High Country Homecoming

by Roxanne Rustand

  She’d already seen how he favored his weak right arm and shoulder, while handling that heavy pan of ham and scalloped potatoes. And when she’d heard the sound of gunfire down in the shooting range this afternoon, she’d walked up the hill and briefly watched him struggle to hit the targets.

  At sixteen he wouldn’t have missed a single shot. But even from the top of the hill, she’d seen his rifle barrel wobble. Not wanting to embarrass him, she’d slipped away before he noticed she was there, but the problem was clear enough. How was he was going to manage doing chores?

  Maybe he wasn’t warm and friendly, and he certainly wouldn’t ever be a pal. But she just couldn’t ignore someone in need, even if he wished she would disappear.

  “Hey, Devlin—if you need any help, just holler,” she called out. “You’ve got my cell number, now.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She stared at the door closing behind him, feeling an old, familiar wave of compassion and frustration.

  He hadn’t wanted help or sympathy years ago, and he clearly didn’t want it now. Which was fine. She already had a lot on her plate without trying to get past his prickly defenses.

  Still, a warm sense of hope and purpose spread through her. She’d volunteered at the local no-kill animal shelter over the past few years and had rehabbed many foster animals in her little rental house. Wounded birds. Abused dogs. Feral cats. With love and care, she’d been able to send all of them back to the shelter when they were ready to find good forever homes.

  Granted, a man like Devlin was a lot more complex than, say, a Corgi, but could she help him?

  As a cheerleader and a compassionate listener, maybe she could tactfully help him somehow...or push him to find the services and support he needed. If only he would let her.

  She re-taped the box she’d just opened, set it aside and sliced the shipping tape on a box marked Linens. This one was stuffed with sweaters. She sat back in her heels with a sigh.

  Obviously her hasty departure from Minneapolis hadn’t been conducive to good organization, but she’d been so careful otherwise.

  She’d avoided mentioning her moving plans to the few friends she had left. Canceled her newspaper and magazine subscriptions. Switched her bills to online payments. And then she’d arranged a three-month disappearance at a private Montana ranch, where she would pay for everything in cash.

  Escaping that one persistent reporter—who had continued to paint her in his series of articles as a greedy, conniving Jezebel angling for a wealthy, married man—had been her first priority, and speed had been her greater concern.

  Even after she’d been exonerated, the reporter had refused to let the story go. Since then she had applied for several jobs. Every time, the interviewer had looked at her name, then looked up at her face with dawning recognition. And that job possibility had ended.

  But now she was far away. Starting her life over. And hopefully he’d find no trail to follow.

  * * *

  Devlin groaned as he watched the twins’ pony hightail it out of the front of the barn. For an animal that fat and lazy, Lollipops showed surprising speed now that he was free.

  He’d turned his back on the beast for a split second while dropping hay into the corner manger of the pony’s stall, never expecting that Lollipops would move a muscle except to head toward his grain and hay. He’d seen the twins riding in the arena, trying to get the pony into a lope, and a truck with an empty gas tank moved faster.

  Muttering under his breath, he grabbed a bucket of pellets, plus a halter and lead rope, and jogged outside to the parking area.

  The pony was nowhere in sight.

  Not by the pasture fence to the east of the barn, where a couple dozen broodmares close to their foaling dates could be seen standing slant-hipped around three round bale feeders, whiling away their time until being brought in for the night.

  Not along the fence on the other side of the barn, where a dozen mares and their new foals were out on forty acres of pasture.

  And not along the fence line perpendicular to the broodmare pasture, farther to the west, where a herd of heavily pregnant cows were lined up along the long feed bunk.

  That meant the pony could be heading down the long gravel lane toward the highway, which would be a remarkably bad idea given the semitrucks that blew by a good twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Or, if he’d thundered past the broodmare pasture, he might have turned into the dirt lane leading up to the summer range pastures. Though unlikely that he’d leave close proximity to the other horses, he could end up lost forever if he skirted the fences and kept going.

  Devlin needed help, and Chloe was the last person he’d want to call, but she was also the only other person here. So be it. She could always say no. He reached for his phone—and realized he’d left it in his cabin when he’d gone back for some more Tylenol.

  At the abrupt sound of the pup barking excitedly, Devlin heaved a sigh of relief and jogged up to the main house. Bingo.

  Repeatedly jumping up against the chain-link fence surrounding the yard, Poofy wagged his tail furiously when Devlin came into view. Then he ran to the far corner and began barking anew, his attention fixed on the trail leading to the cabins.

  Which wasn’t exactly good news, either.

  The final cabin sat atop the hill, looking over a series of rising foothills that led up into the mountains and the unfenced government land that abutted a corner of the Langford ranch.

  Devlin weighed the options of going back to saddle a horse, grabbing a four-wheeler from the machine shed or just continuing on foot to the top of the hill. His cabin overlooked a grassy meadow on the other side of the hill, already green with tender spring grass. Surely the greedy little beast wouldn’t go farther than that.

  What on earth would he say to the girls if he’d lost their pony forever? Mountain lions, bears and even the occasional wolf were all possible out here. And all would consider a chubby, elderly pony easy prey.

  He hesitated, then knocked on Chloe’s door, softly first, then louder. From inside he could hear a radio. Was she just ignoring him? Putting him in his place? Swallowing his pride for the sake of the twins and their beloved pony, he banged on the door louder.

  No answer.

  So be it. He headed back up the trail, hoping Lollipops didn’t prove to be too cagey for one person to catch.

  Just past his cabin, Devlin shielded the sun from his eyes with his hand and muttered a rusty prayer as he searched the makeshift rifle range in the meadow and the surrounding timber. Nothing.

  Wait...

  At the far side of the meadow, something was rustling through the underbrush. A moment later the vagabond pony stepped out of the shadows with a slender figure at his side.

  Chloe.

  Relief and gratitude flooded through him. Thank you, Lord.

  His boots sent pebbles skittering down the rocky slope as he descended the steep hill to meet them. Sunlight filtering through the pine branches turned the palomino pony’s coat to molten gold, and picked out the gold and ruby highlights of Chloe’s auburn hair. If he had any artistic abilities, he would’ve wanted to capture the beauty of the scene on canvas.

  Her arrival at the ranch had been the last thing he’d expected. He’d resolved to keep his distance from her. But right now he couldn’t think of a more welcome sight.

  “Looking for someone?” Chloe called out as they met in the middle of the grassy meadow. She was holding on to a narrow leather belt she’d buckled around the pony’s neck. “He was really trucking when he ran past my cabin, but he wasn’t hard to catch once I caught up with him.”

  “Thanks, Chloe.”

  “He melted at the sight of a carrot. I think he was having second thoughts about missing his dinner.”

  “From the looks of him, he hasn’t missed many.” Devlin slipped the halter onto him and gav
e Chloe her belt back. “I owe you one. You’ve made the twins very happy.”

  She said something he couldn’t hear, so he looked over at her to watch her lips as she spoke. “What?”

  “Who is this little guy, by the way?” she repeated.

  Dev started leading the pony toward home, with Chloe on his other side. Only then did he notice two remaining carrots still sticking up from the back pocket of her jeans. “His name is Lollipops.”

  She laughed. “I’ll have to say, those girls are certainly original.”

  At the top of the hill, Devlin stopped in front of his cabin. “Hang on to him a minute, would you? I need to grab my cell phone.”

  When he came out with his phone, Chloe was cradling the pony’s head in the crook of her arm, his thick, long white mane flowing over her arm like a waterfall. The tender pose and the soft glow of her beautiful complexion nudged at his heart, and once again he wished he could capture the scene with oils or watercolors.

  “So, is this where you live?” she asked, staring up at the dilapidated cabin. “In that?”

  He nodded. “For now.”

  “It looks...rustic,” she said tactfully. “Is it better inside?”

  He snorted. “Nope.”

  “If I hadn’t shown up, then you’d be in the nicer cabin, right?” She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry—though not quite sorry enough to switch. This one is scary.”

  After some of the places he’d been in the Middle East, it was a palace. “It’ll do.”

  “I could break down that door with a sneeze. Does it even lock?”

  “Not yet.”

  She raised her gaze to the mossy, swaybacked roof. “And does it leak?”

  “I’m sure it does, given the water stains on the floor. But it hasn’t rained since I got here, so I’m good.”

  “So far.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d guess varmints moved inside long ago. Right?”

  “Just the mice and chipmunks that aren’t giving up their territory without a fight. I need to borrow a barn cat from the horse barn.”

  She visibly shuddered. “Really, this cabin would make a nice bonfire. Then a new one could be built in its place. Why did Jess give you this sorry mess? Even a corner in the horse barn would be better. Maybe the tack room?”

  When she turned away to study the cabin, he could only guess at half of the words she was saying, but he certainly caught her drift.

  “Well?” Now she looked exasperated, and a warrior’s gleam lit her eyes as she propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “When Jess gets back, I’m going to talk to him.”

  This was the Chloe he remembered, ready to go toe-to-toe with anyone, in righteous defense of her latest cause. Usually in his defense, to tell the truth, though Dad had never been impressed. He’d told her father to “keep that kid out of my way” more than once.

  But Devlin didn’t need anyone—especially Chloe—standing up for him now. Especially against a brother who had welcomed him home with open arms, despite how he’d failed the family three years ago. He was the prodigal son...only worse.

  “Jess wanted me to stay in the main house, but I prefer my privacy. This works.”

  “But—”

  “And I’m starting renovations on it, so it’ll be convenient to stay up here. Once everyone gets home, I’ll get to work. Then I’ll reno the middle cabin next. I want to get both done before I leave. As...as a favor.”

  Penance was the right word, but that would open up all sorts of questions he had no intention of answering, and some that he couldn’t.

  He wondered what Chloe would think if she knew the truth about the kind of man he really was. But then again, maybe she’d known all along.

  Chapter Three

  With the windows wide-open to the crisp, clean mountain air, Chloe had slept better than she had in years. Funny how she hadn’t been back since she was eleven, yet this still seemed like home.

  She’d put all of her perishable foods in the fridge as soon as she had arrived yesterday. This morning she’d unpacked her clothes and scrubbed the kitchen cupboards. Then she’d put away the rest of the groceries she’d picked up on her way to the ranch, as well as the more unusual canned and dry items she’d brought from Minneapolis.

  Now, with the early-morning sun beaming through the windows, she searched through the stack of cardboard boxes on the floor until she found her electric breadmaker. She then collected the necessary ingredients and opened up the file labeled Experiments in her laptop.

  Cinnamon pecan bread. Version 12.

  Versions one through six had risen to glorious heights and then stuck to the inside lid of the breadmaker like wet plaster. Seven through eleven had been too dense, collapsed or had the tenderness of shoe leather. But eleven had been sooo close.

  Who knew it would be so difficult to replicate her late Grandma Lydia’s family-famous recipes for modern appliances? At this rate, it was going to take a decade to get everything right.

  But then...she smiled as she carefully measured the ingredients into the machine according to her latest notes, this time adding honey instead of brown sugar and adding a tablespoon of vital wheat gluten. Once she’d retested and photographed every recipe, she could finish her final revision of her cookbook manuscript.

  While the breadmaker was chugging through its Knead Cycle, she thumbed through the yellowed, tattered index cards under the cookies tab in Lydia’s wooden recipe box until she found one bearing Lydia’s silent, high praise—so stained and worn that the ink was barely legible.

  My Best Chocolate Chip Cookies had to be a keeper, even if it needed tweaking to appeal to modern tastes.

  First time through, exactly as written. The following efforts would be when the fun of experimenting began.

  The wonderful scents of real butter, vanilla and brown sugar filled the air as she creamed the first ingredients, already hinting that Lydia had been onto something with the exact ratios in this recipe.

  By the time Chloe pulled the second cookie sheet out of the oven, she’d polished off two cookies from the first pan and couldn’t help but nab a melty-soft treasure from the pan just out of the oven. Enough.

  She usually tried to be careful about eating sweets, and certainly knew better than to indulge like this. Still...these cookies weren’t only wonderful; they felt like a connection to the loving grandmother she’d lost years ago.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the rich, perfect confection. Imagining her grandmother measuring the same ingredients, enjoying this same flavor and aroma decades ago.

  She opened her eyes with a start. Had she just moaned with pure enjoyment? Really?

  Then she heard it again. But it wasn’t the sound of enjoyment. It was a low, agonized moan, and it was coming from outside the cabin’s screen door.

  Definitely not human.

  Too quiet to be a bear.

  For all she knew, Devlin still loved warm cookies, but it would take more imagination than she possessed to envision him with his face pressed against the screen in hopes that she would share. He’d made it more than clear that he planned to keep his distance.

  She warily circled the end of the kitchen counter and sidestepped along the wall until she could peek out of the screen door, ready to grab the heavier exterior door, slam it shut and lock the dead bolt against anything big and scary.

  But nothing was there.

  Just the soft rustling of the pines buffeted by a gentle breeze. A carpet of rusty pine needles and the empty, narrow path leading down to the trail.

  Something moaned again, this time a little weaker, filled with pain and hopelessness that grabbed her by the heart. Easing the screen door open a few inches, she scanned the area again and then tentatively stepped outside. A wounded coyote or wolf wasn’t anything she dared encounter, but...

  Her gaze dropped to the foundation of th
e cabin and what looked like a filthy gray pile of rags. A big pile at that.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”

  * * *

  Yesterday had not gone well.

  Just the thought of how badly he’d done on the shooting range made Devlin want to slam a fist through a wall, except then he’d have yet another injury, and yet another barrier to having any kind of future at all.

  Nothing was going to stand in his way.

  The Marines had been his life for ten years. What other skills did he have but those of a warrior? If he didn’t qualify for the security-company job in New York, what other career was there for a man like him? None.

  So this morning he’d risen early. Even before doing chores, he’d done two reps of the exercises given by his physical therapist. Started lifting weights again to build the strength in his damaged right arm and shoulder. He’d run four miles.

  And then he’d gone back to the meadow and burned through another hundred rounds of ammo.

  His aim had been even worse and his shoulder joint was still on fire from the stress—too shaky to even hold a cup of coffee by the time he’d finished shooting. His muscles ached.

  But he could not afford to give up, and he was determined to complete this same routine every single day until he was as good as the man he’d been before. Or better.

  Surprised to see an urgent text from Chloe, Devlin awkwardly unsaddled the two-year-old he was starting to work out in the arena, put him in a stall and drove the four-wheeler up to Chloe’s cabin.

  Even before coming to a stop, he could smell warm cookies, fresh from the oven, and something else that was rich with cinnamon and butter. Homemade bread?

  Almost dizzy from the tantalizing aroma, he took a deep breath and headed for the front steps of the cabin, where Chloe was crouched next to something covered in a fluffy yellow afghan.