Reclaiming Nick

by Susan May Warren

  “Thanks,” she said to his back as he began to assemble the fire. She stood there watching him arrange the wood, tuck in a wad of newspaper, and light the fire. He had strong arms and wide shoulders that filled out his navy thermal shirt. His black hair had grown out enough to hint at curls.

  He wasn’t good-looking. Not at all. Just tall, dark . . . and despicable.

  The fire started to spark and pop, the smell of smoke filling her nose, reviving her memories. She spiraled back in time and felt the cold rush of wind whipping through her polyester nightgown. . . .

  “Piper, stay back! You’ll get burned!”

  She heard Jimmy’s voice, felt his hands on her as he yanked her from the mesmerizing blaze. How fast the pillow had burned, flames gobbling the synthetic insides, pungent black smoke drowning the small room. Jimmy had grabbed her by the arm and nearly dragged her from the trailer.

  She felt again how her bare feet had stung in the soupy, half-frozen grass. She remembered hugging herself as she watched the smoke billow out of the trailer door in the early morning mist.

  “Stay here! I’ll get Mom!”

  She’d watched Jimmy run back inside, watched the black fog swallow him, felt a sickness so thick in her stomach that she thought she might throw up. She sank to her knees shaking. Jimmy would get Mommy. Jimmy always protected them. She was safe with Jimmy near.

  But Jimmy wasn’t there when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. She turned, and her fear found her bones as she saw the headlights slice through the predawn gray.

  Daddy was home.

  “Ms. Sullivan?”

  Piper didn’t realize she’d wrapped her right hand around her left wrist, her thumb rubbing the place where her jacket hid her scar, until Nick Noble touched her arm. She nearly leaped right out of her new cowboy boots. She jerked away from him, at a loss for words, her mouth open. The memory seemed so alive, so brutal—she felt that if she didn’t close her mouth, it might climb right up her throat in a howl.

  One hour in Nick’s presence and already she had turned into a mess of nerves.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She forced a smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You sure? You look a little—”

  “I’m fine.”

  He stared at her a second longer, then slapped the bits of wood off his hands. “The cabin is a bit rustic. I checked the plumbing, and it seems to be working. You’ll have to hold the handle down on the toilet to make it run, and the water is hard, but the well is good.” A shadow crossed his face. “Or it was . . . I guess I’ll have to check on that.”

  Piper nodded, glad she’d added bottled water to her supplies. “I’ll be fine.”

  “So . . . have you ever worked on a ranch before?” He stood there, his eyes boring into her.

  She summoned her smile. “Nope. I’m sure I’ll have a lot to learn.”

  “You know you’ll have to cook out on the trail and that the guests will want authentic trail food.”

  “Sure, granola bars and s’mores. Got it.”

  Apparently he’d been in the wrong line when they handed out a sense of humor. His mouth didn’t even twitch.

  “I know a little about Dutch-oven cooking. I’ll be all right,” Piper said, keeping her voice solemn, wishing she had invested in a few more books but thankful she’d watched Campfire Cooking at least once.

  “I guess we’ll see,” Nick said. “I’ll leave the two-way radio. Call if you need anything. Although the road seemed to take its time winding back here, the main house is only down the hill, through the winter pasture. There’s a trail.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mr. Noble.”

  “Nick. Please call me Nick.” He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which continued to look clear through her, nosing about to find her secrets.

  She swallowed. “Nick.” Her voice sounded like a grunt.

  “Tomorrow, if you really want, I’ll take you on that tour around the ranch, show you the lay of the land.”

  She rubbed her hands over her arms, nodded.

  He was turning to go when she heard a low, mournful wail that lifted from the purple hills and drifted in with the drafts.

  “What’s that?” she asked without thinking. She hated to sound so . . . unnerved, but the noise had raised every hair on her arms. Somehow it sounded painfully familiar.

  “Wolves,” Nick answered as he reached the door. “But don’t worry; they won’t come after you. They’re lonely or lost and trying to find their way home.”

  No wonder she recognized the sound. Her heart made the exact same wail.

  It had taken him nearly all day to find this spot overlooking the homestead. He’d followed an old cow trail, then hid his truck in a draw and climbed a ridge that overlooked the valley. Now, lying in the sodden grass, moisture crept into the elbows of his jacket as he held the binoculars to his eyes.

  He’d watched them as they drove up the trail toward the cabin. The slim blonde and tall, righteous Noble. Now they moved in and out of the light of the windows.

  A muscle pulsed in his jaw. He never thought it would come to this. Or that he’d finally get a chance at revenge after all these years.

  He simply needed to wait. Nick would make a mistake again. And this time he would pay.

  He was a patient man. After all this time, he was a very, very patient man.

  CHAPTER 4

  STEFANIE MET NICK in the living room right after he’d returned from the lodge. If he thought she’d be appeased by his willingness to show their new guest her digs, he’d guessed wrong.

  She sat on the leather sofa, her legs crossed. She’d shed her work clothes, showered, and changed into a long-sleeve shirt and track pants. She looked about thirteen without her makeup, her dark hair slicked to her head, and she had the explosive, teenage emotions to match.

  And while his little sister still couldn’t cook, she served up guilt like an iron chef. “You have no right to come in here and start telling me how to run the ranch!”

  “Howdy to you too. She’s fine. I started a fire and tucked her in.” He didn’t mention that Miss Piper Sullivan had looked rattled by the lonely mourn of the wolves that carried across the prairie. If she knew, Stefanie would head out to the pasture to sleep with the cows, her shotgun over her knees.

  Stefanie had also started a fire, and it crackled in the hearth, sending a cheery glow into the room. The sound conjured up memories of snowy Sundays and Monopoly around the stone coffee table, the smell of chocolate-chip cookies drifting from the kitchen.

  Obviously Stefanie didn’t share that cozy memory at the moment. “You have no idea the trouble we’re in, Nick.”

  He sighed, used the bootjack to work off his boots, then settled into the leather easy chair opposite her. “Saul told me a little when he found me in Wellesley. The herd’s numbers are down, and the drought—”

  “The drought is killing us. We haven’t had a decent alfalfa crop for two years, and I had to take a loan out to buy feed. Add to that the loan we have for Tiny—”

  “Tiny?”

  “Dad bought a new bull last year, and he hasn’t earned his keep. Or at least the cows aren’t producing.” She ran her hands through her wet hair, rolling it up in back and holding it in place. “Not only that, but a couple days ago, Dutch and I found two of the younger bulls, the ones we kept in Hatcher’s Table, dead.”

  “What?” Two dead bulls out of the ten or so they kept dug a hole in their abilities to produce a new herd.

  “Vet checked them for mad cow disease. They’re not infected. But they died of dehydration.”

  “Hatcher’s Table is watered by Cripple Creek. Did it run dry?”

  Stefanie shook her head. “I don’t love the idea of a dude ranch any more than you do, Nick. But until we figure out how to turn this ranch around, we have to do something.”

  Nick said nothing but let his attention roam the room. The elk head still hung over the door, and in the corner his father�
��s reading chair and stack of books seemed ready for his evening occupancy. On the far wall, the aerial shot taken of their ranch showed the glory days when their bunkhouse overran with eager cowboys, when the alfalfa grew as high as his chin. When he and Cole spent every waking hour on the range.

  “How’s Rafe?” Nick asked, without looking at her.

  “Making money hand over fist. He’s got a couple endorsement deals.”

  Nick could see his little brother hawking just about anything with his bad-boy smile and cutting good looks from the Scottish side of the family.

  His focus fell on their family picture taken his senior year in high school, still hanging opposite the fireplace. Rafe and Stefanie seemed so young—gangly twelve-year-olds with buckteeth. Their mother, Elizabeth, stood beside their father, leaning into his embrace. Nick always wondered if she knew even then that it would be their last family picture. That the cancer would soon consume her. Nick’s perusal passed Bishop, the larger-than-life patriarch in the middle of the picture, and stopped on himself. Dark wavy hair past his ears, darker eyes, a wry smile as if he might be too busy to stop and take a picture with his family. He recognized his best snap-button shirt and the shiny team-roping belt buckle he’d won at nationals that year.

  He thought then that he’d spend his entire life on the Silver Buckle. And that someday Maggy would join the picture as his wife.

  The thought of her still sent a twist of regret through him. He’d hurt her too.

  “I thought you wanted to be a horse trainer,” Nick said suddenly to Stefanie. She had spent all her teenage years helping Maggy and her father train horses at the Big K. “What happened to your dream of raising and training quarter horses?”

  “I don’t have time. Between Dutch, Old Pete, and me, we barely get the cattle fed and watered. We’ve got roundup coming up, the rest of the calves to birth, three new two-year-olds to saddle break, a windmill to fix, and once again the tractor won’t start despite Dutch’s magic. . . .” She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes.

  Nick had noticed Dutch’s pickup outside the modular house Bishop had built for him, and it didn’t surprise Nick in the least that the old foreman had stuck around after his father’s death, especially with Stefanie’s to-do list. Besides, he and Bishop always seemed to have a unique bond. Then he thought of the Silver Buckle’s old chef. “I’ll miss Chet’s biscuits. Remember when we used them as ammo?”

  Stefanie let her hair drop, drew up her knees, and hugged them to her chest, smiling weakly. “They’re not so bad out on the trail, soaked in gravy.”

  Nick let himself hear the longing in her voice. He hadn’t considered how hard it might be for Stefanie to run the ranch on her own. “I told Ms. Sullivan that I’d show her around the property tomorrow.” He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her being here—at the very least he hoped to instill in her some good old-fashioned respect for the land. At best, he’d convince her that now was the time for her to tuck tail and run. But he didn’t mention that to Stef.

  “I’m hoping she’ll cook for roundup this Saturday. Let her earn her spurs.”

  “You’re really hoping this will work, aren’t you?” Nick couldn’t look at his sister, feeling suddenly like a traitor.

  “I’m really hoping we don’t lose this ranch.”

  “When you open a place to the public, you’re asking for trouble.”

  “She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. No one is going to cause any trouble.”

  Nick sighed and ran his hands over the smooth leather chair. “Stefanie, do you have any idea why Dad would leave half our land to St. John? What did Cole do for him?”

  Stefanie looked away, into the fire. “I don’t know. But Cole and Maggy have helped us a lot over the past ten years. Please, please leave it alone.”

  “Maggy?” Nick felt a slow squeeze of dread inside. “Did she hire on?”

  Stefanie glanced at him. “No, she . . . oh, boy.” She blew out a breath. “I thought you knew. I thought I told you. . . .”

  Told me what? He didn’t like the look on her face. Nick swallowed. Shook his head. “Nope.”

  Stefanie didn’t meet his eyes. “Nick . . . Maggy is Cole’s wife.”

  A little leg cast wouldn’t keep Cole from driving his Ford. He waited until Maggy and CJ left to check the heifers this morning, then pried himself out of bed, wrestled on his sweatpants and an old flannel shirt, wedged his hat over his unruly hair, brushed his teeth, left the week-old growth of beard, and shoved his free foot into his boot.

  Just that activity caused him to nearly collapse in the entryway, breathing hard. A sheen of perspiration blanketed his brow. He tugged on his jacket. Please, Saul, be home. He hadn’t called the attorney, but with his office attached to his house, Saul Lovell kept casual round-the-clock hours.

  Besides, if Maggy caught him using the phone, she would think he was canceling the doctor’s appointment she’d made for him in Sheridan. The woman clearly didn’t trust him, the way she watched his every move, as if he were a heifer about to drop a calf.

  Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d foiled her plans. Like the ones to grow old together, passing the ranch on to a passel of kids. By marrying him, she’d sacrificed so much.

  Not anymore. He grabbed his crutches, wincing as pain shot through him. The door squeaked as he opened it, but he closed it behind him quietly and hobbled out to the truck. Glancing at the barn, he opened the door, tossed the crutches in the cab, then levered himself onto the bench seat. The truck smelled of dust, the residue of working in the field all day. He fired up the engine and threw the truck into reverse as Maggy came out of the barn. She stood there, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. He drove away without acknowledging her.

  Good thing they had only one vehicle. But with his luck, she’d probably saddle her horse and follow him into town.

  Or Pecos. Nick’s roping horse was faster. Sturdier. Better than Cole’s tired stock horses. Cole shook his head. Another reminder of the harsh truth. And Maggy’s sacrifices.

  He drove toward town, past the Silver Buckle and the Big K, cutting south at the Breckenridge place. Saul Lovell owned a section to the east, on which he’d run a fancy French breed of cattle called Salers. Although fewer head, their high birth rates and fatty, beefy bodies brought in more money per pound. Over the years, it had kept Saul’s ranch in the black. But with Saul’s sons now in Sheridan and Denver pursuing their own lives, Saul had sold off most of his herd. At least he had his attorney shingle to hang on to. Not for the first time, Cole wished he’d gone to college and earned a degree to go along with his vet skills.

  He’d make sure CJ had that option if he wanted it. He’d put it in his will. Cole knew very little about the probate process—but even a rancher with a mere high school diploma knew that unless he had things spelled out, all his hopes for Maggy and CJ might get tied up in court. He wanted a clean start for her. He’d written everything down on the notebook paper in his pocket, outlining how she was to sell the land quickly and move to Arizona with her parents. CJ could attend a public school instead of doing his lessons on the kitchen table, and Maggy could finally join a big church, one that played all those praise songs she sang to the cows.

  Cole pulled into the yard, a little envious of Saul’s two-story home. He’d had the house trucked out from Sheridan and assembled on the property right after his boys graduated college, finally abandoning the family’s log cabin handed down from his wife’s parents. Cole remembered how Maggy’s eyes had shone as she described Loretta’s new house.

  Someday, Mags, someday.

  He parked behind a black Silverado and maneuvered himself out of the truck.

  A collie rose from the porch to meet him.

  He patted the dog and opened the door. “Saul?”

  “In here.” The voice came from the study, where Saul conducted his business.

  The house smelled of polish and cinnamon. Saul’s wife, Loretta, hummed from the kitchen as she
whipped up cinnamon rolls. The oak door to Saul’s office stood half closed, and for a second Cole wondered if he should knock. Instead, he pushed the door open with his crutch.

  Saul sat at his oak desk behind his computer, talking to a man seated in a leather side chair, his back to Cole.

  “Excuse me, Saul. I didn’t know you had—”

  Cole’s words died in his throat as Nick Noble turned and glared at his former best friend.

  Nick should have listened to his sister.

  “Nick, please don’t do this.” Stefanie’s plea this morning as he’d informed her of his plans shot through Nick’s mind as he stared at Cole. He’d filled out, his face harder, his shoulders wider. He watched Cole’s fists close on his crutch handles, saw the clenched unshaven jaw, noted the familiar glint of anger in his brown eyes.

  “You’re achin’ to blame someone, aren’t you?” Cole’s voice rushed at him in memory, and he shook it away.

  “What’s he doing here?” Nick growled, mostly to Saul, but if Cole heard, he didn’t care.

  “I could ask the same about you,” Cole growled back.

  Nick saw him inch forward. Closer, he looked pale and gaunt. For a second, worry sluiced through Nick. He ignored it and turned back to Saul. “We’re done here anyway.”

  Saul shook his head, defeat in his eyes.

  Nick didn’t care that the man had spent the last hour trying to convince him that Bishop Noble had been genuine in his desire to give the land to St. John. So what that Saul had questioned Bishop to ascertain his ability to make sound decisions?

  Nick knew that Cole had coerced Bishop to lie even to his best friend.

  But the truth would find Cole out. Nick planned on filing the petition today and would spend every millisecond between now and the date of the hearing proving what he knew with ever fiber of his soul—that Cole St. John was a thief.

  After what Stefanie had told him last night, Nick labeled Cole even more of a thief than he had before.