Reclaiming the Cowgirl’s Heart

Clay West is back in town with amends to make and minds to change. The cowboy has spent four years in jail for a crime he did not commit, and he’s determined to restore his good name. The former bad boy’s first priority is convincing childhood friend Allie Nelson of his innocence. But she—more than anyone—has suffered in his absence. Allie can’t admit how much she’s missed Clay—and she can’t betray her family by putting her trust in him. She vows to forget her schoolgirl crush. But Clay will settle for nothing less than her forgiveness—and her whole heart.

“All I want is for someone to trust me,” Clay whispered. “To believe me and know what I say is true.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not sure if I’ve met her yet or not,” he whispered.

“I can’t choose you over my brother.” Allie felt a moment’s anger that he would ask that of her and then she remembered she had been the one to bring up the question about what he wanted.

“I’m sorry,” she added.

“So am I,” he answered.

He pulled away then and they stood there looking at each other.

She knew without asking that he would not compromise on this point. They were on opposite sides here.

Clay finally moved to open the door and they walked out of the barn.

Sometimes, Allie told herself, a woman had to stick with her family even if her heart wished she could believe something improbable. That was part of being a grown-up. Things did not always go the way one wanted.

JANET TRONSTAD grew up on her family’s farm in central Montana and now lives in Turlock, California, where she is always at work on her next book. She has written more than thirty books, many of them set in the fictitious town of Dry Creek, Montana, where the men spend the winters gathered around the potbellied stove in the hardware store and the women make jelly in the fall.

Easter in Dry Creek

Janet Tronstad

www.millsandboon.co.uk

And Jesus said, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

—Luke 23:34

This book is dedicated to my new friends

at the Covenant Village of Turlock.

Thanks for the welcome you’ve given me.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Snowflakes hit his windshield as Clay West peered into the black night, barely managing to see more than a few yards down the icy asphalt road that lay in front of his pickup’s headlights. He’d exited the interstate and could see the twenty or so frame buildings that made up the small, isolated town of Dry Creek, Montana. This place—between here and the Nelson ranch—had been the closest thing to a home he’d ever known.

“Not that it worked out,” Clay muttered to himself. He’d first come here as a foster kid, and he’d foolishly believed what the social workers said about him finally having a family. Of course, they had been wrong. Being a foster kid wasn’t the same as being part of a family.

As he kept the pickup inching forward, Clay studied the road farther ahead until he gradually realized the town did not look the way he remembered. Four years had passed since he’d lived in this area. He’d been seventeen at the time. The heavily falling snow made it hard to see, especially in the dark, so that might have been part of his confusion now. And maybe it was because of the snowdrifts next to them that the clapboard houses seemed shrunken in the storm. But he didn’t recognize the gas station, either.

Suddenly, he asked himself if he’d gone down the wrong road in the night. There were no traffic signs in this part of the state. There hadn’t been many turns off the freeway, but he could have chosen the wrong one. Maybe he wasn’t where he thought he was. Right then, a gust of wind came out of nowhere. The gray shapes shifted and the town’s church materialized out of the swirling storm. “Whoa.” He braked to a stop, his fingers gripping the wheel and his breath coming hard. He wasn’t as indifferent to this place as he had thought.

The large white building had no steeple. Cement steps led up to an ordinary double door made out of wood. On the ground, a plastic tarp had been laid over flower beds that went along both sides of the church.

One thing was certain, though—he was looking at the Dry Creek church and none other. Every year the congregation here forced daffodils to bloom for their sunrise Easter service as a sign of their faith.

Clay let the pickup idle for a bit and took a few deep breaths. He wasn’t going to be hurried through this town, especially not by his own bad memories. Just then a light was turned on in one of the houses down the road. He tensed for a bit and then shrugged. He told himself that whoever it was would go back to bed. He didn’t need to worry. Clay might not be welcome within a hundred miles of here, but he had every legal right to be where he was. The paper in his pocket made that clear when it stated the terms of the early parole he would earn if he spent the next year working as a horse wrangler on the Nelson ranch.

The storm lessened as Clay kept going along the snow-packed road. Finally he came to the drive that led to the heart of the Nelson ranch. When he’d lived here, a locked metal gate always spanned the road just behind the cattle guard. The gate swung free now. Snow had filled in the ditches at the side of the road, but the height of the dead stalks told him that no one had cut back the weeds last fall.

Clay let the pickup sit as he took more time to look around. It was hard to maintain his upbeat attitude looking at the place. He saw a dim light coming from what would be the kitchen of the distant house, but the upstairs was dark. Old habits die hard, and he couldn’t help but count across the line of second-floor windows until he found the one that marked Allie Nelson’s former room. She was the rancher’s daughter. Back before all of his troubles, Clay used to check that window every night from his place in the bunkhouse to see if she had gone to sleep. He never questioned why he did it, but it made him rest easier to know she was safe.

The first portrait sketch Clay had ever drawn was of Allie’s young face looking out that window at night, her whole being showing a yearning that touched him in its simplicity. Looking back, he should have known drawing her had been a mistake. She was the one who had made him yearn for some of those promised family ties the social workers told him about.

As Clay pulled closer to the barn, he saw that it wasn’t just the weeds that had been neglected. Several poles in the corral were down. He realized then that the windows in the bunkhouse looked deserted. They’d built that log structure the year before he’d been sent here. It was long, with two big main rooms and a porch along the length of it. If there were any ranch hands around, they would have been up stirring by now.

He looked out at the fields then. There used to be dozens of horses standing or galloping around the dirt track that lined the small field to the right. The Nelson ranch supplied stock to other ranches and even managed to sell a few to small racing stables. He and Allie both loved discovering which horses had the strength and speed to be racers. It’s what bound them together. Now he saw no animals of any kind.

“Something’s wrong,” Clay said to himself as he kept looking around.

A light flickered and a woman stepped in front of one of the kitchen windows. Clay could see only her shape, but something about the tilt of her head made him think that it was Allie. His breath stopped at the thought. She’d been a girl of sixteen when he knew her. She had to be twenty years old now. Maybe even twenty-one since her birthday would have been last month. But it couldn’t be her; he’d heard she was working at some fancy resort down in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

He’d rather come up against a dozen raging blizzards than face Allie again. The fierce anger in her eyes at his trial had been harder to bear than hearing the judge pronounce him guilty of armed robbery. He might have endured the censure of the rest of the town if she had stood by him.

He’d been clueless that night about what Allie’s older brother, Mark, was capable of doing when he was drunk, but no one believed Clay’s version of what happened, especially not Allie. Everyone thought Clay had planned the robbery of the gas station, but it had been Mark’s impulsive move.

Clay closed his eyes until the rush of memories stopped. He didn’t like thinking about Mark. Allie’s brother had been shot in the head that night in a scuffle with the store clerk. At first, everyone expected Mark to come out of his coma in time to testify, but it hadn’t happened. The last Clay had heard was that the doctors were saying Mark was not expected to ever regain consciousness. He’d had some kind of fever that compounded the swelling in his brain.

Clay turned the engine off. The pickup jerked as the muffler rattled to a stop. He heard a cat’s indignant hiss then and he looked down. He’d forgotten about his passenger. A starving cat had snuck into the pickup when Clay stopped for gas a few hours ago. She was too tame to be feral, but none too friendly, either.

He figured that big empty-looking barn over there might as well house the cat and the kittens that, if he was any judge, she’d be having soon. From the looks of the place, the ranch could use a good mouser. So Clay grabbed the tabby and, without giving her time to protest, tucked her under the coat he was wearing. Someone had left the sheepskin coat on the seat of the pickup that had been left for him in the prison parking lot.

Clay briefly wondered who his benefactor was as he opened the pickup door, stepped down and started walking. Then he told himself he was making too much of the kindness. He was a man who stood alone. That was unlikely to change here.

* * *

Inside the house, a thin trail of steam was still rising from the skillet that Allie Nelson had dropped into the sink water before she stepped over to push open the only window that wasn’t painted shut in her father’s cluttered kitchen. She’d spent the past couple of years working as a fry cook in a popular restaurant in Jackson Hole and, even with that, she had burned the eggs on her first morning back on the ranch.

She’d been in the hall tying her nephew’s shoes, but that would be no excuse in her father’s eyes. Despite her shouldering the loan payments for her brother’s medical bills, which had taken everything she and her father had and which led to her father borrowing against the ranch to pay the rest, her father still treated her like she was barely older than young Jeremy.

The smoke from the skillet was disappearing. The winter air blew in through the open window, and Allie closed her eyes before leaning forward against the counter. She was tired to the bone, she thought as she stood there. But she couldn’t give up. The next trip here to the ranch she was going to make sure all of the windows opened as they should. Then she’d get down some of those leftover building supplies from the hayloft in the barn and paint the kitchen walls a bright sunny yellow. She would not like Mark to see the house like this; it was depressing. She’d make their house look happy again before he came home.

Against all odds, her brother had started to slowly come out of his coma this past fall. For a long time the doctors said they expected him to recover. But, when he didn’t, they decided things were worse in his brain than they had initially thought. However, Allie’s father kept saying Mark had an IQ of 156 and that his son’s genius brain would find a way to heal itself.

Allie had heard that IQ statistic so many times growing up that she figured it was seared on her memory. But she did not share her father’s confidence in her brother’s high IQ to heal him. She turned to someone more powerful. More than once she knelt at her mother’s grave and pleaded with God to save her brother, promising she would take better care of him this time if she could only have one more chance.

Now Mark was coming out of his coma. The doctors couldn’t explain it. They said it was impossible, but the swelling in his brain had gone down. First, a finger moved, and then some weeks later Mark cleared his throat and tried to speak. Finally, his eyes flickered and he started to eat through a straw. That had gone on for months. Everyone had kept Mark’s progress quiet, though. In the beginning, his improvements were so slight that they weren’t sure he’d stay on track with his recovery. Then they weren’t sure he could take the excitement of other people knowing what had happened.

Allie had gotten back to the ranch only last night, but she was planning to drive to the hospital nursing home to see her brother on Monday.

“You making bacon with them eggs?” Her father’s querulous voice floated down the hallway and interrupted her thoughts. “Jeremy and I like bacon with our eggs. Three slices for me.”

She looked up but saw no one. Her nephew and her father were still in the back bedroom.

Allie turned to face the hallway. She heard the giggle of her three-year-old nephew and the creak of the springs on her father’s bed, which meant that the little boy no doubt raced his plastic horse across the edge of his grandfather’s mattress.

Jeremy was bringing joy to this old house, even if they saw him only once in a while. He and his mother lived in Idaho, and this was the first time that she had left Jeremy here alone. Allie had asked for time off from work so she could be here to help watch over him.

“The doctor said you can’t have more than a small slice of bacon,” Allie called to her father. She’d spoken on the phone with the doctor last week. “Your cholesterol is too high.”

Actually, the specialist had said her father should have an aspirin every morning and start eating turkey bacon, but Allie was taking things slowly. Her father refused to consider eating what he called fake bacon. She was stretching the doctor’s advice by giving him a small piece of the real stuff and two eggs.

It wasn’t until she started back to the sink and passed the smaller window in the kitchen that she glanced out toward the barn and stopped midstride. She hadn’t seen that pickup sitting there when she had arrived late yesterday. The pickup was usually parked behind the barn. She didn’t know why her father kept the old thing after what happened with it that awful night when Mark had been shot. The pickup was practically falling apart, the red paint faded to mauve except on the dented bumper where the bare metal showed through in a long scratch.

She twisted her neck to get a full view of the yard. Sure enough, a man was walking toward the house.

“Company coming,” Allie called as she stood back. Her father must have lent the vehicle to a neighbor and the man was bringing it back. “Best get your robe on.”

She picked up the long metal spatula that was lying on the counter. Whoever the man was he had most likely eaten breakfast already, but she didn’t want to turn anyone away without some hospitality. Having company in this house was as rare as a party these days. She’d toast slices of the whole-grain bread she’d brought with her from Jackson Hole and pull down the crock of honey to go with it. The coffee was already brewing. She’d also get started on new eggs. Her father would want some even if the other man didn’t.

She was pleased to know one of the neighbors had felt free to ask her father for the loan of his old pickup. Ever since Mark had been hurt, her father had stopped going to church services. He said it was because he had to rush to make it to the nursing home before visiting hours closed, but she knew, even though Clay West was clearly the one at fault, her father felt the whole family had been shamed that night. He’d been avoiding everyone since then. He had plenty of time to visit Mark after church.

Allie heard a sound and turned.

“Who is it?” her father asked. He was peeking out a door off the hallway. “I hope it’s not Mrs. Hargrove. I’m not presentable. She said she might come by.”

Allie would rather the visitor be the sweet older woman. She was the traditional Sunday school teacher for children of Jeremy’s age, and Allie thought it was time her nephew joined the class, at least when he was staying with her and her father.

“It looks like a man, so your robe will be fine.”

“Does he have on an old sheepskin coat?”

“How’d you know?” she asked as she twirled to stare. Those coats were no longer common. Everyone preferred puffy jackets in neon or pastel colors. For one thing, they were washable, and there wasn’t a dry cleaner this side of Miles City.

“I’ll put my overalls on.” Her father turned without answering her. “I sent Jeremy to his room to get dressed.”

Allie stepped over and opened the main door. No one had taken its screen off last fall, and the latch had gotten damp and rusted even more. There were enough things that needed doing in this old house that she could spend a month here instead of the two weeks she’d arranged to take off from her job.

Flakes of snow blew toward the house, sticking to the screen door, but she made no move to wipe them off. Allie shivered from the cold, and her breath was coming out in white puffs. It was difficult to identify the man walking toward the house because he had his head down. The leather coat flapped around his legs. The garment was half-open, and a gray plaid shirt covered his chest. He held one of his arms like he was holding something inside his coat. Worn denim jeans fit his long legs, and cowboy boots sank into the snow.

The morning was overcast, and a burst of wind blew the snow around. The man lifted his face, and suddenly a glimmer of sun came out.

Allie couldn’t believe her eyes. It was like her thoughts had conjured up her worst nightmare.

“Clay?” she whispered even though no one could hear her.

His shoulders were broader than she remembered, but she’d recognize his stride anywhere. He was always prepared to take on the world, and it showed in the way he moved. Confident to the point of arrogance. He reminded her of her father in that way.

Clay’s dark Stetson left his face in shadows. She couldn’t see his black hair or his piercing blue eyes, but it was him all right.

He suddenly stopped midway to the house and stared at the open door. Surely the darkness in the house meant he wouldn’t be able to see her clearly enough to know who she was. But he stared as though he could see through the screen and recognize her. He’d always been able to make her feel that he could look right down to her soul. It was those eyes of his.

Of course, that was nonsense, she told herself as she stepped back then, and instinctively slammed the door closed. He had ordinary eyes even if they were a startling icy blue.

“What’re you doing that for?” her father asked, grumbling as he limped across the kitchen floor in his slippers. “We got company.”

“It’s Clay West,” Allie said, leaning back against the door.

“Well, so what?” her father asked, his chin up like he was ready to argue. He held a rolled-up magazine in his hand.

“Clay West,” she repeated. “You remember—he’s the foster kid who lived here. He’s the reason Mark is where he is today.”

“You don’t need to tell me who he is,” her father said. “I was here.”

“I was, too,” Allie protested. She still remembered the night the sheriff had come to their door after midnight. Mark was already in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Clay sat in the back of the sheriff’s car, handcuffed and silent. He never looked up at her.

The sheriff told Allie her brother had been drunk on tequila, but she assured the officer that Mark had never taken a drink of hard liquor in his life. She would know if he had, she’d explained. She was a year younger than Mark, but she’d always been more responsible than he was. As her mother lay dying, she had asked Allie to watch over Mark and make sure he didn’t start drinking alcohol. The family was unusually susceptible, she’d said. Mark might have gotten the beer that night, but the empty tequila bottle found in the pickup had to belong to Clay. Allie didn’t know why Clay’s alcohol blood level wasn’t that high, but she knew that the tequila had to belong to him.

Allie’s father reached for the door handle. “Clay’s probably hungry. He’ll want some bacon with his eggs. He’s my new ranch hand. And they say he’s an artist—sort of like Charlie Russell.”

Her father waved the magazine at her.

Allie wondered if her father had started drinking again. He had promised he wouldn’t. His fondness for whiskey had nearly ruined their family when she was young. There were no other indications her father had started drinking again, but the possibility had to be examined. She lived too far away to monitor him very well now, but she remembered the past. Alcohol always turned her father’s mind fuzzy. He’d get foolish ideas and act on them. And what he said now was preposterous.

“We can’t—” She started talking to her father, but he was paying attention only to the man standing outside their door.

Allie had thought she’d never lay eyes on Clay again. It wasn’t fair that he walked around every day a whole man while Mark was lying in a convalescent bed staring at the ceiling and struggling to form a coherent sentence.

And now Clay was here—on their porch—and looking better than he had any right to be.

Her world had just turned upside down, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

Chapter Two

Clay looked through the screen into the shadows of the kitchen, and his heart sank. For a moment he had thought it was Allie inside the room. Now he saw it was only Mr. Nelson reaching toward the door wearing denim overalls hooked over his white long johns. The unshaven man held a magazine in one hand and fumbled with the catch to open the screen with the other. A lock of his gray hair fell across his brow as he bent his head in concentration. There were lines in the man’s face that Clay did not remember being there and dark circles under his eyes.

“Here, let me help you,” Clay said as he jiggled the handle on the door from the outside. He had figured out how to make that latch work years ago. A person had to press it just right and it moved smooth as butter.

“You came,” the older man said as Clay pushed the door open.

Clay nodded as he stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. It was just as well it was only the two of them. Maybe then the man would tell him why he’d sent for him. When Clay had been convicted of armed robbery, Mr. Nelson told him never to come back to Dry Creek. The old man had meant it that day. People didn’t just change their minds for no reason. Maybe the church had put pressure on Mr. Nelson to bring Clay back.

“I can’t take your job under false premises—” Clay started, suspecting the rancher would be happy to end this charade, too. He likely hadn’t wanted to make the offer in the first place. “So if you plan—”

“Hush,” the older man whispered. Then he turned and gave a worried glance at something behind the door. “We can talk later.” The man’s voice returned to normal. “You’ll want breakfast first. Right?”

Before Clay could answer, he heard a feminine gasp.

“Allie?” Clay whispered as he turned to the side. The main part of the kitchen was filled with shadows, but he’d know the sound of her voice anywhere.

In the darkness, he saw her. She stood off to the side by the refrigerator with a beat-up metal spatula braced in her arms like it was a sword and she was a warrior queen ready to defend her kingdom. She used to love to pretend at games like that. Garden rakes became horses. Leaves made a tiara. She’d told him once that she had wanted to be an actress when she was little. Of course, that was before she fell in love with horses. Then all she wanted was to work on this ranch for the rest of her life.

Clay wished he had a pencil in hand so he could sketch her. A thin glow of morning light was coming through the window, and it outlined her in gold. Her posture showed her outrage and her resolve. She wasn’t looking at him, though. Instead, her eyes were fastened on her father.

“I’m not cooking for him,” she announced as she jabbed the long-handled spatula in Clay’s general direction. It was a dismissive gesture. Then she crossed her arms, letting the metal implement stick out.

Well, Clay thought, trying to hide his smile, at least someone in Dry Creek believed in telling the truth as she saw it. He should be upset, but he couldn’t take his gaze off Allie. She’d always fascinated him. Gradually, however, as he studied her, he realized the young teen he’d known was all grown up. The girlish lines of her face were gone, and she had the sleekness of a sophisticated young woman even in the faded apron she wore tied around her denim jeans. Her auburn hair was thick and as unruly as he remembered, although she’d tried to pull it into some order and knot it at the back of her neck. The pink in her cheeks was no doubt due to the cold that had come in from the opened door, but it made her look impassioned.

“I don’t need to eat.” Clay spoke mildly, and then he swallowed. This new Allie made him feel self-conscious. He wished he had taken time to get a haircut before he left the prison. “I do have something to say, however—”

“It’ll do no good to say you are sorry,” Allie interrupted as she stepped closer and stood in the light of the open door. She gave him a withering look. “Words won’t make one bit of difference to Mark. And you should close the door.”

“Sorry,” Clay said as he reached behind him and did so. “But I wasn’t going to apologize.”

No one answered, and the tension in the room jumped higher. Clay figured a new haircut wouldn’t have made him look much better.

“Now, Allie,” Mr. Nelson finally said. “Clay’s a guest in this house. And, of course, he’s going to eat. Your mother wouldn’t send anyone away hungry. You know that.”

Allie turned to Clay, and he felt the air leave his lungs. She’d changed again. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose was the same, but her green eyes blazed. They showed the same fury that had consumed her at the trial. He had hoped the years would have softened her toward him.

“I’ll make you some toast and you can be on your way,” she finally said.

“I have no quarrel with you,” he answered quietly. He missed the girl who had been his friend. “Never did.”

“Nobody here is quarreling,” Mr. Nelson said firmly as he frowned at Allie. “We know how to be civil.”

Clay snuck another peak at Allie. The fire was gone from her eyes, but he did not like the bleakness that replaced it.

“I just want to explain,” Clay said then. There was so much he wanted to say to Allie, and this might be his only chance to say anything. But he had to be wise.

“You okay these days?” he asked.

She didn’t even blink.

He figured that all he could speak of was that night. “I should have convinced Mark to go back to the ranch earlier that night. But the robbery—it wasn’t my doing. That bottle of tequila wasn’t mine. I didn’t know Mark had it with him. I was driving. It was dark inside the cab of the pickup. I thought he was still drinking his bottle of beer. We each had one. And I was pumping fuel into the pickup when he took the rifle off the rack behind us and went into the gas station. I didn’t even see him at first. I had no idea what he planned.”

“Are you saying Mark was the one at fault?” The fire in her eyes came back. Her voice was clipped as she faced Clay squarely. “That you didn’t know anything about it?”

“I’m not saying he was at fault—” Clay stopped, unsure how to proceed. He didn’t need an apology for the way anyone had treated him. He didn’t want her to think that. He wanted her to believe him because she trusted him to tell the truth. Her opinion of him mattered, and he’d fight for it.

“It’s cowardly to blame Mark when he can’t even defend himself,” she said, her voice low and intense. “I know Mark, and I know he wouldn’t plan any robbery. It had to be you. I thought all those years in prison would have taught you to tell the truth if nothing else.”

Clay studied Allie’s face. She was barely holding on to her tears. He knew how that felt.

“I already knew how to tell the truth,” he said softly. “I had barely stepped inside the place when the rifle went off. Mark and the station clerk were already struggling with each other when I saw them—I told everyone that at the trial. That’s why all they could charge me with was being an accessory to the crime.”

Clay saw the battle inside Allie. She never liked fighting with anyone, but he could see she was determined to blast him away from here. At least her anger seemed to have pushed back her tears. He could take the hit if it made her feel better.

“You were judged guilty,” she said firmly. Her eyes flashed. “Everyone agreed. I don’t understand how you can stand there and pretend to be innocent.”

“I have no choice.” Clay hoped his face didn’t show his defeat. The two of them would never be friends again. Maybe they never had been. “I have to stand here and tell you what happened if I want you to know the truth. I’m sorry if you can’t accept it.”

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat as though he was going to speak. Clay held up his hand and looked at the older man. “I know my parole is tied to this job. If it doesn’t work out, you can call someone and they will contact the local sheriff—I’m assuming Carl Wall is the one here. Anyway, since the pickup is yours, I have to leave it here. The sheriff will see that I get back to prison. Thanks, too, for having the vehicle sent over. You can decide.”

Mr. Nelson was silent.

“You just got here,” the rancher finally mumbled, looking uncomfortable.

Clay nodded. He still wasn’t sure why he’d been asked to come, but he wasn’t going to stay if it was a problem. He’d learned his lesson about making sure he was wanted before he stayed anyplace.

“Everybody knows—” Allie started to say. She stopped when Clay looked at her.

“Everybody doesn’t know as much as they think they do,” he finally said.

She didn’t answer. It was so quiet in the kitchen that Clay thought he could hear the cat inside his coat purring. The heater in the pickup he’d driven over hadn’t worked very well, and the tabby was likely content just to be out of the cold. Clay sometimes wished he could be satisfied with the small victories in life like that. A good dinner. A moment’s comfort. They should be enough. Instead, he wanted people, especially Allie, to know who he was. And no one could claim to know Clay West if they thought he was a liar. He probably shouldn’t care, but he did.

“Do they still ask people in the church to stand up and say what’s wrong in their lives?” he asked. That was the only way he knew to address everyone in the area. He wouldn’t need to stay for the sermon.

“You mean for prayers?” Allie sounded surprised. Then her eyes slid over him suspiciously. “You want to ask us to pray for you?”

“The church will be happy to pray for you,” Mr. Nelson said as he waved the magazine in the air. “Everyone has read about you here. The hardware store got in a dozen copies. The ranchers are all talking about you as they sit around that stove in the middle of the store. You remember that stove? You’re practically famous there.”

Clay felt a sudden desire to sit down, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

He never should have done that interview for the Montana Artist Journal. Allie was looking at him skeptically.

“That reporter exaggerated,” Clay said. “I’m no Charlie Russell in the making—except for maybe that we both like to roam. I sketch faces and scenes. Simple pencil drawings. That’s all.” He’d had offers from a couple of magazines to print his prison sketches and had even gotten an art agent out of the deal, but Clay saw no reason to mention that. “And I’m not interested in anyone praying for me. I just want to set the record straight on what happened that night with Mark. I want the facts known.”

One of the few things Clay remembered from his early life was his father urging him to always tell the truth. Both his parents had died soon after that in a car accident. Clay clung to that piece of advice because it was all he had left of his family. He wanted to feel that he belonged to them no matter where he went.

Allie looked at him. “I won’t have you saying bad things about Mark.”

Clay studied her. She no longer seemed to be as angry, but she was wary.

“I’ll just tell what happened.” Clay paused before continuing. “That’s all I’m aiming for. And, after that, if you still don’t want me here, I will go back. I can’t make people believe me. I didn’t have high hopes coming here anyway. I can even stay somewhere else tonight. Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Does Mrs. Hargrove still rent out that room above her garage?”

The older woman had been the only one to stand up for him at his trial, and he counted her as a friend. She had sent him cards every birthday and Christmas while he had been locked up. He’d done his best to send her cards in return. Usually he enclosed a few sketches; over time he’d sent her a dozen Dry Creek scenes. The café. The hardware store. Every main building, except for the church. He’d never managed a sketch of that. He wouldn’t mind spending a couple of nights in her rental room before he headed back to prison. He had sold enough pencil portraits to other prisoners over the years to have a tidy sum in a savings account. He could pay for the room easily.

“Mrs. Hargrove?” Allie asked, frowning. “I’m sure the parole board doesn’t want you speaking out and giving good people like her a hard time. She’s having trouble with her feet these days.”

“The parole board sent me here.” Clay felt guilty that he hadn’t known about the aches in the older woman’s feet. “They had to figure I’d talk to someone. Besides, I can even help Mrs. Hargrove out some if I’m at her place. It could be a good thing. She probably needs logs for that woodstove of hers. The winter is going on long this year. I could get her all set with more firewood. Some kindling, too. She’d like that.”

“The board probably doesn’t realize the harm you could do here.” Allie turned to face her father again, and Clay couldn’t see her expression. “But we know.”

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat, eyeing his daughter. “Don’t look at me that way. We’re not sending him away.”

“Why not?” Clay asked softly. Father and daughter both turned to him in concern. He had to admit he was a little taken aback himself, but nothing was ever gained by dodging the truth. He spoke to Mr. Nelson. “When I saw you last, you were determined to make me suffer for what happened. I remember what you said. ‘Let him rot in that black hole of a place. We don’t want him back here.’ So I’m asking straight out, what’s changed?”

The rancher paled at Clay’s words. “I suppose you want an apology from me, too, now?”

Clay shook his head impatiently. “I just want a plainspoken answer. Why am I here?”

Mr. Nelson stood there thinking for a minute.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” the older man finally said. “I said awful things to you and about you. No Christian should say such things.”

“People say a lot of things they shouldn’t,” Clay said. “Christian or not.”

Allie started to say something, but her father held up a hand to stop her. “He has a right to ask what’s going on.”

Everyone was silent. Clay watched as the older man debated something.

“I’m doing this for Mark,” Mr. Nelson finally admitted, his voice thick with emotion. The rancher continued speaking, his eyes on Clay. “I didn’t want to ask you, but I finally realized we need you. There’s no one else.”

Clay saw defeat in the other man’s eyes. Clay had been in prison long enough to recognize the look on a man’s face when he had no choice except the bitter one in front of him. The man was finally being honest.

“But you still blame me?” Clay asked. He wanted things to be clear.

The older man didn’t answer.

“Will you help us anyway?” Mr. Nelson finally asked.

“I don’t see how I—” Clay began to politely refuse the request. There were worse things than being locked up in a cell. Being around people who didn’t trust him was one of them. He’d be free on his own terms in two years. He could wait.

Allie had been silent, but now she sputtered indignantly a moment until she found words. “Mark would be the last person to want him here to help.”

Anger scorched the air.

Clay tried not to wince. “I should leave.”

He decided he’d call Sheriff Wall himself if he had to. If it warmed up outside, he could hitchhike back to prison. He had more sketches to do there anyway.

Clay waited for Allie to turn around, but she kept facing her father with her back stiff enough to make her displeasure clear.

“Please don’t look at me that way,” Mr. Nelson said to her. “We have no choice. Mark wants to see Clay. Mark has always looked on him as a brother.”

* * *

Allie jerked sideways. She could barely believe her ears. “What?”

Allie turned to look, and Clay seemed as stunned as she was. His eyes were wide and his jaw slack.

“They’re not brothers,” Allie swiveled and told her father crisply, ignoring Clay’s question. She needed to put a stop to this nonsense. She hadn’t been to see Mark for several months, but she hadn’t heard him mention Clay before that. Of course, it was only recently that her brother was able to speak very complicated thoughts. And her father said Mark had improved since she’d seen him last.

Finally, she turned back to Clay. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know what went on between the two of you, but a brother doesn’t do their brother harm.”

Clay smiled grimly. “Believe me, I wish I’d tried to stop things. But I didn’t know what he was planning to do that night. I certainly never meant for him to end up like he did. I worry about him just like you do.”

Allie had watched Clay as he spoke. He wasn’t lying. It didn’t mean he was telling the complete truth, though. Maybe that was the way he thought it had happened, she told herself. He could have set everything in motion and then wished later that he had pulled back.

“I know you didn’t mean for Mark to end up in a coma.” Allie could give him that much. And she knew Mark liked Clay; her brother had spent many of his evenings out in the bunkhouse since that was where Clay slept. They’d sit at one of the tables and play checkers. Their father hadn’t liked it, but no one had stopped it.

Allie supposed it was money that had prompted Clay to plan that robbery. She had always thought that when he turned eighteen, he’d just stay on as a regular ranch hand. But maybe he was worried about his future. Then again maybe all he wanted was more beer to drink and he hadn’t known how else to get it.

Clay hadn’t responded to her, and she looked up at him. Lord, what do I do? she prayed.

Her father was right. She needed to be kinder to Clay. She wished she had known he needed more money; she could have turned over her allowance. After all, he hadn’t had the advantage of having parents to raise him as she had. If the parole board was sending him back to where the crime had been committed, they must have their reasons.

Clay met her eyes, but his expression didn’t soften. He certainly didn’t act like someone who needed her charity.

“I still don’t see what I can do for Mark, though,” Clay finally said. She could hear the skepticism in his voice as he eyed her father. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what to do about a coma. I don’t believe in miracles, and I don’t pray. God would never grant a request from me. I’m not a faith healer. There’s not one thing I can do but say I am sorry that Mark is hurting.”

Allie couldn’t believe he was not going to at least pretend to help them. Not when it meant he’d be out of prison. She remembered now how stubborn he’d always been.

In the silence, her father spoke to her. “Mark told me a few weeks ago that he asked Clay to help him with the Easter sunrise processional.”

She heard Clay gasp, but she focused on her father. He spoke slowly and deliberately, like he wanted a certain response from her. “You remember how Mark had been talking to everyone about that processional before the accident?”

“I do,” Allie acknowledged as she reached over and put a hand on her father’s arm. The poor man had aged two decades in the last four years. She was concerned about him. He carried a burden that never seemed to leave him. At least she was distracted from their family problems by working long shifts at her job.

“I doubt Mark means for you to worry,” she said to her father.

“That’s what he says,” her father agreed. “And I know he doesn’t know so much time has passed.”

“I can’t believe Mark is communicating,” Clay said.

Allie suddenly realized that Clay still had that sheepskin coat wrapped around him. It had been cold outside, and she wasn’t sure the heater in that old pickup worked very well. He must have been frozen when he stepped inside the kitchen.

When her father didn’t answer, Clay turned toward her.

Allie nodded. Clay’s eyes widened.

“So what, does he blink his eyes at you?” Clay asked her. “You know, the old ‘once for yes and twice for no’ kind of a thing?” He kept looking at her, but she gestured to her father, suggesting he was the one to answer. Clay turned to him. “I’ve heard of things like that—people pointing to letters in the alphabet. Is that the kind of thing Mark is doing?”

“Oh, no,” her father said as he shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

Allie could see the excitement leave Clay’s face again. He was disappointed.

“Then what is it?” Clay asked.

No one answered. Allie wasn’t sure what kind of a deal the prison officials had made with her father, but it would have to be canceled. They didn’t need someone around asking probing questions about Mark. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay a ranch hand. And, there was no need for one anyway. The corrals and barn were empty. There were enough repairs to keep a man busy for months, but that work would have to wait.

“We don’t talk much about Mark,” her father finally said. “The doctors say to keep it quiet.”

“You’re going to have to tell me,” Clay said then, his voice insistent. “You brought me all the way over here. And I’m not going anywhere until I understand what’s going on with Mark.”

Allie could have told her father that this would happen. But they couldn’t protect Mark if they told everyone all there was to know about his condition.

Clay looked at her.

“My father knows more about it than I do,” Allie said. She’d leave it up to him to walk through this minefield.

“But you can tell him better than me,” her father protested, looking over at her in alarm.

She shook her head. She wasn’t the one who had invited Clay here; it was her father. She was tired of being the one who handled the problems in the family, especially when they were not of her making. She should go check on Jeremy anyway. She had heard the closet door open in the far bedroom some time ago. The boy was likely back there playing with those plastic horses of his. It wouldn’t hurt if she stayed out here a bit, though, and saw how much her father was willing to share with Clay.

“One of you better tell me,” Clay said.

He looked at her, pale blue eyes searching hers for answers. He wasn’t afraid to push for what he wanted to know. A muscle along his jaw tightened, and she knew he’d not be discouraged.

“It’s not my place to say,” she finally managed to tell him.

She wondered if Clay had any idea how complicated life had become in the Nelson family since the day of that attempted robbery. There were many times since then when she wished Clay was still around so she could talk to him about the problems she had. He’d always seemed so steady in his advice. The truth was that she had relied on him more than Mark and certainly more than her father. Her brother had refused to acknowledge any issues in their family. Her father, when he was drinking, had been no help as he had often been the source of her concern.

After her mother died, Allie felt like she was the one in charge of keeping the family together. So far, she hadn’t done very well.

Allie didn’t like being on the spot again, because one look at Clay’s eyes and she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with some half-truth that she would tell him, hoping to satisfy his questions.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clay said to her softly then. “Your father will tell me.”

Allie could only hope that would be true.

Chapter Three

The kitchen was gaining light, Clay noticed as he stood there in the silent room. The clock read seven o’clock. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched since he left here four years ago. The same beige paint was on the walls, and the windowsills were a chipped white. He had noticed a nail by the refrigerator. It held last year’s calendar, and it didn’t appear like the months on it had even been changed.

“Tell me about Mark,” Clay finally asked again as he turned his attention to the older man. “If he doesn’t make some hand motions, how does it work?”

Clay figured the rancher must be imagining some kind of response from his son. The signs of depression were all over this kitchen. Even in prison, the officials became concerned when something as simple as a calendar wasn’t kept updated. Clay guessed Mr. Nelson was telling himself he knew what Mark thought. It was like people who decided their cat was an opera fan because the animal sat there and purred when a song was being sung. He supposed it was very human to imagine that one could know the thoughts of a being who couldn’t communicate.

Mr. Nelson didn’t say anything. Allie, on the other hand, was standing there with a blank look on her face that was so uncharacteristic of her that Clay suspected she was unwilling to tip anyone off to her father’s strange beliefs. Maybe she was embarrassed.

“I know it’s been hard,” Clay said, trying not to let his disappointment show. He might be having those flights of fancy, too, if he was father to someone in a coma. But desperate hope could mess with a man’s mind; no one knew that better than men who had spent time behind bars.

“Oh, no, Mark is talking,” Mr. Nelson said with strength in his voice. He seemed to have understood what Clay was thinking. “It’s not easy. He has to come up with the words, and it’s slow. But he’s talking.”

“He says actual words?”

Mr. Nelson nodded. “More now than when he started.”

Clay looked at the man for a long moment. Then he turned to Allie. She nodded, as well. It was a wooden nod, like something was holding her back, but she did confirm the words.

“He used to just make sounds and we had to guess at the words,” Allie offered.

Clay felt joy start to blossom inside him. “Well, what do you know?” Clay said as he lifted his fist in a gesture of triumph. Mark—his friend, his buddy—was free from the blackness of being in a coma. He’d heard enough stories from men who had spent the night in solitary confinement to have some sense of what that release must feel like to Mark. Not to mention the hope it would bring to his family.

Clay had a sudden impulse to wrap his arms around Allie and coax her into dancing an Irish jig with him. They’d done that once in the rain when they’d clocked a good time racing some of the horses. He, Mark and Allie, all dancing in a circle in the barn and laughing like fools. He needed to do something to celebrate. But he said nothing because he saw Allie was blinking back tears.

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked anxiously. “Am I missing something?”

He supposed Mark could be talking and dying at the same time. That would explain the pinched look on Allie’s face.

She shook her head. “Oh, no. These are happy tears.”

Clay never had understood those kinds of tears. But he was glad Mark was apparently all right.

Suddenly Clay could feel the cat stirring. He put his hand over the place where the feline struggled against the coat, hoping to calm her until he could get her out from inside it.

Then he heard a sound and glanced down in time to see a movement out of the corner of one eye. A young boy was sneaking into the kitchen from the hallway. His flannel pajamas had pictures of galloping horses on them. His dark hair had a cowlick on the left side and was not combed.

The cat seemed to be calm now. Clay relaxed.

The boy slid forward and stood beside Allie. She put her hand on his head without even seeming to realize he was there. Then she stroked his hair in absentminded affection.

“I couldn’t find my clothes.” The boy looked up. “I want the blue shirt.”

“So you’ve been playing instead of getting dressed like Grandpa asked,” Allie said with strong affection in her voice as she leaned down to kiss the top of the boy’s head. The boy nodded sheepishly. Then Allie straightened up.

Clay had never imagined that Allie would have a son. But just because time had stood still for him during the past several years, it didn’t mean it had slowed for anyone else.

He knew Allie well enough to realize that if she had a son it also meant she likely had a husband. He supposed he’d never had a real chance with her, but it still left him empty. He’d pictured her so many times when he was in prison; there was something about her that reminded him of fireflies. Delicate yet bright, flitting from place to place. She always lifted his spirits. He would have given anything to be able to date her. Maybe give her a first kiss.

Clay must have shifted his shoulders as he stood there staring because the cat twisted inside his coat again. He saw that she’d pulled at one of the buttons until it was open. Before Clay could reach down and grab the animal, she flew through the air, landing on her feet atop the worn beige linoleum floor.

“What’s that?” Mr. Nelson demanded to know. He looked around like more cats might be flying toward him from everywhere.

The tabby, its rust-colored fur bristling, stood there in the middle of the kitchen arching her back and looking pleased with her flight. Then she hissed. Clay had no doubt the cat was ready to defend herself from any scolding. But the young boy slid down until he was sitting in front of her.

“Don’t touch her,” Clay cautioned as he bent down and put his hands out to protect the child. “She’s partly wild.”

The cat had likely been tame at some point, but Clay figured she’d forgotten any softness she’d ever known. It had been a long time since she’d had an owner, and he knew how quickly home manners could be forgotten. The boy was already pulling the cat toward him, though. Once he had her in his arms, he rubbed his face against her matted fur.

The feline looked up suspiciously, but she didn’t fight.

“I always wanted a kitty,” the boy said and gave a satisfied sigh. “And this one has orange stripes. That’s my favorite color. Does that mean she’s for me?”

He patted the tabby gently, as though he’d already claimed her.

Clay was glad the boy had never seen a tiger.

“Orange is a good color,” Clay agreed, noticing that the cat had relaxed in the boy’s care. Maybe she remembered more than he thought. “It’s the color for caution, though, so be careful.”

Clay braced himself to make a grab if the cat started to claw her way out of the boy’s embrace, but she stayed where she was. “I expect you’ll want to ask your father if you can keep her.”

Clay knew he shouldn’t have asked it that way. But he wanted to know. He tried to keep his expression neutral. Allie looked like someone’s wife, with her hair pulled back in a barrette and a faded apron covering her jeans. He hoped that whoever the man was he was decent toward her and the boy.

“We don’t talk about his father,” Allie told Clay and gave him a warning look. Her eyes darkened to steel as she stood her ground. She continued, speaking to the boy. “You’ll have to ask your mother, though.”

“Good,” Clay whispered. He felt his face smile. So Allie wasn’t the boy’s mother.

Allie was studying him again now as though she was wondering at his thoughts.

“I—” Clay stammered. He didn’t want her to know what he’d been thinking. She saw too much. He could tell by the questions shimmering in her eyes. He’d never been able to hide much from her. “The cat needs a good home.”

That wasn’t a lie, Clay assured himself. All those years ago, his father never had said anything about whether one had to always tell the entire truth.

“Everyone needs a home,” Clay added to give more weight to his earlier words.

The pink on Allie’s cheeks flashed red. “Are you saying we did wrong by you? We gave you a home as long as we could.”

“I just meant the cat,” Clay said gently. He was glad he hadn’t made the mistake of thinking the color on her face came from warm memories of him.

“Oh,” Allie said.

Clay turned so he didn’t see her. He’d give her privacy if that’s what she wanted. Everyone was silent.

“The kitty has too many bones,” the boy finally said as he looked up at Clay.

Allie bent down, obviously relieved to have a change in the conversation. “The poor thing’s half-starved and is going to deliver a full litter any day now.” Allie glared at Clay. “Don’t you feed her?”

“She hitched a ride with me—that’s all,” he protested. “Someone abandoned her and no one would take her in. I did what I could for her. I bought some packets of coffee creamer at the gas station and fed her.”

“Creamer?” Allie raised her eyebrow in question. “That’s not enough.”

“It was the middle of the night and I wasn’t near any four-star restaurants. It was creamer, candy bars or coffee. Not much choice,” Clay said. “And I scooped up a lot of packets.”

The owner of the station had charged him plenty for the creamer, too. They’d found a glass ashtray and opened the packets of liquid and poured them into that. The cat had licked up three servings. Clay had to buy the ashtray, too, because the station owner said he couldn’t sell it after it had been licked by a cat.

“I think she’s still hungry, Auntie,” the boy said.

“Speaking of hungry,” Mr. Nelson said then, looking more like the man he had been when Clay knew him. “I’m sure we could all eat something.” He glanced over at Clay. “How about we have some eggs and bacon to go with that toast?”

Clay nodded. “I’d like that if Allie’s willing.” He didn’t want to press things with her. “Just this once. It was a long, cold drive over here.”

“I’m glad you came,” Mr. Nelson admitted.

It was quiet until Allie spoke to the boy. “Now, you go take the cat into the back bedroom and get dressed. There are some of your clothes in the closet hanging on the short bar. I think the blue shirt is there. Then get some of those old towels that Grandpa keeps in the bottom drawer of his dresser. The ones he uses to shine his Sunday shoes. They’ll make a nice soft bed for the mama cat.”

“But,” Mr. Nelson protested, “my shoes—”

“I’ll get you some other rags,” Allie told her father. “We have plenty of old towels out in the bunkhouse. I just need to cut them up.”

Mr. Nelson shrugged. “Well, okay then.”

The little boy eagerly started walking toward the hallway.

Clay felt happy just watching him.

* * *

Allie waited until she heard Jeremy open the door to the back bedroom. Then she turned to Clay. She saw he had taken his hat off, but she refused to be distracted by the directness of his gaze.

“We try not to upset Jeremy,” Allie told him. She hated to have to reveal all their family secrets, but she could see Clay was curious, and she didn’t want him to start asking questions. “Jeremy’s mother has just started letting him visit here by himself now. We don’t want anything to stop that.”

Allie watched Clay as he nodded slowly. The warm kitchen air had returned the color to his skin, but Allie noticed lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when she used to know him.

“The boy’s mother?” Clay asked. “She’s a friend of yours?”

Allie blinked. “I never really thought about it. She’s more—that is, I only knew Hannah because of Mark. They were both ahead of me in school—you know how it is. She and I didn’t know each other really. But she grew up around here, too.”

Clay had been her best friend back then. Not that he’d known it. Mark was gone so much, though, with Hannah, and the ranch had been lonely. Clay had actually been a good companion to her because he liked the horses, too. At least, she had always thought that was why they got along so well.

Her father grunted then. “Jeremy’s mother is Mark’s old girlfriend. The only one he’s ever had.”

Allie saw the truth dawning in Clay’s eyes.

She nodded. “Hannah Stelling.”

Clay was silent for a bit before speaking. “Jeremy is Mark’s son?”

Allie nodded.

“Does he know?” Clay asked.

“We thought Hannah should be the one to tell him,” Allie said. “And all she ever says is that Mark broke up with her and that’s that. Case closed.”

“But she’s the one who broke up with him,” Clay protested. “And Mark didn’t say she was pregnant. I’m sure he would have mentioned that if he had known. He was just mad she had given him an ultimatum—marriage or nothing. That’s why we went out that night. My birthday wasn’t until the next day, but it was still a good excuse to have a beer and let off some steam.”

“There was no good excuse for the two of you to have a beer,” Allie said primly. “Neither one of you was of age.” She had preached that to her brother until she ran out of breath. She saw now that she should have included Clay in her instructions.

“You got the beer?” her father asked then, more eager than Allie would have expected since he never wanted to talk about where the liquor came from on that night. She always thought he felt guilty for not cautioning them about how strong alcohol could affect them.

Clay shook his head. “Mark had it. He gave me one bottle and kept the other.”

“It wasn’t just the beer,” Allie said, her eyes pointed to Clay. “It was that tequila, and we all know you had to be the one getting that.”

“Why do you say that?” Clay asked incredulously.

Allie bristled. She didn’t know why he couldn’t just admit what he had done. “It’s obvious. Mark had no way to get tequila. There wasn’t a gas station around here that carried it. I checked. Besides, you have your ways. You probably learned all about how to get liquor when you were a kid in the big city.”

It was the same place he’d learned all about girls, she thought. Mark had warned her that Clay thought nothing of kissing girls and so she should be careful around him. Unfortunately, her brother’s warning had only made her more fascinated with Clay.

“Because I was a foster kid?” he asked, the edge to his voice making Allie feel a little nervous. “Is that what you mean? That I automatically break the law because I’m a foster kid?”

“It’s not just that, but you have to admit—” she began.

“No, I don’t,” Clay interrupted. “I might have grown up rough, but I never was much on drinking. I never bought any alcohol. I wasn’t of age, and I wasn’t about to lie when someone asked if I was legal.”

Allie paused and forced herself to swallow the accusations she was going to make. Clay had a point. She knew he wouldn’t stand there and lie to a clerk in a liquor store. She had always figured that the only reason he had not told the truth about the robbery at his trial was because he didn’t want to go to prison. She did not understand why he would not admit it now, though.

“It doesn’t matter where the alcohol came from,” her father said with enough force to his voice to remind Allie of what was important.

“The real problem was Hannah breaking up with Mark,” Clay added. “That’s all he could talk about. She asked him to go for a drive at noon and told him it was over unless they got married.”

“He should have known Hannah wasn’t really breaking up with him,” Allie said. “They’d been dating forever. She didn’t tell him she was pregnant because she wanted him to marry her for love and not feel like he’d been trapped. But she wasn’t leaving him. If you hadn’t been there to egg Mark on, he would have eventually come around and seen how things were.”

“But she didn’t say any of that,” Clay protested. “What was he to think?”

“Most men don’t think,” she said, not expecting the bitterness she heard in her voice. She was disappointed by more than what had happened with Hannah and Mark. Clay had thrown away their chances, too. “That’s the problem.”

“Now, Allie,” her father protested.

She lifted her chin. “Well, it’s true. Men do what they want and don’t even always tell you what happened. They just let the pieces fall anywhere.”

Allie let her words hang in the air. She wasn’t going to take them back. She could see Clay measuring her words, like he wasn’t sure what she meant. She saw the muscles tighten along his jaw, and she knew he had decided something.

“You’re talking about me now, aren’t you?” he said, no longer looking puzzled.

She didn’t answer. As strong as her memories of him were, she had no right to question him. There had been no hint of romance in his manner toward her that time so long ago. He’d never even tried to kiss her, not even when she had bought tube after tube of lip gloss with enticing names like Sweet Pink and Red Passion. That should show her what Clay thought of her and kissing.

“I don’t lie, and I wasn’t letting anyone down,” Clay finally said. “That night with Mark—no one was counting on me. There was no one to let down.”

Yes, there was, Allie thought as she stepped back toward the kitchen sink. There was me.

She wasn’t ready for all of this. She’d thought she’d never see Clay again. But he was wrong that no one had counted on him back then. Her father had still been drinking his whiskey, bottle after bottle of the same, and she used to tell herself Clay would know what to do if she needed help. Her mother had been the one to handle her father when he was drunk, and once she was gone, Allie never knew how to keep him steady. Mark refused to think there was a problem with their father, and so she knew it would be up to her to do something, if her father went out of control. That’s why she’d been glad Clay was with them.

She’d worried all the time back then until one night when she’d seen Clay standing outside the bunkhouse looking up at her window. His gaze had seemed protective, and she told herself he was looking out for her a little bit. She knew he would come if she needed help. That’s when she’d started her search for the perfect irresistible lip gloss. She had barely gotten used to the flutter of her feelings for him and then he was gone.

Deep silence filled the room.

Finally Allie turned around and spoke. She didn’t look up, but she knew Clay would understand she was speaking to him. Those long-ago feelings were not important. She needed to help her family now, and she couldn’t do that by mooning over Clay. “Hannah only took Jeremy to see Mark once a long time ago. Jeremy was scared of the coma, and so now she leaves him here with Dad when she goes. Jeremy doesn’t know who his father is.”

“You haven’t told the boy?” Clay asked.

Allie shook her head. So many things had been left undone. “He hasn’t really asked us. I think Hannah just told him his father was gone. Jeremy seems too young to care much.”

“He’s not too young,” Clay said.

“I suppose not,” Allie said. “I’ve wondered what he thinks about having a grandfather and an aunt, but no father.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” Clay said.

“Thanks,” Allie said. “But in the end, it’s not your problem. You’re free now and Mark’s stuck in that nursing home.”

“Now, Allie,” her father interrupted her. “Clay did his time in prison.”

“Not all of it,” Allie said. “He shouldn’t be out yet. I’ve kept track. If the parole board hadn’t sent him here, he’d be serving two more years.”

She had planned to send him a few hundred dollars just before he was set for release. She hadn’t wanted to think he might be hungry. And if it was anonymous, no one had to know.

“I got him paroled early,” her father replied.

Allie forgot the mellow kindness she’d been feeling and turned to look at her father in shock. “You did what?”

“It’s called victim reparations. I called up the parole board and said we needed help on the ranch. They were reluctant, but I said there was no one here to work since Mark wasn’t able and I asked them to send Clay. I didn’t want to mention Mark’s recovery. I figured it was best to keep it simple.”

Allie continued to stare at her father. “Is that legal? You telling them to send him like that?”

She looked at Clay and saw him wince.

“I am okay with it,” Clay said. “Especially now that I know about Mark.”

“But he’s the reason Mark is hurt.” Allie stared at her father, willing him to meet her gaze. Everyone was forgetting what was important. “Clay should go back and finish his time. I can’t believe you asked them to release him.”

She’d been prepared to accept that Clay was sorry if he was getting paroled because the authorities thought he’d done enough time. But if her father had been the one to suggest it, that changed everything. No one else necessarily thought the time was sufficient.

Mr. Nelson kept looking at the floor. “What was I supposed to do? Mark was asking for Clay. Besides, I need help with the ranch. It’s falling apart.”

She could see the condition of the ranch for herself. Each month she put what she could into a small savings account so she could save enough for some barn repairs.

“We’ll fix things up around here later,” Allie whispered fiercely. “We’ve got time.”

“No, we don’t,” her father said, and he gave a proud grin. Her mother used to call that her father’s Cheshire cat face. It meant he had done something no one would expect. And, usually, something her mother wouldn’t have approved.

Allie had a bad feeling about this. “What do you mean?”

“I bought some more horses,” her father announced. “Real cheap from a rancher over by Bozeman.”

“You bought—” Allie gasped. She wasn’t sure she had heard him right. “We can’t afford anything. Nothing. You know that. Maybe some chickens.”

Her father snorted. “We need more than chickens to turn this place around. Some prime horseflesh is what will put us back in business.”

“You bought purebred stock?” Allie asked. She didn’t even want to know how much that would cost. They had already squeezed the budget as tight as they could. The reason she wanted to start taking some accounting classes was to help with the ranch records. When Mark had received that scholarship and declared he wanted to be a doctor, she had felt free to stake her claim to the ranch. The horses themselves had lots of details that needed tracking. They’d need to buy more animals eventually, but not yet.

“The bank lent me enough to pay for them,” her father said, a note of satisfaction coming into his voice. “I don’t want Mark to come home and see the corrals empty like they are. We need some horses. They’re being delivered any day now. I’m not quite sure on the time.”

Allie stared at him. She couldn’t breathe thinking about more debt. She could barely pay back what they had now.

“They’re good horses,” her father repeated himself, the dreamy look on his face telling her that he was lost in his own world. “The best bloodlines we can find. It’s a deal. Four horses, three of them mares all set to have colts this spring. One of them is lame, but the sire, who is coming, too, is almost a purebred. At least that’s what I heard. And one of the colts could be a racer. The others might go for range horses when they’ve had a chance to fill out. All of them for five hundred dollars.”

She heard Clay grunt in astonishment, but he didn’t speak.

“That can’t be right,” Allie finally managed to say. Her head was spinning. “That’s way too low. Are the animals sick? Or was it five thousand dollars? Even that’s not enough for that many good horses. Maybe you’ve got the numbers wrong. That happens, you know, when you’ve been—”

Allie stopped. She gave a quick glance over at Clay. This was private family business. She looked back at her father. “You know.”

“I haven’t been drinking,” her father protested, sounding offended. “The man who sold them to me owed me a favor from way back. He’s giving me a special deal.”

“You’re sure?” Allie’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. It took a sharp woman to outwit a drunk. She’d searched the kitchen cupboards for alcohol and hadn’t found anything. She always did that first thing when she got home.

“Of course I’m sure.” Her father glared at her. “I’m going to go back and check on Jeremy.”

Her father turned and went back into the hallway.

It struck Allie that, if it was true that her father hadn’t been drinking, then he had likely been the victim of a scam.

“I need to sit down.” She started to walk over to the kitchen table, planning to pull out one of the chairs. She wished she could remember how her mother had handled things like this.

Allie scarcely noticed the steady arm Clay put around her. Then he lowered her into the chair like she was made of fine bone china. Once she was settled, he bent his head until his mouth was close to her ear.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured.

“Those horses are never coming,” she said, letting her troubles spill out to Clay like she’d done so often. “My father gave someone money, and he’ll never see anything from it.”

“That’s my guess, too,” Clay said.

Then in the distance Allie heard the sound of a heavily weighted truck coming.

She glanced up at Clay. He nodded to show he’d heard it, too.

“If that is them and they’re here, that five hundred is probably only a down payment,” Allie said. “I’ll... We’ll be paying for those horses for the rest of our lives.”

She was still looking at Clay. Suddenly the years fell away and his face seemed the same as it had before. His eyes were the same warm blue. His eyebrow furrowed a little in concern. He looked like nothing was more important at that moment than what she was telling him.

“That’s ranching for you,” he said.

“We’re flat broke,” she told him and then stopped to listen as the truck slowed down at what must have been the cattle guard where their driveway came off the county road. “I don’t even want to look.”

“I’ll see about it,” Clay said as he straightened up.

Allie wondered if there was any possibility that the truck would go by on the gravel road. It was the long way around to the Redfern ranch, but maybe whoever was driving was lost and was just slowing down to ask directions.

She watched Clay. He hadn’t moved from where he stood.

“We haven’t even had breakfast yet,” Allie said.

Clay grunted. “If it is those animals, we’ll need to get them settled first.”

“You’re a good man,” Allie said as she sat there. “I have a little money saved. But not enough to pay standard wages to a ranch hand.”

Clay smiled. “I don’t think you’re supposed to pay me. Free labor for a year. That’s the deal.”

Allie frowned. “We will make some arrangements. You can’t work for free. I won’t let you.”

“It’s fine,” Clay murmured and then added hesitantly, “I think food is included, though. And I’ll starve on toast.”

She grinned. She saw the twinkle in his eyes. “Sorry about this morning. And you will get a full breakfast just as soon as we deal with that truck.”

He smiled back at her, and her day tilted until everything felt balanced in her world again. She wished with a fierce stab of longing that Clay and her brother had stayed in the bunkhouse playing checkers that night.

“My dad’s not really an alcoholic,” she whispered at last. She hoped this was still true. “I wouldn’t want you to think that.”

“It’s not your fault if he is,” Clay said and buttoned his coat.

She shook off her nostalgia. “That’s kind of you to say.”

The truck sounds grew louder.

Maybe it wasn’t all her fault, but Allie knew she’d fallen down on her duty. She had liked the warmth of Clay’s breath on her neck, but there was nothing about this that was going to turn out well. She couldn’t recall a thing her mother had done when her father’s craziness had already happened except for doing all she could to hide everything from the neighbors.

She wondered how they could cope with a bankruptcy. They had fought it off for so long, but she was tired. She really would need to paint the house. She’d always thought white with green trim made a house look prosperous. That might keep the pity from the neighbors down some. Or at least give them some doubt that the gossip was true.

Allie heard a vehicle door slamming outside. Whoever was out there was coming inside. And she wasn’t ready.

She looked up and saw compassion in Clay’s eyes. She might not want him to know her father’s weakness, but it felt good to have someone stand beside her in the troubles of this household.

Allie heard footsteps outside. She needed to remember that her goal these days was to see Mark recovered. Their family had been given a second chance. She wouldn’t see alcohol or bankruptcy or problems from the past take it away from them.

Then her father cleared his throat. She looked over and saw him standing in the shadows of the hallway. His expression was so guilty that she wondered if there might be a bottle of liquor next to him in the coat closet.

“I should have asked you about the horses before I bought them,” her father said.

Allie nodded. “We’ll get by.”

She forced herself to breathe calmly. She was only vaguely aware of the squeeze Clay gave to her shoulder before he moved toward the door. His brow was furrowed. His shoulders were hunched over in that sheepskin coat as though he was still cold even though it was warm in the kitchen.

A loud knock sounded at the kitchen door. Allie was relieved she didn’t need to open the house and let anyone inside. Whoever was outside was going to give her trouble.

Chapter Four

Clay squinted as he opened the door. A sturdy middle-aged man, with a Stetson pushed down on his head and a red plaid shirt showing through the opening in his coat, waited on the steps with a clipboard in his gloved hands. Deep footprints showed where he had just walked through the snow. After studying the indentations, Clay guessed the snowfall was close to six inches deep. The man’s black jacket had a logo and Farm Transportation embroidered on the front pocket, along with the name Stan Wilcox.

“This the Nelson place?” the man asked. His breath swirled up in a thin white puff. Even though the storm had stopped, temperatures had not risen yet.

“Yes,” Clay admitted.

The man frowned and looked at his paper. “Mr. Floyd Nelson.”

Clay realized with a start that he had never known Mr. Nelson’s given name. He didn’t remember anyone ever using it. “I’ll get him for you. Stan, is it?”

The man nodded.

“I’m Clay West.” He hesitated. “New ranch hand here.”

“Good to meet you,” Stan said.

Clay turned around then and saw that Allie and her father were walking toward the door. Clay opened the screen door for Stan. “Might as well come inside for a bit.”

The other man entered and stood on the rug beside the open door. “We’ll need to start unloading. I just wanted to check that we were at the right place and to find out where you want the shipment let down.”

“Is it the horses?” Mr. Nelson asked as he walked closer.

“Yes, sir,” Stan said. “This is them.”

“I’ve been waiting.” Mr. Nelson’s face was as excited as a kid’s on Christmas morning.

Clay smiled. The older man might be making a mistake, but he was at least enjoying it. Clay had to admit he wouldn’t mind putting his hands on a horse again, either.

“I’ll need you to sign.” Stan held his clipboard out to Mr. Nelson.

Clay turned then and saw Allie walking over to the trucker and squaring her shoulders. He wondered for a moment about what she was doing.

“I’m afraid there is a change of plans,” Allie said. Her voice was steady. “We need to send the horses back for a refund. I need to talk with my father some more, but we can’t sign.”

The man started to laugh.

“Someone will pay you for your delivery, of course,” she added with a stiff smile. “Including the return trip. We honor our commitments as best we can.”

Clay was proud of Allie. She’d obviously worked hard over the years to learn to speak her mind with confidence. He remembered how she’d hated to disappoint anyone and wouldn’t confront them to say what she thought needed to be done.

Stan’s laugh finally slowed to a rumble, and his eyes were kind. “That’s not the problem, ma’am. These animals, though—there ain’t no back to send them to. The man paid us in cash for the delivery, but then he got on a plane for Hawaii. Some messy divorce he’s in. Didn’t care how much money he lost. His ranch sold the day we left. He sent a few more animals over here with us. They were strays no one else wanted. If you don’t want them, either, we’ll have to shoot them.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.