Montana. Debbie Macomber
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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. Already 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 clink. 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