Ash stepped into another stall and started cleaning.

After what he'd just heard, his heart went out to both Whit and Griff. But at least they were still speaking.

As for his own feelings, he'd need plenty of time to sort through them. Right now, he was feeling as unsettled as he'd felt when he'd first left home and realized he had no place where he belonged. After all these years, could he really belong here again? Would it ever really feel like home?

He decided to ask a few questions of his own. “How long were you in Afghanistan, Griff?”

“This was my third tour.”

“Third?” Ash looked over. “You got a death wish?”

Griff paused to wipe his arm across his damp forehead. “In the Corps we go where we're sent without question.”

“Three tours in Afghanistan.” Ash shook his head in wonder. “Were you scared?”

“Too many times to count.”

“Why'd you join the Marines?” Ash closed the stall and moved to the next.

“I thought of myself as a tough guy. And I guess, if I'm going to be honest, I wanted to break away from my mother and prove to myself that I could make it on my own.”

Whit gave a dry laugh. “Sounds like someone else I know.” He stared knowingly at his older brother.

Ash nodded. “Yeah. I guess everybody has something to prove.” He turned to Griff. “How did your mother take the news?”

“Like a wounded bear. She knew I was restless, and she figured I was getting ready to leave for good. But the first time she saw me in my uniform, she was able to put aside her fear and tell me how proud she was.”

“You're lucky.” Ash frowned. “Not everybody gets to hear a parent say that before they…”

To cover the awkwardness, Whit jumped in. “Where'd you get that scar, Griff? In battle?”

The Marine automatically touched a hand to the scar that ran from below his ear to the other side of his throat. “An insurgent up in the hills. Took down the guard while the rest of us were catching some sleep. He nearly slit my throat before I was even awake.”

Whit's eyes went wide. “How'd you survive?”

“My training kicked in and I managed to wrestle the knife from his hands and take him down. After that, I woke up in surgery, and they told me another inch and I'd have bled to death. I guess it wasn't my time to die.”

The three fell silent as they bent to their work.

It was Ash who finally broke the awkward silence. “Why don't we all head to town after supper and have a beer at Wylie's?”

“Not a good idea,” Whit said quickly.

“What's Wylie's?” Griff asked.

Ash was quick to explain. “The town's watering hole.”

“Sounds good to me.” Griff tossed another load of dung into the wagon.

“Me, too.” Ash followed suit.

“I don't know.” Whit shot a quick glance at Griff's face. “There's bound to be gossip.”

“You think that's something new to me? Hey, I'm the guy who grew up without a father, remember?”

“Suit yourself.” Whit's nod of agreement came slowly. “Just for the record, they won't just be talking about you. I'm sure the favorite topic of the entire town is Pop's death. When you live in a town as small as Copper Creek, folks thrive on gossip. And when a rancher dies, you're bound to hear the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Griff set aside his pitchfork.

“One more thing.” Whit's smile was quick and dangerous. “I'd better warn you both. If you two hear a lot of females moaning and sighing when we walk by, don't let it go to your heads. They'll be mooning over me. It's just the effect I have on women. Especially in Wylie's.”

Griff turned to Ash, who was staring at his brother with a look of complete surprise.

After sharing a laugh with the other two, Ash took a moment to study his younger brother with renewed interest.

“What's wrong?” Whit asked.

Ash lifted a brow and shot him a knowing grin. “I guess that just proves again that my little brother is all grown up.”

“As all the women at Wylie's will testify to. And don't you forget it, bro.”

Whit gripped the handles of the huge wagon and lifted it with ease, rolling it toward the doorway of the barn. Ash took note of the muscles bulging beneath the rough plaid shirt. No doubt about it. His little brother had become a man while he was away chasing his own dreams.

As he continued his work Ash came to a sudden decision. He'd missed way too many of the important things in life because of an impulsive reaction. An impulse that could have been channeled in a much more positive way if he'd only taken time to think things through.

No matter what hurdles he faced from his fiery family in the future, he would face them head-on. And communicate.

No more running.

If he returned to his ranch in Wyoming, it would be because it was his choice, and not because he was running away.

Ash pushed away from the big oak table and carried his dishes to the sink. “Great supper, Mad. You've really mastered the art of cooking.” He winked at Myrna. “Sure you didn't have a little help from you-know-who?”

Maddock practically growled his displeasure at any suggestion of help. “You-know-who never cooked the beef long enough to be fork tender. And she certainly never added cream cheese to the mashed potatoes.”

“Is that what made them so good?” Willow glanced at their housekeeper. “Did you teach Mad that trick?”

Again the old man growled. “I don't need any females teaching me tricks. Don't you know all the really good cooks are men?”

“And pigs fly,” Myrna muttered as she deposited her own dishes in the sink. “Good night. I'm going to my room and watch TV.”

“Why don't you start your own series, Myrna?” Mad called to her retreating back. “
The Glamorous Housekeepers of Copper Creek
.”