Montana Maverick Page 8

  “I don’t drink cow’s milk because it doesn’t agree with me, so I buy almond milk. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it. I was a little surprised your brother did. Want another glass, Bravo?”

  The child nodded enthusiastically.

  “Here. Have mine,” Annie said.

  Meg brought Annie a glass of water, and then offered them cookies Bailey’s mother sent her.

  She finished up the stew and adjusted the heat under the pot so it would simmer the rest of the afternoon. She’d mix up some biscuits after Hank and JJ returned, so they’d be hot from the oven when everyone was ready to sit down and eat. She leaned against the counter and looked around. Wow, she thought, when did I get so domestic?

  She loved to cook but rarely bothered unless she had guests. Was it the addition of children that changed the dynamic so radically? She hadn’t even thought about her book, or checking any of her social media sites. And the day had flown by.

  A memory hit her.

  Shortly before winter break, she’d gone to lunch with a professor friend. Naturally, they talked shop. The demands of the university system, budget cuts, increased fees for students, the basic politics of tenure versus non-tenure. “When I started out, I had no idea what I was getting into. If Dean weren’t a teacher, too, I’m sure we’d have gotten a divorce years ago. No outsiders understand this life.”

  Meg had laughed, and, only half-joking, said, “We’re university professors, not prostitutes, Noreen.”

  “Speak for yourself. I sell myself every day, with every class I teach to an entitled generation, with every article I publish that nobody will read. And, you know, I’d blow the chancellor if I thought it would help.”

  Meg had laughed so hard tea shot out her nose.

  “It’s different for you, Meg. You don’t have to account to anyone else. No juggling of teenage angst. No receding testosterone to fret over. I envy the purity of your life.”

  Meg looked at the little messes—a shoe here, a sweater there, and breadcrumbs on the counter. Bravo’s plastic cowboys and Indians were lying in ambush—or dead—on the floor in front of the fireplace. Dog hair had mysteriously formed bunnies beneath the table and rocker. Her daily word count tally on the book was zero. Did she care?

  Not a bit.

  “Have you guys seen Rio II?”

  For the first time in too long to remember, Meg felt as if she was on vacation…with family.

  *

  So, this is what an autopsy is like, Hank thought, as he videoed the remains of his beautiful bird.

  “Poor Betsy,” he mumbled under his breath when JJ was taking a leak. I’m sorry, old girl. This isn’t how I wanted to see our relationship end.

  “Can you fix her, Grandpa?”

  Hank smiled. JJ went back and forth calling him by his given name—as Laurel had—and using the only term Bravo had ever called him: Grandpa.

  “Hard to say. The frame might have gotten tweaked when we landed. The right skid’s broken.” He circled the bird one more time then turned and made a slow sweep of the crash site. “The good news is she’s mostly in one piece, so a lot of parts will be salvageable, even if she never flies again.”

  “I’m sorry, Hank.”

  Hank turned off the video camera and closed the distance between them. He placed a gloved hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “Me, too. But as my father always said, ‘Never get too attached to any thing, son. Somebody will be there to take it from you.’”

  And yet, Dad fought till his dying breath to hold on to the ranch he’d inherited from his father. A stretch of land so beautiful at certain times of year it could make a grown man cry.

  “A beautiful lodestone,” his ex-wife called it when she left for California, taking their six-year-old daughter with her.

  But, by then, the magic of Montana had gotten into Laurel’s blood. She came back every summer, and, finally, found a way to stay for good…by dying. After a memorial that filled the local church where she’d married Jacob, Hank and the children scattered her ashes to the wind at one of her favorite places—a knoll that overlooked the entire ranch.

  Hank took a deep breath. The air was too thin and too cold to carry the smell of motor oil or broken machinery, but he imagined a hint of lavender—Laurel’s signature scent.

  “What now?” JJ asked. “I’m getting cold.”

  Hank passed him the backpack. “Grab anything from the cockpit that’s not screwed down. Flashlights. Fire extinguisher. Paperwork. Flight log. You’ll figure it out.”

  Hank hurried to the motor compartment and performed a quick triage. He took what he could, but nothing jumped out at him to explain why they went down in the first place. He’d need to get to the blades and the top rotor to figure that out.

  He’d bought Betsy at an auction ten years ago. If he were honest, he’d admit he let ego—and some grandiose dreams—override logic and practical needs. As far as proving her worth on the ranch, Betsy was more Ferrari than four-wheel-drive truck, but Hank quickly learned how to work on helicopter motors. His plans to get into agro-tourism by giving tourists an aerial view of Silver Springs Ranch had been impacted by the many other demands on his time and focus: solar, wind turbines, computers, websites, and worst of all: social media.

  Hopefully, insurance would ease the financial pain of this loss, but he didn’t take anything like that for granted. Laurel’s doctor’s bill was still in arbitration with her insurance company because she’d refused treatment and left California AMA—against medical advice. Who knew how that would turn out? He might be on the hook for that bill, too, once they figured out she came home to die.

  He brushed the worries into a special spot reserved for the thousand or so other problems he dealt with on a regular basis: orthodontics for JJ, Bravo’s short attention span and possible hyperactivity, Annie’s future ulcer from carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, his housekeeper’s impending retirement, the bad stretch of fence in the south pasture, the price of feed…and the list went on.

  By the time they were ready to head out fifteen minutes later, the sky had turned an ominous lead color and the occasional gust had become a steady blow.

  “Take a drink from the thermos,” Hank told his grandson as he made a few final adjustments to his pack. The weight felt a few pounds heavier than Bravo had the night before.

  “I can carry more, Hank.”

  “I know you can, but we may be walking in whiteout conditions.” He shook out the figure-eight coil of rope he’d brought with him from Meg’s and made a square knot around his grandson’s waist. The boy came nearly to his chin. “Damn. You’ve grown at least an inch since this summer, haven’t you?”

  JJ didn’t acknowledge the comment, but Hank could tell he was pleased.

  “This rope goes both ways.” He tied the other end around his own middle. “You have Meg’s compass and you know we’re heading back in the opposite direction as we did coming here. If I start wandering off course, tug on the rope. You’re my navigator.”

  “Okay. I’ve got your back.”

  Did Hank need a navigator? Not really. Rook would lead them safely back to the cabin, but this was how the boy would learn—and Hank needed to pass along all the skills he could while he still had the children.

  He didn’t for a minute take this time for granted. He could picture the legal wheels picking up speed if Bravo and Mystic’s grandmother ever heard about the crash.

  With any luck, they’d be home, safe and sound, before that happened. In the meantime, they would wait out this storm at Meg’s.

  The image of a crackling fire and a warm hug from his younger grandchildren made Hank square his shoulders and start moving. And maybe, he thought, later…after the children were in bed, I might try kissing Meg again.

  Was that a smart idea? Heck no. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her silky golden hair. The unapologetic way she did what needed to be done, regardless of whose role it might be. And he could honestly say
he’d never met anyone braver.

  He wanted to see her again…after all this was over. She might not want to see him, of course. As he’d told JJ, Meg had a big, important life. She needed a struggling rancher with four kids like he needed more wolves. But, he’d come to accept that wolves were a fact of life, and, maybe, he and the kids could bring something fresh and new to her life, too. He wouldn’t know if he didn’t ask.

  Chapter Seven

  ‡

  Rook alerted him to their presence a hundred or so yards before they reached the clearing of the cabin. Two snowy figures, waving in welcome.

  Meg and Bravo.

  Hank’s heart did a crazy jump and his flagging energy got the burst it needed to pick up the pace and hurry toward them…until the rope at his waist went taut. Hank looked over his shoulder. JJ shuffled like an old man on death row.

  They’d stopped half a dozen times to let JJ catch his breath. He’d started complaining about his legs cramping half a mile ago.

  Poor kid.Hank started to undo the lead rope, but his numb fingers couldn’t manage it.

  “Let me,” Meg said, high stepping through the snow to reach them. “You boys look wiped out. Bravo, go help your brother.”

  She leaned over so all he could see was her back. There wasn’t a damn thing sexy about the situation but his stupid body reacted like a teen in heat.

  “The storm’s coming in fast. What are you doing out here?” His voice sounded gruff and less friendly than he’d intended.

  “Little boys get housebound. Bravo wanted to build a snowman.”

  That warm, mushy spot inside his chest spread out a little bigger.

  The rope fell to the snow and she straightened. “Let me take your pack.”

  “Naw. It’s heavy. I managed this far.”

  “Did you find the smoking gun?”

  “Nothing jumped out at me. I grabbed what I could and took a video like you suggested. That was a real good idea.”

  Bravo ran up, like a snowy puppy. “I did it, Meg.” He held up the rope proudly before he frowned and pointed, “But JJ’s sick.”

  “Sick? Oh, no. Maybe he caught whatever Mystic had.”

  Sick?

  Hank backtracked a few steps to where the boy stood, swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane. Hank put a knuckle under his grandson’s chin and made him look up. “You don’t look so hot, kiddo. Why didn’t you tell me you felt like crap?”

  JJ shrugged.

  Hank gave him a quick, one-arm hug then steered him toward the back of the house. “Go inside. Warm up. I’ll be right there. Bravo, help your brother.”

  Meg relieved JJ of this backpack then waited beside Hank as they watched the boys climb the steps. He sensed she wanted to speak to him in private.

  “How’d everything go here? Is Mystic okay?”

  “Yes. Perfectly fine. Annie and I gave her bath. She loved it.” She wound the rope in the same neat figure eight he’d found. The practiced back and forth motion impressed him.

  He should have known she had field experience—maybe, she even climbed, but it had been so much easier to think of her as a one-dimensional, egghead college professor with an agenda that promised to be the death of everything he held dear.

  “I…” He watched her face and saw the moment she changed her mind about bringing up whatever subject she had intended to speak with him about. “…Annie and Bravo and I watched a movie together. They’re really sweet kids, Henry.”

  “Thank you. I agree, actually. Laurel was an amazing mother. Stepping into her shoes is no easy job.”

  She slipped the coiled rope over one shoulder and turned to leave, but he stopped her. “I’m going to apologize in advance if JJ is coming down with the same thing Mystic had. We’ve really turned your life upside down. I’m so sorry, Meg.”

  She shrugged. “Life happens, Henry Firestone. All we can do is deal with it. A hot bath and a bowl of soup might be all JJ needs, but if he’s sick, he’s sick.” She resumed walking. “I should draw him a bath.”

  They’d just reached the steps when Hank said, “About that kiss in the laundry room…I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him a moment then gave his shoulder a little shove. “Sorry? A word of advice, Henry. Don’t apologize for kissing a woman. It’s unmanly.”

  His hoot was so loud it made Rook bark. “Unmanly, huh? Is that a challenge? Because the night is long and we’re in a cabin.”

  “With four chaperones.”

  “With four chaperones that can sleep through a rock concert. I know because my daughter took three of them to see One Direction.”

  “Why?” Meg asked, her laugh floating over his head into the blustery wind. “Never mind. To each their own. Let’s see who’s awake when Mystic needs her midnight feeding.”

  *

  An hour later, all six were seated at Meg’s hand-hewn plank table—even Mystic, who sat alert and blinking in her carrier atop a wooden bar stool that Meg had flipped upside down so the legs cupped the molded plastic shell of the carrier securely. Ingenious was one of many descriptive words Hank had for her.

  Chef was another. “The stew is out of this world, Meg. I can’t believe how fresh the vegetables taste. How long have you been here?”

  “Not quite a month. I researched the best way to preserve food and converted part of the basement into a root cellar. What do we have down there, Annie?” To Hank, Meg added, “Annie was afraid to go downstairs at first, weren’t you?”

  Annie finished chewing before answering. “It’s small and clean and cozy and not scary at all, Grandpa. Meg has onions and potatoes and carrots and ruta…something.”

  “Rutabagas.” Meg scooped a yellowish white cube out of the soup.

  Annie nodded. “And apples.” Her smile was pure Laurel. “We made apple crisp for dessert, Grandpa. I helped.”

  “She helped a lot. We even processed a tiny bit of the cooked apples for Mystic, didn’t we, sweet girl?”

  Hank took another big spoonful, savoring the flavors, while appreciating this moment, too. While he’d been trying so hard to meet everyone’s needs and provide food for the table, he’d completely lost sight of the bigger picture…the pleasure of a family meal shared together.

  Meg picked out a small, flat, rib bone from the soup, nibbled the meat and cleaned off the cartilage, then held it up. “May I give this to Mystic?” she asked. “I remember Mom giving bones to Paul to suck on all the time.”

  “S…sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  They all watched to see how Mystic would react.

  Meg was as patient as Laurel would have been. Her glee at seeing the baby discover the unusual object in her hand, then make the connection that it tasted very different from her thumb brought back feelings Hank would have sworn were long dead and probably gone for good.

  Meg smiled at him, but her smile faded when she looked to her left.

  JJ, who had perked up briefly after a hot soak in Meg’s tub, was nearly asleep over his barely touched soup.

  Hank pushed back his chair and walked to where his eldest grandson sat. “Time for bed, kiddo.”

  JJ startled but he didn’t protest. “I’m tired.”

  “I know you are. You look a little flushed, too.”

  Meg joined him. “I thought his cheeks were pink from the bath. Let’s take his temperature to be safe.”

  She retrieved the first aid kit she’d used on JJ’s cut the night of the accident and rolled a high-tech thermometer across the boy’s forehead. The digital display read one hundred and one degrees.

  “Upstairs to bed, young man. I’ll bring you something to reduce the fever so you can get a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, you’ll feel a lot better in the morning.”

  Hank walked into the kitchen. “Do you have a good-size bowl or bucket I can put near the bed? Just in case he has to throw up. Better safe than sorry.”

  Meg turned him around. “Good idea. You help JJ to bed and I’ll bring everything up.” T
o the children at the table, she said, “Grandpa and I will be back for dessert after we get JJ to bed. Annie, will you keep an eye on Mystic?”

  “Yes, mom…ma’am.”

  “I want dessert,” JJ called from the staircase.

  “We’ll save you a piece for breakfast, JJ,” Annie promised.

  Hank’s heart constricted…in a good way.

  You did well, baby girl.

  *

  The quiet took Meg by surprise. Were the children really asleep? Was the day really done?

  She sat, feet curled under her on the couch, the whisper-soft alpaca afghan—a gift from Serena, the woman Meg hoped her brother, Austen, would one day convince to marry him—tucked around her.

  She looked toward the kitchen. The mostly empty soup pot still sat on the stove. Dishes remained on the table. A cupboard door stood open. A box of cereal hadn’t gotten put away from Bravo’s late afternoon snack. The place was a disaster by her usual standards.

  Did she care?

  Not a bit.

  As she stared at the fire, she felt wiped out but oddly wired. And she knew why.

  Henry Firestone.

  That was how he was quoted in the newspapers and how she always thought of him. Never Hank.

  They’d both moved on from their very public fight over the resettlement of wolves. In the years since the first wolves arrived and took up residence after a seventy-year absence, interesting and unexpected repercussions had come to pass. Some great, some not so good.

  She didn’t have any idea where Henry stood on the issue, now. Nor did it particularly matter. She would always continue to protect and champion wildlife in their natural habitat, but she’d handed off the day-to-day business of research, tracking, recording data and fronting the PR effort in preparation for the changes she planned to make in her life.

  Changes only her family knew about.

  “Would you mind terribly if I poured myself a brandy?”