In Search of the Long-Lost Maverick

by Christine Rimmer

  “You are so far out of line, Dad. This is so wrong.”

  “See now, I think it’s a fine thing for me and your mother to make our wishes known. I like that girl. It’s more than clear that you like that girl. And it’s about time you settled down. You can make an honest woman out of her and make your mother happy, too.”

  The thing about George Abernathy was he thought he knew everything. And even when Gabe wanted what his dad wanted, somehow Gabe felt all wrong about agreeing with George—and more so than ever right now, when it came to Mel.

  Mel was skittish about this thing between them. The last thing she needed was to walk in on his dad with his big mouth, going on about how he approved of her as a prospective daughter-in-law while simultaneously implying she’d be something of a slut if she didn’t get Gabe’s ring on her finger immediately.

  “How many ways can I say this? Stay out of it, Dad.”

  His dad didn’t even blink. “That coffee smells good. I’ll have a cup.” He set Mel’s purse on the breakfast table and held up the diary. “What’s this?”

  Gabe had no intention of going into all that right now. “It’s not yours. Put it down.”

  “It’s old, isn’t it? And it’s got a big A on the cover.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I heard that. Smart-ass.” George flipped back the front cover. “What the hell?”

  “Put it down.”

  “Josiah Abernathy?” He pointed at the first page. “This has Gramps’s name in it. And the Ambling A...in Rust Creek Falls?” George’s eyes, the same pale blue as his own, accused him. “What’s this all about? Are you trying to tell me this is Gramps’s old diary from way back in the day?”

  “Dad. I’m not telling you anything. Put it down.”

  George poked a finger at the first page. “Why in hell would Gramps keep a diary? And why does it give a Rust Creek Falls address for the Ambling A? This doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to me.”

  “Good morning, George.” Mel, fully dressed, with her hair falling just so and her face freshly scrubbed, stood in the open arch that led back to the master suite. Damn, she was something. It had to be awkward for her, to find his dad in his kitchen after spending the night in his bed.

  But Mel didn’t seem bothered. She exuded calm confidence.

  Gabe’s dad glanced up from the old book he should never have touched and smiled—a warm smile. He did seem pleased to see her. “There she is. Pretty as a picture. Good to see you again, Mel.” He brandished the diary some more. “Found this in the front hall, along with your purse.”

  “Ah. Yes, well...” Mel drew in a slow breath and sent a quick glance at Gabe. Her eyes asked, What now?

  He gave her a slight shrug.

  Really, what could they do at this point but explain the situation? It would most likely all come out in the end, anyway, whether Gramps and the brokenhearted boy who’d written the diary were one and the same, or not.

  Mel read his expression as though he’d spoken aloud.

  At her slight nod of acceptance, he turned to his father. “Okay, Dad.”

  George peered at him sideways. “Okay, what, exactly?”

  “Sit down, have some coffee. Want some eggs?”

  “I could eat.” George shot a glance at Mel and then swung his narrowed eyes back to Gabe again. “What’s going on?”

  “Here’s what. I’ll pour your coffee and scramble the eggs. Then Mel will tell you a story...”

  Chapter Ten

  A half an hour later, when Mel finished sharing the story contained in the diary, their coffee cups were empty. Their eggs sat untouched. Mel didn’t much like the tense expression on George Abernathy’s face. He looked a little pale, too, especially around the mouth.

  The big, beautifully rustic kitchen was deadly quiet. Butch, stretched out on the floor by his water bowl, scratched at his ear. The tags on his collar clattered together, the sound shockingly loud in the too-silent room.

  Finally, George picked up the diary, which he’d set on the empty chair next to him. He waved it at her. “You’re saying all that you just told me is in here?”

  “Yes—except for the part about how Beatrix survived and was adopted by some other family, a family never named. That part is in a letter Josiah wrote to ‘W,’ whose name was actually Winona, at the psychiatric facility she was sent to in Kalispell, a letter he never mailed.”

  “Where is this letter?”

  “In the diary.”

  George flipped the diary over and ruffled the pages. Nothing fell out. “Where?”

  She held out her hand. “I’ll be happy to show you.” His expression wary, his eyes guarded, George passed her the diary. She folded the front and back covers open until they touched and carefully pulled the flattened, folded envelope from its slot in the binding.

  George snatched the envelope from her hand. “Give me the diary, too.”

  She felt suddenly, ridiculously possessive. She wanted to clutch the old volume to her heart and never let it go—which was beyond ironic. From the first, she’d tried to deny the diary’s hold on her. She’d been telling herself it had nothing to do with her, that it wasn’t her story, that the old book had been dumped in her lap and all she wanted was an excuse to get rid of it.

  Well, George Abernathy, who watched her, narrow-eyed, his mouth a thin line, was offering her exactly what she’d been so sure she wanted, the perfect excuse to walk away.

  And yet here she sat, longing with all her heart to hold on, to never let go until she’d found Winona’s daughter and reunited her with the frail old woman in Rust Creek Falls—and with Josiah, too.

  Because who did she think she was kidding, anyway? She did believe. She believed that Gabe’s dear old Gramps had written the diary and that her beloved Winona was the missing Beatrix’s rightful mother.

  Gabe seemed to understand how she felt—her feeling of ownership, that she wasn’t finished yet with her part in this. “Dad,” he said gently, “the diary doesn’t belong to you.”

  George huffed in outrage. “It’s got my grandfather’s name in it written in my grandfather’s hand.”

  Mel’s heart stopped dead in her chest—and then began racing. “How do you know that?”

  “I know Gramps’s handwriting like I know my own.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Oh, come on, Dad. You’re exaggerating.”

  George huffed out a hard breath, glanced away, and then back. Gruffly, he backpedaled. “Well, I’m pretty sure, anyway.”

  “Dad.” Gabe’s voice was gentle. “Slow down. Mel’s the one who was given the diary. She’s in charge of this situation and I’m helping her in any way I can. She and I are dealing with this. You can’t just jump in and take over.”

  “Have you already tried to talk to Gramps about it?”

  “We did. We told him everything Mel just told you. But you know how he is nowadays.”

  George looked so sad suddenly. “Non-responsive?”

  “That’s right. But we’re still on it, Dad. I promise you we won’t stop until we’ve figured out who’s really who and exactly what happened.”

  We? Did Mel like the sound of that too much? Was she getting in way too deep here?

  She did. And she was.

  George’s beefy shoulders slumped a little. “Well. Ahem.” Suddenly, he didn’t look so proud and imperious. For the first time in Mel’s limited experience with the man, it appeared that George Abernathy might defer to his only son. “At least, I would like to be kept in the loop. I want to know whatever you find out.”

  Gabe glanced at Mel. She realized he was waiting for her answer. “Yes, of course,” she agreed.

  “There’s more,” the older man said. “I would like to feel free to share what you’ve told me with Angela and my father and others in the
family. I see no reason that the events chronicled in that diary should be kept a secret.”

  “You’re right,” Mel admitted. “Gabe and I agreed to keep the story to ourselves until we knew more. We thought that there was no reason to get everyone excited when we’re still not absolutely positive that your Gramps and the author of the diary are one and the same.”

  “That story shocked the hell out of me, I admit.” George pushed his untouched food aside and rested his forearms on the table. “My immediate response was denial. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I don’t know that much about my great-grandparents, really. And neither does my father.” George turned to Gabe. “As your grandpa Alexander told you the other day at lunch, he found your great-great-grandfather Josiah and your great-great-grandmother Noreen cold and judgmental and impossible to get to know. As for Gramps, he never said much about them, either. There are holes in our family history. And they kind of line up with the events in the diary. I can’t tell you much of anything that happened in the family before Gramps married Cora—which reminds me, Gabriel. Your grandfather told me that you’d been asking about the deed to the Ambling A.”

  “That’s right. I was trying to find out what I could about how the family came to Bronco. I still don’t know anything for sure about that.”

  “Son, the truth is, none of us do. Except maybe Gramps—and he’s all locked up now inside his own mind. What we do know is that the ranch didn’t formally become the Ambling A until seventy-five years ago. I’m guessing that would be right about the time what’s described in the diary took place?”

  Mel confirmed that. “Yes, it would.”

  “So, there we are.” George looked ten years older, somehow, than he had when Mel first entered the kitchen and found him standing there with the diary in his hand.

  “Nothing is proven,” Gabe reminded him.

  “Maybe not. But I feel the truth of it down in my bones.”

  “Okay then. You are now in on this, Dad. You know what we’re trying to find out and we can use all the help and information we can get. The best way to do that is to ask anyone who might possibly know something about the past.”

  “Works for me,” said Mel.

  “I’m in,” said George.

  “With one stipulation,” added Gabe. “We all agree that information sharing goes both ways. We need to be working together on this. You share whatever you find out,” he said to his dad. “Mel and I will do the same.”

  “Like I said, I’m in,” George solemnly replied. He held up the letter to Mel. “I would like to read this now.”

  “Yes. Please do.”

  The old paper crackled as George removed the single sheet from the wrinkled envelope and scanned the few lines it contained, after which he carefully refolded the letter, put it back in the envelope and handed it to Mel. She returned it to its place in the diary’s binding.

  George asked, “Has anyone checked with the hospital in Kalispell where Winona Cobbs was sent?”

  Regretfully, Mel shook her head. “Wilder Crawford, whose family now owns the Rust Creek Falls Ambling A, told me that the hospital burned down forty years ago. Back then, all the records would have been on paper, so that’s kind of a dead end. Not to mention, if we could find somebody who knew something, they would be in their nineties, at least, and no doubt reluctant to share patient information due to confidentiality laws.”

  “Well, that’s discouraging.” George picked up his coffee mug, started to sip from it, realized it was empty and set it back down. “I have another request, Mel. I would appreciate a chance to read the diary for myself.”

  Again, Mel felt that strange reluctance to part with it. But in the end, she knew she would have to accept that the old journal was never meant to be hers to keep forever. “Gabe hasn’t read it, either,” she said, glancing at the man in question. “I’ll leave it with him.”

  Gabe said to his dad, “Once I’ve read it, I’ll give it to you with the understanding that it comes back to me—and then back to Mel—within a day or two.” An unwelcome shiver went through Mel as he said that. She was getting the feeling that her time with the old book was ending. She should be happy about that. She’d never wanted it in the first place. But she didn’t feel happy. She felt angry and sad and very confused.

  “All right, then.” George picked up his coffee mug and pushed back his chair. “We’re in agreement. I need more coffee. Anybody else?”

  * * *

  A half hour later, George had returned to the main house and Gabe stood at the fancy chef-style range scrambling more eggs to replace the ones they hadn’t felt like eating while Mel related the story contained in the diary.

  Mel sat at the table, sipping another cup of coffee, her eyes drawn to the man at the stove. His broad, muscled back was to her. He still hadn’t put on a shirt and his feet were bare. He looked amazing from behind and right now, he reminded her of the lonesome cowboy she’d believed him to be the first day they met.

  Warmth pooled in her midsection and she heard herself sigh as she watched him spoon the eggs onto the plates and pop the toast from the toaster. He was spreading on the butter, the knife scraping across the toasted bread, when the terrifying realization hit her like a bullet straight to the heart.

  He turned with a plate in each hand.

  I’m in love with this man.

  The words took form in her mind and she recognized the absolute truth in them—at the same time as she knew with total certainty that she couldn’t go there.

  She simply could not. Not now. Not...for the longest time. Maybe never. She wasn’t ready.

  Not for this. Not for love.

  She’d known Gabe for less than three weeks. Just a month ago, she was about to marry Cheating Todd. She’d thought she’d loved him at the time. She couldn’t just turn right around and fall for the gorgeous man who stood above her now. She was smarter than that.

  He set one of the plates in front of her. “You okay?”

  “Uh, what? Yeah. Sure. Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look like you just got some really bad news.”

  “No. Uh-uh.” She pasted on a big smile. “It’s nothing.” And she was such a big, fat liar.

  He bent close, brushed her lips with his. Longing speared through her—for everything. A lifetime. True happiness. Forever love.

  With him.

  Oh, dear God. What was the matter with her?

  It was one thing to lose her head while he was making her moan his name in bed—natural, really, to get swept away in the moment, to tell herself little fantasy stories about how the diary had done its work and brought her true love.

  But to indulge herself in thoughts of love now, the morning after?

  Uh-uh. Not good. Not possible. No way.

  This was so dangerous. The whole point, after the abject awfulness of her breakup with Todd, was to make an independent life for herself, to find happiness on her own terms, not defined by a man.

  Not even this man—who was as beautiful inside as out.

  The whole point was to have no man. To be complete and content, self-sufficient financially and emotionally, all on her own.

  “Hey, now,” he said softly. “Hey...” He set down his plate, too. Then he took her hand and pulled her out of the chair. She went, feeling numb. Disembodied.

  Except for her heart. Her heart yearned. Her heart...loved. Her heart felt like it was trying to batter its way out of her chest to get closer to him.

  Even though that was impossible. Even though she could not be in love with anyone right now.

  Gabe wrapped those hard arms around her. For a moment, she gave in, let herself lean on him. She drank in the strength of him, the warmth of him surrounding her.

  She felt his lips in her hair. “Tell me,” he whispered. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

 
“Listen, I...” She made herself look up at him and then had no idea at all what to say.

  Gabe tipped her chin up with a gentle touch. “You’re scared. Of what?”

  “I...think I feel too much for you.”

  He gazed at her for the longest time. “Let me be sure of what you’re saying. You feel strongly for me and that scares you?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was small. Weak to her own ears. She made herself speak with more force. “After Todd messed me over, I promised myself I would find my way, on my own. I promised myself I would make my life—a good, full life—without a man in it. And then you came along and I’m, well, I’m getting ideas, Gabe. About you. And me. Together. In a permanent way.”

  His smile was slow and oh, so tender. “I would like that. A lot. More than anything else in this world. It’s what I want, Mel. You and me. Together. In a permanent way. Mel, I’m in lo—”

  “No!” She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “I can’t hear that now.”

  He wrapped his hand around hers and kissed the fingers that had shushed him. “I don’t get it. Why not just hear me out?”

  “Because I’m weak. I want to believe you and I can’t afford to do that.” She searched his face. “I’m sorry, I really am, that we’re not on the same page about this. My heart tells me to trust you.”

  “So listen to your heart.” His voice was low, carefully controlled, but charged with strong emotion.

  “Gabe. I can’t. I have to do what’s right for me. I just wish you could understand that.”

  He dragged in a slow breath. “I’m trying. And I do get it. I hate it, but I get it. Take your time. Think it over.”

  “Oh, Gabe. I don’t know how I’ll think of anything else.”