Montana Wrangler. Charlotte Carter
Читать онлайн книгу.
mother, who lived in Browning on the east side of the Rocky Mountains, kept him well supplied with photos of his nieces and nephews, which he propped on the end table next to the broken-down couch.
A photograph of his wife, Annie, took center stage among the other pictures. Annie had died trying to give birth to their stillborn son nearly six years ago. Annie had been everything a man could want—smart, funny, with dark eyes that sparkled when she smiled, and she rode a horse like she’d been born in the saddle.
Ignoring the familiar tightness in his chest, he went into the bedroom to change into a pair of well-worn jeans, scuffed boots and a comfortable shirt. Although he had a local kid who took care of the horses and was learning to be a trail guide, Jay never took that for granted. The animals were his responsibility.
* * *
Paige found her grandfather sitting in his recliner in the living room staring off into space. At eighty-five, he was still lean, his arms striped with ropy muscles, but his hair had thinned, revealing brown age spots the gray strands barely covered. From years in the sun, his face had taken on the look of a topographical map crisscrossed by rivers and canyons.
The room itself was familiar to Paige: the knotty-pine paneling, overstuffed furniture, photographs of Bear Lake on the wall and the upright piano she used to play with Grandma Lisbeth when her family came to visit. Those visits had been rare, her father reluctant to close the hardware store for even a few days.
No wonder she had dreamed of trips abroad, places far from Lewiston and the endless Montana prairie.
“Grandpa, are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”
Blinking, he turned his watery blue eyes toward her. “I’m going to miss that girl.”
“I know.” Paige sat on the arm of the couch next to him and took his hand, his fingers gnarled and callused from hard work. Given his age, she wondered if he’d be up to raising Bryan on his own now without Krissy around to help out. Or perhaps he’d been doing exactly that since Grandma Lisbeth passed on.
“She could be a wild one, I’ll grant you, but she never hurt anybody,” Grandpa said. “Me and Grandma kept thinking having a baby would settle her some. Never did happen.” He wiped the back of his age-spotted hand across his mouth. “Still, she had a good heart.”
“I know she loved living here with you and Grandma.” Her grandparents’ unconditional love had given Krissy the freedom to be herself, unlike the strict regimen imposed by their workaholic parents.
But Paige had thought by the age of twenty-seven Krissy should have become a responsible adult.
Five years older than Krissy, Paige wondered if she had paid more attention to her younger sister she might have grown up better. Might have understood how to live within the restraints their parents had demanded. But by the time Paige was ten, she was helping out at the hardware store after school and weekends. At the same time, five-year-old Krissy had hated the store, hated that Mom and Dad had spent so much time there instead of catering to her demands for attention. If only Krissy had tried to think of someone besides herself.
A rush of regret assailed Paige, and she shook the thought aside. No point in dwelling on the past, as her mother would say.
“There’s some leftover roast beef from last night. I could make you a sandwich. We’ve got more macaroni and potato salads in the fridge than we could possibly eat in a lifetime.”
“You go ahead and eat something. I just don’t have an appetite, child.”
Paige found it endearing that Grandpa still called her a child when she’d reached the ripe old age of thirty-two. “How about coffee and a cookie or two? We ended up with plenty of those, too.”
He patted her hand. “Guess I could handle that.”
“It’ll just take me a minute.” She kissed the top of his head.
The kitchen had been updated about ten years ago with granite counters, extra-deep sinks and a double-door refrigerator. The six-burner stove ran on propane and had an oven big enough to roast two turkeys side by side. Grandma Lisbeth had loved to cook for a crowd, including the hired hands they put to work during the summer months.
The kitchen, with its long butcher block table that could seat ten and walls of walnut cabinets, was about as big as Paige’s whole condo. Which, since cooking and entertaining at home weren’t on her list of talents, was perfectly fine with her.
She was preparing a pot of coffee when Bryan strolled into the kitchen, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.
Paige flinched, nearly dumping coffee grounds all over the counter. She recalled there was a locked gun cabinet in the mudroom filled with rifles and shotguns. She’d never gone near those guns and hoped to goodness Grandpa was careful to keep it locked when Bryan was around.
“Jay said you were fixing something to eat.” The boy was nearly as tall as Paige and whip-thin. His blond hair and delicate features made him resemble Krissy. She’d never revealed who Bryan’s father was—maybe she didn’t know—so there was no way to tell what genes the man had contributed to the boy’s appearance.
“Grandpa isn’t hungry, but I can fix you a roast beef sandwich, and there are lots of salads crammed in the refrigerator.”
“The same stuff they had at the church?”
“Yes. The ladies were very nice to let us bring the leftovers home.”
He made a gagging noise. “I’ll fix my own sandwich.”
“Up to you. Don’t you want to wash your hands first?”
He shot her a startled look. “They aren’t dirty.”
“You’ve been out there with the horses, haven’t you?”
“Sure, but that’s no big deal.” He dragged the plate of sliced roast beef from the refrigerator and plopped it on the counter.
Her career in the hospitality business, particularly at an Elite Hotel property in Seattle, had taught her cleanliness was crucial not only for the health of the staff and guests, but for the hotel’s reputation as well.
“Bryan, please. Wash your hands before touching the food.” Who knew what he might have picked up in the barn or stable?
“Mom always said a few germs won’t hurt anybody,” he grumbled. He turned on the faucet in the sink, waved his hands under the water and turned it off. “You happy now?”
Not even close. But Paige wasn’t Bryan’s mother. She needed to give him a break. The poor kid was hurting and likely looking for someone to rail against.
Assuming he had won the battle, Bryan rubbed his hands on his jeans, which looked like he’d worn them to roll around in the dirt. Paige squeezed her eyes shut. Leave him be. You’re not his mother.
Jay chose that moment to saunter in the back door, all long legs and lean body, his old tan-colored cowboy hat perched on the back of his head. He tossed his hat on a peg in the mudroom, then walked into the kitchen. A ring of sweat made his dark hair glisten where his hat had rested.
“What are you doing, kid?” he asked.
“Fixing myself a sandwich.” Bryan found a loaf of bread in the bread box, a jar of mayonnaise in the refrigerator and put them on the counter beside the plate of meat.
“Don’t go messing with that stuff until you wash up,” Jay said.
“I did. She saw me.” He cocked his head toward Paige.
“Let me see.” Jay took one of the boy’s hands, turning it palm up. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen cowboys spit and get their hands cleaner than that. Go use some soap in the bathroom.”
“Aw, come on. I’m hungry.”
“You won’t starve.” He turned the boy by his shoulders, shoving him gently