Reclaiming Nick

by Susan May Warren

  He stirred the beans, then turned off the flame. He heard Stef upstairs in her room, stomping about. Apparently that aspect of her anger hadn’t changed.

  Well, she could have a point about not trusting the rumblings inside him. He’d spent the morning with Piper Sullivan, thinking she didn’t have the stuffin’ for life on a ranch. Instead, he’d found her pleasant, interested in their life, and undemanding. Even . . . spunky.

  Nick hadn’t found a woman like that since Maggy. Piper had spent the whole ranch tour drinking in his words. It had been ages since a woman listened to him, really let him talk without filling in the end of his sentences. Not that he’d told her much—mostly he’d rambled on about the difference between silver sage and black sage, how to tell when a cow was about to drop her calf, how to read the weather, and how to sing a soft song to the herd while on a trail ride. Things he’d once done as naturally as breathing. Things he’d locked inside that she’d unwittingly pried free.

  What if his uneasy feelings had nothing to do with suspicion but rather the fact that Piper had gotten under his skin just a little?

  He sat on the bluff and watched Nick Noble ride back across Noble land, knowing Nick had brought this on himself. Darkness crept over him, and he felt like a criminal. If he hadn’t let her go, he wouldn’t have lost everything he’d ever wanted. Lost his dreams, lost the woman he thought he loved . . . lost his future.

  He could hardly believe he’d found Noble or even that the man had returned to his hometown. He wasn’t sure exactly what to do about this turn of events . . . at the least it meant trouble. At worst, well, Noble had a history of mangling people’s lives. He’d have to watch him, wait, and hope that Nick left her alone and rode back into the sunset without hurting anyone else.

  He hunkered down along the ridge, saw how his shadow bunched up, turned dark and thick. Ominous in the fading light.

  He never thought he’d become that kind of man. Ominous. Dark. But sometimes circumstances drove people to do things they’d never imagined they’d do. Things they couldn’t control.

  Things they would always regret.

  CHAPTER 7

  THEY WERE ALL going to starve. Because if Piper didn’t get creative, she’d never wheedle the truth out of Nick, and then she’d have to attempt to cook.

  That wouldn’t be pretty. For any of them.

  Piper had finally dragged herself to the dining hall. If Stefanie Noble really intended to open a dude ranch, she had the right vibe going. The log cabin dining hall housed a twelve-foot, rough-hewn table etched with names and symbols from past cowpokes. Piper even found the words Maggy + Nick on one end and stored that in her mental files to explore later. Rustic wagon-wheel chandeliers hung over the table, and someone had recently cleaned the milk-glass wall lamps that bracketed the door.

  Beyond the eating area, a kitchen graced with an ancient four-burner stove, a standing freezer, an old green Frigidaire, a two-bin-deep well sink, and a stainless-steel work area evidenced a bygone era of a full bunkhouse and hungry cowboys. Piper concluded that the chuck wagon she’d seen parked outside probably wasn’t for decoration.

  Boy, was she in trouble. She’d better start working her Piper Sullivan magic because three hours of moseying about the ranch yesterday morning to get her “bearings” with Nick and a trip into Phillips with Stefanie had netted her a new appreciation for the term saddle sore, two exceptional pieces of pie, and a caffeine rush but exactly nil about why Nick arrested and framed Jimmy McPhee for murder.

  She’d spent last night listening to their dreary conversation on her digital recorder, hoping to find a scrap of information she might latch on to and follow to a lead. Her long, dark evening had ended with her falling asleep on the very comfortable patchwork quilt to the sounds of a fire crackling in the fireplace and another lonely sonata from the neighborhood wolves.

  Hearing Nick’s voice in the recorder and the way he’d called her Curious George more than once—well, she’d also fallen asleep with his face in her mind.

  A face that was way too handsome for her own good. He reminded her a little of that country singer Tim McGraw, without the mustache. An all-around grade-A cowboy. Piper’s pulse leaped to attention every time she thought of Nick riding across the range, sitting tall in the saddle, reins held loosely in his hands. His deep voice and sturdy confidence had invaded her pores.

  Muddled her focus.

  Or maybe she should blame that on the soul-filling beauty of the Silver Buckle Ranch. The land rolled out over bluffs and down riverbeds, a palate of yellow green cheatgrass, wild irises, white yarrow, yellow bells, and purple pasqueflowers. Even the pincushion cactus bore its own beauty.

  Nick had shown her prairie-dog cities, and they had waited until one poked his gopher face out of a hole. She’d listened to the squeaking, much like a city of rats, and it raised gooseflesh on her skin. She’d seen a red fox and an antelope and watched a killdeer straggle off, protecting its nest. At a bird’s song, Nick had stopped and pointed out the red-and-black body of the meadowlark.

  Cicadas chirruped as the morning wore long, and by the time Nick had brought her home in time for her to head to town with Stefanie, she had to reluctantly admit that he’d been a gentleman, even if he hadn’t unveiled a hint about his feelings.

  It made her even angrier, more determined to ferret out the truth. Not because she had hoped he’d be a cad, but if he was, she might be able to keep a firmer grip on her righteous indignation.

  From all outward appearances, Nick Noble was just that . . . Mr. Noble. Sincere, capable, and trustworthy.

  Piper didn’t trust the conniving, handsome liar from here to the front door.

  Her father had been handsome—at least in the early years. But she’d learned well from her mother’s mistakes. She wasn’t going to let a pair of sizzling dark eyes and range muscles, let alone this romance-novel setting, make her forget why she’d concocted this lie.

  Piper stood in the kitchen, taking in the cast-iron Dutch ovens that hung from hooks over the work area, the huge griddle that lay atop the stove, and the stockpots under the counter and wished she had cell-phone reception.

  Maybe she should cut and run before the Nobles discovered that she could turn even a frozen pizza into a pile of ash.

  The place smelled of cleanser and the faintest odor of grease. She found the pantry. Someone had labeled the containers of flour and sugar, the bins of potatoes, the onions and carrots, and even the rutabagas. Good thing too, because she had been about to identify the purple roots as cabbage. On the second shelf, she found an impressive display of hot sauces, from Tabasco to Tiger to triple-X barbecue. Maybe she could fry up hamburgers for every meal.

  Yuck. Even if she hadn’t turned all-out vegetarian, she’d eliminated beef and chicken from her diet. According to her trail recipe book she had few other choices. Tofu and beans. Yeah, Dutch and Grumpy Pete would go for that.

  Piper crossed her arms, leaning against the pantry door, staring at the row of canned pork and beans. “Carter, I wish you were here.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  The voice startled her. “Mr. Noble, you scared me.”

  “Again, call me Nick. I see you found your way to the kitchen.”

  He looked very cowboy this morning in a pair of jeans, boots, and an untucked corduroy shirt. He’d shaved, but his eyes seemed tired. And he gave off a distinct freshly showered aura.

  She cut her gaze away from him, pushing the feel of those strong shoulders out of her mind, and walked over to the freezer. “I’m trying to take an inventory.”

  “Stef said she’d take your list into town today if you wanted.”

  “Swell.” Piper let the cool air from the freezer whisk the sweat from her brow. She found a half-eaten carton of ice cream and some frozen snap beans.

  At least she knew what she was having for breakfast.

  “Everything okay, Piper?”

  She closed the freezer door, turned, but didn’t look at him.


  “So, who’s Carter?”

  “He’s my cooking teacher.” Her voice didn’t even change inflection at the lie. Well, it wasn’t really a lie—Carter had taught her the meager little she knew about cooking.

  “Stef was hoping you’d cook the roundup meal on Saturday. We usually invite a few other ranch hands over to help with branding.”

  Piper glanced at him, at the way he smiled at her, at his hands shoved in his back pockets. She shrugged. “No problem. How many will there be?”

  “’Bout thirty.”

  Thirty! Thirty people to witness her humiliation. She had until Saturday to work her magic on Nick and hightail it back to Kalispell with her story.

  “Perfect,” she said smoothly. Piper had found the former chef’s desk earlier—a beat-up table that held ancient cookbooks, stained recipe cards, and reams of invoices. Now she turned to the desk and dug through the books and unearthed one of Chet’s cookbooks called Range Cooking. She flipped to the index, her attention turned to the recipes, and tried to swallow the dread that crept up her throat. Beef Bourguignon, Stew, Peasant’s Pie. A carnivore’s paradise. She closed the book, letting out a sigh.

  “You seem flustered,” Nick said.

  He was still here? She pasted on a smile, then shook her head. “Just thinking about menu options.”

  “Chet used to make a delicious batch of chicken and dumplings. That and a blueberry dump cake and some homemade vanilla ice cream and—”

  “I’m not Chet, okay?”

  He stared at her, eyes wide.

  She winced, making a face. So maybe she needed more sleep. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to expect the same kind of food Chet made.” As in edible. “My food probably has its own . . . um, flair.”

  “I’m sure it does.” He smiled at her—Mr. Magnanimous—and she tried to keep the glare from her eyes. Please be a jerk. “You’re right. You’re the cookie. You can make what you want.” He backed away. “By the way, Stef mentioned that the pots haven’t been cleaned since last fall, so you might want to clean them up.”

  Of course she would clean the pots before she used them. Dismay shot through Piper. Did he see through her so easily? “I’ll do that, thanks.” She forced a smile, scrambling for footing back on solid ground. “Did you help Chet much in the kitchen?”

  His grin, wide and sweet, accompanied by a gentle laugh, made her heart skip just for a second. “No. Chet wouldn’t let us ten feet near his cook fire. But I did some time out on the range, me and Co—I mean, me and some of the hands. So I learned the basics.”

  Great. She walked past him, desperate to move him from the kitchen—her own personal quicksand—and outside. “Thank you for the ride yesterday. It was gorgeous.”

  “No problem.” An enigmatic smile played on his face and sent a shot of warmth through her. Stop looking at me.

  Stop smiling.

  And smelling good.

  She stepped outside, aware that all relevant thoughts had escaped her brain again. Some reporter she was. They should rescind every award she’d won and put her back in obits. She’d write hers first because it was becoming clear that being around Nick Noble could indeed be lethal. To her career and her good sense . . .

  “You said yesterday that you’d only recently returned. . . .” She faced Nick. “Why did you leave?”

  A shadow crossed his face, and he gazed toward the horizon. “I . . . I . . . found out something about someone I loved. And it hurt me. It was a poor decision made in my youth.” He pursed his lips, studying his boots suddenly, as if he’d let out more with that veiled confession than he intended.

  “We often make poor decisions when we’re young,” Piper said softly. “I know I’ve made my share. I find that the ones who love you will forgive you.” At least she hoped that was the case.

  Nick didn’t smile. “There are some things a person can never be forgiven for.”

  Piper didn’t know why, but his words, accompanied by those sad eyes, seemed to zero into her soul. She looked away before she cringed.

  Silence passed between them, filled with the sounds of the wind combing the grass and the occasional low of a contented cow.

  “I didn’t show you everything yesterday,” Nick said quietly. “Would you . . . could I show you something else?”

  The truck turned into the Silver Buckle drive as if it might be connected to her thoughts and knew her questions. Maggy simply held on to the steering wheel, eyes focused on the house, dissecting every detail for evidence of Nick’s return. She hadn’t been here since Bishop’s burial and hadn’t planned on returning. Not that she didn’t miss Stefanie—they’d been best friends, nearly sisters for her entire life. But she didn’t have time or reason since the funeral. Until now. Until Nick Noble returned like the Prodigal Son, hoping for his father’s forgiveness not to mention his inheritance.

  Sorry, but according to that parable, the son had already spent his inheritance. He had nothing to claim. The reward would go to the son who had stayed by his father’s side. The allegory wasn’t completely accurate, but it felt that way as she parked next to Bishop’s old Ford.

  Maggy sat there, her emotions tumbling over each other. She’d spent the night propped up on one elbow, staring at her husband, watching him groan in his sleep, favoring his injured leg even as he shifted. Cole had been her real hero. The man who showed her what real love looked like.

  Nick had simply been a teenage fantasy. A fairy-tale prince. She should have known better than to trust in Cinderella dreams.

  She got out of the truck, climbed onto the porch, and stood outside the door for a long time, wondering whether to knock. She hadn’t knocked in years—and in the end the Nobles had needed her to be someone who simply walked into their lives to help, to care.

  Maggy often wondered if leaving Cole that land had been Bishop’s way of making up for all Nick had rejected, all the hopes he’d destroyed. She missed the old man. Missed hearing him spin CJ yarns about the Old West, the frontier days, the outlaws and mavericks who flavored the Noble history. She’d seen stars in CJ’s eyes—especially when Bishop had shown him his roping medals.

  She probably had Bishop—not CJ’s father—to blame for CJ’s rodeo addiction. Her ten-year-old breathed rodeo, slept with his lasso, wallpapered his room with posters of roping champions. He already had his Custer County junior rodeo registration filled out and tacked to his bulletin board. As if they might forget.

  Maggy decided to forego knocking and eased the door open. “Stefanie?” She wouldn’t call out Nick’s name, but her stomach fluttered all the same when she heard a creak. She stilled, listening. Nothing—not even the sheepdog who used to greet her with a yawn and a nudge from his black nose. She missed digging her hands into his shaggy fur. He’d disappeared a week after Bishop’s death.

  Sunlight slanted into the kitchen and across the floor, turning the linoleum to gold. Elizabeth Noble had updated the place back in the midnineties, and the paisley wallpaper and dark-oak cabinets attested to her good taste. Maggy could still remember sitting with her, paging through magazines while Nick and Cole ran a poor steer around the corral, working on their timing. What Elizabeth hadn’t known was that Maggy had dreamed up her own design plan for this kitchen.

  Maggy passed through the quiet kitchen to the living room, her steps light, her heart heavy. She still couldn’t define why she’d returned, why she might be skulking through the house like a bandit. Maybe she only wanted to see Nick. See his face and search it for shame or guilt. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t even written. As if she—and the note she left him the night he’d left—had meant nothing to him.

  She lingered in the living room, staring at the last Noble family picture. In her memories, Nick would always be eighteen, always smiling, always ready to charm her into his arms.

  In some way, all the whole Noble family had that charm in different measures. And with different effects.

  The smell of last evening’s fire lingered in the hearth. Ups
tairs, she’d find Bishop’s darkened room where she’d served him herbal teas and read him his favorite psalms. Nick would like to know that, know what his father had said about him in his last days. Know the secrets the old man had hidden for so long.

  Anger flared inside her, fresh and vibrant, releasing in a cry. No, Nick didn’t deserve to know. After all, he’d turned his back on her when she needed him the most.

  Maggy pressed a hand against her mouth, her throat suddenly tight. She turned and stole back through the kitchen. What was she doing here?

  Through the kitchen window, she saw him.

  Maggy froze, watching Nick stride out of the barn, leading a bay quarter horse. Her breath caught. He wasn’t eighteen anymore. This Nick had broad shoulders and a confidence to his gait that bespoke experience, not cockiness. He’d found his old black Stetson, and his dark curly hair barely showed from beneath the rim. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two. And in a corduroy shirt and jeans he looked every inch the outlaw she’d branded him after he’d stolen her heart.

  She watched with captured breath as a petite blonde followed him out of the barn.

  Maggy turned away, fresh heat burning her chest. No, there were some things Nick Noble didn’t deserve to know. Some secrets she would never betray. Because if she did, it might cost Cole everything he loved.

  Everything that now belonged to Cole.

  Nick remembered clearly the last time he’d been to Cutter’s Rock—three days before he’d left for college. He’d run his new pickup around the neighbor’s field, scaring the cows, acting like a hotshot in front of Maggy. Occasionally over the past ten years, he returned to that day and the memory of sitting around the campfire under the stars, Maggy under his arm, Cole trying not to glare at him from across the flames. There had been times in high school when he’d felt the jealousy radiate off Cole like heat. Not often, but sometimes when the three of them were together, it felt palpable. Never, however, did it seem dangerous. Because Nick also remembered the day he and Cole had sat on Cutter’s Rock, had drawn their knives across their palms and crossed hands, letting their blood become one.