Danger On The Ranch. Dana Mentink
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she said. She ran a finger over the rocking chair. “I had an old banged-up glider rocker. Sitting there with Ben, even when he was crying...” She shrugged. “Those were the best moments of my life. I miss that rocker.”
He hesitated a moment, as if he were about to speak, then took the rifle and checked out the window for one last look. She wandered the small space, over to the corner she had not examined earlier. Peering closer, she hardly managed to hold back an exclamation. The long rectangular board housed a train track, which wound through little snowcapped mountains. A miniature train stood ready, as if to start off on a journey, past the cluster of horses and the painstakingly painted trees.
Mitch stopped on his way to the bedroom.
“You like model trains?” she said.
He nodded. “Since I was a kid.”
“Does it run?”
“Of course.” There was a slightly offended tone in his reply. He reached past her and switched on the train. It slowly chugged to life and began its journey around the tracks. He watched it for a few minutes. From the corner of her eye, she caught an expression on his face that she could not decipher... Satisfaction, regret?
The longing for her son sprang to life so suddenly it almost choked her. Mommy, twain? she could hear him say, pointing with his chubby finger when she’d risked taking him to the train station. He had not yet mastered the r sound, but his passion for trains was already well developed, and when she had extra money to spare there was no better way to please him than with the purchase of a new toy train to add to his meager collection. If there was no money, as there usually wasn’t, they would watch the tracks, free entertainment. “Ben loves trains, too,” she managed to say without crying.
They both watched the locomotive chug around until Mitch switched it off. “Wake me if there’s anything and...”
“I know. One hour. Got it.” She waited until he was almost through the door before she added, “And I promise I won’t touch your train.”
Again there was no answer from Mitch as he closed the door. She heard the bed springs groan as he eased his huge frame onto the mattress. As she was about to turn toward the rocking chair, she noticed the name painted in delicate gold letters on the engine... Paige Lynn.
She had only ever seen Mitch Whitehorse in the courtroom, austere and silent in his marshal’s uniform, his glittering stare hard as diamond. Unmarried and childless as far as she knew. So who was Paige Lynn? And who, really, was Mitch Whitehorse, the immovable mountain with a soft spot for toy trains?
Doesn’t matter who he is deep down, she told herself. She had to persuade him to help her, to make an ally out of an enemy.
Gathering the blanket around her, she eased into the rocking chair, listening to the wind, straining to hear any whisper of danger.
Mitch slept. He dreamed, as he often did, of a black snake rising from the water, fangs dripping. As the fleshy maw gaped toward him, he stood paralyzed, unable even to scream. He jerked to consciousness with a shout, grabbing out at the viper, only to find himself clutching Jane’s wrist.
He let go and bolted from the bed so fast sparks danced in his vision. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay. You were muttering to yourself.”
Great. And she heard.
“I have nightmares, too. I saw a counselor when I could, and she said it’s the mind’s way of processing what the heart can’t.”
He didn’t answer, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“Ben has them, sometimes. Night terrors, they’re called.”
Well, whaddya do about them? he wanted to ask but did not. As if she read his thoughts, she answered anyway.
“My mom used to sing me the ‘Jesus Loves Me’ song. Know it?”
He nodded.
“That’s what I sing to myself and Ben when we have nightmares.
He shook his head with a grunt. “Figures.”
“What?”
“That ‘Jesus loves you’ stuff. How can you believe that after what you’ve experienced?”
“I didn’t for a long time. After Wade, I can’t trust my own heart or head to separate what’s truth from what isn’t. God is the one thing, the only thing, I know is true.” Her voice dropped to the barest whisper. “It’s the only thing that keeps me alive.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d heard it, of course, particularly from Aunt Ginny, Uncle Gus’s wife, and from Pops, too, but did he believe it? No way. Some mythical, fanciful love from an invisible god was far away from the reality of his world—a mother who drank herself into the grave, and a brother who killed a series of women who had probably prayed with their very last breaths to a god who hadn’t saved them.
He pulled on his boots and jacket before he noticed the time on his mother’s old mantel clock. “It’s three thirty,” he snapped.
“Yes. I tried to wake you before, but you were sleeping soundly.”
He grimaced. “You should have tried harder.”
“I’ve heard it’s a bad idea to disturb a hibernating bear.”
Her face was serious, but there was a glint of humor in her eye.
Humor, incredible. It banked his ire. He sighed. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s fair. Best get going soon. We’ll take the horses.”
“How long a ride is it to the ranch?”
“An hour, give or take. The trail winds along the coast. There are...exposed parts.”
The fear flashed anew in her eyes, so he tried to disarm it. “We’ll be okay. Hungry?”
“Yes. I didn’t eat yesterday. You?”
“Yeah, but I’m not much of a cook. Got some cereal. Maybe some bread and canned things.”
“May I try to fix us something?”
That threw him off. No one had cooked a meal just for him since Paige Lynn. The thought lashed through him. Her departure had cut a scar worse than the one on his face. “Uh, you don’t need to do that.”
But she had already taken his silence as assent and gone off to clatter around the kitchen. He used the time to feed and saddle the horses. Jane hadn’t seemed like much of a rider, but Bud was placid and easy, as long as Rosie was there to take the lead. The air was rain washed and cold, which only aggravated his stiff muscles.
When he returned to the cabin, he was greeted by a tantalizing smell, which made his mouth water. He sat at the table, and Jane slid a plate of pancakes toward him and another for herself.
“There was no syrup, so strawberry jelly will have to do. You have a lot. Who made it?”
“I did.”
She laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“I’d never peg you for the jelly-making type.”
He shrugged. “My mom showed me how.” In one of the precious weeks when she wasn’t intoxicated. The moment with her in the kitchen, up to his wrists in berries, was one of his dearest memories, but there was no point in sharing that. “Lots of wild berries up here in the summer. Strawberries and blackberries.”
“Then I guess you do know a little something about food preparation.”
“Only