Black Hills

by Nora Roberts

  levered himself up, bracing a hand on the back of the chair as he got his cane. “What did she have to say about running around in those foreign mountains?”

  “I didn’t ask. I was only there a couple minutes.”

  Sam shook his head. He moved well, Coop thought, for a man who’d busted himself up four short months before. But the stiffness was there, the awkwardness, enough to remind Coop just how easy and economic Sam’s gait had once been.

  “Gotta wonder about your brain, boy.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Pretty girl like that, and one everybody knows you had a hankering for once upon a time, and you can’t spare more than a couple minutes?”

  “She was busy,” Coop said as they started toward the stairs. “I was busy. Plus, that was once upon a time. Another plus, she’s involved with someone.”

  Sam snorted as he clumped downstairs, with Coop positioned to catch him if he lost balance. “Some foreigner.”

  “Have you developed a prejudice against things foreign just recently?”

  Though his mouth was tight from the effort to negotiate the stairs, humor twinkled into Sam’s eyes. “I’m an old man. I’m allowed, even expected, to be crotchety. ’Sides, involved ain’t nothing. You young people today don’t have the gumption to go after a woman because she’s involved.”

  “ ‘You young people’? That would be part of the new and expected crotchety?”

  “Sass.” But he didn’t complain when Coop helped him into his outdoor gear. “We’re going out the front. She’s back in the kitchen, and I don’t want her raining all her worries and don’t-do’s down on my head.”

  “Okay.”

  Sam let out a little sigh, and put on his old, rolled-brimmed hat. “You’re a good boy, Cooper, even if you are stupid about women.”

  “I’m stupid about women?” Coop led Sam outside. He’d shoveled the porch, the steps, a path to the trucks, others to outbuildings. “You’re the one who has his wife nagging at him. Maybe if you did more in that bed at night than snore, she’d leave you alone in the daytime.”

  “Sass,” Sam repeated, but he wheezed out a laugh. “I oughta give you a good whack with this cane.”

  “Then I’d just have to help you up when you fell on your ass.”

  “I can stand long enough to get the job done. That’s what she won’t get through her head.”

  “She loves you. You scared her. And now neither one of you will give the other one a break. You’re pissed off because you can’t do everything you want, the way you want to do it. You’ve got to walk with a stick, and might have to for the rest of it. So what?” he said without letting a drop of sympathy escape. “You’re walking, aren’t you?”

  “Won’t let me step out of my own house, on my own land. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “I’m not your nursemaid,” Coop said flatly. “She fusses around you, and at you, because she’s scared. And you snap and slap back at her. You never used to.”

  “She never used to dog me like I was a toddler,” Sam said with some heat.

  “You shattered your goddamn leg, Grandpa. The fact is you’re not steady enough to walk around in the damn snow by yourself. You will be, because you’re too stubborn not to get where you want to go. It’s going to take more time. You just have to deal with it.”

  “Easier to say when you’re still eyeball-to-eyeball with thirty than when you’re getting a glimpse of eighty.”

  “Then you should appreciate time more, and stop wasting it complaining about the woman who loves every crotchety inch of you.”

  “You’ve got a lot to say all of a sudden.”

  “I’ve been saving it up.”

  Sam lifted his weathered face to the air. “A man needs his pride.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  They made their slow, laborious way to the barn. Inside, Coop ignored the fact Sam was out of breath. He could catch it while they looked at the horses.

  They’d had three foalings that winter. Two had gone smooth and one had been breech. Coop and his grandmother had helped bring that one into the world, and Coop had slept in the barn that night and the next.

  He stopped at the stall where the mare and the filly stayed, and slid over the door to go inside. Under Sam’s watchful eye, Coop murmured to the mare, ran his hands over her to check for heat, for strain. Carefully, he examined her udder, her teats. She stood placidly under the familiar touch while the filly butted her head to Coop’s ass to get his attention.

  He turned, rubbed her pretty buckskin coat.

  “That one’s yours as much as hers,” Sam told him. “You named her yet?”

  “Could be Lucky, because God knows. But it doesn’t suit her.” Coop checked the filly’s mouth, her teeth. He studied the big doe eyes. “It’s clichéd, but this one’s a princess. She sure thinks of herself that way.”

  “We’ll put it down that way. Cooper’s Princess. The rest is yours, too. You know that.”

  “Grandpa.”

  “I’ll have my say here. Your grandmother and I talked about it over the years. We couldn’t be sure you wanted it or not, but in the end, we made that legal. It’s yours when we’re gone. I want you to tell me if you want it or you don’t.”

  Cooper rose, and immediately the filly deserted him to nurse. “Yes, I want it.”

  “Good.” Sam gave a quick nod. “Now, are you going to play with those horses all day or see to the others?”

  Coop stepped out, secured the gate, then moved on to the next.

  “I got something else.” Sam’s cane rang on the concrete as he followed. “Man your age needs a place of his own. He’s got no business living with a couple of old people.”

  “You sure are into ‘old’ these days.”

  “That’s just right. I know you moved in to help out. That’s what kin does. I’m grateful nonetheless. But you can’t stay in the house this way.”

  “You kicking me out?”

  “I guess I am. Now, we can build something. Pick out a spot that suits you.”

  “I don’t see using the land to plant a house when we could be using it to plant crops or graze horses.”

  “You think like a farmer,” Sam said, with pride. “But still in all, a man needs his place. You can pick out some land and go that way. Or if that’s not what suits you, at least not right yet, you can fix the bunkhouse up. It’s a good size. Few walls in it, better floor. Might use a new roof. We can do that for you.”

  Coop checked the next mare, the next foal. “The bunkhouse would work for me. I’ll get it fixed up. I won’t take your money for it, Grandpa. That’s the line. A man has to have his pride,” he said. “I’ve got money. More than I need now.”

  Which was something he wanted to talk to his grandparents about. But not quite yet.

  “So I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s settled then.” Sam leaned on his cane and reached out to stroke the mare’s cheek. “There’s Lolly, there’s a girl. Given us three fine foals over the years. Sweet as a lollipop, aren’t you? Born to be a ma, and to take a rider up and give him a good, gentle ride.”

  Lolly blew at him, affectionately.

  “I need to sit a horse again, Cooper. Not being able to makes it feel like I lost this leg steada busting it.”

  “Okay. I’ll saddle a couple up.”

  Sam’s head snapped up, and in his eyes shone both shock and hope. “Your grandma’ll skin us.”

  “She’ll have to catch us first. A walk, Grandpa. Not even a trot. Deal?”

  “Yeah.” Sam’s voice quavered before he strengthened it. “Yeah, that suits me.”

  Coop saddled two of the oldest and quietest mounts. He’d thought he’d known, thought he’d understood how hard this enforced convalescence was on his grandfather. The look on Sam’s face when he’d said they’d ride told him he hadn’t. Not nearly.

  If he was making a mistake, he was making it for the right reasons. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He help
ed Sam mount, and knew the motion and effort caused some pain. But what he saw in his grandfather’s eyes was pleasure, and relief.

  He swung into the saddle himself.

  A plod, Coop supposed. A couple of old horses wading through snow, and going nowhere in particular. But by God, Sam Wilks looked right on horseback. Years fell away—he could watch them slide off his grandfather’s face. In the saddle his movements were smooth and easy. Economic, Coop thought again.

  In the saddle, Sam was home.

  White stretched out and gleamed under the sun. It trimmed the forests that climbed the hills, tucked outcroppings of rocks under its icy blanket.

  But for the whisper of wind, the jingle of bridle, the world was as still as a painting in a frame.

  “Pretty land we got here, Cooper.”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “I’ve lived in this valley my whole life, working the land, working with horses. It’s all I ever wanted in this world except for your grandma. It’s what I know. I feel I’ve done something, knowing I can pass it to you.”

  They rode nearly an hour, going nowhere in particular, and mostly in silence. Under the strong blue sky, the hills, the plains, the valley were white and cold. The melt would come, Coop knew, and the mud. The spring rains and the hail. But the green would come with it, and the young foals would dance in the pastures.

  And that, Coop thought, was what he wanted now. To see the green come again, and watch the dance of horses. To live his life.

  As they approached the house, Sam whistled under his breath.

  “There’s your grandma, standing on the back porch, hands on her hips. We’re in for it now.”

  Coop sent Sam a mild glance. “We, hell. You’re on your own.”

  Deliberately, Sam led his horse into the yard.

  “Well, don’t the pair of you look smug and stupid, riding around on horseback in the cold like a couple of idiots. I reckon now you want coffee and pie, like a reward.”

  “I could do with pie. Nobody bakes a pie like my Lucille.”

  She huffed, sniffed, then turned her back. “He breaks his leg getting off that horse, you’ll be tending to him, Cooper Sullivan.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Coop waited until she stalked into the kitchen, then dismounted to help Sam down. “I’ll deal with the horses. You deal with her. You’ve got the dirty end of the stick on this one.”

  He helped Sam to the door, then deserted the field.

  He tended to the horses and the tack. Because there was no real need for him to go back to town, he dealt with a few minor repairs that had piled up. He wasn’t as good with his hands as his grandfather, but he was competent enough. At least he rarely smashed his thumb with a hammer.

  When he finished, he walked over to take a look at the bunkhouse. It was no more than a long, low—and rough—cabin, in sight of the farmhouse and the paddocks.

  But with enough distance, Cooper judged, for everyone to have their privacy. And he could admit, he missed his privacy.

  Its use was primarily storage now, though it got put to use seasonally, or when there was a need, or enough money, to warrant a hand or two living on the premises.

  The way he saw it there was more money now—his—and more need—his grandparents’. After he fixed up the bunkhouse, it might be time to consider refiguring the tack room in the barn and making it into quarters for a permanent farmhand.

  He’d have to take that kind of change slowly, Coop knew. One step at a time.

  He went inside the old bunkhouse. Nearly as cold in as out, he thought, and wondered when the potbellied stove had last been fired up. There were a couple of bunks, an old table, a few chairs. The kitchen would serve for frying up a meal and little else.

  The floors were scarred, the walls rough. There was a lingering scent of grease and possibly sweat in the air.

  A far cry from his apartment in New York, he thought. But then, he was done with that. He’d have to see what could be done to make this habitable.

  It could work, and with enough room for a small office. He’d need one here, as well as the one in town. He didn’t want to have to go over to the house and share his grandparents’ office every time he had something to do.

  Bedroom, bathroom—and that needed serious updating—galley kitchen, office. That would do. It wasn’t as if he’d be doing any entertaining.

  By the time he’d finished poking around, outlining basic plans, he began to think about the pie. He hoped his grandmother had cooled off by now.

  He walked over, stomped his boots, and went in.

  And there was Lil, Goddamn it, eating pie at the kitchen table. His grandmother gave him the beady eye but rose to get a plate. “Go on and sit. Might as well spoil your supper. Your grandfather’s up taking a nap, seeing as he’s worn out from riding the range. Lil had to make do with me, and she came all the way out to see Sam.”

  “Well,” was all Coop said. He took off his coat and hat.

  “You keep Lil company. I need to go up and check on him.” She slapped the pie and a mug of coffee down, then flounced out.

  “Shit.”

  “She’s not as mad as she’s acting.” Lil forked up some pie. “She told me the ride did Sam a world of good, but she’s pissed the two of you went off without telling her. Anyway, it’s good pie.”

  He sat, took the first bite. “Yeah.”

  “She looks tired.”

  “She won’t stop; she won’t even slow down. If she’s got ten minutes to sit down, she finds something else to do. They bicker day and night like a couple of ten-year-olds. Then . . .” He caught himself, caught himself talking to her as he might have done years before.

  Before it ended.

  He jerked a shoulder, forked up more pie. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I care about them, too. So you’re going to fix up the bunkhouse.”

  “Word travels fast, since I only decided on that a couple hours ago.”

  “I’ve been here nearly a half hour. Long enough to catch up on current events. You really mean to stay, then?”

  “That’s right. Is that a problem?”

  She lifted her brows. “Why would it be?”

  He shrugged, went back to his pie.

  “Not looking to be sheriff of Deadwood, are you?”

  He glanced up, met her eyes. “No.”

  “We were surprised when you quit the police force.” She waited a moment, but he didn’t respond. “I guess being a private investigator’s more exciting, and pays better than police work.”

  “Pays better. Most of the time.”

  She nudged the pie plate away to pick up her coffee. Settling in, he knew, to talk. Her lips curved, just a little. He knew the taste of them—exactly—the feel of them on his.

  And the knowing was next to unbearable.

  “It must’ve been interesting. The work.”

  “It had moments.”

  “So is it like it is on TV?”

  “No.”

  “You know, Cooper, you used to be able to actually hold a conversation.”

  “I moved here,” he said shortly. “I’m helping run the farm and the horse business. That’s it.”

  “If you want me to mind my own business, just say so.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Fine.” She slapped her coffee down and rose. “We used to be friends. I figured we could get back there. Apparently not.”