“No. I hired him years later to give him a chance, and he just proved I was right in the first place about him. He was a drunk, and he was incompetent.”
“My father might’ve tipped a few with his friends, but he was no alcoholic. And it wasn’t his fault that the drought hit or that cattle prices fell. A lot of people in the area suffered.”
“But they weren’t trying to weasel into my family.”
“Weasel? You probably can’t relate, but your son and I actually loved each other. It had nothing to do with his family or his money.”
“True love—or true greed?” Clint’s face darkened with anger. “You certainly left in a hurry when I told you that I’d disown him if he defied me. That, my dear, says it all.”
“I…didn’t want him to lose everything because of me.”
“Right,” he snarled. “And because of you he defied me anyway. I lost my son.”
“Lost him? You disowned him. It was your decision to slam the door. Otherwise, he might’ve come back after a few years in the service.”
“You have no idea of the damage you’ve caused.” Clint shoved his chair back and swept out of the room. The air still vibrated with his anger after he was gone.
She leaned back in her chair, suddenly exhausted.
She’d heard him all right, and still remembered every word, every threat he’d made all those years ago. Because she had believed him, she’d walked away from the only true love she’d ever had.
And nothing in her life had ever been the same again.
THE REST OF THE DAY grew busier by the minute. Flu. A broken arm. Pneumonia. A ranch hand with a severe laceration and a burn after wrestling a husky calf during branding.
Dr. Lou showed up at noon, which helped, but they still didn’t finish until after five-thirty.
Cody, who’d stayed after school for football practice, and had been dropped off at the clinic at five by Trevor’s wife, was far more subdued about the wait than he usually was.
“Come on, honey,” Kristin said as she shouldered her bag and headed for the door. “I’ll bet you’re famished.”
“I guess.”
“Maybe we should stop at the DQ for some cheeseburgers and malts. What do you think, are you hungry enough?” He just nodded.
Even after several talks about the incident at the Four Aces, he’d refused Donna’s invitation to go back there again and hadn’t even wanted to go riding yesterday, which added to Kristin’s worry.
At the DQ, they settled at a table under a brightly striped umbrella with hot fudge malts, cheeseburgers and an extra large basket of onion rings.
Cody dug into the onion rings, while Kristin savored her juicy cheeseburger and idly surveyed the jumble of businesses on the edge of town. A parts store, a feed store…and a little farther out, she could see just the top of the sign for Buddy’s Auto Shop.
She’d wanted to get out there for a week now, but the clinic’s schedule had filled rapidly and Buddy’s hours were erratic. He’d been closed every time she managed to get out there at five. But maybe…
She stood and shaded her eyes as she scanned the low hill behind the businesses flanking the main highway out of town. Perhaps she couldn’t actually talk to Buddy himself, but even from here she could make out haphazard rows of old vehicles parked inside a high wooden fence on the slope behind Buddy’s shop. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she just walked back there and tried to peek through the fence.
“I’ve got an idea, Cody. Let’s finish our supper on the way home, okay? I have one stop to make first, and then we’ll get home early enough to ride for a while.”
He nodded obediently and gathered up his burger and malt. When she pulled into a shady spot in front of Buddy’s, he looked at her with astonishment. “We’re stopping here?”
She rolled both windows down partway, then hit the locks as she stepped out of the truck. “Stay inside with the doors locked. I’ll just be a minute.”
“But they’re closed.”
“I know. I just want to check out the old cars in back.” He appeared intrigued with that idea, but if he started asking questions, she wouldn’t be able to answer them. Not just yet, anyway. “Finish those onion rings before I get back, or we’ll be fighting over them,” she teased.
She rounded the building, avoiding barrels and greasy puddles. “Hello—anyone here?”
She heard a dog barking, but no one appeared. She skirted the rusted hulks of several old tractors and stacks of various parts and pieces, and warily made her way through the tall weeds to the fenced enclosure out back.
Something rustled past her shoes and she jumped back with a hand at her mouth, imagining snakes and rats. Mosquitoes swarmed about her face as she crossed a low damp spot, where a foul stench rose from rusted drums filled with stagnant rainwater and the iridescent shimmer of discarded oil.
Batting at the persistent insects, she hurried to higher ground.
The fence was a good ten feet tall or more, constructed of solid wood planks, but it was an old one. She slowly moved up the hill, stopping wherever she found warped or broken boards that afforded a glimpse inside. She surveyed the first row of vehicles, then the next.
Many of the vehicles had been parted out down to the barest skeleton. Most looked as if they’d been there for aeons and were becoming part of the landscape, with sagebrush and twisted cedars growing up through the gaping holes where engines and hoods were missing.
The sun-warmed smell of old oil and rubber made her eyes burn. She’d just reached the halfway point and had steadied herself with a hand on the fence when a dog burst out of the shadows barking furiously, its jaws snapping at the fence not inches away from her.
Startled, she cried out and fell back a step, breathing hard as a rush of adrenaline shot through her.
A second later, a middle-aged man in jeans, an oil-stained shirt and a ball cap strode into view. He didn’t look friendly.
“Down, Rascal,” he commanded. Its tail wagging now, the black Lab backed away, though its eyes never left Kristin’s face.
“I…I was hoping to find a particular vehicle,” Kristin said faintly.
“Most people come during business hours,” he retorted. “Those who come out here alone are usually up to no good.”
“I—I’ve been trying to get here during your business hours, but I work at the clinic in town and you’re always closed after five.”
“The front door is closed,” he corrected her. “Most folks around here know that I’m usually in back, working till late.” He studied her. “What are you looking for?”
“My father’s pickup. A ’67 Chevy that rolled over just about eighteen months ago. Sheriff Montgomery said it was towed here. Are you Buddy?”
“Yep.” The man visibly relaxed. “But it won’t do you no good to go looking, there wasn’t much of anything usable left on that truck. It got crushed and hauled a long time back.”
Kristin’s heart fell. “You’re sure.”
“Sorry, but that probably ain’t how you want to remember your daddy anyway, is it?”
She looked past him to the rows of vehicles she hadn’t searched yet. There might even be some vehicles she couldn’t see, from this side of the fence, and that thought gave her renewed hope. “But—”
“Come on down to the office.” He smiled kindly. “I got to keep book work on what comes and goes out of here, and everything gets tagged with a number. I’ll show you, so you don’t keep thinking that ole truck is here. I’ll meet you out front.”
She made her way back down the hill to the open door of the shop, where Buddy stood. “Just one more minute,” she called out to Cody as she passed.
He hopped out of the truck to join her. “This looks like a cool place. How come I couldn’t go see those cars with you?”
“There was nothing to see, really.” She hesitated before letting him come along into the cramped office. A badly crumpled vehicle might have raised frightening images for him, but documents would have
much less emotional impact. She curved an arm around his shoulders for a quick hug. “I just wanted to find out about your grandfather Nate’s old truck.”
Obviously not yet in the computer age, Buddy lifted a big ledger from a shelf jammed with small auto parts, a well-stained coffee mug and some old rags.
He flipped through the pages, then turned the book around for her to read an entry written in an awkward, looping scrawl.
She held her breath as she read it, then sighed with disappointment. “You’re right. I’m sorry to have bothered you like this.”
“And I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. I knew Nate real well, and I kept that ole truck around longer than I should have just because it was his.” Buddy closed the book and rested his grease-stained hands on it, as if saying goodbye to his old friend. “I’m real sorry about your loss.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
RYAN LED JAZZ over to the electric walker, snapped one of the dangling lead chains to the colt’s halter and gave him a congratulatory pat on the neck. “Good job, fella.”
Outside the enclosure, he flipped a switch to start the rotation of the octopus-like metal arms that radiated from the central motor. The colt obediently set off at a slow walk around the circular path. In a half hour, he’d be cool and dry, ready to turn out into a corral for the night with his kindergarten-level buddies, who were all in training, too.
Ryan shouldered the colt’s cotton lead rope and started for the tack room, feeling better physically than he had in a long time.
Months of surgeries and therapy had put him back on his feet again. Leaving behind the wheelchair, and then his cane, had been victories hard won.
He knew he’d never forget the horrors of what he’d seen and done in the service. His shoulder and knee might never be right again. But on the back of a young horse, he’d felt truly alive…as if he was finally able to decide his own future without the shackles of permanent disability holding him back.
He’d stepped into the tack room when he heard a soft rustle, and the presence of another person suddenly registered. He turned back into the darkened aisle.
Partway down, almost hidden in the shadows, a tall, thin figure stood at one of the stalls, petting the nose of the horse inside. She turned. “Hello, dear.”
A multitude of emotions surfaced—surprise, delight, a touch of irritation at seeing her standing so casually here as if she’d never left. “Mother.”
She sauntered forward, all angular sophistication and grace, her salt-and-pepper hair swinging in an oblique cut at her jaw. Her rough-woven cream sweater and beige slacks looked more Houston than Homestead. “It’s been a long time, dear.” She rested her slender fingers on his shoulders, brushed a cool kiss against his cheek, then leaned back to survey him. “You look marvelous.”
Marvelous wasn’t the way he felt right now, but he returned her smile. “As do you.”
Her face seemed to fall for a split second, then she rallied, a conspiratorial smile deepening the feathery wrinkles at her eyes. “I do believe I surprised your father this morning, the old goat. I probably took two years off his life.”
“I’m not sure he’d want to give you that pleasure.”
“Score,” she said lightly. “Although it might surprise you to hear that I really don’t wish him any harm.”
“I remember. You were the best of friends.” He laughed. “As long as there were at least three hundred miles between you.”
“Divorce was the right choice,” she agreed. She fingered the heavy gold chain at her neck. “For the two of us at least, but not for you boys. I’ll always regret some of the decisions made back then.”
He doubted that. Lydia Gallagher had been a free spirit, a strong woman with a streak of stubborn independence that matched Clint’s, and they’d been like gasoline and flame. The wonder was they’d stayed together long enough to produce three children.
“What brings you here?” He smiled. “Or do you come out often, now?”
“You are joking.” She pulled a face. “I see the boys, of course, and Trevor’s family, but I choose to not overstress your father by arriving when he’s in town, and I always stay with Trevor. I believe Clint prefers it that way, and so do I.”
The Gallagher home had been a shining example of marital bliss—and where it could lead, if everything went wrong. Armed camps. Careful awareness of enemy lines. At least with the Gallagher money, there hadn’t been the financial devastation of divorce he’d seen in the lives of some of his buddies in the service.
Long separations and the continual stress of knowing a loved one was facing constant danger certainly took its toll.
“But you’re staying here this time?” he asked. When she nodded he raised a brow, imagining the silence and solitude of the big old house erupting into World War III.
“I heard you were here, and I knew I had to come. It’s been so many years since we spent any time together.” Her breezy veneer seemed to crack just a little. “I know I wasn’t very attentive when you were tykes, and that your father and I can’t undo how we handled things. But I’d like a chance to be with you for a while.”
She studied him, the faint hope in her eyes making him feel as if perhaps he should hug her, though his first impulse was to shake her hand. The awkward moment lengthened, trapping him as if his boots had been glued to the floor, until she released him with a light laugh.
“Don’t worry, dear. I don’t intend to pounce like your Great Aunt Flora. Remember her—with the jangling bracelets and head scarves? She used to smother you with hugs when you were a toddler.” Lydia rested her hand on Ryan’s cheek. “I think I’ll go back up to the house and turn in early. I’m sure you must have a thousand things to do out here.” With a flutter of her fingertips she strolled out of the barn, thin and graceful, and as coolly unapproachable as ever.
Her dry humor was still there. The flinty attitude. But something wasn’t quite right, and Ryan just hoped that his premonition was wrong.
MINDFUL OF HIS ACHING shoulder, Ryan lifted yet another battered cardboard box from the floor of the closet in the office and dropped it on the desk in a haze of dust. He kept thinking back to what Kristin had said last Saturday.
What was it like, losing your father and wondering if his was a wrongful death? Coming back to a town where rumors still flew about his association with a man many mistrusted or downright feared?
Ryan had grown up on the Four Aces, but he hadn’t been deaf to the whispers and the cautious, sidelong glances. Kids had talked at school, repeated what parents said.
Most thought Clint had risen to political power through carefully placed cronies and well-spent money. No one doubted that he could still call in favors and influence the future of anyone he chose. And Nate Cantrell, who’d been an occasional employee and who’d also been part of several minor business schemes, had been tarred with the same brush.
The hurt in Cody’s eyes at that football game a week ago had touched Ryan. Having an absentee father like Ted had to be tough enough, and now Cody was aware of the ill will against his grandfather, as well. Poor kid.
Ryan lifted a dozen rubber band-bound manila folders out of the box on the desk, stuffed with yellowed receipts, notes scrawled on scraps of paper and bank statements. There hadn’t been any organization to the previous box he’d gone through, and this one looked just as bad.
He fired up the computer and launched Excel, then painstakingly went through each slip of paper, recording equipment, feed, supplies, services, sales receipts. He separated them into the cattle or horse operations where possible.
By the time he got to the March boxes, he’d developed an uneasy feeling that there were inconsistencies. By the time he got to May, he was sure of it. He printed off what he’d completed for the most recent twelve months and what he’d done so far for the year before, then went through each bank statement, each bill and receipt.
None of it made sense.
There was almost no consistency in the numbers from la
st year until now. Expenditures were far higher—or missing altogether—and some goods and services had been added in the past year that had never appeared before, from what he could see.
In disgust, Ryan tossed a stack of files back in the box and abandoned the office to watch Trevor and Garrett working some young colts in the outdoor arena.
Garrett glanced at Ryan but kept working his mount in smaller and smaller circles at a lope.
Trevor jogged over to the side of the arena, eased his horse to a stop and shook out some slack in the reins. “What’s up?”
“I’ll trade you jobs,” Ryan said. “I’d much rather work a colt than wade through the mess in that office.”
“It’s my fault, much as anyone’s, I guess. I should have been in the office more.” Guilt flashed in his brother’s eyes. “Oscar was always grumbling about how much there was to do, but I always figured it would all get done, somehow. When Nate came he seemed so much more efficient that I was just relieved to make him responsible. Put me on a horse or a tractor, and I know what I’m doing. A computer—good luck.”
“How did y’all ever handle quarterly taxes the past few years?”
“Leland, Clint…it all worked out, I guess.”
But a tax audit now would be a nightmare…and the possibility of fines, late taxes and the levy of interest on overdue payments could deliver a crushing blow to a ranch that already appeared to be on shaky ground. “Did you talk to the accountant who tried to sort this out—the one who discovered the embezzlement?”
“Briefly.” Trevor tipped his hat back and rested a forearm across his saddle horn. “But that was last spring, when I was gone for six weeks. Donna and I were hauling the new stud and some younger stock to the bigger quarter horse shows.”
“I’m finding boxes of old records. Haphazard filing…”
“Yeah, that’s what the accountant said. What you see is how he found it—and he was plumb irritated, too. I hear he stayed at the ranch for two weeks longer than he’d planned. He finally said there was so much missing documentation that he could only guess.”
A Home in Hill Country (Harlequin Heartwarming) Page 11
