“Clay picked the corn dogs,” Jason announced proudly as everyone sat down at the table. “I picked the SpaghettiOs. Grant picked the broccoli.” He made a face. “Yuck.”
At least, Ace thought with an inward groan, there was plenty of everything.
“Yes sirree.” Trey winked at Belinda. “The lady keeps her word. It’s darn sure a meal we won’t be forgetting for a while.”
Belinda smiled and batted her eyes. “I hope so. I hope you particularly remember it the next time you start to ask me a stupid question.”
“Oh-ho.” Jerry Sutter shot a glance around the table. His amused gaze lit on Trey. “One of you boys pi—uh, hack the lady off?”
“Not me.” Trey raised his hands in innocence. “She loves me.”
“In your dreams, Number Three.” Belinda looked back at Sutter.
“Belinda Randall,” Ace said, “meet Jerry Sutter.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she offered.
With a twist of his head and a wide smile, Sutter said, “The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.”
“Jerry signed on about six months ago,” Ace added. “Jerry, my sister-in-law, the boys’ aunt. She’s in charge of the house until I find a new housekeeper.”
“Is Aunt Binda in charge of us, too?” Jason asked.
“That’s right, squirt,” Belinda said. “So eat your broccoli.”
She cocked her head and studied this newest hand. He was the youngest of the men at the table, in his mid-twenties, she guessed. About five-nine, with sandy-brown hair cut military short and a curving mustache several shades darker. Brown eyes with a definite twinkle to them.
Sutter’s smile stretched wide. “Aunt Binda can be in charge of me anytime.”
“Why?” she asked him. “You need somebody to scrub behind your ears and teach you manners?”
Male laughter burst loose like a sudden clap of thunder. Even Sutter laughed, shaking his head.
Still chuckling, Stoney Hamilton grabbed two corn dogs and served himself up a hefty portion of SpaghettiOs. “She got you good, Jerry, she surely did.” He winked a wrinkled eye at Ace. “Got you, too, if you’re the one who questioned her cooking.”
“All I did was ask if she could cook,” Ace protested.
Belinda narrowed her eyes at the boss. “Yeah, Slick, but it was the way you asked.”
Stoney laughed again. He had been foreman of the Flying Ace since before Ace was born. When King and Betty Wilder died in that car crash up near Jackson Hole right after Ace’s twentieth birthday, it had been Stoney who’d made sure Ace and his brothers and sister learned everything there was to know about ranching.
He was old now, half-crippled up from all the various mishaps and injuries that went with cowboying, but he still had a place on the Flying Ace. He wasn’t foreman anymore—Jack had taken over that position years ago. But there was still plenty for him to do around the ranch, plenty still for him to teach King Wilder’s offspring.
If anybody asked him—which they didn’t, but if they did—he’d probably tell them that aside from those three youngest rascals, not enough people gave Ace Wilder a hard time.
Not that Ace hadn’t had it rough, what with losing his daddy and mama when he was just twenty, with two younger brothers and a little sister to raise, not to mention a ranch to run. But he’d handled it, Ace had, handled it all. Then he’d brought home that pretty little Cathy as his bride, and things had looked up even more. Once again there were babies on the Flying Ace, and that had been a good thing.
Then came that last baby, little Grant, and Cathy dyin’ like that, while giving birth. There were those who said that it was too much, that Ace Wilder would never recover. But the boy—man—was doing all right, even if he did keep too much to himself these days.
Ace was too well respected and well liked for anybody to want to get in his face, as the youngsters said these days. Ace had earned that respect and liking, no doubt about it. But the way Stoney saw it, having this little slip of a woman get the best of him now and then would do Ace good, yes, it would.
Next to Stoney, Frank Thompson, the Flying Ace’s horse trainer, jabbed an elbow against Stoney’s shoulder. “You gonna eat all them spaghetti whatcha-ma-call-’ems yourself?”
With a grunt, Stoney passed him the bowl.
“Good to have you back, Miz Belinda,” Frank said, loading his plate.
“Thank you, Frank.” Belinda smiled.
In his mid-fifties, Frank Thompson stood maybe five-six with his boots on. If his legs weren’t so bowed that he looked like he was still straddling a horse, some said he’d be at least six feet tall. They didn’t say it to his face, but they said it.
He had dark, weather-beaten skin that was lined far beyond his years, twinkling brown eyes, and a nose with two humps in it He’d been training Flying Ace horses for more than twenty years.
Belinda had a fondness for Frank, although that hadn’t always been the case. During her first visit to the ranch, he had—quite against her will and without much cooperation from her—taught her to ride. Once she’d gotten past the achy muscles and beginner’s mistakes, she had learned, thanks to Frank’s patience, to enjoy herself.
In addition to Frank, Stoney, and Jerry Sutter, Belinda knew there were other men employed by the Flying Ace, but she’d never met them. The ranch was divided into sections, the largest of which was controlled and managed directly from headquarters. Then there was the farm, which Trey managed, and three other sections.
These latter were actually ranches within a ranch. One occupied the northeast corner, one the northwest and one the southwest. Each had its own house, barn, corrals, pastures. And its own foreman, who reported directly to Jack, as overall foreman of the Flying Ace. These other foremen had homes on their respective sections, provided for them and their families by the Flying Ace.
But these men rarely ever came to headquarters, so Belinda had never met them.
Across the table from Frank, Jack helped himself to the round little circles of spaghetti. “Everything looks good to me,” he said. “But we gotta find something else Grant likes besides broccoli.”
Belinda grinned at him. “We were trying to cover most of the major food groups. Or at least the colors,” she added, laughing. “We needed something green, and there wasn’t enough time for lime Jell-O to set.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Ace muttered. The thought of lime Jell-O made him shudder. And Belinda’s response to Jack made him frown. If he’d said that about the broccoli, she would have jumped down his throat. But for Jack, she smiled. Go figure.
But then, it had always seemed to be just him, Ace, who brought out Belinda’s prickly side.
No, that wasn’t true, Ace admitted. She could be prickly with anybody when she wanted to. It just seemed like she was more prickly with him, more often, than with anybody else. Sometimes, he realized, she reminded him of Jack, back when he’d first come to the Flying Ace.
Come to. That was a joke, a sick one. Jack had been practically shoved out of his aunt’s car and left here. Until that minute, no one in the Wilder family, including King Wilder himself, had known Jack even existed. But one look at that face and it was obvious to a blind man that twelve-year-old Jack Garrett was King Wilder’s son.
Damn, had it really been twenty years? On the one hand, it seemed like only yesterday that Ace had learned that his father had had a flying twelve years earlier with a barmaid named Melissa Garrett over in Cheyenne. She’d given birth to King Wilder’s son and never said a word to him about it. She’d carted her kid from town to town, bar to bar, while she’d taken up with one man after another and proceeded to slowly drink herself to death. She’d finally succeeded in the latter just before her son’s twelfth birthday.
Her sister, Linda, had ended up with Jack, and had no desire to keep him. It must have been no secret in her family as to who sired the boy, because she’d driven him straight to the Flying Ace and dumped him on the doorstep. Literally.
At t
he time, Ace had been so full of anger that he hadn’t seen, hadn’t cared, what such an experience did to a terrified, vulnerable twelve-year-old. All he’d known was that his father had cheated on his mother, and suddenly he had an extra brother he didn’t want.
He remembered that look of nervy defiance in Jack’s eyes—eyes the same brilliant blue as his own, as Trey’s and Rachel’s. As their father’s. Ace remembered the chip on those thin, underfed shoulders. The I-don’t-care-if-nobody-wants-me jerk of his chin. All covering up a world of hurt.
Yeah, Ace remembered the look, the chip, the attitude, all right. They’d gotten past it, somehow. Mostly because of Rachel, he supposed. She had loved her new brother on sight. She’d been five years old and had ruled the Flying Ace with her dimples and her smile. With an occasional temper tantrum thrown in for effect.
It had been many years now since Ace could even remember what it had been like without Jack. They were brothers, he and Jack and Trey. That said it all, in his book. Brothers.
But every time he saw Belinda Randall he couldn’t help but remember that look of Jack’s, that chip, that attitude. He saw them plainly in her, and he’d never understood it. She hadn’t been abandoned on somebody’s doorstep. She wasn’t the illegitimate offspring of some stranger. Her mother hadn’t drunk herself to death. Hell, the Randalls were a close family, loving, supportive. And Belinda was part of that. Truth to tell, she’d had a better, kinder upbringing than Ace had.
He shook his head. He just didn’t understand this woman at all.
“What’s Rachel up to this summer?” Belinda asked him.
Mildly surprised by her polite question and civil tone, Ace speared another stalk of broccoli with his fork. “She’s working in the university lab this summer.”
“What’s she got, one more year?”
“Yeah. She’ll get her vet license next spring.”
“And none too soon,” Jack muttered. “We’re down to one vet for the whole county. We need her.”
The talk around the table turned to animal medical emergencies, then to downed fences, rampaging moose and elk, the wild horse herds that swept through the area. Belinda was so interested in what the men were saying—it was a far cry from her usual conversations about HTML coding, Java and cgi scripts, databases, table layouts, and overall web designs—that she hadn’t realized everyone was finished eating until Trey spoke.
“Okay,” he said, bracing his hands against the edge of the table. “I’ll risk my neck here, or maybe my stomach, and ask, since nobody else seems to be brave enough.” He was looking straight at Belinda.
“Ask what?” she asked.
He swallowed with an audible gulp. “Is there any dessert?”
Belinda laughed. “Got ya scared, do I?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We got dessert, don’t we, Aunt Binda?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jason, we sure do.”
A cautious sigh of relief made its way around the table.
Belinda rose and came back smiling a moment later with a platter from the pantry. “Gentlemen, I give you... dessert.”
Silence first Followed shortly by booming laughter when, with a flourish, she presented two dozen packages of Ding Dongs.
“Who wants ice cream with his chocolate cake?”
While Belinda cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher, the boys went outside to play with Scooter. When she finished, she poked her head out the back door. “Anybody here wanna send an e-mail to Grandma?”
“I do, I do!” came three young voices.
“Well, all right then, let’s go.”
She led them upstairs to her room.
“That’s your computer?” Jason stared wide-eyed at the micronotebook set up on a folding table next to the dresser in Belinda’s bedroom. “That little thing?”
“Yes,” she said carefully. “You can all look. But here’s the deal. This computer is how I earn my living. It’s not a toy. You have to promise me, all three of you, that you will never, ever touch it, not any part of it, unless I’m with you. Dead?”
“Deal,” they said in unison.
“Okay.” But just to be safe, she would keep it on the top closet shelf when she wasn’t using it. Lightweight portability had its disadvantages. “Let’s get busy,” she said. “Grandma needs flowers.”
First she logged on to the server in her office back in Denver and set up an e-mail account for the boys. After all, she told them, Grandma would surely want to answer any message they sent her. Then Belinda took them onto the Internet to one of the sites that e-mailed pictures of flower bouquets for free and let the boys choose what to send. They decided on colorful balloons instead of flowers.
Belinda smiled. “Oh, she’ll like these.”
“You think so?” Jason asked.
“I know so. What should we say on the card?”
“Get well, Grandma?” Jason offered.
“How come you get to say?” Clay demanded.
“How come?” Grant echoed.
“We can all say whatever we want,” Belinda told them easily. “Jason wants to say ‘Get well, Grandma.’ What do you want to say, Clay?”
“I wanted to say the same thing.”
“Okay, how about this? We can say ‘Get well, Grandma.”’ She typed as she spoke.
“Is that what that says?” Clay wanted to know.
“Uh-huh. Then we’ll sign Jason’s name to it. Then,” she got in before Clay could protest, “we’ll type in your message, Clay. Do you want to say the same thing?”
By the time they finished, each boy had told Grandma to get well, and their attention was starting to wander.
“When will Grandma get the balloons?” Clay asked.
“As soon as she checks her e-mail. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”
“Ooh, cool. Clowns.”
“This is the Kids Channel. Here.” She showed Jason how to move his finger over the touch pad to point and click. Since he’d only just finished first grade, she had to read most of the text to him, but he caught on to the graphic links instantly. A few minutes later she had to practically force him to give each of his brothers a turn, but she had a ball introducing them to the wonders of the Internet.
Ace stood at the door to her room and watched. They had their backs to him, so they didn’t know he was there. He was glad. He didn’t want them to see the confusion running through him just then. He’d meant to teach them himself about the Internet; he’d just never found the time, nor an appropriate method. And they seemed too young to understand. Or maybe he was too old to explain.
Belinda made explaining cyberspace look easy. He supposed he was grateful to her for introducing them to the technology. He was grateful. He just didn’t like feeling grateful to her.
When their attention started drifting again, Belinda disconnected from the Internet and shut down her computer. “I’ll bet it’s bath time.”
“Aw, jeez, Aunt Binda,” Jason complained.
“Aw, jeez,” Grant echoed.
Clay made a face. “We don’t need no baf.”
“You,” she said, narrowing her eyes and poking a finger against Clay’s chest, “smell like a dog.”
Clay giggled. “So?”
“So,” she said, tickling his ribs and making him shriek. “Any critter that smells like a dog has to sleep out in the doghouse and eat dog food out of the dog bowl.”
Jason bounced on his toes. “Honest, Aunt Binda? We can sleep in the doghouse?”
Ace leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and chuckled. “Don’t look now, Aunt Binda, but I think you just blew it, big-time.”
Belinda gave him a narrow-eyed look. “And I can tell that pleases you, Daddy.”
“Not me,” he denied with another chuckle. “I just want to see how you get yourself out of this one.”
“Can we take the flashlight?” Jason wanted to know.
“Yeah, fash-light,” Grant mimicked.
“Flashlight?” With an effort,
Belinda tore her gaze from the sight of Ace lounging in her bedroom doorway. “Dogs don’t get flashlights. Or pillows or blankets or mattresses.”
Since she’d quit tickling Clay, he had stopped giggling. Now his lower lip trembled. “Do we have to sleep with Scooter? I think he gots fleas.”
Belinda mashed her lips together to keep from grinning and smoothed a hand over his thick, black hair. “Fleas, huh? Well...I suppose you could sleep in your beds if you took a bath.”
“Come on, guys.” Clay jumped up and barreled toward the door. “We’re gonna take our bath now, Dad.”
Chuckling as he turned to follow his sons to the bathroom at the end of the hall, Ace tossed back over his shoulder, “Nice save, Aunt Binda. I’ll handle bath time.
Belinda sat where she was, her fists clenched against her thighs. She didn’t want him to laugh, didn’t want him to be nice to her. It made the jittery feeling in the pit of her stomach, the one that came over her every time she got near him, just that much worse. Made her feel all quaky inside.
She didn’t like feeling quaky.
The boys were normally allowed a half hour of television after their bath, before going to bed. Tonight Belinda changed the rules on them and made them help her clean up the bathroom.
“But we’re just little kids,” Jason protested.
“Little kids,” Grant repeated with a sly grin.
“You’re water monkeys. A person could drown in the water you guys left on the floor.”
In seconds she had them mopping up the floor with their towels, and singing the “Volga Boatmen Song.”
“‘Yo-ho heave, ho.”’
The floor practically got polished, because they didn’t want to quit singing. Or giggling.
“I think I’ve created a monster,” she muttered.
“Three of them,” Ace said from the doorway.
Belinda jumped. She pressed a hand over her heart to keep it from leaping out of her chest. “I thought you’d gone downstairs.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I was coming back to clean up the mess.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked down at his three grinning sons. “I like this arrangement much better.”
Their Other Mother Page 3
