by Nicole Snow
Rosie, sweetness incarnate, loves her attention. Stern prefers to just be fed and left alone, besides a good brushing and a carrot every so often. He practically falls asleep during grooming.
They both give me a friendly snort.
“I’ll let you out soon, guys,” I tell them. “I promise.”
“Rosie and Stern? Which one’s which?”
I whirl around, surprised he remembers their names. “Um, this is Rosie on this side, and Stern’s over there.”
“Hope they like roosters. Loud-ass roosters with lungs like bagpipes.”
“Come again?”
“Eh, you’ll see.” He nods and gestures at the truck. “Let’s go. My buzz has worn off no thanks to cueball and his fun, so I’ll drive, if you’re cool. It isn’t far.”
I look him over, sizing him up, and then nod.
Once we’re in the truck, I have to ask, “So you have chickens?”
“No.” He puts the machine in drive. “I have a chicken. Cornelius Pecker. I was gonna call him Peckerhead, but Tobin insisted on something more elegant,” he says, pulling the truck forward, making a wide turn, and then driving onto the highway. “Sometimes I just call him Corny-Pecker. That’s enough innuendo, right?”
I hide my smile, unsure whether to laugh or cry for the poor rooster.
“Fair warning: he’s had the barn all to himself, so he might be grumpy when we get there.” He grins and winks at me. “Guess I should be warning Rosie and Stern instead.”
I shake my head, somewhat dumbfounded. “Why do you only have one rooster again?”
“Because he was the only chicken left at the feedstore. Someone dropped him off with a whole bunch. Didn’t want him. The rest sold out. They were going to make him into a casserole, so I brought him home. Let me tell you, he was all sorts of pissed when I opened the back of my truck and set him loose. He’s calmed down some since then...about four months ago. I’ll get him some friends later this spring. Eventually.”
I shake my head.
I’m not sure if hauling home an angry rooster makes him nice, or again, a total nutjob. Which makes me think of our current dilemma.
“Why are you doing this? Helping us, I mean?”
“The truth?” he side-eyes me.
“Please.”
“Because I’ve literally been snowed in ever since I found out what winters are like in North Dakota. I’m bored out of my fucking skull and desperate for company. Not the good Samaritan stump speech you were looking for, I’m guessing, but...”
For the first time in a long while, a smile automatically appears on my face.
I don’t have to work hard to fake it, to pretend like I’ve had to do with Dad for months.
It actually doesn’t fade off, either, so I call him out. “Nice, but try again.”
Ridge snorts. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“Nope. Nobody gets in a bar fight with an armed creep and brings two strangers to their house because they’re just bored.” I bite my tongue, wondering if I should be worried at his real motive.
Whatever it might be.
The sound of his laugh fills the cab. It’s a deep, booming, infectious chuckle that sets me oddly at ease and makes it even harder to keep that dumb smile of mine suppressed.
“Shit, lady. You’ve never been to Dallas, North Dakota before have you?”
“No, but I’ve lived in Wisconsin my entire life.” I shake my head. “It’s not that different. Lots of space between towns, farms, nosy townsfolk. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“You got a name to go with that mouth?” he asks, words that might sound rude coming from anyone else. But with the light tone, surprisingly, I don’t mind.
“Grace. Grace Sellers.”
“Well, Grace Sellers, what I said is the whole truth and nothing but. You’re welcome to believe me or think I’m about to chain you up in my pumpkin farm out back. Honestly, I’ve never lived in a place this barren in my life. I was raised a city boy all my life until coming out here.”
Huh. I don’t get the big city vibe from him, but maybe that explains Tobin. He must’ve come from Bismarck, Minneapolis, maybe Chicago.
“Why’d you move out here if you hate it so much?”
“Early retirement,” he tells me.
“Retirement?” I give him a puzzled look. “How old are you? You look way too young.”
“Thirty-three. You?”
I rake him up and down slowly with another slow, suspicious look.
It just keeps getting weirder.
How can some farm boy retire in his early thirties?
“Twenty-five,” I say quietly.
“Sweet age for a lot of things,” he muses, smirking to himself.
Ugh. I feel like I’d have an easier time with ancient Greek than deciphering this dude.
“While we’re playing twenty questions, how about you tell me what you’re doing in the middle of North Dakota, pulling Rosie and Stern through a blizzard, with a charmer like Dickless Pete on your heels?”
I try not to burst out giggling at his nickname for Pete.
“That’s...kinda a long story.”
“We’ve got the time. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re barely moving five miles an hour in this mess.”
I nod slowly. Maybe so. But my stomach practically eats itself at the thought of confessing our whole dilemma to a total stranger.
“Well, I would, but...it’s not my story to tell.”
“Your father’s?”
“Right.” I hold in a breath, not really wanting to direct him at Dad either, especially in his weary state.
Ridge’s gaze remains fixed on the road, staring through the billowing snow that’s coming down at a faster clip now than it was before.
“Fair enough. You’re lucky he’s still around,” he says. “My old man died when I was eight. Not that I’d seen him a whole lot before then—busy man, big company, maybe you know how it is—then my mother died a few years back.”
“So did mine.” I bite my lip.
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
What can I say? There’s just something about riding through a dark, wintry night with a handsome stranger who just saved your bacon that brings out awkward confessions.
All the more reason why I need to remember to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry,” he grinds out. “Never an easy thing losing family.”
I swallow the anxious boulder in my throat. “I’m sorry, too. Heartbreak hurts us all.”
He turns off the highway, wheeling the old truck onto a narrow road.
“Hold on. This could get a little rough even though we’re moving like a snail,” he says. “This road likes to drift over.”
I can faintly make out a set of glowing red taillights a short distance ahead. I’m grateful the dual tires of that huge truck with Dad and Tobin inside are breaking a neat path for us. Well, neatish.
The old Ford wouldn’t manage in this without the dually in front of us. “Who else lives at your ranch?”
“Just three of us, darlin’. Me, Tobin, and old Corny himself.”
“Cornelius,” I say, mainly so that I won’t laugh out loud.
“You’ll see which name fits when you meet him,” he tells me.
Shaking aside another laugh, I ask, “How can you call it a ranch if you only have a single rooster?”
“I can and I do. It’s a work in progress.” He chuckles, again with that deep, rich masculine vibration. “I always planned on buying more critters, or livestock, or whatever the fuck...maybe hire on a few ranch hands to help with the upkeep. Tobin and I are learning as we go. We’re still pretty close to ground zero.”
“Why’d you buy a ranch, then, if it’s such a hassle?”
“I want the hassle, lady.” He shrugs, flicking his eyes briefly over to me. “Something to do. When I decided to move out to the sticks, I knew I’d need to keep the mind and body busy. Even with a place like mine, the winters out here are mad
dening enough. Think I’d wind up such a dull boy I’d be hallucinating ghosts by now if I didn’t have spring to look forward to soon. Allegedly.”
I smile at the obvious nod to The Shining.
It’s hardly out of place considering the creepy introduction we’ve had with Dickless—okay, I’m stealing his crude nickname, sue me—while everybody on this side of North Dakota has their status set to snowed in.
The odd tone in his voice says there’s something more to his move, too.
I wonder what, but I’m not in any headspace to fire off questions that might risk upsetting the guy who’s promised us a place to crash for the night.
Then we pull up to the ranch and my jaw hits my lap.
I can’t even breathe.
Ginormous would be a sad lie for this place. It’s more like...
...someone imported a team of architects to build a palace in Nowhere, North Dakota, which somehow still has all the outer charm of a real ranch.
Frosted with snow, it’s like I’m looking at a scene from a Christmas card come to life.
Everything glows cozy orange, lit up with huge yard lights perched on top of several poles like small moons. The house itself is an immense wooden structure with a sprawling front porch. Seems like it’s borrowed inspiration from the rustic lodges you can find on postcards.
Behind it, the red barn is two stories tall, with a green metal roof and a big rooster-shaped weathervane twirling slowly around a square cupola. My eyes flit across several other buildings, storage sheds I think, plus a smaller cabin tucked back behind the house near a row of pine trees glazed white.
That cabin turns out to be the guesthouse Tobin escorts Dad to as soon as they park near it.
Then it’s our turn, stopping next to the barn. Ridge gives me a wicked look as he shuts off the engine.
“Shit. Right. The house. I guess I should’ve warned you, but...I keep a low profile.”
I don’t even know what to say. Or what he’s even hinting at.
Sure, a little notice that he’s apparently a gazillionaire would’ve been nice. But now that it’s obvious, and it breeds questions like rabbits, I don’t know if I could even dream of scolding him.
Much less poking at his secrets after he said low profile.
“We’re fine,” I say weakly, pushing my door open. “Let me help you with Rosie and Stern.”
Cornelius Pecker isn’t nearly the shrieking grump he let on.
Ridge insists the red-crowned beast is just subdued tonight thanks to the storm, but I can’t see the fuss.
The big white leghorn rooster seems happy enough to have company, scratching at his pile of hay and peering around curiously. Rosie and Stern are certainly pleased to be inside the heated barn.
Of course, the barn interior is just as magnificent as its exterior.
I’ve only seen pictures, but I can’t help comparing it to the one the Budweiser Clydesdales live in. It’s almost too neat, all polished wood and soft orange light, hangers for miscellaneous equipment, and silver water hookups positioned neatly throughout.
Once we get the horses settled, Ridge helps me carry our luggage into the cabin. No surprise, he carries several overstuffed travel bags like they’re nothing.
Then, as he says goodnight, he mentions pulling the Ford into one of the sheds to keep it out of the snow if I need to grab anything else from it.
I thank him, shut the door, and huff out a breath.
Relief floods my brain, though I’m not sure it should.
The cabin is really a mid-sized house and only looks modest next to the mansion. It has a couple bedrooms with full baths, a kitchen, living room, and loft area. All very stylish modern country, decorated with log furniture and lots of red-and-black plaid—pillows, curtains, and tablecloths.
Like something straight out of a log and hearth magazine.
Dad slouches on a sofa in front of the gas fireplace that’s crackling away, blowing a comfortable heat into the room.
“You know who Ridge reminds me of?” he says, hands out in front of him to catch the warmth.
I blink, grateful his words snap me out of the trance I’ve been in ever since we showed up here.
There’s an armchair near one corner of the sofa, and a rocking chair on the other.
“No, who?” Walking over, I lean against the side of the armchair.
“That actor who used to show up in all the big films when you were a kid—Barnet. I think he did a couple really bad Westerns a while back.”
“Dane Barnet?” I ask, though I’m sure that’s who he means.
Oof.
It hits me like a snowball to the face.
There’s little denying Ridge looks a lot like him, and Dad knows his Westerns. He’s always loved them, but that can’t possibly be it...right?
It’s too implausible, even if our mysterious benefactor for tonight is clearly loaded to the gills.
“Hmmm, I don’t know, Dad. Just a weird coincidence, I bet. We’ve had plenty of those tonight,” I say with a meager smile.
I don’t have the heart to tell him Dane Barnet wouldn’t be caught dead living on a ranch in small-town North Dakota. What kind of celeb molded straight from Hollywood royalty would?
“I’m telling you, it’s him!” Dad takes another loud sip off the hot tea Tobin prepared before he headed back to the big house with Ridge. I can smell the spices.
He’d already eaten a bowl of chicken soup that Tobin also made him. There’s an insulated carafe holding more of the tea on the coffee table, plus a bottle of cough syrup and a bottle of pain relievers.
“Everybody has a twin,” I say, stepping in front of the chair. I sit, not wanting to tell him, yet knowing I have to deliver the bad news. “So, Noelle called, Dad.”
He gives me a sharp look and for a second we lock eyes.
“Aw, hell.” He hangs his head, rubbing a hand over the side of his face near one ear. “We can’t go there, can we?”
My stomach sinks all over again.
I hate how he has this weird sixth sense for bad news sometimes.
“Not anymore. She told me somebody called and left a nasty message on their voicemail at the gift shop. They...they have their kids. It’s frustrating as hell but it wouldn’t be right.”
His chest rattles as he sighs. It seems like the warmth the fire breathed back into his skin goes out of him, leaving this small, pale, fragile man next to me.
“I’m sorry, Gracie. You’re right. And as much as I hate to do it, we’ll have to deal with that bastard again. I’ll sell the horses, the truck, empty out what’s left in the accounts...if Clay could be convinced to take my pension—”
“No way! You’re not giving more to that horrid man,” I snap, the anguish bleeding out of me. It won’t fix this. Rosie and Stern are old, and every penny we have won’t cut it.
“Grace...”
“It won’t be enough, Dad,” I say, softening my tone. “If there’s anything we should know by now, it’s that. Nothing’s ever enough for him.”
“I’ll give it up and go to the police, then. The FBI. Tell them everything. If I come clean, maybe there’s a chance they’ll—” He breaks into a fresh new coughing fit.
Seriously.
I can’t take this.
So I lean in next to him, gingerly rubbing his back until it eases.
“Dad, no. We know it can’t end well. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”
If anything, I’m understating how many times we’ve discussed a confession. We’ve literally played out every scenario, every what-if, every apparent escape thousands of times over the last couple years.
We both know involving the law means Clay gets to him eventually.
If not before he’s in jail, then certainly after he’s imprisoned. It’s inevitable. A crime boss with contacts as deep and aggressive as thistle roots won’t take anyone who wants to squeal on him lying down.
And whatever sentence they’d dole out to Dad would be for lif
e.
It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been since he quit the game, he’ll serve time for the years he served them. No lawyer on earth could sweet-talk a judge out of imposing some kind of punishment.
And in Dad’s state, any punishment means he’ll never breathe the air as a free man again.
“We’ll figure something else out,” I whisper, glancing at the fire. “We got lucky tonight, even with Noelle falling through. I’m not squandering this chance.”
“Like what, Gracie?” He takes a long pull off the tea and sets down his cup. “We can’t stay here. Can’t dare drag anyone else into our troubles.” He coughs a couple of times into his shirt sleeve. “I really thought the farm would be payment enough, but hell, I was wrong. Wrong again.”
I stand, taking hold of his arm.
“No sense in worrying about it, now. You need to get some rest.”
It’s a miracle he doesn’t fight me. I’ve seen him like this too often in the rare idle moments we have, where he’ll just stay up all night brooding and stressing out.
Once he’s settled in one of the bedrooms, I walk into the kitchen and ladle myself a bowl of soup from the sealed pot still on the stove and bring it to the table.
I can’t help remembering the first time I saw Clay Grendal.
I was fifteen when he carried a black duffel bag full of money into the kitchen of our apartment in the Milwaukee burbs and hand-delivered it to Dad. I’d stood next to my mother, who’d frowned disapprovingly as my father opened that bag.
I hadn’t understood what was going on, who the guy with the dark hair wearing a black leather jacket and smelling like he’d been doused in cigarette smoke even was.
“It’s all there, old man. My gift to you and your people for a job well done,” he’d said, this deceptive warmth shining in his dark eyes. “It’s high time you enjoyed the good life. Is this the missus?”
Dad watched nervously as he plodded across the room, grabbed Mom’s hand, and laid a kiss on the back. Mom just looked like she was about to throw up.
“Charmed,” Clay grunted, flicking a feral tongue over his lips before looking at Dad again. “You’ll always have a place with the boys, if you ever need it again. Let me know if country livin’ gets boring, Nelson.”
