No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber
going back to school first thing tomorrow morning to do it.”
“What about Eddie?”
His mother sent him a sidelong glance sharp enough to cut glass. “I don’t have any say over him, but I have all kinds of say over you.”
She liked to think she did. But this didn’t seem the appropriate time to discuss it. “According to what Mr. Boone said, I’m not supposed to be on school property,” he told her. One of them had to keep a cool head, and it was obvious his mother had already lost hers.
“Don’t concern yourself—I already asked Mr. Boone and he’s willing to make an exception.”
“That isn’t fair! How come I have to come back and paint the wall? Eddie should be there, too.” The anger was brewing inside him, and he tightened his jaw, knowing it would do neither of them any good to vent it now.
“Eddie’s parents can see to his punishment.”
Which meant Eddie was off the hook. Eddie’s mother drank too much, and even Eddie didn’t know where his father was. Tom certainly knew the whereabouts of his own father—and so did everyone else.
“Can’t I paint the wall after the suspension?” he asked, thinking he’d prefer to do it during the weekend. Having the entire school watch him suffer such humiliation held little appeal.
“No,” came her emphatic reply.
“Why not?” he demanded, clenching his fists.
“Because I need you for other things.”
“What things?”
“Packing.”
That captured Tom’s attention. He waited a moment, then asked, “Are we going somewhere?”
“Montana.”
His heart nearly burst with excitement. She’d found a way. His mother was taking them to Montana. This was good news, better than anything he’d anticipated. “We’re visiting Gramps?”
She didn’t answer him right away. Tom watched as her hands tensed on the steering wheel. “Not exactly. I handed in my two weeks’ notice this morning. We’re moving.”
Sam Dakota bolted upright out of a sound sleep. His heart slammed against his rib cage with a punch almost powerful enough to hurt. Cold sweat dampened his forehead and clung to his bare chest. One ragged breath followed another as his body heaved in a near-desperate effort to drag oxygen into his burning lungs.
The dream always woke him. Whenever he had it, he would feel that panic again, the fear as vivid and real as the first day the prison door had clanged shut behind him. It had echoed against the concrete walls, reverberating in his ears. Twenty-four months into freedom, and he still heard that terrible sound. It invaded his sleep, tortured him, reminded him constantly that he was a living, breathing failure. Thankfully he didn’t have the dream often anymore—not since he’d started working for old man Wheaton.
Closing his eyes, Sam lay back down, his head nestled in the feather pillow. He swallowed and flexed his hands, trying to ease the tension from his body, forcing himself to relax.
It was over. Over.
Prison was behind him, and so was the life he used to live. Yet at one time he’d been a rodeo star, riding bulls, flirting with fame. Fame and women. He’d had his own following, groupies who chased after him. They stroked his ego, cheered for him, drank with him, slept with him and, on more than one occasion, fought over him.
The groupies were gone, the way everything that had once been important to him was gone. In his rodeo career and after his accident, he’d faced danger, injury, death, and he’d done it without a trace of fear.
Riding the wave of success, he’d achieved everything he’d ever wanted. That was at the rodeo championships in Vegas, six years earlier. But the silver buckle that proclaimed him the best of the best had been pawned to help an old man hold on to his ranch. These days Sam stayed out of trouble, kept his nose clean, minded his own business. When the urge hit him, he moved on.
Sam didn’t like to dwell on his rodeo days. That was all in the past, finished. The doctors had warned him of the risks of ever competing again. Another fall like the one that had ended his career could cripple him for life. Or kill him. It was that simple. The money, what little of it he’d managed to save, had been swallowed whole by doctor and hospital bills.
Friends had stuck by him for a time, but he’d driven them away with his anger and frustration. Even his parents didn’t know his whereabouts, which was just as well. Pride had prevented him from ever letting them know he’d landed in a Washington-state prison for second-degree assault. After two years of silence it hadn’t seemed worth his trouble to write and fabricate an account of where he’d been and why he’d stayed away.
It’d been a few years now since his last contact with family, and as the months went on, he thought about them less and less.
Until he ended up at the Broken Arrow Ranch, Sam had drifted across three or four states, depressed, miserable and mad as hell. The restlessness inside him refused to die.
He’d lasted longer here in Sweetgrass than anywhere else.
Mostly because of the old man. Walt was as mean as a grizzly bear and as demanding as a drill sergeant, but that didn’t keep Sam from admiring him. Six months earlier Sam had arrived in this backwoods Montana town; six minutes after that he’d crossed the sheriff. He hadn’t been looking for trouble, but trouble always seemed to find him. All he’d meant to do was help a lady in a difficult situation, a lady who was being bothered by a drunk, and in the process he’d stepped on the wrong toes. It turned out the drunk was a friend of the sheriff’s. Before he knew it, the sheriff had learned about his prison record and Sam was headed for jail, charged with unlawful conduct and disturbing the peace. The other guy—the man who’d been beating up on the woman—had walked away scot-free. Then, for no reason he could understand, Walt Wheaton had stepped in, paid his bail and offered him a job. Eventually the charges were dropped, thanks to some negotiating by Walt’s attorney.
Sam could deal with just about anything. Pain, disappointment, the reversal of fortune. But he’d discovered that he was unprepared to handle kindness. It embarrassed him. Made him feel uneasy. Indebted. The only reason he’d agreed to accept the foreman’s job was that he owed the old coot. The pay wasn’t much, but Walt had given him a small house on the property, rent free. It was the original foreman’s place—run-down but livable.
The minute Sam set foot on the ranch, he realized Walt was in dire straits. The Broken Arrow was in deplorable condition. No sooner had Sam started work when a series of mysterious and seemingly unrelated events began to occur. Pranks and vandalism, nothing serious, but a nuisance all the same.
Walt was an exacting employer, but never unreasonable. Sam worked hard and at the end of every day he felt good, better than he had in years. Partly because there was a sense of accomplishment in restoring order to the deteriorating ranch. And partly because the old man needed him. It was as simple as that.
He’d been working for Walt about six weeks when out of the blue the old man invited him to come for dinner one night. That was the first time he’d seen the photograph of Walt’s granddaughter, Molly. Set in a gold frame on top of the television, the snapshot had caught her in what he could only describe as a natural moment. She stood with an arm around each of her sons; one of them, the younger boy, grinned up at her, while the older one half scowled. The wind tossed her hair as she smiled shyly into the camera. What Sam noticed was her eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes that blue. He might have suspected she wore colored contacts if not for the photo of Walt and his wife. The other Molly. This Molly’s eyes were the identical shade of cobalt blue. Her hair was the same rich shade of auburn. Walt’s granddaughter was pretty, in an ordinary sort of way. Attractive but not beautiful.