Montana Read online

  “Did I tell you about the Broken Arrow?” she asked in an attempt at conversation. If she displayed a positive attitude, perhaps Tom would start to think that way himself.

  “About a thousand times,” he muttered, his face turned away from her as he stared out the side window. The scenery rolled past, huge redwoods and lush green forests, so unlike the fertile river valley of Montana.

  “There’s horses, too,” Molly added. As she recalled, Gramps always had a number on hand. These were strong sturdy horses, kept for work, not pleasure or show.

  Tom yawned. “How many?”

  Molly lifted one shoulder, her gaze trained on the road. Interest. Even this little bit was more than Tom had shown from the moment she’d announced her plans.

  “What about my report card?” Clay asked, launching himself against the front seat, thrusting his head between Molly and Tom.

  “The school promised to mail it.” Molly decided not to remind her son that she’d answered the same question no less than ten times. They’d miss the last couple of weeks of school, but had finished all their assignments beforehand. Molly had feared even a two-week delay might be too long, considering her grandfather’s condition.

  “You could’ve asked if I wanted to move.” Tom leaned his head against the back of the seat and glared at her. Apparently holding his head up demanded more energy than he could muster.

  “Yes,” Molly admitted reluctantly, “you’re right, I should have.” This was a sore point with Tom. A transgression he seemed unwilling to forgive.

  “But you didn’t ask me.”

  “No, I didn’t. Gramps needs us right now and I didn’t feel we could refuse.” Perhaps she’d made a mistake; it wasn’t her first one and certainly wouldn’t be her last. Molly felt she’d had few options. Besides removing Tom from involvement in a gang, she had to get to Gramps as soon as possible, to be with him during his remaining days. And since she would inherit the ranch, the more she learned about the management of it now, the better.

  “You’re taking us away from our friends.”

  “Like Eddie Ries?”

  It was clear to Molly that Tom needed a better class of companions. She worried incessantly about her son and wondered what had happened to the good-natured helpful boy he used to be. The transformation had come virtually overnight. He’d grown sullen, ill-tempered and moody.

  In the beginning she feared he might have started using drugs. She’d gone so far as to call a drug hot line. She’d learned that the best way to figure out if her son was experimenting with illegal drugs wasn’t to dig through his backpack or his room for evidence. Kids were experts at hiding paraphernalia, and even better at convincing family they were innocent of anything so dangerous or devious. She suspected that was because parents didn’t want to believe their children were caught up in something so destructive and therefore chose to believe whatever the kids told them. Facing the truth was far too painful—and would demand action.

  The true test, according to the pamphlet she’d read, was knowing your children’s friends. One look at the type of friends your son or daughter associated with was usually enough.

  Until last fall Tom’s friends had been good kids, from good homes, who made good grades. She felt relatively reassured until he started hanging around with Eddie Ries. Even then it was difficult to gauge the truth.

  According to Mr. Boone, the school principal, Tom’s friendship with Eddie had been a recent development. Molly hoped that was true.

  “Will Gramps teach me to ride?” Clay asked, straining forward in his seat.

  “Probably not,” Molly said with a renewed sense of sadness. “Remember, he isn’t well. I don’t think he rides anymore.”

  “This is gonna be a bust,” Clay said, slumping against the window.

  Molly shook her head in wonder. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you two?”

  “We don’t have any friends in Montana,” Tom said sulkily.

  “You’ll make new ones.” That was one thing she could say about her boys. Not more than a week after moving into the apartment they’d met every kid within a five-block radius. Neither Tom nor Clay had any problem forming new friendships. The ranch kids would be eager to learn what they could about the big city, and before long Tom and Clay would be heroes.

  “Let me tell you about the ranch,” she tried again.

  “Yeah!” Clay said eagerly.

  “I’m not interested,” Tom muttered.

  One yes. One no. “What’s it to be?” she asked cheerfully. “Do I get the deciding vote?”

  “No fair!” Tom cried.

  “Plug your ears,” Clay said, snickering.

  Tom grumbled and looked away, wearing the mask of a tormented martyr. He had brooding down to an art form, one he practiced often. Molly couldn’t remember her own adolescence being nearly this traumatic, and Tom was only fourteen. She hated to think of all the high-scale drama the coming years held in store.

  “Originally the Broken Arrow was over 15,000 acres,” Molly began. She said this with pride, knowing how difficult it had been for Gramps to sell off portions of his land. All that remained of the original homestead was 2,500 acres.

  “How come the ranch is named the Broken Arrow?” Clay asked.

  “Because they found a broken arrow on it, stupid.”

  “Tom!”

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t a stupid question. If I remember correctly, Tom, you asked me the same one.”

  “Yeah, but that was when I was a little kid.”

  “About Clay’s age, as I recall.” She recalled no such thing, but it served him right for belittling his younger brother.

  “What about his foreman?” Clay asked next.

  Gramps’s foreman. Molly had nothing to tell. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he was apparently devoted to Gramps. Devoted enough to make sure she knew of Gramps’s ill health.

  She’d reviewed their short conversation a number of times in the two weeks since his phone call, afraid she might have missed something important. She wondered if there’d been something else he’d wanted to tell her, a hidden message beneath his words. She’d sensed his urgency, accepted the gravity of the situation. Yet when she’d phoned Gramps the next night, he’d sounded quite healthy. He’d been thrilled with her news, and she’d hung up equally excited.

  Molly’s thoughts turned from Sam Dakota to employment possibilities. Eventually she’d need to find a job in Sweetgrass. While there might not be much demand for a translator, she wondered if the high school needed a French or German teacher. If all else failed, she could try getting long-distance freelance assignments. Perhaps she could tutor or give private lessons. Several of the upmarket preschools in San Francisco were beginning to offer foreign-language lessons to their three-and four-year-old clients. Hey—she could start a trend in Montana!

  Molly sighed. She didn’t want to think about the dismal state of her finances. She’d sold everything she could—furniture, dishes, household appliances. She wasn’t carting away fistfuls of dollars from her moving sale, but with her meager savings and her last paycheck, she’d have funds enough to see her through the next couple of months. After that—

  “Mom,” Clay said, breaking into her thoughts, “I asked you about Gramps’s foreman.”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you think he’ll teach me to ride?”

  “I…I don’t know, sweetheart.”

  “Why should he?” Tom asked, and rolled his eyes as if he could barely stand being in the same car with anyone so stupid.

  “I can ask, can’t I?” Clay whined.

  “Of course,” Molly answered, attempting to divert a shouting match.

  After repeated warnings, Clay finally secured his seat belt and fell asleep, his head cocked to one side. Because the car’s air conditioner didn’t work, Molly had hoped to avoid the heat as much as possible by leaving before six that morning. Alr
eady both boys were tired and cranky. Not long after Clay dozed off, Tom braced his head against the window and closed his eyes.

  The silence was a blessed relief after two hours of almost continual bickering. Molly was grateful for the quiet, grateful for her grandfather—and grateful to Sam Dakota for calling her when he had.

  She hadn’t met the man and already he’d changed her life.

  A cooling breeze came from the north. Walter Wheaton sat on his rocker on the front porch and enjoyed the fresh sweet morning air. He was weak, but even his bad heart couldn’t curtail his excitement.

  Molly and the boys were on their way. They’d been on the road two days and by his best estimate would arrive around noon. He was already imagining how they’d turn from the highway and onto the meandering dirt road that led to the ranch. When they did, he wanted to be sitting right here on the porch waiting for them. Damn, but it’d be good to see Molly again. Good to see those young ones of hers, too. She hadn’t said so, but he knew she worried about being a good mother. The world was a different place now, compared to when he’d grown up, but love and discipline still worked wonders.

  The older boy had a sassy mouth; Walt had heard it himself when he’d talked to her on the phone. And the younger one was like a puppy, making a mess wherever he went. In time they’d learn, though. Tom might require a little help adjusting his attitude, but Walt felt up to the task. What that boy needed was a man’s influence, a man’s guiding hand. That and a switch taken to his backside when he deserved it!

  In the big city someone was liable to report him for suggesting the rod. Child abuse they’d call it and probably toss him in the clinker. Walt believed that child abuse was ignoring your children, neglecting them, not giving them guidance or a good example. Those things hurt kids far more than an occasional smack on the rear. What was the matter with people these days? he wondered.

  A plume of dust showed at the end of the driveway. Molly. He hadn’t expected her quite this early. His Molly and her boys.

  Walter stood carefully, taking his time so as not to overtax his heart. My, oh my, he was looking forward to seeing his family. Thank goodness Molly had mailed all those pictures! Without them, he wouldn’t recognize the boys.

  His eyes weren’t what they used to be and it took Walt far longer than it should have to realize it was a truck that barreled toward him and not a car pulling a trailer. Another minute passed before he recognized his neighbor, Ginny Dougherty. The woman didn’t have the sense God gave a rock chuck.

  Walt grunted in annoyance. Ginny was a damn fool. The widow simply didn’t know her limitations; she was crazy trying to run a ranch on her own. Fred, her bachelor cousin—aged at least sixty—lived with her and helped out on the place. In Walt’s opinion, the two of them were like the blind leading the blind. And he’d told her so, too. Frequently.

  Ginny’s truck squealed to a halt, kicking up dust. The door opened and she leaped out so fast you’d think the seat was on fire.

  “Before you start shouting,” she began, “I suggest you hear me out.”

  Walt didn’t have the strength to yell much these days, but he wasn’t letting Ginny know that. “What do you want this time?” he demanded. He wrapped his arm around the post and casually leaned against it, so she wouldn’t realize how weak he was.

  Ginny stood with her hands on her hips. Walt looked her up and down, then shook his head. A woman her age had no business wearing dungarees; he was firm on that.

  “Someone knocked down your mailbox,” she told him, her chin angled stubbornly toward him. “The way the tire tracks went, it looks deliberate.”

  Vandals had been wreaking havoc the past few months. Walt didn’t understand it. “Who’d do such a thing?”

  “Anyone who knows you, Walt Wheaton. You’ve gone out of your way to make yourself the most unpopular man in town.”

  “Are you going to stand on my property and insult me, woman?” He forgot about conserving his strength. Ginny always did have a way of getting his dander up. He suspected she did it on purpose, and if the truth be known, he often enjoyed their verbal skirmishes.

  “I’m not insulting you. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “I don’t…have to…take this,” he said, then slowly lowered himself into the rocker.

  Ginny frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay.” He closed his eyes, and his breath came in shallow gasps. It always happened like this; without warning, he’d be unable to catch his breath. No feeling on earth could be worse. It felt as though someone’s hands had closed around his throat.

  “Walt?”

  He dismissed her with a flick of his hand.

  “Walt?” She sounded much closer now.

  “Pills,” he managed between gasps. He patted his shirt pocket. His head slumped to one side and he felt Ginny’s hand searching around for the small brown bottle. The entire time, she was talking. Leave it to a woman to chatter at a time like this. If his heart didn’t kill him, Ginny’s tongue would.

  An eternity passed before she managed to get the pill under his tongue. A couple of minutes later, it took effect. Walt managed to remain conscious, but only by sheer force of will. He refused to pass out; otherwise Sam was sure to haul him back to the medical clinic. If a man wasn’t sick when he walked in there, he would be by the time he walked out.

  Dr. Shaver had damn near killed him while Sam sat there watching. Walt had fired Sam three times in the next few days, but Sam had ignored his orders. The problem was, his foreman could be as stubborn as Walt himself.

  “Drink this.” Ginny thrust a glass under his nose.

  “What’s in it? Arsenic?”

  “Water, you old fool.”

  When he didn’t obey her fast enough, Ginny grabbed it back and gulped it down herself.

  “I thought you said that was for me,” he grumbled.

  “I needed it more than you.”

  Ginny collapsed in the rocker next to his own. Molly’s rocker. For forty years she’d sat on the front porch with him each night. She’d darned socks, crocheted, knitted. His wife hadn’t believed in idle hands. Every now and again he’d find a way to steal a kiss. It had never ceased to amaze him that a woman as beautiful and talented as Molly MacDougal would marry the likes of him. Her one regret was that she’d only been able to give him one son.

  Now they were both gone. Adam killed by a drunk driver while still in his twenties and then, later, his Molly. He’d be joining them soon. But not right away. There was work that had to be done. Affairs settled. Arrangements made. He wanted time with Molly and her boys first. God would grant him that much, Walt was sure. The good Lord had seen fit to take Adam and Molly early in life, and as far as Walt was concerned God owed him this additional time.

  “You gave me the scare of my life!” Ginny cried. She was rocking so fast she damn near stirred up a dust devil.

  “What’d you do with my mail?” he demanded, hoping to change the subject.

  Ginny glared at him, her dark eyes burning holes straight through him. “I saved your life and all you care about is your stupid mail?”

  “You’ve got it, haven’t you? Suppose you read it, too.”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  He snorted in disbelief.

  “How about thanking me?” Ginny muttered. “If it wasn’t for me, you could be dead by now.”

  Walt made a disgusted sound. “If I’d known you were going to nag like this, death would’ve been a blessing.”

  Three

  “It’s probably the biggest, most beautiful home I’ve ever seen,” Molly told her boys wistfully as they sped along the two-lane highway. Eager to reach Sweetgrass, she drove fifteen miles above the speed limit. They hadn’t seen another car in more than half an hour, and she figured the state patrol had better things to do than worry about an old country road.

  “How many rooms does it have?” Clay asked.

  “More than I could count,” Molly said, smiling to
herself. As a child, she’d considered her grandparents’ home a mansion. It had taken her two entire summers to explore all three floors. The original house had been built just after the turn of the century, a grand home for its time, with a turret dominating the right-hand side of the wooden structure. There was a wide sweeping porch along the front of the house, added in later years; it looked out over the rolling green paddock where the horses grazed. A narrow dirt drive snaked in from a marked entry off the highway.

  “I can have my own room, then?” Tom asked, showing some life for the first time since lunch.

  “There must be four, possibly five bedrooms not in use now.”

  “I’d sleep in the attic without electricity if it meant I wouldn’t have to share a room with Clay.”

  For Tom, that had been the most difficult aspect of their move into the apartment. He’d been tolerant about it for a while, but living in such close proximity to his younger brother had quickly become a problem.

  “My grandmother kept the house in meticulous condition,” Molly said. During her last visit, the month following her grandmother’s death, she’d marveled at how clean and neatly organized the house still was. Molly Wheaton had regularly waxed the wooden floors and washed the walls. She’d line-dried all the clothes, ironed and crisply folded almost everything. Even the dish towels.

  Out of respect for his wife, Gramps had removed his shoes before stepping into the house, to avoid tracking mud across the spotless floors. Every room had smelled of sunshine, with the faint underlying scent of lemon or pine. Molly could almost smell it now.

  “How big’s the barn?”

  “Huge.”

  “That’s what you said about the house.”

  “I named you right, son,” she said, reaching over and mussing his hair. “Doubting Thomas.”