Wyoming Heart Read online

  “Now, now, she’s not so bad...”

  “I’d rather we never spoke of her again,” he interrupted, and gave his cousin a look that said he meant it. “The other woman, the nice one,” he emphasized, “she’s married to John Callister, you said?”

  Bart wanted to tell him about Mina, about her past, but he realized he’d get nowhere. At least not right now. “Yes. Sassy’s well-known here in the community. Her mother had cancer, but John got her treated and she continues to thrive. The family adopted a little girl who’d worked for an employee who died, and she lives with her adoptive mother as well. They’re a fine family.”

  “Mrs. Callister seemed pleasant.”

  “She is. And Mina...”

  “Please,” Cort interrupted. He drew in a breath. “That’s about all the unpleasantness I can manage for one day. And the damned woman knits, can you believe it? I wonder if she knows which century this is?”

  Bart held his tongue. He could have answered that remark, but it was just as well to save it for later. “How about a nice cup of strong black coffee?” he asked instead.

  “That sounds good.”

  Bart grinned. “I splurged on a pound of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee.” He glanced at his cousin, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah, I know,” he added on a chuckle. “It’s your favorite.”

  “And you just became my most favorite cousin,” Cort returned with a laugh.

  “No surprise,” came the drawling reply.

  * * *

  THEY SAT AROUND the small kitchen table nibbling on a pizza they’d picked up on the way home and drinking the delicious coffee Bart had fixed for them.

  “This is really nice,” Cort said, glancing around at the modern, clean kitchen with its blue curtains and appliances.

  “I love to cook,” the other man said. “So I’ve got pretty much every device known to the culinary arts.”

  “I can’t boil water,” Cort sighed. “There was a notable surplus of women in our lives after our father kicked our model stepmother out the back door.”

  “I remember,” Bart said. He shook his head. “Amazing that a man as smart as your father could let a woman like that take him over lock, stock and barrel.”

  “I guess love can be pretty inconvenient.” He fingered the coffee cup. “Our father alienated my brother Cash, so badly that even after our stepmother left, Cash wouldn’t speak to him. He wouldn’t speak to Garon or Parker or me, either, because we sided with the mercenary woman.” He shifted in the chair. “We live and learn. Garon went up to Jacobsville, where Cash is police chief, and made peace with him. The rest of us followed. We’re still wary of each other, but we’re making progress.”

  “Cash is a legend in law enforcement,” Bart pointed out. “Ask our cousin Cody Banks.” He laughed. “Cash was even a Texas Ranger for a while, until he slugged the acting officer in charge.”

  “Stuff of legends, my brother,” Cort agreed, trying not to feel smaller at the comparison. Cash had done things the rest of them had never even dreamed of. He’d been a government assassin, a merc, a military man, a Texas Ranger, a cyber expert for the San Antonio DA’s office. And, above all that, he’d married one of the most famous actress/models in America, Tippy Moore, the Georgia Firefly. Cash and Tippy had a daughter and a baby son, and seeing them together was an experience. After all the years, they were still like newlyweds.

  “You’re quiet,” Bart remarked.

  Cort smiled. “I was thinking about Cash’s wife and kids. Tippy really is beautiful, even without makeup, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt around the house. God, he’s a lucky man!”

  “Yes, he is. I’ve seen photos of her. Gorgeous woman.” He sipped coffee. “What’s Garon’s wife like?”

  “Quiet,” Cort said, but with a smile. “She’s gentle and supportive and a wonderful mother to their son. She almost died having him,” he added softly. “She had a bad heart valve and didn’t tell anybody, least of all Garon. He went almost crazy when he found out. They married because she was pregnant, but Cash said he had to get Garon drunk enough to pass out while Grace was in surgery, and then in ICU. They didn’t know if she’d come out of the operation at all. The pregnancy was a big complication, and Garon had just saved her from a serial killer who had a knife at her throat.” He shook his head. “Garon said he paid for sins he hadn’t even committed during those hours at the hospital.”

  Bart grimaced. “Poor guy.”

  “Our dad’s still a rounder,” Cort told him. “Well, he was. He was in Pensacola a few months ago, chasing a widow who liked motorcycles, when a former newspaper reporter tripped over him and knocked him down. Apparently, he was instantly over his head. He married her two weeks later and they moved to Vermont, to be near her family.”

  “Well!”

  “Parker says he’s not getting married for years and years. He’s got two girlfriends. He’s hoping they’ll never meet,” he added on a chuckle.

  “What about you?” Bart probed.

  Cort drew in a long breath and finished his coffee. “I don’t know,” he said after a minute. “I’ve had my pick of beautiful, rich women. They all had one thing in common.”

  “They couldn’t bear the thought of life on an isolated, smelly cattle ranch, no matter how rich its owner was,” Bart guessed, and sighed. “That’s been my luck, too. Not that I’m that rich—I’m just comfortable. But women who come out here don’t ever come back.” He frowned. “Well, that’s not quite true. One did. But she’s like the sister I lost when I was a boy,” he added with a sad smile. “There’s no spark, no romance. She’s just nice, and I like her.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need,” Cort said sardonically. “Someone to be my friend and listen to my complaints when estimated taxes come due.”

  “Miracles happen every single day.”

  “So they say.”

  * * *

  CORT DREAMED THAT NIGHT. He was dodging rockets, covered with dust, flat on his belly in it behind a wall, his heartbeat shaking him as he waited to see if he was going to die or not. He was back in Iraq, thirteen years ago, in the Army fighting insurgents.

  Beside him, a younger soldier was praying. Nearby, another was cursing as every shell hit.

  “I hate rockets!” the cursing soldier burst out.

  “Not too fond of them myself,” Cort replied. “Where’s our sniper? We need to take out that position.”

  “McDaniel? He caught some shrapnel in the chest,” he replied, indicating a form under a blanket. “Poor guy.”

  Cort’s lips made a thin line. “Where’s his rifle?”

  The soldier found it and handed it to Cort.

  “That’s going to be a hard shot,” the man told him solemnly. “He’s got the high ground and he’s got plenty of cover.” He indicated the position, where movement could just barely be seen among some trees in the dim light of dusk.

  Cort loaded the high-powered rifle. “No problem.”

  He stole around the side of their position, going very slowly, making no sound. He was a hunter. Every fall, he brought home at least two deer for the dinner table. He loved venison stew. Nobody made it like Chiquita, nicknamed Chaca, who’d cooked for the men since Cort had been a little boy.

  When he found a place that gave him a good view of the mortar and its operator, he hunkered down and rested the stock of the rifle on the broken wall that ran around the perimeter of the bombed-out blockhouse where he and the other soldiers had set up camp.

  He took slow, deliberate aim at a spot he was certain the insurgent was occupying. Sure enough, seconds later, there was the faintest glint of light reflecting off metal. Cort smiled as he pulled the trigger.

  There were no more rockets. Cort hadn’t seen the result of the shot, but he was pretty sure he’d wounded the enemy soldier. He put the rifle down and caught his breath.

  “
Nice shot,” another soldier said.

  He smiled. “Thanks. I hate being bombed when I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Tell me about it!”

  The conversation, and his actions, had been real. But the dream suddenly morphed into a nightmare. There was a woman nearby. He couldn’t see her, but he heard her screams. She was begging someone to stop, to leave her alone. Cort searched for her, but all he could hear was her voice in the distance. “I’ll never marry!” she was sobbing. “No man will ever have power over me again!”

  He wanted to tell the shadowy woman that unless she lived in a cave, someone would have power over her. A boss. A stubborn friend. Doctors. Lawyers. Power came and went. It never ended. But he couldn’t find her.

  She was crying softly. “They said it would get better with time, but it doesn’t get better. It will never get better!”

  “What will get better?” he asked.

  “Life.”

  He opened his eyes and the ceiling was above him. Bart’s ceiling. Bart’s house. He sat up in bed and drew up his knees so that he’d have a place to rest his forehead. The dream had seemed very real. The woman had sounded as if she were being tortured. He wondered why her voice sounded so familiar. He wondered who had hurt her.

  Well, he reasoned, it was only a dream, after all. He lay back down and went back to sleep.

  * * *

  THEY WERE WORKING out on the ranch, branding calves, when one of Bart’s part-time cowboys rode up.

  “There’s going to be a party for that friend of yours who writes,” the cowboy told Bart. “And get this—they’re going to have it at the Simpson mansion. How’s that for highbrow? When she was in school, the kids of the family who lived there used to throw rocks at her when she went by toward the school bus stop.”

  “She’s had a hard life,” Bart agreed quietly. “It’s nice to see her getting some recognition, finally.”

  “What sort of party is it?” Cort asked.

  The cowboy chuckled. “The sort where anybody’s welcome,” he replied. “So I guess I’ll clean my boots and see if I can find a clean change of clothes, and I’ll present myself to the single ladies present!”

  “Good luck with that, McAllister.” Bart grinned. “You’d do better to pin fifty-dollar bills to your shirt and go date-fishing at a mall. You are a disaster when it comes to women.”

  “I noticed,” the cowboy sighed. “But then, miracles happen every day, they say. I’m waiting for mine with both hands outstretched!”

  “Uncomfortable posture,” Bart returned.

  “What’s a little discomfort in pursuit of love?” the cowboy said with a laugh.

  “When is this mythical party?” Bart asked.

  “Saturday night.”

  “I’ll bring my cousin,” Bart told him, indicating Cort. “A night out will do him good.”

  “It won’t do me any good,” McAllister said in a sad tone. “He’s prettier than all the rest of us combined. I reckon the pretty ladies will trample us to get to him.” He pointed at Cort, who laughed uproariously.

  * * *

  MINA MICHAELS, MEANWHILE, wasn’t laughing. She was dreading an upcoming party that she was being forced to go to. A lot of people wouldn’t even recognize her as an author, because she wrote under the pen name of Willow Shane. The hosts, the Simpsons, were kind people who read her books, so she felt obligated to go. Besides, many of the local citizens who’d been so kind to her would be present. Her life had been a hard one. It was better now that she lived alone at the ranch that her father had owned. He’d left her mother when she was nine, and her mother had a rich boyfriend who kept things going at the ranch afterward.

  The rich boyfriend, however, eventually got tired of Anthea Michaels. She found a married man and seduced and then blackmailed him into keeping her up. Men came and went in the house all the time Mina was growing up. She saw things that turned her stomach. Her mother thought it was hilarious that she was shocked. She chided Mina about her stupid morals and her infrequent trips to church whenever Mina could get a ride.

  Despite the boyfriend who paid the bills, her mother had slept with a lot of other men, including a boy Mina had a painfully fervent crush on. She’d cried for days. The boy was too ashamed afterward to even speak to Mina, and of course, all the kids at school knew what her mother had done. Her mother chided her about it long afterward. It amused her that she’d taken away Mina’s one chance at puppy love.

  Cousin Rogan Michaels had taken on the responsibility for the ranch soon after Mina’s father left. He hired and fired cowboys and kept the livestock healthy. But he wouldn’t give Anthea one penny for her lifestyle. He did give her money to spend on Mina. Of course, Mina never saw a penny of it, or even knew about it, until after Anthea was dead and gone.

  Anthea’s married boyfriend’s wife finally found out about the affair and threatened to leave him. It seemed that she had the money, and her husband was taking it out of their savings account to give to Anthea. So that was the end of that gravy train.

  But soon afterward, her mother had brought home a man who promised to help pay the bills. He turned out to be not only a liar, but a raging alcoholic. Her mother seemed obsessed with him. Mina hated him on sight. He spent weekends getting drunk on whiskey and pills. He went from weekends to every day, and her mother tried to sell off the livestock—until Cousin Rogan found out and threatened litigation and charges of attempted theft. So Anthea quickly decided not to pursue that plan.

  She started drinking heavily, too, and locking herself in the bedroom with their new houseguest most nights and sometimes all weekend. She was crazy about the drunk, whose name was Henry. He didn’t work, but he made a good job of turning Mina’s life to hell. She’d complained about him, just once, to her mother. Henry had beaten the hell out of her and dared her to go to the law about it.

  Mina, bruised all over and hurting, took the dare, feeling that her life couldn’t be any worse than it already was. She was sixteen and sick and scared to death of Henry. So a sheriff’s deputy, a newcomer to the community, had come out to the house to answer Mina’s call.

  Mina’s mother got to him first. She swore that Mina had fallen down the steps and blamed it on poor Henry. Her teenage daughter didn’t like her mother’s boyfriend, she said. Mina called him names and threatened to have him put in jail on fake charges all the time, she added. Anthea cried and sounded so convincing that the sheriff’s deputy believed her and went away. Afterward, Mina caught hell. Henry left more bruises on her, along with a few lacerations from the edge of his belt. Anthea didn’t say a word. She poured herself and Henry another drink.

  Cody Banks, the sheriff, read the deputy’s report. He didn’t buy Anthea’s explanation. He kept a watch on Mina. But he couldn’t catch her mother’s boyfriend in the act, and Mina’s mother wouldn’t have testified, anyway. It would be Mina’s word against Henry’s, and Mina’s mother had already spread it around town that Mina was a terrible liar.

  Life had been so hard. Mina didn’t do well in school because she was shy and withdrawn and bullied. Her home life was even worse. Her only escape had been her writing, a secret she shared with very few people. From the age of thirteen, writing had obsessed her. Cousin Rogan had encouraged her. Her mother wasn’t told, ever.

  Mina didn’t date, so she was ridiculed by the other girls. Only one of them, Sassy, had been kind to her. It was why she and Sassy were such good friends. Bart had met Mina when her mother had got her a job after school in the local restaurant as a waitress, to help bring in money, because her mother and her alcoholic boyfriend were too stoned to work. Despite Cousin Rogan keeping the ranch up, there was no food without money, no utilities, either. Her mother had made threats when Mina protested that she didn’t want to work as a waitress. They were sickening threats, and Henry smiled at her while they were made. She didn’t protest again. Henry liked to try and fondle her
when her mother wasn’t looking. Not that her mother would have cared. She’d hated Mina her whole life. Mina had never known why.

  Mina’s little paycheck took care of groceries and the power and water bill, with nothing left over. Mina gritted her teeth and studied hard so that she could graduate and get away from home as soon as possible. She would have thrown herself on Cousin Rogan’s mercy, but he’d spent a couple of years in Australia, in partnership with the local cattle magnate, McGuire, working on their big cattle station there. He had a man assigned to act as foreman of the ranch in his absence, but the man was cold as ice and Mina was as nervous of him as she was of Henry.

  Bart was kind to her. He took the place of the brother she wished she had. He was encouraging, and optimistic. He reminded her that she was almost old enough to graduate and then she could get away from her mother and her mother’s awful boyfriend. He’d help, he added, anyway he could. It had really touched Mina, whose life had been a daily torment.

  Then, when Mina turned eighteen, just days before she graduated from high school, her mother’s boyfriend, high as a kite, drove the two of them out to a local bar in the country to buy more liquor. On the way, he ran the car into a telephone pole at a high rate of speed and killed them both instantly.

  Mina felt guilty for the relief that overwhelmed her. She and her mother had never been close, and since Henry had moved in with them, nothing had gone right.

  She had Bart to help her with the funeral arrangements and finding an attorney to help with the administration of the estate. Luckily, Mina’s cousin Rogan had come home from Australia about the same time, and he was a tower of strength. He was outraged when he heard what Mina had gone through, and sorry that he hadn’t been near enough to help. He took care of everything and set Mina up with a computer and enough money to keep the ranch going while she did what she’d dreamed of all her life—write books. He’d read some of her work. He was convinced that she’d go right to the top. He was the first person who’d really believed she could. Well, he and Bart.