Jake (A Wyoming Sky Novel)

by R. C. Ryan

  “Okay. If you say so.” Jake was grinning. “Although the final word will have to come from Meg.”

  Not that it mattered whether or not she approved. Wild horses couldn’t keep him away, he thought.

  Now, more than ever, Cory’s behavior convinced him that the boy was keeping secrets. And until Cory opened up and spilled what he knew, there was no way Jake was going to allow Meg to be alone. Not tonight, nor any other night.

  Of course, if she happened to relent and invite him inside, they just might find themselves in a whole lot of a very different kind of trouble.

  A man could always hope.

  Meg climbed the steps to the attic. When she’d been a girl, this place had been her playroom in winter, when the snow was too deep for her to make it to the barns and outbuildings.

  She shoved open the door and played her flashlight around the gloom, illuminating a tangle of cobwebs and a floor littered with dusty boxes and plastic bags.

  She spied the chain dangling from a bare lightbulb and yanked it, flooding the space with light. Pleased that the old light still worked, she set aside her flashlight and crawled through the assorted clutter.

  She opened albums that contained photos of her father when he was a boy, and set them aside to look at in her leisure. She hoped she’d find some time to show them to Cory, as well. He deserved a chance to see his father as he’d been when he was young and strong and reckless. Maybe there would come a day when she and Cory could go through these and actually share a few laughs together.

  There’d been so little laughter in the boy’s life. If she thought her own childhood dysfunctional, Cory’s was even more so. A mother who was little more than a child herself, and a father too old to do the things most fathers took for granted.

  At least she’d had her father when he’d been at the height of his strength and ambition. He’d been her big, strong, brave protector.

  She opened a dusty wooden box and found a few feminine trinkets inside. A girl’s hairbrush with butterflies on the plastic handle. A cheap bracelet with a rose that dangled from a small metal clip. A faded photograph of a man and woman standing very close together, while the man held a little girl in his arms. As Meg held the photo to the light, she could see the resemblance between the girl in the picture and Cory. The same smile. The same small, upturned nose. And the same scruffy brown hair.

  Of course. This had to be Cory’s mother.

  Meg set aside the box of trinkets and moved on to another, larger box. This contained a child’s spiral notebook. Inside, the pages were filled with letters of the alphabet, and the name Hazel Godfrey carefully printed at the top of each page.

  Since the name was unfamiliar to Meg, she was about to ignore the box until she caught a photograph of Cory’s mother half hidden beneath some old school papers. In the picture, the girl couldn’t have been much older than Cory was now, and the name Hazel had been crossed out, replaced by the carefully printed name Arabella.

  Intrigued, Meg began removing papers and notebooks from the box, and discovered that many of them bore the name Hazel Godfrey, while many more had been crossed out or erased, and replaced with the name Arabella.

  There were pictures of the girl with other adults. Men and women, and occasionally other children. None of them bore any identification. And in all of them, the girl was unsmiling, often with her face turned away, as though distancing herself from the others in the pictures.

  Cory had said that his mother grew up in the foster-care system. That might explain the unidentified photos of families, and the little girl who looked as though she never belonged.

  Meg’s heart went out to this stranger. This girl named either Hazel or Arabella. Or perhaps both. Could it be that Hazel Godfrey had changed her own name in order to give herself a new identity?

  Whatever her background, she had apparently cared enough about these meager belongings to keep them.

  Meg set the box aside with the other things, and continued opening yet more boxes, and examining the contents.

  In one long box she found a carefully preserved wedding gown layered with blue tissue. Had it been her mother’s, she wondered, or had it belonged to one of her father’s other wives? She supposed there were wedding photos somewhere that would identify the bride who’d worn this particular gown. Not that it mattered. She had no use for it, and she doubted anyone else would, either. She set it aside and moved on to other boxes, and other family mementoes.

  Several hours later, she gathered the things that interested her and placed them in a single big box before turning out the light and descending the stairs.

  In the kitchen she made a pot of coffee and began going through the items in the box. Though she wasn’t certain the things she’d collected belonged to Cory’s mother, she was convinced enough in her own mind to add them to the pile of things she thought he might want to look at.

  When she’d sorted through everything, she carried an armload of photo albums and memorabilia up the stairs to Cory’s bedroom.

  After setting them on his bed she turned and was about to leave when the framed photograph on his dresser snagged her attention.

  Cory had said it was a picture of his mother and the boy named Blain.

  As she studied the gawky teenage boy, Meg had a sudden flash of recognition. The cowboy who’d been sitting in the back of church the day of her father’s funeral. Though she couldn’t be absolutely certain, she felt strongly that he’d been the one. His face was older and tougher, and his body leaner.

  His seat had been vacant by the time the service ended, and she’d all but forgotten him until now.

  But she hadn’t forgotten that feeling of being watched during the funeral service. That fingers-up-the-spine tingle that had been distracting while Reverend Cornell had been speaking.

  She picked up the photo and started down the stairs. Tomorrow, when she saw Cory, she intended to ask a few more pointed questions about his mother and Blain. And this time she intended to get some answers.

  The day had been a long and busy one.

  As Jake was leaving for Meg’s ranch, he motioned for his grandfather to follow him to the mudroom.

  “What’s up, boyo?” Big Jim leaned against the open doorway. “Where’re you headed at this time of night?”

  “I’m going to Meg’s. I’m not comfortable with her being alone there.”

  “I don’t blame you, boyo. She talks a good game, but a city girl so far from civilization, with no one close by that she can turn to in an emergency, is probably spending her nights shaking in her boots.”

  “I wonder if you could keep an eye on Cory.”

  “Sure thing. Is he spending the night in the barn again?”

  Jake nodded. “The boy’s troubled, Big Jim.”

  “He has a right to be. Both his parents gone, and a stranger his only kin. If that’s not enough, there’s someone out there who seems bent on destruction. That’d be enough to keep anybody awake nights, let alone a seven-year-old.”

  Big Jim dropped an arm around his grandson’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, boyo. I’ll keep watch over the lad. I’ve been meaning to stop by and see how Honey and her puppies are getting along.” He paused. “Now about you spending nights at the Stanford ranch…” He gave Jake a sharp-eyed look. “Just keep in mind that you’re there to protect the lass.”

  “I will, Big Jim.”

  As he plucked his hat from a hook by the door, the old man cleared his throat, causing Jake to turn back.

  “You were right about one thing, boyo.” The old man grinned. “Meg Stanford is just about the prettiest redhead this town has ever seen.”

  Jake’s smile grew. “I thought that might have slipped past you.”

  “I’m not that old yet, boyo.”

  His rumble of laughter followed Jake all the way out the door to his truck.

  “Jake’s riding shotgun again tonight, Clemmy.” Big Jim stood with his hand on the headstone in the small plot of land just beyond the barns
. It was a pretty place, with the summer breeze whispering through the trees, and a stone bench set to one side, so that Big Jim could sit and visit. Surrounding the tall grave marker were five smaller ones, decorating the graves of the five sons Clementine Conway had given birth to and then buried before each had reached a first birthday.

  Big Jim came here almost daily to chat with his Clemmy and fill her in on the latest news regarding the family. Besides sharing news, he often left a plate of her favorite food or dessert, even though he knew it would draw the wild creatures to this spot. It pleased him to think that even the animals paused here to pay their respects.

  “The boy’s falling hard, Clemmy. I’m not sure he knows it yet, nor does she. But when I see them together, I see us.” He chuckled. “We were just as young and randy, and just as brick stupid about love. But it was the real thing, darlin’, and I thank heaven every day for you.”

  A small figure stepped out of the shadows and peered at Big Jim as though he’d just sprouted two heads. “Who’re you talking to?”

  Big Jim looked over to see Cory walking toward him. “My wife, Clementine.” He patted the headstone. “I buried her and my five sons here many years ago.”

  “And you talk to her?”

  “I do, boyo. Just about every evening.”

  The boy’s eyes grew round. “What do you tell her?”

  “How my day went. Anything that’s bothering me. All the good—and bad—things that happened. All the things I shared with her when she was alive.”

  “Why?”

  Big Jim motioned toward the stone bench, and Cory followed him over. When they were both settled Big Jim looked toward the headstone. “I shared everything with Clemmy when she was living, and it just makes me happy to share things with her now. In my eyes, she’s never been gone. She’s just…not visible to others.”

  “Do you see her?”

  Big Jim nodded. “In my mind, she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s still the prettiest girl in all of Wyoming. And the best thing is, she never grows older.” He studied the little boy. “How about you, boyo? Can you see your mama in your mind?”

  Cory nodded.

  “Can you still hear the sound of her voice?”

  Cory stared down at the ground and swallowed. “Yeah.”

  “In my day, we said ‘yes, sir.’” Big Jim laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I bet your mama told you that.”

  “Yeah…yes, sir.”

  Big Jim smiled. “Women are God’s special gifts to us, boyo. They deserve to be cherished. Oh, I know they’re strong and capable and willing to do whatever they have to do to take care of us. But men, good men, recognize that they also need to be taken care of and treated like the treasures they are. We always have to put their safety ahead of our own.” He stared at the headstones. “Women are responsible for life, and they have this deep core of goodness and reason that they pass on to each generation. Sometimes, when we find ourselves in trouble, or we feel like doing foolish things, we need to listen to their voices in our heads, telling us to do the right thing.”

  Cory looked over. “You mean our conscience?”

  Big Jim arched a brow. “That’s a mighty big word for a little boy.”

  “Jake talked about it.”

  “Did he now?”

  “Uh-huh. And my mama talked about it, too.”

  Big Jim smiled. “That’s good, boyo. As you go through life, always listen to your conscience. You do that, you won’t go wrong. As long as you do things for the right reasons, they’ll work out.”

  The old man got slowly to his feet and the boy did the same.

  As they passed the headstones, Big Jim paused and rubbed a big hand over the edge of the tallest one. “Good night, Clemmy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As they walked away, the old man set his hat on his head, and Cory followed suit.

  Big Jim paused. “Is that Jake’s old hat?”

  Cory nodded. “Jake said I could have it.”

  “Did he now? You must be pretty special, boyo. Jake loved that hat. His ma brought it back from a trip to Jackson Hole, and after she gave it to him, I don’t think he ever took it off. Not even to sleep. His pa would sneak into Jake’s bedroom after he was asleep and hook it on the bedpost. Jake would wake up in the morning and have that hat on before coming down to breakfast.”

  At his words, Cory walked a little taller, the smile on his face dazzling. When they approached the barn, Cory paused and turned toward the door.

  “You spending the night with your colt, boyo?”

  “Yeah…yes, sir.”

  Big Jim smiled broadly. “Sleep tight then. And listen to your mama’s voice in your head, boyo. You do that, you’ll never go wrong.”

  With a thoughtful look, Cory let himself into the barn.

  Jake turned out the lights when he hit the driveway leading to Meg’s ranch. If the intruder was watching from the safety of the woods, there was no point in broadcasting his arrival.

  Up ahead, the house was ablaze with lights. The sight of all those windows gleaming in the darkness brought a grin to his lips. Meg talked a good game, and he had no doubt that she wanted to prove to herself that she could bravely handle these problems without asking for help. But she wasn’t about to do battle in darkness.

  He brought his truck close to the back porch before turning off the ignition.

  Setting his rifle beside him, he touched the button that lowered the back of his seat until he was reclining. He pulled his hat over his face to blot out the glare of the porch light and settled in for another uncomfortable night.

  Not that it mattered. After the day he’d put in, first with Meg and Cory in town, and then seeing to the needs of half a dozen nearby ranchers—with everything from an injured horse that had required surgery to a herd of cattle that would have to be quarantined until the cause of their fever could be identified—Jake knew he could fall asleep anywhere. Even standing in a corner of a barn, with nothing but the rough boards of a stall for support.

  It was his last thought before sleep claimed him.

  Meg shed her filthy denims and tee and stood under the warm spray of the shower, scrubbing the cobwebs that had snagged in her hair. Wrapped in a towel, she made her way to her room and pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and a cami before blowing her hair dry.

  The photo albums of her father in his younger days were neatly stacked on her dresser. She’d gone over every page, giving herself time to drink in the sight of him when he’d been a wild, reckless youth, in search of his destiny. It pleased her so much to see something of the man she barely knew. It was yet another side of the Porter Stanford that had been denied her.

  She looked at photos of her father and mother together. The gown she’d found upstairs had been her mother’s. The smiling faces peering at her from the albums had warmed her heart.

  She descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen. Tea, and the last of Ela’s corn bread, would be just the thing to take with her to her father’s office. Though she was tempted to sleep in her own bed, she wanted to be downstairs in case the nighttime visitor decided to pay a call.

  She thought about Cory’s baseball bat residing on her father’s desk. She hoped she wouldn’t need to use it.

  As she stepped into the kitchen, she caught sight of the truck’s outline parked alongside the porch. Her hand leaped to her throat before she recognized it as Jake’s.

  It took her several deep drafts of air before her breathing returned to normal, along with her heart rate.

  She filled the kettle and set it on the stove.

  Then, because she couldn’t bear the thought of Jake sleeping in his truck another night for her sake, she yanked open the back door and marched outside.

  Jake was having a weird dream. Meg had followed Flora’s cat, Nippers, into the diner’s cooler and had somehow become trapped inside, and nobody could find the key. Flora was pacing back and forth from her kitchen to the counter and back again, worried that poor Meg and Nippe
rs had already frozen to death because nobody could get to them.

  Jake kicked in the door, only to find a second, stronger steel door barring his way. With Flora weeping and wailing, Jake started pounding on the door, asking Meg to knock if she could hear him.

  He heard the faint knocking, and felt a wild surge of relief. She was alive.

  Cory came racing up and handed Jake a key, which unlocked the door. Meg fell into his arms, and they embraced. But before he could carry her out of the cooler, the knocking started again.

  Louder.

  Then louder still.

  He jerked awake and shoved his hat away from his face.

  It took his sleep-fogged brain a moment to register the fact that Meg was standing outside his truck, tapping loudly on the window.

  He opened the door and gaped at the sight that greeted him. Meg’s hair was long and loose, spilling around a face devoid of makeup. She was barefoot, and wearing only a pair of boxers and a skinny little camisole that hugged every dip and curve of her body. Such lovely dips and curves, he thought with a sexy grin. Who would have ever guessed that the brainy lawyer hid such a luscious body under those very proper business suits he’d seen in the videos of the trial?

  He actually had to shake his head to be certain he wasn’t still dreaming. Was this Meg or a vision?

  As if to answer his silent question, the vision shimmered and spoke.

  “I said, why don’t you come inside? I’ve got the kettle on, and I think there’s still some of Ela’s corn bread.”

  He snatched up his rifle and followed the vision up the steps and into the house.

  Heaven help him. If he was still dreaming, he never wanted to wake up.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The shrill whistling of the teakettle greeted them as they stepped into the kitchen. Meg yanked it off the burner and set it aside.

  “Tea or coffee?”

  Jake blinked at her terse question. “Coffee.”

  “Fine.” Meg started to measure coffee, but in her agitation she spilled it all over the counter. She tossed it aside in disgust and turned on him with a frown. “Jake Conway. You can’t keep this up.”