Reclaiming Nick

by Susan May Warren

  Beyond the auction barn, the rodeo ring looked hard and barren. Still, he could hear the roar of the crowd in the back of his mind, smell the animal sweat, taste his own fear. Football had only been a pastime—rodeo had been his breath and his blood.

  Nick drove past the rodeo stands, where the landscape turned to tract housing and mobile homes, the occasional shiny truck parked outside. Remnants of black snow edged the dirt roads snaking off to each side. Nick lifted his hand to Egger, the town salvage collector, who stopped and watched him drive by. His hound dogs lit out after the truck. Egger didn’t bother to call them back.

  Nick wondered if Stefanie knew of his return. If Saul hadn’t already told her, the news would follow Nick like a prairie gust. Nick didn’t know if his little sister would load her Winchester or put out the yellow ribbon. After his behavior, he didn’t expect any favors from God, but deep in his heart he hoped for the ribbon.

  “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” he’d told Saul, but it had taken nearly a week to pack his gear, quit his job, and summon the courage to head south and back to his mistakes.

  “Nick! Come back!” His father’s voice, which had dogged him nearly every day since that night over a decade ago, seemed to mock him now. How he longed to turn back time and utter the words that burned in his throat: I’m sorry.

  Time had gradually allowed him to face the truth. In spite of his father’s betrayal, Nick should have shown him the respect he deserved. Bishop Noble had raised him, had molded him to be a man, had wanted to give him everything.

  And Nick had blindly, arrogantly spat in his face.

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he drove past the massive Kincaid spread, the Big K. He wondered if Big John Kincaid had taken over for his father, running the place. Brock-faced, half-black, half-white Angus/Hereford lounged in the pasture, along with a smattering of purebreds. Bishop had always been a purist—only Black Angus ran on Silver Buckle land. Nick fleetingly wondered if Maggy’s father still ran the herd as the Big K’s cow boss.

  Maggy. He should probably keep his thoughts clear of his high school sweetheart. Most likely she hadn’t thought of him in years.

  But wouldn’t it be nice if—?

  No. He’d walked out on her too.

  He noticed a new sign for the Breckenridge Bulls as he drove by the ranch, aptly named the Double B, toward Silver Buckle land. While Nick surveyed their property on either side of the road, he found himself looking for signs of trouble—prairie-dog cities, broken windmills that had stopped pumping water, an errant cow. The habit tightened his jaw, and he forced his eyes back on the road. Maybe he had no right to think about ranching anymore. . . .

  But he was returning, the prodigal son aware of his sins, ready to make restitution.

  He turned into the Silver Buckle drive, passing under the swinging oval sign, freshly painted in green and white, and memory nearly engulfed him. “Someday, Son, you’ll run the Silver Buckle.”

  Then why did you hand it off to Cole, Dad? To punish me?

  Nick tasted the answer in the back of his throat. Memories crested over him as he drove into the yard—swinging on the main gates, eating apples on the front steps, practicing his roping on Pecos in the corral, or feeding the orphaned calves, the bums—in one of the other corrals. He wondered if time had yet worn off his grandfather’s initials from the foundation of the main house or if the weather had collapsed his great-grandfather’s 1900-era homestead in the pasture over the hill. Nick had helped build the dining hall—expanding the bunkhouse during the height of the Silver Buckle’s prosperity, etching his own initials into that foundation.

  On the far side of the yard, three barns held the livestock—one for heifers, the other for the calves or bums, and a third for horses. Beyond those, the late-afternoon sun glinted off the tin machinery shed and the airplane hangar. Farther up the road the modular home owned by their foreman, Dutch Johnson, boasted a new roof. And overlooking the entire affair from the top of the hill, a log hunting lodge brought to mind raucous wrestling matches with Rafe and Cole.

  Admittedly, Nick couldn’t pinpoint exactly how he felt about returning home.

  His father’s cherry red ’68 Ford Ranger pickup sat in the shadow of the garage, its windows permanently half open, the tailgate crooked, the license plate missing. He remembered the smells of dust and oil and his father at the wheel, his hat shading his eyes as he manhandled the truck over the pastures.

  Nick pulled up in front of the house, right behind a newer model black pickup. As he got out and slammed the door, four horses in the nearby corral lifted their heads, one pushing his nose between the crossbars.

  He stopped to pet the animal, get his bearings, and take in the smells—the musty sharpness of sagebrush, the occasional whiff of fertilizer. He recognized the roan as his father’s old cutting horse, but the two new horses—a paint and a sorrel—he couldn’t place. And Pecos’s absence gave him a moment’s pause.

  A door slammed behind him.

  Nick stood quietly, rubbing the quarter horse’s nose, listening, suddenly unable to move, feeling as if he were a thief or an interloper. Maybe he should leave now before . . .

  “I s’pose you got lost, huh? Sorry, I tried to give you good directions. Anyway, welcome to the Silver Buckle Ranch.”

  When Nick looked over his shoulder, words left him. Stefanie had been thirteen the last time he saw her, with long, stringy, black hair; gangly legs; and freckles.

  Clearly some things had aged over the decade, starting with his little—er, not so little anymore—sister. Although she’d written to him over the years, especially during his stint in the army, sending him news clippings of Rafe’s bull-riding exploits and occasional tidbits from town, she’d neglected to mention that she’d, well . . . grown up.

  Stefanie still wore her favorite battered brown Stetson, but the freckles had vanished along with the stringy hair and any sense of awkwardness. She strode toward him, pulling on her work gloves, wearing a fur-lined coat, jeans, and boots. In her bearing he saw grace and strength that bespoke the responsibility of eighty thousand acres and three thousand head of cattle.

  It was a good thing he’d come home, because from his big-brother vantage point, the ranch wasn’t the only thing that needed protecting.

  “Stef?”

  She stopped, frowned, gaped at him. “Nick?”

  He shrugged, finding a half smile.

  “Oh, Nick!” Stefanie launched herself into his arms, knocking off her hat, no holds barred in her welcome. “I can’t believe it’s you!”

  Nick crushed her to his chest, giving over to the feelings he’d stuffed away for way too long. He held her tight, closing his eyes. “Hey, Stef.”

  He heard his own emotion in her voice when she said, “Thank God He finally brought you home.”

  Please, God, let me live long enough to see CJ win. Cole barely listened to Maggy as she spoke in low tones with his doctor. She had her back to him, her hand over the mouthpiece, as if he couldn’t figure out what she might be talking about.

  “When do you think the tests will be in?”

  He didn’t need any more tests to tell him what he already knew. His body had given up. Simply worn out. Just like his mother’s. He remembered her symptoms—low white-cell blood count, her soft bones that seemed so easily broken. The tremors in her hands and arms. The feeling she had that she would die.

  That, more than anything, told Cole the truth. They hadn’t found a cure then . . . and he felt sure they wouldn’t now. Regardless of how many tests they did.

  Cole readjusted his cast, turning in the old recliner to watch CJ circle the corral, riding round and round on his roping horse, chasing a bum. Shift your weight more, CJ. CJ had beautiful form, not sloppy like his. Cole had preferred steer wrestling to roping—it had less finesse, more muscle power. He’d only been wrangled into roping because of his friendship with Nick.

  Nick had been the one with pizzazz and style. And the fact that
CJ possessed the same easy throw rankled Cole more than he could ever voice. A constant reminder that he would always be second best.

  Maggy hung up, and Cole heard her sigh. He didn’t look at her. She was still so beautiful that sometimes it took his breath away. He loved the way she took care of the bums and the times she’d met him in the pasture in the truck, his lunch in a box on the seat. He watched her at night as the hours stretched long, her reddish hair turning to copper in the moonlight, the soft lines around her eyes relaxing. He loved her eyes, loved that once upon a time they shone with hope and desire.

  Now only worry filled her expression when she was awake.

  She deserved so much better than this.

  Maggy’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “Dr. Lowe asked us to go down to Sheridan. He wants to do some more tests.”

  Cole stared out at CJ. “The horse is breaking too early. CJ has to teach him to wait. And he’s not catching the right horn.”

  Maggy said nothing.

  “I should be out there.” He hated the desperation in his tone, that he’d let his frustration trickle out. She had enough on her, with running the ranch and taking care of him. Maybe it would be better if he went quickly. He prayed for that sometimes. Especially on his bad days.

  “CJ’s amazing, and when he comes in you’ll tell him how to fix his errors. He listens to you.”

  Cole gripped his wife’s hand on his shoulder, disturbed by how cold and calloused hers felt. A woman’s hands shouldn’t be that toughened. “I don’t want any more doctors poking at me.”

  He glanced at her, saw her purse her lips, anger flare in her pretty green eyes. “Are you saying you’re not cowboy enough for another round, Cole? Because I am.”

  Cole refused to rise to her tactics. Instead, he smiled, shook his head, and took hold of her wrist, pulling her into his lap. She braced herself on the arm of the chair as she landed, and that irked him. He wouldn’t break. Well, probably not.

  Cole put his arm around her, ran his other hand through her hair, then cupped her cheek. It was wet, but he said nothing as he brushed it dry. She leaned her head softly against his neck. She always fit so perfectly in his arms. Or perhaps he’d only wanted her to.

  He pushed a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear. “We have a ranch to run and no time to be going down to Sheridan on a wild-goose chase. We’ve done this four times, and they still can’t figure out what’s wrong.”

  She met his eyes with such pain that the back of his throat ached.

  “I’m not getting better, and we both know it.” He left unmentioned the sorry state of their finances. She as well as he knew what the trips cost them. And he’d had to let their health insurance lapse the second year of the drought. But he didn’t want to argue and cast a further shadow on this day. He had so few left; he simply wanted to cherish them.

  She closed her eyes and pushed up from the chair.

  Don’t go, Mags.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not giving up.”

  Of course she wouldn’t. That probably scared him the most. She’d spend every last dime, sacrifice everything. And when it didn’t work, she’d have nothing left to start over with.

  He was about to reach out for her when she stepped away from his grasp. She picked up the phone book and put it back in its slot on her kitchen desk. Then she opened the freezer and dug out a pound of ground venison. She didn’t look at him as she put the venison in a pot in the sink. “We need to hire a hand. Roundup is just around the corner, and we’ll need help.”

  “What about Stefanie and her outfit?”

  “We can’t count on the Silver Buckle every time we need help.” Maggy wiped her hands on a towel, turned, and rested her hip against the counter. Still, she wouldn’t look at him. “I’m going into town later today to put ads up around town.”

  Cole’s jaw turned hard, and he turned away from her, staring back at CJ’s roping practice.

  The drip into the sink fractured the silence, the sound of their impasse. Finally, he heard Maggy sigh. “I have heifers birthing in the barn. Please just . . . stay here. If you need something, call me on the two-way.” She headed into the entryway.

  He wanted to throw the two-way against the wall.

  He should have taken the family away from here years ago when Maggy’s parents moved to Arizona. They’d offered to let them live in their two-bedroom home until Cole found a job. But what was a born-and-bred cowboy supposed to do for a living? He knew how to ride broncs and herd cattle, fix a baler or a broken windmill, but he couldn’t make a decent living in the city. Besides, Maggy had practically begged him to stay.

  Yeah, sure, blame it on Maggy.

  If he were to assign blame, that would go to his pride. And wanting to see Nick Noble’s face when he made something of himself.

  I can’t believe I ever called you my friend.

  Nick hadn’t been back in a decade—probably wouldn’t ever set foot on the Silver Buckle again. And Cole had two hundred sorry-looking head of cattle on rented land.

  Yeah, he’d really made a name for the St. Johns in eastern Montana.

  Please, God, provide for my family. He couldn’t count how many times he’d sat on his horse, praying that very prayer.

  Probably he’d go to his grave with the plea on his lips.

  But maybe Bishop’s bequest was God’s provision. If so, Cole aimed to make sure that Maggy and CJ used it to start over. They could sell the cattle and the land Bishop had left them—hopefully back to the Silver Buckle—for a tidy sum. Then Maggy and CJ could have a life free of praying over the weather, wrestling stubborn cows, living from hand to mouth, and hoping they had enough to pay the rent.

  In the meantime, he had to keep Maggy from mortgaging the land and spending it in vain trying to make him well.

  Cole watched Maggy cross the yard, wearing her overalls, a wool cap, and gloves. Birthing could be messy business. He remembered too well the late nights during the early years. Maggy had insisted on sleeping in the barn when the heifers delivered.

  How she cried when they lost a newborn or a mother. Back then it felt like they’d taken on the world. Now it was Maggy and CJ wrestling with the land for their future.

  Maggy and CJ and a soon-to-be hired hand. While Cole sat in the warm house and quietly faded away.

  His leg itched, and he refused the impulse to stick a hanger or a pencil or even a butter knife down the cast and give it a good scratch. His bones had turned to twigs over the past couple of years. First his ankle, then his wrist, and now his leg. It had taken his wrist nearly six months to heal, and his ankle still ached, despite Maggy’s prayers for healing.

  These days he prayed only to live long enough to see CJ win the Custer County roping championships. And then that the Lord would take him quickly.

  Most of all he prayed that he was right and that Nick wouldn’t show up and steal everything he loved out of his hands.

  “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  Piper clicked the cell phone into its dashboard cradle, yanked out the map, and unfolded it across the steering wheel. Tapping her brakes, she swallowed a retort as a cattle truck pulled out of a dirt road and lumbered up to speed ahead of her. Didn’t he ever hear of right-of-way?

  “Piper?”

  “Yes, I’m here, Carter. Of course I know where I am. I wrote down everything you said. It’s just that . . . well, your landmarks weren’t great.”

  “I told you to MapQuest it!”

  “MapQuest gave me a big red star in the middle of Montana.”

  In her mind’s eye she could see Carter shaking his head. “I told you this is a bad idea. You’re gonna get yourself in trouble. Starting with getting lost out in the middle of nowhere. I’ll find your carcass in July, being eaten by coyotes.”

  The thought of her skinny friend and colleague Carter Eaton, in his pressed khaki Dockers and Doc Martens, flying halfway across Montana to Billings from their office in Kalispell, then driving ano
ther two hundred miles to search for her corpse put a smile into her long and torturous day. If three hours in a plane the size of a station wagon didn’t give her the willies, winding through the back roads of Custer National Forest in a rented Jeep after taking a wrong turn off the highway had plopped her back into the center of her nightmares. Or rather her memories. Last time she’d been in cattle country she’d been running with her mother for their lives as they escaped the rage of Russell McPhee.

  She’d forgotten the barren land, the feeling that it could swallow a person whole.

  After an hour of following the two-lane pavement cutting through rolling hills and limestone that rose like sentinels to her journey, she’d spotted a highway sign. She’d been so relieved that she didn’t care when she emerged a mere thirty miles from where she’d entered. So much for a shortcut.

  That brief tour through her dark memories only left her more determined to make Nick Noble pay for his sins. She owed it to Jimmy—the one person who had made sure she’d escaped that world.

  “I’m not going to be eaten by coyotes, Carter. Don’t forget you’re talking to the woman who snuck across the border not once but twice to expose the porous Montana borders.”

  “You nearly got shot, if I recall.”

  “And won an award. You need a memory course.”

  “No, you’re the one with the memory lapse—I distinctly remember the word probation being used by your boss after your second arrest at the border.”

  That wasn’t all. “Piper, your work is good but jaded,” her editor at the Kalispell Gazette had said as she paced her small office. “Someday you’re going to go too far and fabricate what isn’t there. And then this paper is going to pay the price.” The words had stung, even though Piper shrugged them away. “She wasn’t serious—especially after the publicity I got for the paper—”

  “And the legal bills—”