"No."
"Well, of course we don't have to. I just thought if—"
"I didn't mean to bite your head off," Jenny apologized. "I just don't want to ride fence, because the ranch isn't mine anymore. Or soon it won't be. I'm leaving."
"Leaving?"
"Taking your advice, actually. Sticking my big toe into university life. Moving on. So if you want to do something with me today, maybe we could go for lunch and let me check out apartments in Bozeman?"
There were cattle that needed checking on the summer range.
Taggart couldn't leave. He had new twins and no time. It was the new equation of his life, he said. Jed thought he could spare a day or two, but he was reluctant to leave Brenna with her father, Tuck and Neile alone.
"I'll go," Mace volunteered.
It suited him fine. Being on his own, far away from anyone, sounded like the best of all possible worlds. And if, while he was gone, Anthony called to tell him when the court date was, well, that was too bad. They'd just have to reschedule.
A guy had his priorities. To a cowboy, the herd came first.
Mace told himself that a hundred times a day over the next five days as he rode the high country, checking on his cattle and Taggart's and Jed's. It was true. But it didn't make it any easier.
He had the most beautiful scenery on earth—and no one to share it with. Other summers Jenny had come with him. They called it their "vacation," since they never had the time or money to go anywhere else.
"Why should we?" Jenny would always say when he apologized for never taking her anywhere. "People come to Montana for their holidays, don't they? We just have a head start on them."
When they came together it had always been a holiday of sorts.
They brought a small tent and used it on the rainy nights. But on the bright clear ones, they slept out under the stars. Jenny would snuggle against his side, and together they would watch the stars.
Invariably attention would turn to things closer at hand. She would touch his rough-stubbled cheek and wonder how his scratchy beard would feel against her skin.
And he would show her.
He would wonder if her lips were as soft and moist as they looked.
And she would kiss him.
She would wonder if his fingers were as clever as they looked.
And he would touch her. And…
And that's why he was going quietly out of his mind right now.
It didn't help that a bear scared some cattle and it took him half a day to round them up and bring them down out of the woods. It didn't help that a half dozen cows ate larkspur and there was nothing he could do to save them.
It didn't help that once the rain started, it never wanted to stop.
Montana, any cowboy could tell you, was pretty arid country. They got rain, sure, and snow, you bet. But a good year was a year they didn't have to irrigate much.
This year they'd be lucky not to have to build an ark, Mace thought.
The first day he got a short rain shower. He ignored it and went on with his work. The second day was lovely, bright and cold, with a wind coming down from the northwest. The third morning, he was awakened by rain in his face.
He hadn't brought a tent. That had always been a concession to Jenny. When he was alone, he used a fly.
The fly didn't help him when the rain came in horizontally beneath it. Grumbling, he made himself a fire to dry out a bit before he started work. He used up the last of the dry firewood.
If Jenny had been with him, she'd have cooked breakfast while he wrangled more wood. She'd have made lunch and had it ready when he came back from circling that afternoon. She'd have made dinner when he came in wet and tired.
But Jenny wasn't there. Never would be. He was on his own now. On his own.
He didn't bother with a fire that night. He ate a granola bar and an apple and tried to tell his still-growling stomach that things would be better in the morning. It would have stopped raining by then, and he could once more treat it right.
But by next morning the rain hadn't stopped. Cold, wet and bone weary, he tried to find dry wood to make a fire. He sneezed as he was making the coffee.
He cursed at the scratching in his throat.
He worked all day, and the rain never stopped. He came back to camp weary and cold. He'd used all his firewood at breakfast. His shoulders ached; his head throbbed; his nose ran.
If Jenny had been there, she'd have had a fire going and supper ready.
If Jenny had been there… "Damn!"
He ate his dinner cold, not wanting to heat it. Then he rigged the fly, opened his bedroll and turned in. The rain would stop, he promised himself, and he would feel better in the morning.
By morning the rain had turned to snow. The ache had moved from his shoulders to the rest of his body. His head still throbbed. His nose still ran. And he started to cough.
It was hell.
The prettiest damn hell on earth.
The snow made everything a wonderland. Jenny would have loved it. It would have been a pain to work in, but she would have hugged him and tackled him and rolled them both in the snow, making him laugh and forget his misery. She would have made things all right.
It wasn't all right now.
It wasn't all right at all.
He kept working. He got sicker. The snow turned back into rain.
Three more days the rain kept up. He couldn't believe it.
Finally he gave up and headed back down. His eyes were streaming, his nose was running. He was coughing and aching. His teeth were chattering and his body was burning.
He needed a warm fire, a hot meal and about a hundred cups of coffee. He needed a heavy blanket, a dry bed and about twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.
He was cowboy enough to see to his horse before he stumbled up the steps to the cabin.
He opened the door—and found a man he didn't know.
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Mace stopped, only his hand on the doorknob keeping him upright.
"What the—? Who the hell are you?"
The man, an older guy, sixty or so, with graying hair that might once have been red, looked just as startled as Mace. He was sitting in the chair by the fireplace with a book in his lap.
He shut it, then he said mildly, "You must be Mace."
Mace straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing a bit. "That's right."
"My name's Ian MacLeod." The man set his book on the small table and got to his feet, then held out his hand.
Mace let go of the doorknob unwillingly, but managed to stay upright long enough to shake it. He was still trying to figure out who the hell Ian MacLeod was. The name was vaguely familiar, but the man was not.
"Taggart told me you'd be up on the summer range another week or so," Ian MacLeod told him. "That's why he told me I could use the cabin."
"Use the cabin?" Mace croaked. He coughed to clear his throat.
Ian smiled. "He obviously wasn't figuring on the weather we've had. Sorry about that. I didn't intend to disturb you. I've been staying with Noah and Tess for a little while—sort of regrouping—and I thought I might give them a break and myself a little space. So I asked if they knew a place I could do a retreat, and Taggart suggested here."
"Retreat?" Mace echoed. He was confused, lightheaded. The fever was getting to him. The only kind of retreat he could think of was the kind he'd seen in old Western movies. "As in … cavalry?"
"As in 'spiritual,'" Ian MacLeod said with a gentle smile. "I'm Maggie Tanner's father."
It took Mace a moment to put it together. Maggie Tanner … Tanner's wife … Noah's sister-in-law's … father. The grieving uncle of Susannah's that Becky had mentioned.
"I'm a minister," Ian MacLeod said.
Mace's teeth came together with a snap.
Damn Taggart and his meddling, anyway! How dare he send up some minister to meddle in his life and tell him what to do!
And t
hen he remembered that Taggart had thought he was gone. Taggart was simply doing Maggie's dad a favor—a favor he had every right to do.
This was Taggart's cabin. Mace was the one who was squatting, not Ian MacLeod.
The vision that had kept him going, the promise that had sustained him through the bone-chilling, rain-soaked ride back this afternoon—the fire, the warmth, the bed—rose up one last time, then vanished beneath the wave of knowledge that Ian MacLeod had far more right to the cabin than he had.
He backed toward the door. "I'll go."
"Of course you won't go," Ian said. "You're living here."
"Not now. I'm not supposed to be now." Mace shook his head. He coughed again.
Ian reached out and caught his arm. "There's plenty of room at this inn. We'll share."
"You'll want to be alone."
"I've been alone for the past five days here. I'm going to be alone the rest of my life," he said wearily. "I think I can stand a little company."
But Mace didn't think he could. Once more he said, "No."
"We can talk about it later. Over a bowl of chili. How about it? I made it from scratch this morning."
Mace could smell it. The delicious aroma was making him weak. His stomach was growling. "Maybe a bowl."
Ian dished it up.
Mace barely ate half before he fell asleep.
It was the oddest thing Jenny had ever done—apartment hunting.
She felt like a fraud. Yet it was the most realistic thing she'd done since Mace had walked out on her. She had to do what she'd told Travis, her lawyer, she was going to do when she'd asked him to write Anthony and tell him she would agree with Mace's petition. She was going to move out, move on.
Still, looking at apartments felt almost like an out-of-body experience. Well, not quite out of body.
More as if she was in a body, all right, but someone else's.
After her initial burst of bravado, when she'd suggested it to Tom, Jenny shrank from actually getting out the classifieds and seeing what was available.
The very thought terrified her. Like nothing else she'd done since Mace had left her, it made "life after divorce" seem real.
She didn't want to do it.
She thought maybe she could move into Elmer. It wouldn't be such a big step. Surely she could find something closer. She might even be able to rent a room from Alice Benn. Alice had a big house.
She would have called her, except by the time she thought of it, Tom had arrived with the classifieds in hand.
"I found four apartments near the campus and two farther away."
"I don't know about this," Jenny began hesitantly.
Tom gave her a sympathetic smile. "Scared?"
"Actually, I am."
"It's a big step. I know."
He did know. He'd done it. And he'd survived. Jenny took heart from that.
"Come on," he said. "You've just got to dive in. You might not float, but I guarantee you'll learn to swim."
Jenny desperately hoped so.
All the apartments were small and expensive and jammed together. Jenny, not used to having people living right on top of her, rejected every one.
"Hey," Tom chided her when they got back in the car after Jenny had turned down everything in less than an hour, "give 'em a chance."
"But I don't like all these people around. I like space."
"Maybe you shouldn't be looking for an apartment at all, then," he said. "Maybe you ought to look for a house." He opened the classifieds again and spread the paper out against the steering wheel.
"I can't afford a house." Even the cost of the apartments seemed prohibitive.
"How about a room in a house?"
"I was thinking about Alice's."
Tom frowned. "Who's Alice?"
"A retired teacher. She lives in Elmer in that great big, green, two-story house behind the Laundromat."
"You don't want to live in Elmer," Tom said firmly.
"I don't?"
"Not if you want a fresh start. If you stay in Elmer, you'll always be looking over your shoulder wondering where Mace is. Is that what you want?"
Jenny shook her head. No, she didn't want that.
He scanned the paper. "Here's one. 'One room in older home close to downtown. Ideal for single. Kitchen facilities available.' Want to look?"
Jenny nodded. "Let's look."
They looked. They looked at three others Tom suggested. Only one, a room in a two-story brick house near the post office, was a possibility. It was small but clean, and Jenny liked the older woman who would be her landlady.
Still, she couldn't bring herself to say yes. It was so small, and the only view was of the house next door. She told the woman she would think about it.
"You'll have to let me know this week," the woman said. "I'll have students calling, wanting to rent."
"I know I'm being picky," Jenny told Tom when they were in the car again and heading home. "I can't help it."
Tom shrugged. "You're going to have to live there. Be as picky as you want. It's another two weeks until school starts. Maybe there will be others tomorrow or later in the week."
"Maybe," Jenny said. But she was sure she would never find anything that came close to the house she and Mace had built with their own hands.
"We can check the paper again tomorrow."
"Yes," she said with as much determination as she could muster. "All right."
After he fell asleep over the chili, there wasn't any arguing about him staying on.
The warm fire, dry clothes and good food all conspired against him. When he finally jerked his head up, embarrassed, Ian ignored his protest and fetched a blanket from the bedroom.
"But—"
"No buts. I will only make one concession to my venerable age." Ian smiled. "You can take the couch."
Mace could have slept on the plank floor and never known the difference. He coughed most of the night, but the next morning his fever was down, and the aching was gone. He felt more rested than he had in days. And breakfast was on the table.
He stared, dazed, at the bowl of oatmeal, the plate of eggs and bacon. A small part of him wondered if he'd died and gone to heaven. Given his track record, it didn't seem likely.
"Reckon you're spoiling me," he said to Ian.
"Sometimes," Ian said easily, "a guy needs a little spoiling."
It should have been the other way around, Mace thought as he dug into the meal. Ian was the grieving widower. He was the one who should be looked after. But when he said as much, Ian just went on dishing up his own bowl of oatmeal and shook his head.
"I've been fussed over enough. Thought Maggie'd smother me when I was with her and Tanner. That's why I left." He smiled wryly. "It's not that I didn't appreciate it. I did. And she needed to do it," he added. "But after a while, well, I needed some time on my own."
"You're not on your own," Mace pointed out. "I'm here."
Ian lifted one brow. "I trust you're not planning to fuss and smother."
Mace shook his head. "No."
"Then I think we'll get along just fine."
To Mace's surprise, they did.
At first he expected Ian to bring up the divorce. Surely a minister would have plenty to say about a marriage falling apart.
But Ian said nothing. He didn't mention Jenny. In fact, he didn't seem to know that Mace was married at all.
He spent a fair amount of time reading and writing and just staring off into space with a faraway look in his eyes. But he was also eager to help Mace with the everyday work.
"I don't know much about cowboying," he admitted. "But I'm willing to learn."
And because he was still feeling a little weak from his cold, Mace was glad of the help. They worked together in companionable silence a good part of the time. Sometimes, though, Ian's faraway look prompted him to apologize for his lack of attentiveness. And then he usually explained why he'd drifted off.
He reminisced. He told Mace stories. The stories inv
ariably were told on himself. They were funny and wise and self-deprecating, and very easy to listen to. Many had to do with his wife, Fiona, a woman Mace grew to know and respect through Ian's tales.
It was easy to see how much Ian missed her. She was the reason for the faraway look. She, as much as his faith, Ian told Mace, was the rudder of his existence. He hadn't been able to face staying in Torre de Leon, the South American town where she died.
"Had to get out of there. I couldn't face it," Ian said, watching as Mace braided a horsehair bridle. "It wasn't the same without her. It hurt too much. And I was angry, too."
"Angry?"
"I told her to come home when she found out about her heart problem. She'd have had better care here."
"Why didn't she?"
"Because she said our work was there, our lives were there. She said she wouldn't leave me. I said we could both come back, but she said, no, we were needed there. We talked about it. Talked, hell!" Ian shook his head. "We argued about it for days. She said it was what we'd decided on together—the mission work, our life down there. So we stayed. And she died … and now I'm here."
His pain was almost palpable. Mace could feel it the way he felt his own.
"God, I miss her," Ian said. "You can't imagine how much."
"I think I can," Mace answered.
Then for the first time, he mentioned Jenny.
If Ian was surprised Mace had a wife, he never said so. If he wondered where she was now, he never asked. He simply listened.
There was a certain release in being able to talk about her. Over the next few days saying her name became easier.
One night they were playing checkers in front of the fire, and Ian told him about checker games he'd won against Fiona.
"I used to win a kiss for every man I got." Ian smiled. "I thought I was so clever, getting all those kisses. It never occurred to me she had a vested interest in being a terrible checker player."
"Jenny and I used to play checkers at her house before we got married," Mace told Ian. "We didn't have the money to go out, and her dad said we weren't just going to go sit in the truck. He never let me get away with anything," Mace grumbled.
Ian puffed on his pipe and smiled slowly. "He let you marry her."
A Cowboy's Tears Page 17
