No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber
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his brief conversation with Walt’s granddaughter, Sam had found her drifting into his mind at the oddest times. Like now. Actually, it was easy enough to figure out why. He’d been celibate for too long. What he really needed was to drive into town one Friday night and let some sweet young thing take him home. But he couldn’t seem to dredge up the necessary enthusiasm.
In his rodeo days he’d enjoyed the occasional one-night stand, but over the years, he’d lost interest in sex for the sake of sex. When he crawled into bed with a woman, he didn’t want to worry about remembering her name in the morning. Besides, remembering names was a minor concern these days when it came to one’s bed partners. If he chose to self-destruct, Sam preferred to do it on the back of a bad-tempered bull, not in some bed with a lumpy mattress and a faceless woman moaning in his ear.
After that first invitation to share dinner, Walt and Sam began eating all their meals together. The old man routinely plied him with questions. Some he answered. Some he ignored. Walt depended on him, trusted him, and Sam tried to live up to the rancher’s faith in him.
The Broken Arrow was a good spread, with plenty of grass and a fine herd. If Sam ever considered settling down, it’d be on a place like this. Not that he could afford it. Some days he struggled against bitterness. If not for the accident, he might have had it all: fame, money, a good life. A demon bull had put an end to those hopes and expectations. But he’d endured.
In the process Sam had learned something about himself. He was a survivor. Fate might sucker-punch him again, only next time he’d be prepared. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t give a damn about anything–or anyone. Because if he did, he was vulnerable. It occurred to him that he was already becoming too attached to the old man, and that worried him.
By the time he’d sorted out his thoughts and calmed his raging heart, the alarm was ready to sound.
He climbed out of bed, put on a pot of coffee and dressed as the sun peeked over the Rockies, streaking the sky with translucent shafts of pink and gold. It’d become habit to check on Walt before he headed out for the day. He half expected to arrive some morning and find the old man had died in his sleep. He didn’t look forward to that, but as the rancher said, he’d lived a good life and suffered few regrets. That was the way Sam wanted it to be when his own time came.
The kitchen light was on when he stepped onto Walt’s back porch. Walt was rarely up this early anymore. With his heart as weak as it was, he spent half the day napping.
“Coffee’s ready,” Walt said when Sam let himself into the kitchen.
The old man seemed downright chipper, Sam noted, a pleasant contrast to his lethargic manner lately.
Walt gestured toward the coffeepot with his own mug.
“No thanks, I’ve already had a cup.” Sam had never been much for talk in the morning. A grunt now and then usually sufficed.
“I got a call from Molly last night.” Walt’s crooked grin took up half his face. “Looks like you’re going to meet her and the boys, after all.”
“She’s coming out?” Sam hoped to hell she was smart enough not to mention his phone call. As he’d told her, Walt wouldn’t appreciate his interference.
“Better than that.” Walt cupped the steaming mug between his callused hands. His eyes fairly glowed with happiness.
“How long is she staying?”
“For good,” Walt snapped as if it should have been obvious. “She’s finally come to her senses and sold what she could, packed everything else in a U-Haul and she’s driving on out. Should be here week after next.”
Sam lowered himself slowly into a chair. This was something he hadn’t expected. He folded his hands, resting them on the scarred pine table, as the old man’s words sank in.
“The ranch is hers,” Walt announced cheerfully. “There’s no one else. I just pray she’ll be strong enough to hold on to the place when I’m gone.”
Sam had done some thinking about the ranch and what would become of it after Walt died. He’d always known Molly would inherit the Broken Arrow. He’d even toyed with the idea of forming a partnership with her, running the ranch himself and sharing the profits. He’d make sure the arrangement was lucrative for them both, even if it meant working twenty-four hours a day. Eventually he could, maybe, save up enough to buy the spread himself.
His plans were still vague, but this was the first thought he’d given to the future in a hell of a long time. All that would change now. The last thing Walt’s granddaughter would want was an ex-con hanging around the place. In light of this news, it’d be best if he sought other employment. He’d write a letter or two that night, send out a few feelers now his confidence was back. He’d enjoyed working the Broken Arrow Ranch almost as much as he’d enjoyed the feisty old man who’d given him a chance.
“Don’t you have something to say?” Walt asked, glaring at him. Then he laughed, and the sound was like a sick calf choking.
This was probably the first time Sam had heard Walt laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“You.” Walt’s mirth died slowly. “I wish you could’ve seen your face when I said Molly was coming. Just wait till you see her in person. If she’s anything like her grandmother—and she is—you’ll be walking around with your tongue hangin’ out. That photo on the television doesn’t do her justice. She’s a real beauty.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Sam warned. Walt had misread the look, but Sam wasn’t inclined to correct him. He’d let the old coot have his fun.
“Ideas about what?” Walt was obviously playing dumb.
“Me getting together with your granddaughter.”
“You should be so lucky.”
Sam didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t up to this conversation. “It isn’t going to happen.”
Walt’s smile faded and he narrowed his pale eyes on Sam with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. “I doubt she’d have you.”
Sam couldn’t fault him there. “I doubt she would, either,” he agreed. Grabbing his hat from the peg on the porch, he headed out the kitchen door.
* * *
The sun broke over the horizon like the golden arm of God, ushering in another perfect California morning. Tom sulked in the bucket seat beside Molly, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. His posture told her that nothing she said or did would placate him for the grave injustice of moving him away from his friends.
Clay, on the other hand, bounced like a rubber ball in the back seat, unable to sit still. His excitement, however, did not appear to be contagious.
Because she wasn’t able to see out her rearview mirror, Molly checked the side one to make sure the trailer was all right. She wasn’t accustomed to hauling anything and the U-Haul was packed tight. Everything she’d managed to accumulate in the past thirty-four years—everything she hadn’t sold, donated to charity or given to friends—was jammed in it.
Although she was deeply concerned about her grandfather, Molly hoped the drive to Sweetgrass would be something the three of them could enjoy. A trip that would “make a memory,” as her grandmother used to say. She thought about her childhood summer visits and how her grandmother had let her name the calves and explore the ranch and gather eggs....
The last year had precious few happy memories for her and the boys. This was a new beginning for them all. A challenge, too—building a new life, a new home. Few people were given this kind of opportunity. Molly fully intended to make the best of it.
“Are we there yet?” Clay asked, his head bobbing in the rearview mirror.
“Clay,” his brother groaned. “We haven’t even left California.”
“We haven’t?”