No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber
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Tom said grimly.
Molly resisted the urge to jab him. From the first, her older son’s attitude about the move had been less than enthusiastic—although he’d approved of visiting Montana to go and see Gramps. But not to stay there forever, as he’d told her repeatedly this past week. He’d barely uttered a word from the time they started out a couple of hours earlier. As far as she could tell, he continued to blame her for making him repaint the gym wall. Molly didn’t know why she should feel guilty when he was the one who’d sprayed it with gang symbols.
If she needed confirmation that she’d made the right decision, Tom had provided it. The mere thought of her son involved in a gang turned her blood cold. She was terrified of the attraction a gang might hold for him—for any confused angry fatherless boy. Gangs weren’t an issue in Sweetgrass. The people were decent and hardworking, and she wouldn’t need to worry about big-city influences.
“Did I tell you about the Broken Arrow?” she asked in an attempt at conversation. If she displayed a positive attitude, perhaps Tom would start to think that way himself.
“About a thousand times,” he muttered, his face turned away from her as he stared out the side window. The scenery rolled past, huge redwoods and lush green forests, so unlike the fertile river valley of Montana.
“There’s horses, too,” Molly added. As she recalled, Gramps always had a number on hand. These were strong sturdy horses, kept for work, not pleasure or show.
Tom yawned. “How many?”
Molly lifted one shoulder, her gaze trained on the road. Interest. Even this little bit was more than Tom had shown from the moment she’d announced her plans.
“What about my report card?” Clay asked, launching himself against the front seat, thrusting his head between Molly and Tom.
“The school promised to mail it.” Molly decided not to remind her son that she’d answered the same question no less than ten times. They’d miss the last couple of weeks of school, but had finished all their assignments beforehand. Molly had feared even a two-week delay might be too long, considering her grandfather’s condition.
“You could’ve asked if I wanted to move.” Tom leaned his head against the back of the seat and glared at her. Apparently holding his head up demanded more energy than he could muster.
“Yes,” Molly admitted reluctantly, “you’re right, I should have.” This was a sore point with Tom. A transgression he seemed unwilling to forgive.
“But you didn’t ask me.”
“No, I didn’t. Gramps needs us right now and I didn’t feel we could refuse.” Perhaps she’d made a mistake; it wasn’t her first one and certainly wouldn’t be her last. Molly felt she’d had few options. Besides removing Tom from involvement in a gang, she had to get to Gramps as soon as possible, to be with him during his remaining days. And since she would inherit the ranch, the more she learned about the management of it now, the better.
“You’re taking us away from our friends.”
“Like Eddie Ries?”
It was clear to Molly that Tom needed a better class of companions. She worried incessantly about her son and wondered what had happened to the good-natured helpful boy he used to be. The transformation had come virtually overnight. He’d grown sullen, ill-tempered and moody.
In the beginning she feared he might have started using drugs. She’d gone so far as to call a drug hotline. She’d learned that the best way to figure out if her son was experimenting with illegal drugs wasn’t to dig through his backpack or his room for evidence. Kids were experts at hiding paraphernalia, and even better at convincing family they were innocent of anything so dangerous or devious. She suspected that was because parents didn’t want to believe their children were caught up in something so destructive and therefore chose to believe whatever the kids told them. Facing the truth was far too painful—and would demand action.
The true test, according to the pamphlet she’d read, was knowing your children’s friends. One look at the type of friends your son or daughter associated with was usually enough.
Until last fall Tom’s friends had been good kids, from good homes, who made good grades. She felt relatively reassured until he started hanging around with Eddie Ries. Even then it was difficult to gauge the truth.
According to Mr. Boone, the school principal, Tom’s friendship with Eddie had been a recent development. Molly hoped that was true.
“Will Gramps teach me to ride?” Clay asked, straining forward in his seat.
“Probably not,” Molly said with a renewed sense of sadness. “Remember, he isn’t well. I don’t think he rides anymore.”
“This is gonna be a bust,” Clay said, slumping against the window.
Molly shook her head in wonder. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you two?”
“We don’t have any friends in Montana,” Tom said sulkily.
“You’ll make new ones.” That was one thing she could say about her boys. Not more than a week after moving into the apartment they’d met every kid within a five-block radius. Neither Tom nor Clay had any problem forming new friendships. The ranch kids would be eager to learn what they could about the big city, and before long Tom and Clay would be heroes.
“Let me tell you about the ranch,” she tried again.
“Yeah!” Clay said eagerly.
“I’m not interested,” Tom muttered.
One yes. One no. “What’s it to be?” she asked cheerfully. “Do I get the deciding vote?”
“No fair!” Tom cried.
“Plug your ears,” Clay said, snickering.
Tom grumbled and looked away, wearing the mask of a tormented martyr. He had brooding down to an art form, one he practiced often. Molly couldn’t remember her own adolescence being nearly this traumatic, and Tom was only fourteen. She hated to think of all the high-scale drama the coming years held in store.
“Originally the Broken Arrow was over 15,000 acres,” Molly began. She said this with pride, knowing how difficult it had been for Gramps to sell off portions of his land. All that remained of the original homestead was 2,500 acres.
“How come the ranch is named the Broken Arrow?” Clay asked.
“Because they found a broken arrow on it, stupid.”
“Tom!”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a stupid question. If I remember correctly, Tom, you asked me the same one.”
“Yeah, but that was when I was a little kid.”
“About Clay’s age, as I recall.” She recalled no such thing, but it served him right for belittling his younger brother.
“What about his foreman?” Clay asked next.
Gramps’s foreman. Molly had nothing to tell. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he was apparently devoted to Gramps. Devoted enough to make sure she knew of Gramps’s ill health.
She’d reviewed their short conversation a number of times in the two weeks since his phone call, afraid she might have missed something important. She wondered if there’d been something else he’d wanted to tell her, a hidden message beneath his words. She’d sensed his urgency, accepted the gravity of the situation. Yet when she’d phoned Gramps the next night, he’d sounded quite healthy. He’d been thrilled with her news, and she’d hung up equally excited.
Molly’s thoughts turned from Sam Dakota to employment possibilities. Eventually she’d need to find a job in Sweetgrass. While there might not be much demand for a translator, she wondered if