by Susan Wiggs
Edward Bliss came out into the timber-ceilinged hall, a stack of folded blankets in his arms. Sam’s partner was five-foot-two, half Salish Indian, and one hundred percent hell-raiser.
“What’s with the blankets?” Sam asked.
“Ruby Lightning wove them. Asked me to put them out at the bake sale table tonight.”
They climbed into the old Dodge truck, shivering against the chilled vinyl seats. The engine coughed in protest, then turned over with a flatulent blast of exhaust. Sam put it in gear and eased down the gravel drive. A thread of fiery orange sunset stitched across the peaks of the Mission Range. Foothills shadowed the lower pastures in shades of purple. The landscape looked bleak and cold, beautiful in a way few could admire.
He followed the dark rein of the road, glancing in the side mirrors to check the trailer. Rio and Zeus were probably dozing. The big quarter horses were used to the routine of loading up, driving, then waiting in the holding pen for a lightning ride that, in the old days, used to determine whether or not Sam got to eat that week.
“So what’s Ruby up to lately?” he asked.
Edward took out a stick of Juicy Fruit, offering Sam the pack. “You ought to call her up and ask her.”
Sam folded the gum in half twice and put it in his mouth. “Maybe I will. She doing all right?”
“You could ask her that, too.”
An English teacher at the local high school, Ruby Lightning was also a single mom and an activist in the Kootenai tribal government. She was scrubbed, earthy, and available, living in a frame house just a quarter mile down the road. They’d had some good times in the past, shared a few laughs, and could have shared more if he’d been so inclined.
Sam had simply stopped calling her. He wasn’t proud of the way he drifted in and out of relationships. He’d tried marriage once and discovered it was a bad fit—like boots that were too tight. He didn’t need a shrink to explain the parallels between his failed romances and his lousy childhood.
“How’s that daughter of hers?” Sam wondered aloud.
“Molly’s in the barrel-racing competition for sixteen-and-under.”
“No kidding.” It seemed only yesterday that he’d met little Molly Lightning, a dark-eyed waif, completely devoted to an old Welsh pony Ruby had bartered from Sam. Now Molly was nearly grown, slim and lithe as a bullhide whip, probably leaving the halls of Crystal City High littered with broken hearts. Christ, where did the years go?
Like the best horses Sam had known, the girl had fire and heart. She also had, he recalled, a great mom.
Yeah, maybe he would give Ruby a call.
“How much does she want for those blankets?” he asked. Ruby was an expert weaver, using Montana-grown wool and traditional patterns and totems in her designs.
“Fifty bucks apiece,” Edward said. “You want one?”
Sam grinned as he turned into the arena parking lot. “If I win the purse tonight, I’ll buy them all.”
“So you think you and old Rio’ll win, eh, cowboy?” A gold tooth flashed in Edward’s grin.
“Hey, we always win.” It was a lie, and both he and Edward knew it. But there had been a time when Sam truly did rule the roping competitions. One winning ride used to net him $22,000, sometimes more. Most cowboys spent their winnings on silver-studded saddles and fancy rigs. Sam had used his for a different purpose altogether, a purpose that set him apart from other rodeo stars and made him something of an oddity in the circuit.
After he became a national champion, the trade sheets had a field day with him, focusing on the unorthodox choices he’d made. They’d documented his dazzling style, his natural grace in the sport. They’d published his hefty earnings. Plastered his face on calendars. For several seasons he’d been the golden boy of the circuit, the cowboy with a career plan.
What the reporters hadn’t documented was the godawful loneliness. The grinding tedium. The aches and bruises so deep they made him feel older than rock itself. It was a solitary life, traveling from show to show in a beat-up truck hauling a horse trailer, chasing down trashy, roped-out steers. But the prospect of another ride, another purse, had sustained him through the roughest times of his life.
“Nice rig,” Edward said, as Sam drove past a white Ford 350 dually with a pristine white Cattleman trailer at least thirty-six feet long. Gleaming in the floodlights, the thing looked like a giant suppository.
On its side, in perfect custom commercial script, was a familiar logo in indigo paint: BLUE ROCK RANCH.
“Gavin Slade must’ve bought himself another new toy,” Sam said. He used to resent everything Slade had and everything he was. But that was a long time ago.
Lately the whole town had been gossiping about Gavin in concerned undertones. Throwing his money away on expensive rigs wouldn’t fix what was wrong. But it sure as hell wasn’t Sam’s place to tell Gavin that.
Edward spotted a cluster of women at the doorway of the concession hall. “So hurry up and park already. I got people to see.”
Despite his bantam-rooster stature, Edward Bliss was a ladies’ man. He wrenched the rearview mirror toward himself, took off his Stetson, and checked his hair. He worked at flirting as seriously as he worked the ranch.
Sam yanked the mirror back and angled the truck toward his usual parking spot at the north end of the arena. “Damn,” he said, cranking down the window and spitting out his gum.
“What is it?” asked Edward.
Sam glared at a late-model silver Range Rover with Washington plates. “Some idiot’s parked in my spot.”
Chapter 3
This is totally bogus, Mom,” Cody said through chattering teeth as they walked toward the main building of the arena. “I can’t believe you’re making me come to a Wild West show.”
“It’s not a Wild West show. It’s a rodeo.”
“I can’t believe you’re making me come anywhere near—shit!” Cody stopped walking and looked down.
“Horseshit, to be precise. Wipe your foot in the snow.”
He got the worst of it off, grumbling the whole time. Somehow, it was impossible for Cody to be cool when he was scraping manure off his hundred-dollar Doc Martens.
“Can’t we just go to his place and wait for him?” Cody demanded. “You said he had a guesthouse.”
“Guesthouses—plural. My father never does anything part way.” Blue Rock Ranch was the epitome of contemporary Western living: several thousand pristine acres complete with streams, ponds, and a compound of houses and barns that resembled a small, elegant village in a storybook setting. Some years back, Architectural Digest did a spread on the main house. And Michelle’s father—never one to shun the public that validated his existence—made the most of it.
She had come across the article by accident. She’d been sitting at her drafting table at work one day, paging through magazines and looking at the ads to see what the competition was cooking up. Unsuspecting, she turned a page and found herself staring at a perfect shot of Blue Rock Ranch in high summer when avalanche lilies blanketed the hills and the grass was so green it hurt the eyes. The ensuing pages displayed room after perfect room. She recognized the window seat where she used to read and sketch, the rustic porch where she’d sat in the Stickley glider, spinning dreams she was absolutely certain would come true.
“So what say we go hang out in one of his ‘plural’ guesthouses?” Cody inspected the bottom of his shoe.
“No. We’re here, and we’re going to find my father.”
“What’s he doing out anyway? I thought he was sick.”
“He’s sick, all right, but not bedridden. His condition—”
“Jeez, it’s cold.” Cody stamped his feet on the straw-covered snow. “I guess if we’re going in, let’s go.” He hunched his shoulders and headed for the main entrance. He never wanted to talk about her father’s illness, never wanted to hear the details of what had to be done. He had a teenager’s abiding horror of things medical and refused to consider his own mortality or tha
t of anyone he knew.
Michelle bought tickets from a smiling girl with crooked teeth and loftily teased hair. “Right through there, ma’am.” The girl gestured, displaying a lavishly fringed polyester sleeve.
“Don’t say a word,” Michelle warned Cody as they pushed through the turnstile. But the sarcastic look on his face said it all.
They found themselves amid a crowd of men in sheepskin-lined denim jackets and women in tight jeans with the creases ironed in blade-sharp. Michelle took a moment to inspect her son. Out of place would be putting it mildly. Torn black jeans with thick chains inexplicably draped from the pockets. A leather jacket studded with rivets along every seam. His hair was oddly colored—white sidewalls around his ears to show off a row of stainless-steel earrings, a long ponytail over the top and hanging down his back. The ends were still slightly green from when he’d dyed it for a Phish concert last summer.
Ah, but that face. Sullen, yes, but still so beautiful.
What happened to you, my precious boy?
She resisted the urge to tell him to straighten his shoulders. Part of his determined coolness involved a studied slouch that gave his body the shape of a question mark.
Stand tall, like your father did.
Her stomach constricted nervously as they walked along the front of the bleachers in search of Gavin Slade. She’d see him soon. Good grief, what would they say to each other?
Their last face-to-face conversation had not been pleasant.
“I’m pregnant, Daddy.”
Gavin had gone all stony-eyed. Then he’d said: “I’m not surprised. Your mother was careless, too.”
“My father was careless,” she’d shot back.
That same day, she’d left Blue Rock Ranch, vowing never to return. But here she was, years later, her nerves strung taut with anticipation.
Heat blew into the arena through long tubes connected to generators. The smells of horse and leather and popcorn filled the air with poignant reminders of the past. Michelle couldn’t help but notice the spot where she used to sit in the bleachers and watch the cowboys putting quarter horses through their paces. And there, in the middle of the arena, was the place where she’d lost her heart to a horse called Dooley.
She remembered the feel of the spirited animal beneath her as she learned the heart-tightening, dangerous joys of barrel racing. An experienced dressage rider, Michelle thought she knew how to handle a horse. But Dooley wasn’t just any horse. He was a quarter horse bred for athletic ability, agility, and quickness, with Thoroughbred blood for extra speed and an explosive disposition. He took the turns around the barrels, expertly pivoting on one back leg. She still remembered the exhilaration of the flat-out run, the check at full speed, the turn 180 degrees around the barrel in a dizzying cloverleaf pattern. Across the years, she still could hear a voice calling encouragement, calling to the Michelle she used to be.
You’re doing great for a city girl. Let him have his head. I think he likes you….
Willing away the reminiscence, she watched a slim girl in black and turquoise ride into the ring on a piebald mare. Horse and rider flowed like water as they chased the cans. The girl, her shining black braid slapping as rhythmically as her quirt, wore a look of intense, exultant concentration on her face as she exited the course and the crowd applauded. The PA system blared an impressive time—17.5 seconds.
Ah, that smile, Michelle thought, studying the girl. Had she ever been that young? That happy?
Cody was watching the girl, too, and for once the expression on his face wasn’t so snide. Even her urban animal of a son couldn’t resist an event that featured beautifully dressed girls, powerful and good-looking horses, and fast action. Then he caught his mother studying him, and his rapt expression faded. “Well?” he asked. “You going to go find him or what?”
They passed the Chamber of Commerce table. She spotted a familiar face, and it gave her a start. Earl Meecham, owner of the Truxtop Café, was handing out flyers or coupons of some sort. He hadn’t changed much—a little more paunch, maybe, a little more jowl. Shadowed by a ten-gallon Resistol hat, his grin reached from ear to ear.
Briefly, Meecham’s eyes met Michelle’s, but she could tell he didn’t recognize her. She was a lot different from the girl with the long blond ponytail and the stars in her eyes.
Turning up the collar of her jacket, she moved toward the bleachers near the judges’ booth. There, standing with one Lucchese boot propped on a hitch rail, a printed program clutched in his fist, was her father.
Instant panic set in. She had the urge to flee, to hide. I can’t do this. Not here, not now. Yet at the heart of the panic lay something far more powerful. Love or hate or maybe a wrenching combination of the two. Resolve. Duty. She shoved the panic away.
Cody must have sensed her tension, because he stopped walking and followed the direction of her gaze. “That’s him, isn’t it?” His voice was bland, bored.
“Yes, that’s him.” The noise of the crowd and the milling calves and horses fell away as she studied her father.
Gavin Slade. Thirty years ago he had been the hottest ticket in Hollywood, building a career on a body of tense, gritty Westerns and hard-edged police dramas. His rugged good looks had graced fan magazines and tabloids from Life to the National Enquirer. He was still good-looking, his face chiseled and lean, his air of command still evident, his magnetic charm still powerful.
At the height of his fame he had left Hollywood, migrating to Montana before it became fashionable to do so. He had discovered Crystal City during a location shoot and spent years building Blue Rock Ranch, becoming a rodeo stock contractor with an international reputation. Some of his bucking stock was better known than the champions who rode them. The people in the town lionized him. They considered him one of their own because he predated all the other California transplants. She’d never really known why he’d moved or what he hoped to find in Montana. Was he running away from the Hollywood rat race or was he running away from Michelle and her mother?
“He doesn’t look sick,” Cody observed, trying to appear casual but sounding relieved instead.
Gavin was a little too thin, perhaps, and maybe a yellowish cast haunted his complexion and the whites of his eyes, but Michelle allowed that the coloring might be from the arena lights. She took off her Gore-Tex gloves and stuck them in her pockets. Despite the midwinter cold, sweat dampened her palms. She wiped them on her jeans. “Let’s go tell him we’re here.”
A short, bandy-legged cowboy carrying a stack of woven blankets jostled her as he passed, but she barely noticed. When she was a few feet away from her father, he glanced up. She didn’t know this man well enough to read his expression. After all, she’d only spent half a year of her life with him. He’d always been a stranger to her. A stranger she called “Daddy.”
“Michelle, honey.” His trademark thousand-watt smile lit up his face, showing off his perfect teeth. “Come and give your old man a hug.”
His arms went around her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Clean laundry, breath mints, expensive aftershave. A strong embrace that enclosed her entirely. She told herself that it shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. He was a stranger. But when she drew back and looked up, tears swam across her eyes.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“I didn’t think you’d show up until tomorrow.”
“We got an early start. The roads weren’t bad, so we drove straight on through.” She stepped back, blinking fast, refusing to shed the tears. “This is Cody.”
Gavin’s smile froze. She held her breath, hoping he’d look past the leather and chains, praying he’d see through the rebellious attitude. But Gavin had missed the wonder years with Cody, just as he had missed them with Michelle. He never knew the radiant joy of a toddler’s face on Christmas morning, the triumphant exuberance of a nine-year-old who had just caught his first fish, the perfect tenderness of a boy holding a newly hatched duckling in his cupped hands, or his shy pride as he del
ivered breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day.
Gavin saw only what stood before him now. His mouth took on the brittle edges of a false grin as he said, “Well, now. How do, youngster?” He stuck out his hand.
Cody took it briefly, then let go. “Okay.”
Michelle found herself wishing she’d coached him for this moment. Not that he would have listened, but shouldn’t she have instructed him to be a little less sullen?
Awkwardness hung like a bad smell in the air. A dogie bawled in the pen outside. Michelle tried to will away her disappointment. What did she expect, that they’d fall into each other’s arms just because one was her father, the other her son? That was something that might have happened in one of Gavin’s old movies, not in real life.
She cleared her throat. “I knew we’d find you here.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, honey. Wouldn’t miss it.” He was the reason a town this size even had a rodeo. He needed a place to work his stock, and the arena had been built with civic funds—but with Gavin Slade in mind. He focused on the refreshment stand. “Can I get you two something to drink?”
“I think I’ll go look around some.” Cody jammed his hands into his pockets. His already sagging jeans lowered a notch. Michelle hoped her father didn’t notice the South Park boxers that showed above the waistband.
“All right.” She had promised herself she wouldn’t try to force her father and son to get along. “Be back here in a half hour.” As a reflex, she almost told him to stay out of trouble. She bit back the words. He generally took her warnings as invitations to step out of line. Watching him saunter away, she said, “I think he’s a little tired and cranky from the long drive.”
“How about you?” Gavin asked. “Can I get you something—coffee? A beer?”
“I’m fine.”
He touched her shoulder. “Michelle. I feel stupid saying thank you for coming. How the hell can I thank you?”
She felt the color rise in her face. “Don’t even try. I’m here. I’m going to help.” She was filled with an impulse to milk this occasion, to bask in his gratitude. She was clearly the martyr here. She could use this to stitch together their tattered relationship.
