MONTANA SKY 07.5: Angel In Paradise

A Montana Sky Contemporary Short Story

by Debra Holland

Copyright © 2015 by Debra Holland
ISBN: 978-1-939813-24-4

Digital Edition

All other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

Rafe stared down at the cream-colored envelope in his hand, the sixth one in the last five months. This one had his whole name written out,
Mr. Raphael Nicolas Thompson Flanigan,
as if the formal address would make him open the flap. He glanced at the trashcan next to his desk about to toss away the letter. Instead, he leaned to the right and shoved the envelope along five identical ones slotted into the square cubby.

He sat back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and put his feet on the desk in his favorite position, staring out the window at his fabulous view of the beach, the coconut palm branches swaying in the breeze, and the turquoise water beyond. Instead of seeing the fishing boat plying the tropical ocean, Rafe was swept back fifteen years in time to a warm Montana night.

His grandfather Harry Flanigan stood, fists clenched, hurling words as if they were weapons at eighteen-year-old Rafe.

Rafe’s older brother, Gabe—the catalyst of the explosion—cringed on the couch.
Why had Gabe snitched to their grandfather?

“Why the hell would you go near the McCurdy’s?” The old man’s voice cut. “Have you no brains, boy?”

Apparently not, or Dustin McCurdy wouldn’t have swindled me.
The truth of Harry Flanagan’s accusation stung. Earlier, his grandfather had cut off Rafe’s attempts to explain, leaving him to bottle up his frustration.

Rafe’s gentle mother sat in her wing chair by the river rock fireplace, weeping. Her tears wrenched at him in a way his grandfather’s yelling and threats couldn’t.

“That Howard girl’s got mongrel blood,” said the old tyrant, moving on to the second topic that had enraged him tonight.

“Angel’s blood’s red,” Rafe fired up. “The same as the rest of us.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “She’s not good enough for a Flanigan.”

“Her dad’s a respected attorney,” Rafe retorted. “They probably have as much money or more than we do, and Angel’s going to Harvard. What’s not good enough about that?” An unacknowledged insecurity chose that moment to surface. “Maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not good enough for Angel.”

His grandfather’s craggy features reddened, but his gray eyes remained as chilled as ice. “Your parents should have named you Lucifer instead of Raphael,” he said in a bitter tone.

His mother made a sound of protest.

His grandfather ignored her, focusing his wrath on Rafe. “Stealing a horse from the McCurdys, of all people!”

“I didn’t steal that stud!”

“I can’t believe a grandson of mine is a horse thief!”

Rafe’s control snapped. “Fine!” Like a knife, he threw the word at the old man. “Then I’m no grandson of yours!”

He stormed out of the family room and up the stairway to his bedroom. Slamming the door, Rafe grabbed his big duffle out of the closet and started throwing in clothes, then took cash from the dresser drawer as well as the folder of notes about his horses. In the bathroom connecting the bedroom to his brother’s, he scooped up toiletries and shoved them into his leather traveling case, a gift from his mother last Christmas. He didn’t let himself think of the warmth of that holiday.

Once packed, he carried his duffle down the stairs and encountered his mother in the entryway.

Her pale skin was red from crying. “If you’d just stop fighting with your grandfather, I’m sure you can make this right. He’ll pay off Dustin McCurdy.” She noticed his bag, and her eyes widened. “Raphael, where are you going?”

The fact that his mother, his staunch supporter for all his eighteen years, didn’t believe him hurt harder than a strike to the stomach. “I’m going straight to hell,” he said, using the words to punch, to damage.

Her face whitened, and she stepped back as if he’d really hit her. “Don’t talk that way.”

Shame curled around the edges of his anger, and he hesitated, wanting to explain that McCurdy must have set him up. But then his grandfather stepped into the doorway from his study, his face implacable. Without saying a word, the man inflamed Rafe’s rage, making him stiffen his spine and square his shoulders. Turning his back on his family, he strode toward the kitchen door.

“If you leave, boy, don’t ever come back,” his grandfather yelled after him.

Rafe shrugged and kept on going, through the kitchen, out the door, and into the warm night air of summer. He threw his duffle into his truck.

Bear, their burly mutt, trotted out of the barn and nudged Rafe’s leg.

He crouched and hugged the dog. “I have to go, boy.” Grief threatened to surface. Swallowing the emotion, he resolutely stood and then got to work.

Rafe hitched his truck to the horse trailer, a graduation present from his grandfather, then stomped into the barn. He loaded his gelding, two pregnant Paint mares and three miniature horses, also in foal, into the trailer, along with their gear and some feed.

In five minutes, he was idling the engine at the corner of the Flanigan land, the boundary separating their spread from the McCurdy’s ranch. He scribbled a note to Angel on a piece of paper telling her where he was headed, got out of the truck, and shoved it into the hollow of the oak—their own personal mailbox. He hoped that when she read it, she’d understand.

Lucinda McCurdy sped by in her Mustang convertible, her long blonde hair flying. She flipped him off.

Rafe scowled and waited until her car passed before pulling the truck and trailer onto the road.

He drove through Sweetwater Springs, the town where his roots grew deep into the land, a place where everyone knew everybody, and stories about someone’s great-grandparents could be dropped into gossip as easily as what had happened that afternoon. Rafe could almost hear the ripping sound as he tore those roots out of the beloved ground.

He’d vowed to shake off the town’s dust, drive as far from Montana as he could and never look back
.

Rafe shook his head, trying, but not entirely succeeding, in bringing himself back to the present. While he hadn’t ended up in hell like he’d threatened, he’d landed in Seeker’s Island, Florida—the legendary place where his parents had met and fallen in love.

And ever since, he’d ruthlessly squelched any thought of homesickness for the sight of the purple mountains and grassy valleys, the crisp air and the luminous light of the prairie, the howl of a wolf or screech of an owl, the scent of pine, or the sweet taste of Angel Howard’s lips when he kissed her.

With a quick, dismissive glance at the unopened letters, Rafe thumped his bare feet to the ground and stood, determined to forget the past. After all, he had fifteen years of practice. He pulled on socks and work boots and strode out the back door of the office and down a path made of crushed shells until he reached the stables. From experience, he knew hard labor might help take his mind off things he didn’t want to remember.

He opened a stall door, took in the familiar scents of horse and hay, and rubbed the nose of Abigail, a Paint mare. He slipped on the horse’s halter, led her outside, and tied her up in the shade. Then he pushed the wheelbarrow next to the door and grabbed a shovel. But as Rafe mucked out the stall, he realized he’d chosen the wrong occupation to help him forget all he’d loved and left behind in Sweetwater Springs.

Some things didn’t change. Horse shit smelled like horse shit no matter where you were in the world.

Angelina Howard walked down the hallway of Elland & Kirkus, trying to remain stoic, to hold back the tears and contain the ball of shame and anger burning in her stomach. In the outer office area she shared with another attorney, she managed a smile for her legal assistant. At least Angelina hoped the turn of her lips resembled a smile more than a grimace.

Crossing the threshold of her office, Angelina ever so carefully shut the door behind her. If she slammed it closed the way she wanted, the reverberations would echo through the hushed corridors of power. Maybe even the senior partners in the penthouse offices would hear. Not that it mattered. Soon enough, everyone would know Angelina had just slipped
down
the corporate ladder, not
up
as expected.

Inside her tiny office, Angelina stalked between the two client chairs and behind her L-shaped desk. She flung herself into her chair so hard the force propelled her several feet into the side of her desk.

What am I going to do?

Springing back to her feet, she paced five steps across the area between the chairs and the combination of open shelves and file cabinets. The phone on her desk rang, and she snarled at the instrument. Angelina wasn’t about to answer, to have to
talk
…. But she glanced at the screen and recognized her father’s cell number.

Concern shafted through her. Daniel Howard had suffered a heart attack two weeks ago, then surgery. She’d flown to her hometown of Sweetwater Springs, Montana, and stayed by his side for a week before returning as soon as the doctor had assured her family that her father was on the mend. Four days ago, Angelina had returned to New York, not only to wrap up the big case she’d been working on for months, but also to attend today’s meeting where she’d thought to hear the announcement that she’d made partner.

She grabbed up the receiver. “Dad?”

“Hi, Angel Baby.”

She couldn’t get used to her powerful father sounding so weak. “How are you feeling? Is everything okay?”

“As good as can be expected, health wise. Now I want you to stop worrying about me.”

Easy for you to say
. “I’m your daughter. I’m entitled to worry about you for a while longer.” She walked back around her desk and sat, deciding not to relate her bad news. She’d wait until he was stronger.

“Angel Baby, I need your help with something.”

She’d broken him of the childhood nickname when she’d gone through her independent adolescent stage. Then, in intensive care, he’d whispered the endearment when she’d first walked in…. Just remembering made her swallow a sudden lump in her throat. “Anything, Dad. Do you need me to come home?” As she spoke, Angelina thought through her schedule, what she’d have to do to leave again…

“I need you to fly to Florida, to Seeker’s Island.”

“What’s on Seeker’s Island?”

“Rafael Flanigan must sign some important documents.”

Oh, no! Anything but an errand that involved an encounter with Rafe Flanigan.

“Dad, I’m in the middle of a case.” Not quite true. She’d just closed the file. But there was always another case…another ten cases…whatever she needed to avoid Rafe Flanigan. “Sorry, Dad.” She tried to project some remorse into her voice.

“It will only take you a day. I’ve already couriered the documents. In fact, you should have them on your desk.”

She glanced at her desk and saw a big envelope sitting in front of her computer. “You’re not supposed to be working!”

He chuckled, the sound a pale version of his normal belly laugh. “I have an excellent assistant.”

“Then let your excellent assistant do it. James is more than capable.”

“James has a crippling fear of flying. He refuses to set foot anywhere near an airport.”

“Guess he’s not so excellent, is he?”

Her father ignored her snarky comment. “It’s just for the day, Angel. Fly down, get Rafe’s signature, courier the documents back to me, fly back to New York.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“The deadline is Friday.”

Five days!

“I’d planned to go myself, but then….” His voice turned urgent. “This is important, Angel. Millions of dollars and the fate of the Flanigan Ranch.”

“Why the last-minute rush?”

“Rafe Flanigan has ignored my previous letters and phone calls.”