Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel) (5 page)

She rocked her forehead back and forth on the hard surface. “I know that’s a horrible thing to say, and Chaplain Sam would be upset with me …”

She squeezed her eyelids closed, remembering the kindly prison chaplain’s parting words. “Live in the light, Kate. Bury the past and live in the light.”

He’d written scriptures about light in her going-away card. “He has rescued us from the dominion of darkness … Live as children of light … Declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.”

She started the engine. “Okay, God, I’ll bury the dark—again. But you have to lead me to the light. It seems so far away.”

***

Mike limped into the barn.

Rusty, one of the ranch hands, was shoeing a horse in the first stall, his back to the mare’s rump. Her tail flicked across his shoulders as he bent over her hoof wedged between his knees.

Mike wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Where’s Cyrus? I need to find him, fast.”

Rusty dropped his hammer and spit horseshoe nails from the corner of his mouth into his palm. “Been swimming in a mud hole, Boss?”

Tramp sat next to the farrier, an expectant look in his eyes.

Rusty stroked the dog’s head.

Mike grunted. “Something like that. You know where Cyrus is?”

Tramp licked Rusty’s cheek.

“Gee, thanks, Tramp.” Rusty looked at Mike. “Last I saw Cyrus, he was headed over to the office to talk to your mom.”

“Oh, great.” Mike slammed his hat against the barn door. Dried mud dribbled off the rim, and a small dust cloud rose above it. He sneezed and was about to leave, when he felt Rusty’s stare.

“Uh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” He put his hat back on. “It’s just that I’ve got a situation to talk to Cyrus about that might worry my mom.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

Favoring his bruised leg, Mike left the barn and took off toward the log home he shared with his mother. The front section of the building housed the lobby and office, the back their living quarters. If he snuck in the back door, he could clean up before he went looking for Cyrus.

Mike crammed his hands into his pockets. His mom would be upset that he’d ruined his dad’s pickup. She’d been so sad since he died. But he could get the truck fixed without her knowing what happened and pay for the repairs out of his account instead of using ranch funds. Cyrus would help him fix the fence—they had plenty of wire on hand—and the crazy morning would become a non-event,
if
the herd stayed put. Maybe next time he’d handle things better.

Tramp crawled up the redwood steps of the deck to his water bowl.

Mike slipped inside the screen door and blocked it with his heel to keep it from slamming shut. After it had quietly closed, he tiptoed across the dining room.

“Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

Mike jumped and turned. “Cyrus, you old coot, you scared me.”

Cyrus Moore’s craggy face peered at him from the other end of the dining room table. “No wonder, the way you slithered in here slick as a gol durn sidewinder.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Mrs. D … Laura … your mom ...” Cyrus scowled, wrinkles puckering his mouth. “Dad blast it, you know who I mean. She went to grab something in the office. She’ll be back pronto.”

Mike glanced toward the hallway that linked the public and private parts of the building.

“That a problem?”

“It’s just that …”

The door opened and his mom walked in holding a file folder. “Mike, what happened? You’re covered with dirt.”

He looked at his jeans and boots. “Sorry about the mess. Should have taken off my boots. I’ll sweep the floor after I change.”

Laura’s brow furrowed. “But what happened? You didn’t answer either radio, you weren’t in church, and you’ve been gone for hours. I’ve been worried.”

“Just fell in a mud puddle, that’s all.” He moved toward the kitchen.

“You’re limping.”

He lifted a hand. “Got to get some water. Swallowing all that mud made me thirsty.”

After a long drink of the cold well water, he leaned back against the counter and tried to sound casual. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting. I’ll get out of your way and go find some clean clothes.” He put the glass down. “When you’re done, Cyrus, I need your opinion on a couple things down at the barn.”

Laura folded her arms around the file. “I get the feeling you’re hiding something, Michael. Are you injured?”

“I’m fine. I just need to talk to Cyrus about some stuff.”

“I don’t buy it. You’re coated with mud, you’re limping, and your voice sounds the way it did when you called home after you broke your collar bone at that rodeo in Montana.”

Mike sighed. His mom was a bulldog. Once she locked on, she didn’t let go. “Okay—if you have to know. I wrecked Old Blue.”

She tossed the file on the table. “We should get you to a doctor, now.”

“I’m fine, Mom, really.” He spread his arms. “I’m breathing, walking, talking. I wasn’t in the truck when it crashed, or when it got crashed into—” He saw the looks on their faces and dropped his hands. “I know. It doesn’t make sense.”

Laura stepped closer to wrap her arms around his ribs. “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”

He returned the embrace, though he wished she hadn’t hugged him in front of Cyrus.

She released him and brushed the dust from her blouse. “You two go find a chair on the deck. I’ll bring out something to drink and you can tell us all about it.”

Chapter Five

MIKE HUNG HIS MUDDY
cowboy hat on a railing post before settling into a patio chair.

Cyrus eyeballed the hat. “You’ll have to drive clear to Laramie or Rawlins to get that bonnet cleaned.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Cost you an arm and a leg.”

Mike eyed Cyrus’s bedraggled Stetson with its grease-rimmed crown. “That why you never get yours cleaned?”

Cyrus clamped his jaw and looked away. “Don’t need to.”

Laura opened the screen door. “Mike, can you take this?”

He stood and held the door for her.

She handed him a plate of cookies. “Hang on. I’ll get the lemonade.”

She returned, carrying a pitcher in one hand and three glasses in the other. “I added lots of sugar to the lemonade—just for you, Cyrus.”

“’Preciate it, ma’am. That stuff’s so potent it could make your earlobes shrivel.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that.”

Mike studied Cyrus’s long, creased earlobe and decided it could use some shriveling. He reached for a cookie, though he wasn’t hungry. All he wanted to do was change his clothes and drive back down to the pasture to fix the fence before the bison got wise to the temporary fix. But his mom would worry if he didn’t eat at least one.

Laura filled their glasses and sat down.

Tramp laid his chin in her lap, his gaze focused on the cookies. She gave him one—which he consumed in a single bite—before turning to her son. “Tell us what happened today.”

He described the ATV trail and the damaged fence.

Cyrus’s eyelids narrowed into raisin-like clumps. “Lowdown dirty scumbag.”

Mike told them about Tramp and the stray calf—and the buffalo that rammed Old Blue.

Laura’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness. I’m glad you jumped out.” She leaned toward Mike. “Don’t worry about Dad’s truck. You are far more important than that beat-up old thing.”

Mike shook his head. “How many times did he say he’d never sell or trade Old Blue? It was the best truck he ever had. He loved it.”

“He loved you infinitely more than that pickup. If he was here, he’d say you did the right thing.”

“Nuh-uh.” Mike tapped an angry rhythm on the table. “He’d be upset about the way I handled the situation.”

Tears dampened her eyelashes. “Your father is gone.” She waited a moment before speaking again. “He is not a part of this conversation.”

“You don’t get it, Mom.” Mike jumped to his feet. “I ruined Dad’s truck, plus I left a big gap in the fence. Yet, I’m sitting here sipping lemonade while thousands of dollars of bison burgers walk through that hole and God only knows how many other holes. Do you have any idea how hard it’ll be to find those animals and move them back to the pasture?”

He grabbed his hat and plopped it onto his head. A chunk of dirt dropped to his shoulder. “Buffalo don’t herd well, you know.” He started for the back door.

Tramp hopped up to follow.

Cyrus cleared his throat. “Hold on a dad gum minute. I’ll round up a couple of the hands. We can fix the fence and haul the truck back here before dark.”

Mike balled his fingers into fists. Why did he come to Cyrus, when he could have asked Rusty or Clint or one of the other guys to help? He pivoted. “I’m sure you mean well, but you’re not my dad. I’ll take care of it myself.”

Cyrus opened his mouth but Mike cut him off. “The truck and the fence are
my
problems. So are the buffalo—and the jerk that cut the wire.” He stomped into the house, Tramp at his heels. He shouldn’t have told them about the accident.

***

The ranch’s modest entry consisted of a tall pole portal and a cattle guard—at least that’s what Kate thought they called the flat metal grate that spanned the dirt road. An iron
Whispering Pines Guest Ranch
sign swayed from the top beam. Her new home. At least for the summer.

The Honda’s tires rasped across the cattle guard, reminding her of the café’s parking lot and the fact she’d left Copperville too fast to eat lunch or buy crackers. The crackers, at least, would have settled her stomach, which lurched with each jolt.

Kate parked in front of a log building with a wide porch. Red window boxes with bright flowers accented the amber exterior, and a large wooden arrow with the word “office” painted on it was attached to the wall beside the door. Two deer nibbling at the tulips that skirted the rock foundation lifted their heads to watch her for a moment before silently disappearing behind the building.

She turned the engine off but remained seated, listening to a breeze rustle through the aspen trees that shaded the porch and wishing she could be more excited about seeing deer outside of a zoo. This was the most monumental day of her life—other than her release—and she wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out. She had so fervently hoped to eradicate her past and begin her life anew. But her past was as close as her shadow. She could smell its foul breath and feel its evil claws at her back.

Still wearing her sunglasses, Kate stepped from the car. Even though she was a child of the light, not the dark, she needed to hide her bloodshot eyes. The sharp slap of a screen door made her jump. She looked up. “Oh, hello.”

A twenty-something man with hat-sculpted hair and a white forehead stood on the verandah holding a dirty cowboy hat. “Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Laura Duncan.”

“Appointment?” His left eyebrow arched.

“She’s expecting me. No particular time.”

The collie that tailed the man clambered down the steps to sniff Kate’s shoes and nudge its nose under her fingers. She scratched behind its ears, enjoying the soft warmth of the fur and the dog’s apparent appreciation. How many years had it been since she’d touched an animal other than Prissy? She smiled, wondering what her great-aunt’s little cocker spaniel-poodle-mix city dog would think of this big country dog.

“We don’t take guests without a reservation.”

“I’m an employee.”

He looked her up and down. “So you’re the one.” He aimed a thumb at the door behind him. “Ring the bell inside. She’ll come talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

The man knocked the hat against his leg before placing it on his head. “Come on, Tramp.” He limped across the porch and down the wheelchair ramp at the end.

Tramp licked her hand before chasing after him.

Kate watched them go. Beautiful dog. But the cowboy was about as friendly as a constipated correctional officer.

She found the bell on a counter between racks of tourist brochures and hand-crafted soaps and candies. After ringing the bell, she turned to survey her surroundings. In the far corner, a life-size log bear with a chiseled smile dangled a sad-eyed wooden fish from an outstretched paw. In the other corner, overstuffed leather chairs and a loveseat faced a rock fireplace. She was scrutinizing the huge animal head above the fireplace when a side door opened and a petite, middle-aged woman stepped into the room.

The woman smiled. “That’s Mangy. He’s our mascot.”

“But, what is it? An elk?”

“No, it’s a moose. Our son bagged it when he was a teenager.”

“I’ve never seen a moose before. He’s, uhm …”

She laughed. “Homely? Is that the word you’re looking for?”

Kate grinned. “Kind of ugly, kind of cute.”

“That says it. You should see their calves—really funny-looking little guys. All legs.”

She extended her hand. “I’m Laura Duncan. Are you by any chance Kate Neilson?”

“Yes, I am.” Kate shook her hand.

“Welcome to the Whispering Pines. Did you have a good trip?”

Until Copperville.
“This was my first time to travel across the country. The further west I drove, the more I enjoyed the scenery, especially Colorado and Wyoming.”

“You timed it right. We’ve had several years of drought, but last winter both states received lots of snow, so the wildflowers are gorgeous this spring.” She led Kate through the side door and a hallway to a living room.

“You have a nice home. I love the wood floors.” They were a lighter color and didn’t creak as much as the Highway Haven floors.

“Thank you.” A wistful look crossed Laura’s face. “Dan and I built this place ourselves when we bought the ranch almost thirty-five years ago.” She directed Kate toward the dining room. “Care for some cookies and a glass of lemonade?”

“Sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

“Have a chair and help yourself to a cookie. I’ll get you a glass and a napkin. Cyrus, say hello to Kate Neilson from Pittsburgh. Kate, that’s Cyrus Moore. We’re in the middle of making a supply list.”

Kate hadn’t seen the man hunkered in the dark corner. She moved her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Hi, Cyrus. Sorry to interrupt your meeting.”