No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber
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least twenty-five years old. Molly could remember it from when she was a child. The floorboard on the passenger side had rusted through, and she had to be careful where she set her feet.
The ride started off in a companionable enough silence. Every now and then she’d look at Sam, but he kept his gaze carefully trained on the road ahead.
She’d spoken first. “Are you from around here?”
“No.”
“Montana?”
“Nope.”
“Where else have you been a foreman?” she’d asked, trying a different tack.
“I haven’t been.”
“Never?” she asked.
“Never,” he repeated.
That was how their entire conversation had gone. In the forty minutes it took to drive into Sweetgrass, Sam didn’t respond once in words of more than two syllables. Stringing together more than a couple of words appeared to be beyond his capabilities.
Molly had hoped to ease into her conversation, get to know him before she dug for answers concerning her grandfather’s condition. But no matter how she approached him, Sam Dakota remained tight-lipped and uncooperative.
Molly gave up the effort when the town came into view.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
If the Broken Arrow Ranch had changed in nine years, Sweetgrass hadn’t. Main Street seemed trapped in a time warp. Foley’s Five and Dime with its faded red sign still sat on the corner of Main and Maple. Her grandmother had often taken Molly there as a child so she could watch the tropical fish swim in the big aquarium. The hamsters, racing about in their cages, had intrigued her, as well. In addition to pets, the store sold knickknacks and tacky souvenirs to any unsuspecting tourist who had the misfortune of dropping by. Not that there’d ever been many tourists. In retrospect, Molly decided it must be the bulk candy displayed behind the glass counter that kept Foley’s in business.
The bank’s reader board, which alternately flashed the time and the temperature, was directly across the street from Foley’s. Sweetgrass Pharmacy and the barbershop were next to the bank. Molly wondered if the singing barber had retired. As she recalled, he’d done a fairly good imitation of Elvis.
The ice-cream parlor with its white wire chairs was exactly as she remembered.
Sam glanced at her.
“Everything’s the same,” she told him.
“Everything changes,” he said without emotion. “Looks can be deceiving, so don’t be fooled.” He eased the truck into an empty parking space and turned off the engine.
“I need to stop at the bank,” she said, looking over at the large redbrick structure. From there she’d go to the Safeway and buy groceries. The Safeway was at the other end of town, about six blocks away. A stoplight swayed gently in the breeze at Main and Chestnut. For a while it had been the only one in the entire county. But five years ago Jordanville, forty miles east, had its first traffic light installed, stealing Sweetgrass’s claim to distinction. Gramps had taken the news hard; he’d written her a letter complaining bitterly about the changes in Montana. Too damn many people, he’d grumbled.
Without looking at her, Sam added, “I’ve got some supplies to pick up.”
Sam wasn’t unfriendly, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to make her feel welcome, either. Molly had no idea what she’d done or hadn’t done to create such... coolness in his attitude. This morning he’d seemed neutral, but neutral had definitely become cool.
“I’ll meet you at the bank when I’m finished,” he said.
Molly climbed down from the truck and hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Sam walked close beside her until they reached the bank, then he crossed the street. As she opened the heavy glass doors, she caught a glimpse of him studying her. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
While the outside of the bank was relatively unchanged, the inside had been updated. The polished wood counters were gone, and except for the lobby with its marble tiles, the floor was now carpeted.
Molly moved toward the desk with a sign that stated: New Accounts.
“Hello,” she said, and slipped into the chair.
“Hi.” The woman, whose nameplate read Cheryl Ripple, greeted her with a cordial smile.
“I’m Molly Cogan,” she said, introducing herself. “Walter Wheaton’s my grandfather.”
Cheryl’s smile faded and she stood up abruptly. Almost as if she couldn’t get away fast enough, Molly thought.
“Excuse me a moment, please,” the woman said. She hurried toward the branch manager’s office, and a moment later, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man appeared.
“Ms. Cogan?” he said, coming over to her, hands tightly clenched. “I’m David Burns. Is there a problem?”
Molly blinked at him, taking in his well-tailored suit and polished shoes. “No, should there be?”
David Burns’s laugh held a nervous edge. “Not exactly. It’s just that your grandfather has...shall we say, challenged the integrity of this banking institution on a number of occasions. I came to be sure there wasn’t any problem with his account. Again.”
“None that I know of,” Molly said, wondering what her grandfather had said or done to raise such concern. On second thought she didn’t want to know. “Actually I came to open my own account.”
“Your own?” His relief was evident. “That’s great.”
“I’m moving in with my grandfather.”
“I see. Welcome to Sweetgrass. Cheryl will be more than happy to assist you.” He took a couple of steps backward before turning toward his office.
Within ten minutes Molly had signed the necessary documents and chosen a check design. As she got ready to leave, she noticed a tall attractive man standing in the lobby, watching her. When he saw Molly, he smiled and nodded as if she should know him. She didn’t. A moment later he approached her.
“Molly Cogan?”
She nodded, frowning, certain she didn’t recognize him. His was a face she would have remembered, too. Appealing, boyish, blue-eyed. His blond hair was tousled as if he’d forgotten to comb it. He stood well over six feet.
“I’m Russell Letson,” he said, stepping toward her, his hand extended. No wedding ring, she automatically noticed. His eyes darted away from her and she realized he was actually rather shy. This was something she didn’t expect from the rough, tough cowboy types she generally associated with Montana.
They exchanged handshakes as Molly mulled over where she’d heard the name before.
“I’m your grandfather’s attorney,” he added.
Gramps’s letter. That was why the name was familiar. Her grandfather had mentioned him when he’d told her about having his will updated.
“Would you have time for a cup of coffee?” he asked, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got an hour before my next appointment and there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.” He seemed slightly ill at ease about this.
Molly wondered what he could possibly have to say to her; she couldn’t help being curious and, to her surprise, tempted. Russell Letson was one of the best-looking men she’d seen in a while, and what amazed her was that he didn’t seem to know it.
Russell added, “It won’t take long.”
Just when Molly was about to agree, Sam walked into the bank, and she experienced a twinge of disappointment. “I’m afraid I can’t today.”
“Dinner then?” he suggested. “Tomorrow night,