A Wife in Wyoming. Lynnette Kent
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“What do I think about what?”
“We decided we’d flood the eastside pastures, grow our own brand of Wyoming rice.”
The oldest Marshall set down his fork and knife with a clank. “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard of. Rice won’t grow...” He noticed the grin on Ford’s face and frowned. “What’s your point?”
“That you’re not listening. Or eating much.”
“I’m not doing much. No reason to eat.”
The preacher in the family propped his elbows on the table. “Can’t you view this as a vacation? You’re always saying you don’t get a chance to read. When did you last take a day off?”
Ford answered the question. “When he was fourteen, maybe. Before Dad died.”
Garrett nodded. “Twenty years without a break?”
Wyatt shook his head. “I get plenty of downtime. I don’t need a vacation. I need to get back to work.”
Dylan clucked his tongue. “Well, that’s not happening in the immediate future. The doctor wants you quiet for at least three months.” He leaned his chair back, balancing on the two rear legs. “And since you’re staying still for a change, I want to do some sketches, work up plans for a life-size carving of your head. I found a piece of petrified pine that would be perfect.”
Wyatt’s frown evolved into an expression of horror. “I don’t want a statue of me sitting around somewhere for people to stare at. Next thing I know, you’ll be exhibiting me in one of your art shows. Keep your chair on the floor.”
The chair clattered as Dylan straightened up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I suppose you’d also suggest I spend less time carving and more time doing meaningful work?”
“As a matter of fact, I might.”
Cheeks flushed, brown eyes blazing, Dylan got to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, I might tell you to go to hell.”
Ford rolled his eyes. “Dylan—”
But the youngest Marshall stomped out of the room without listening. The slap of the screen door announced that he’d left the house. And he’d broken one of the cardinal rules—leaving his plate on the table for someone else to carry to the kitchen.
Wyatt passed a hand over his face. “I can’t seem to say the right thing to him anymore.”
Ford stacked Dylan’s plate on top of his own. “Would a statue be so bad?”
Wyatt glared at him from under lowered brows. “Why don’t you model for him?”
“Maybe I will.” Ford struck a pose with the dishes balanced on one hand. “You could stand it in the corner and tip your hat every time you walk by me. We’ll put a plaque on the pedestal—Ford Marshall, Renowned Attorney.”
“That’ll be the day.” Garrett walked around to pick up Wyatt’s plate. “We’re more likely to turn your face to the wall and aim a swift kick at your butt when you’re not here to help out.”
Ford led the way into the kitchen. “Spoken like a true man of the cloth. I thought ministers were supposed to be kind and gentle with their flocks.”
“Brothers are exempted from that rule. Besides, I’ll bet you haven’t been to church since you were last here. Am I wrong?”
“Just can’t find a preacher in San Francisco as good as you.”
“Right. I believe that one. Well, plan on getting up tomorrow morning and heading into town, because around here the Marshalls still show up in the pew on Sunday morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Garrett took the dishcloth out of Ford’s hand. “You cooked. I’ll clean up. Go talk to the boss. Maybe get him outside for a few minutes.”
“Right.”
He found Wyatt where they’d left him, sitting alone in the dining room, staring at his bottle of beer. “Want to take a walk? It’s a pretty night.”
“I was thinking about going to bed.”
“Me, too. But I want to stretch my legs first. Come on.” He took hold of the chair and pulled it away as Wyatt stood up.
A sound very close to a growl came from Wyatt’s throat. “I can manage my own damn chair.”
“I’m sure you can. Want me to shove it into the backs of your knees? Then we could have a wrestling match, like we used to, and you could beat the snot out of me, like you used to. Would that make you feel better?”
Wyatt snorted a laugh. “Probably.”
“Not me, though.” They walked through the house, out the front door and down the three porch steps, with Ford pretending that he wasn’t on guard in case something happened, and Wyatt pretending he didn’t realize what Ford was doing. Out in the open, they both took a deep breath.
“I swear my lungs can’t fill up all the way when I’m in the city,” Ford said. “The air’s just too thick, too heavy.”
“I know what you mean.” Wyatt lifted his face as far as the brace permitted. “The mountains, the grasslands...the pure space of it all gives a man enough room to stretch out and live. I’m surprised, that you stay in the city as long as you do.”
“That’s where the work is. Not many prospects for a high-powered law practice in Bisons Creek.”
“Guess not. Wyoming’s got its share of corporate lawyers these days, though, what with the oil and coal companies all over the place. And we never run out of bad guys looking for a defense lawyer. Never stop needing prosecutors to punish them, either.”
“Of course not.” Ford stared up at the Wyoming stars, the familiar constellations in their early-summer formations, twinkling like far-off candles against the black velvet sky. “I’ll keep it in mind, if I decide to shift gears.” He let a silence fill with the sounds of nearby crickets and the whisper of the wind. “Everything going all right on the Circle M?”
The boss didn’t answer right away. “With ranching, there’s always something going wrong,” he said at last. “Cattle prices are down, the grass-fed market demand is slow. Winter lasted longer than usual, so we’re late moving herds into the higher pastures. The Forest Service has limited the parcels we can use, which means fattening up these early steers is gonna be harder.” He blew a rueful snort. “Same stuff, different day.”
“Well, my investments are sound, the dividends are high and we’ve got a solid buffer in place. If you have cash flow problems, just let me know.”
“Sure.” Wyatt’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Mostly, we’re just glad to have you here, Ford. Thanks for making the effort.”
“The Marshalls stick together,” Ford told him, meeting his brother’s dark gaze with his own. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
* * *
FROM HER PLACE in the church choir, Caroline Donnelly noticed the new arrival as soon as he entered the building on Sunday morning. He was tall and broad-shouldered like all the Marshall brothers, but Ford was the one blond in the bunch, his hair still the bright, sleek gold color he’d inherited from his dad.
Mr. Marshall had been her father’s business manager as far back as Caroline could remember. She’d known him as the smiling man who kept a bowl of hard candy on his desk and always let her have a piece when she came by.
“Sweets for the sweet,” he would say and wink at her.
The Marshall boys had never come with their dad to the Donnelly ranch—her dad had strict rules about who she could play with—but she’d gone to school with the oldest three. Because he was five years behind her, she hadn’t seen much of Dylan, but there was always talk in town