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Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author DEBBIE MACOMBER

“Well-developed emotions and appealing characters … Macomber is a skilled storyteller who turns [Montana] into an engaging, unabashedly sentimental love story.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Debbie Macomber is one of the most reliable, versatile romance authors around. Whether she’s writing light-hearted romps or more serious relationship books, her novels are always engaging stories that accurately capture the foibles of real-life men and women with warmth and humor.”

—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Debbie Macomber’s gift for understanding the souls of women—their relationships, their values, their lives—is at its peak.”

—BookPage on Between Friends

“Macomber has a gift for evoking the emotions that are at the heart of the genre’s popularity.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A multifaceted tale of romance and deceit, the final installment of Macomber’s Dakota trilogy oozes with country charm and a strong sense of community.”

—Publishers Weekly on Always Dakota

“Macomber … is no stranger to the New York Times bestseller list. She knows how to please her audience.”

—Oregon Statesman Journal

“Macomber’s assured storytelling and affirming narrative are as welcoming as your favorite easy chair.”

—Publishers Weekly on Twenty Wishes

Debbie Macomber
Montana

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber.

CEDAR COVE

16 Lighthouse Road

204 Rosewood Lane

311 Pelican Court

44 Cranberry Point

50 Harbor Street

6 Rainier Drive

74 Seaside Avenue

8 Sandpiper Way

92 Pacific Boulevard

1022 Evergreen Place

1105 Yakima Street

1225 Christmas Tree Lane

BLOSSOM STREET

The Shop on Blossom Street

A Good Yarn

Susannah’s Garden

(previously published as Old Boyfriends) Back on Blossom Street (previously published as Wednesdays at Four) Twenty Wishes Summer on Blossom Street Hannah’s List A Turn in the Road

Thursdays at Eight

Christmas in Seattle

Falling for Christmas

A Mother’s Gift

Angels at Christmas

A Mother’s Wish

A Merry Little Christmas

The Manning Sisters

The Manning Brides

The Manning Grooms

Summer in Orchard Valley

Dedicated to Barb Dooley, with thanks

for blessing my life with her wisdom and friendship

Dear Friends,

My career has taken many twists and turns over the years. It all started back in the late 1970s with a rented typewriter set up at the kitchen table. Between car pools, Cub Scouts, ballet lessons, teaching Sunday school and analyzing new math, I wrote. Day after day, month after month and year after year. As soon as the kids walked out the door for school, Supermom was magically transformed into the struggling young writer.

In those early years all I had to sustain me was my passion for storytelling and my dreams of one day becoming a published writer. I’d close my eyes and picture my name on the cover of a book. I could even see the artwork. For someone who had yet to publish a word of fiction, this was heady stuff. But here I am, more than thirty years later, with literally dozens of published books, translated in more than twenty countries around the world.

I have a lot of people to thank for this incredible opportunity, especially my editor Paula Eykelhof. She’s supported me and my career with energy and enthusiasm. Her insights and editorial skills have helped shape this story and dozens of others from beginning to end.

A special note of appreciation to Geri and Scott Bier, who generously let me call on their ranching expertise. And of course a big kiss to my husband for encouraging me to live my dream. He could complain a great deal more than he does! But mostly, thank you, my loyal readers, for your continued interest and support.

You can reach me through my website at DebbieMacomber.com or Facebook at Debbie Macomber’s World or by letter. Your letters have touched my heart. You can reach me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

Again, thank you for your support and encouragement through the years, and don’t forget to dream big yourselves, for who knows where those dreams will take you.

One

“I don’t know how much longer your grandfather’s going to live.”

The words hit Molly Cogan with the force of an unexpected blow. Sinking onto a stool beside the kitchen phone, she blocked out the blare of the television and her sons’ ongoing argument over whose turn it was to set the table for dinner.

Tom and Clay were at each other’s throats, but Molly could only deal with one crisis at a time. “Who is this again, please?”

“Sam Dakota. Listen, I realize this isn’t the best time, but I felt I should tell you.” He paused, then added, “Walt wouldn’t appreciate me calling you, but like I said, you have a right to know his health isn’t good.”

The unmistakable sound of shattering glass filtered through the television noise as the boys’ skirmish escalated.

Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, Molly shouted, “Boys, please! Not now.” Something in her voice must have communicated the importance of the call, because both turned and stared at her. A moment later, Tom reached for the broom.

Molly’s hand trembled as she lifted the receiver back to her ear. “How do you know my grandfather, Mr. Dakota?”

“I’m his foreman. Been here about six months.”

The fact that Gramps had willingly surrendered control of his ranch to a hired hand—a stranger—told her a great deal. For the past few years, he’d sold off portions of the once-huge spread, until all that remained was a couple of thousand acres, small by Montana standards. He’d managed the Broken Arrow Ranch himself as long as she could remember. Hired hands came and went, depending on the size of the herd, but as far as she knew, he’d always maintained tight control of the day-to-day operations. Over the years his letters had been infrequent, but in the last one—which she’d received after Christmas, four and a half months ago—Molly had sensed something wasn’t right with Gramps. She’d put aside the feeling, however, consumed by her own problems.

“Tell me again what happened,” she said abruptly, struggling to regain her composure. The man’s first words had been such a shock, much of what he’d said afterward had escaped her.

“Like I told you, spring’s our busy time, and yesterday your grandfather told me he’d be out to help check on the new calves. When he didn’t show, I returned to the house and found him unconscious on the kitchen floor. Heart attack, I figured.”

Molly pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in a gasp of dismay. Gramps … in pain. Unable to breathe. Losing consciousness. It frightened her to think of it.

With her mother and half brother living in Australia, Gramps was her only family here. Her only connection with her long-dead father.

“I got him to the clinic in town and Doc Shaver confirmed what I thought. It is his heart. Walt has a pacemaker, but the walls of his heart are old and brittle, and it isn’t working as well as Doc had hoped.”

“Gramps has a pacemaker?” Molly cried. “When did this happen?” She raised her hand to the cameo hanging from a gold chain around her neck and clenched it hard. It was the most precious piece of jewelry she owned. Gramps had given it to her the day they buried her grandmother nine years before.

“More than six months ago. First I’d heard of it, too.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Molly asked, although she realized Sam Dakota couldn’t possibly know. She wished—not for the first time—that San Francisco was closer to Montana. Right now, Sweetgrass seemed a million miles away.

“I can’t answer that. I thought you should know Walt’s probably not going to live much longer. If you want to see him, I suggest you plan a visit out here soon.”

“What exactly is wrong with his heart?” It might have sounded as if she was avoiding the real issue, but she needed to understand Gramps’s condition before she could even begin to think about anything else. Like her finances. And how she could possibly afford a trip to Montana now.

“Do you know anything about pacemakers?”

“A little.” Just enough to understand that they emit an electronic beep, which assists the heart in beating at a steady pace.

“Well, as I said earlier, the walls of your grandfather’s heart are brittle and it’s difficult to get the pacemaker to function properly. Doc Shaver worked on him a couple of hours, but he couldn’t make any guarantees. Said there’s nothing more he can do. It’s only a matter of time before his heart gives out completely.”

Molly clamped her teeth over her lower lip while she tried to take in what this man was telling her. “I … I appreciate the call. Thank you.” With each word, she felt herself more overwhelmed by emotion. Not Gramps, please dear God, not Gramps. Not yet.

“Sorry to call with such bad news.”

“How … how is he now?” She glanced toward the living room and discovered Tom and Clay standing in the doorway, studying her intently. A smile would have reassured them, but even that was beyond her.

“Better. Will you be coming, then?” the foreman asked.

“I’m not sure.” Molly didn’t see how she could manage it. With the child-support payments cut off and the financial adjustments they’d already been forced to make in the past year, she couldn’t imagine squeezing one more expense into her already stretched budget. Even a short trip would require at least a week away from her job—a contract position without paid holidays. Plus, she’d have the cost of airfare or, more likely, gas and lodging for the drive. She’d have to take the boys; Gramps would want to see them, and they deserved to see him.

“When will you know whether you’re coming?”

It might have been her imagination, but she detected a note of censure. This man knew nothing about her—knew nothing about her circumstances or her life. How dared he stand as judge and jury over her decisions?

“If I knew that, I’d have said something sooner!” Leaning the back of her head against the kitchen wall, Molly tried to think clearly, desperate to find a way, a solution—anything that would lighten the burden of her fears. Never one to weep openly, particularly with strangers, she fought the growing constriction in her throat.

“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” Sam said gruffly.

Molly wanted to shout that he should wait, that she had other questions, but he’d already answered the important ones. What she wanted even more was to hear this stranger tell her Gramps was on the mend.

But he wasn’t going to say that.

“Thank you for phoning,” she said, feeling guilty about the sharp retort she’d made a moment ago. No one enjoyed delivering bad news, and it was kind of Sam Dakota to make sure she learned of her grandfather’s condition. “I’ll let you know if we’re coming for a visit,” she felt obliged to add.

“Fine. Your grandfather should be home in a day or two. I’d consider it a favor if you didn’t mention I called.”

“I won’t. And thank you.” Standing up, she replaced the telephone receiver and looked at her sons. Both had their father’s deep-set dark brown eyes—and both had been born with the ability to look straight through her. At fourteen Tom was growing by leaps and bounds, a gangly youth with feet too big for his body. He hadn’t grown into his height, and had become painfully self-conscious. This was an awkward stage filled with frustrations and raging hormones. They’d once been close, but that had all changed in the past few months. Tom barely talked to her now, no longer sharing confidences the way he used to. Often he was sullen and angry for no apparent reason. His attitude worried Molly; she sensed he was keeping something from her. She tried not to think about it, but every now and then the fear that he was experimenting with drugs or running with the wrong crowd would enter her mind and refuse to go away.

Clay, at eleven, was a younger version of his brother. Neither boy had inherited her auburn hair or clear blue eyes. Both resembled their father’s side of the family—dark-haired and dark-eyed. Not that Daniel’s family had revealed much interest in her sons. But then, neither had Daniel.

“That was about Dad, wasn’t it?” Tom asked, his eyes locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened as though he was bracing himself for her response. The situation with Daniel hadn’t been easy on any of them. They’d seen his name in the newspapers and on television night after night for weeks, that whole time the trial was taking place.

“The call wasn’t about your father,” Molly answered carefully. The kids had been through enough because of Daniel. He’d never been a good father, any more than he’d been a good husband; he had, in fact, left her for another woman. But she’d say one thing for him: until a year ago he’d faithfully paid child support. The payments had stopped when Daniel’s troubles had begun. His legal problems had eventually led to financial problems for her and the boys.

“What did Dad do this time?” Tom demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. It was a look Molly recognized, a look that said Tom, with his newly developed teenage cynicism, wasn’t about to believe any adult. Especially his mother …

“I told you this has nothing to do with your father!” It bothered Molly that her son would assume she’d lie to him. There was nothing she abhorred more than lying. Daniel had taught her and their children more than enough on that subject. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Clay moved into the kitchen and Molly held out her arms to her youngest son. Clay didn’t object to an occasional hug, but Tom had let it be known he was much too old for that sort of thing—and much too cool to display affection toward his mother. She respected his wishes, and at the same time longed for the times when they could share a simple hug.

“It’s Gramps,” she said. Her throat started to close and she couldn’t say more.

Clay wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pressed his head to her shoulder. Molly sighed deeply.

“Is Gramps sick?” Tom asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. He paced restlessly, back and forth across the kitchen floor. It’d become a habit of his lately, a particularly irritating one. Oh, yes, Molly thought, sighing again. The last twelve months had been hard on all of them. Tom seemed to be having the toughest time coping with everything—the public humiliation of his father’s trial for fraud, the lack of any extra money and then the move from a spacious three-bedroom house to a cramped two-bedroom apartment. But this place was the best she could do, and his dissatisfaction underscored her own feelings of inadequacy.

“Gramps’s heart is giving him trouble,” Molly finally answered. She spoke in a low toneless voice.

“Are we going to go see him?”

Molly brushed the hair from Clay’s brow and gazed down on his sweet boyish face. “I don’t know yet.”

“But, Mom, don’t you want to?” Tom cried.

That hurt. Of course she did. Desperately. If she had the choice, she’d be on the first plane out. “Oh, Tom, how can you ask me that? I’d give anything to be with Gramps.”

“Then let’s go. We can leave tonight.” Tom headed toward the bedroom he shared with his younger brother, as if the only thing they needed to do was toss a few clothes in a suitcase and walk out the door.

“We can’t,” she said, shaking her head, disheartened once again by the reality of their situation.

“Why not?” Tom’s voice was scornful.

“I don’t have enough—”

“Money,” her oldest son finished for her. He slammed his fist against the kitchen counter and Molly winced, knowing that the action must have been painful. “I hate money! Every time we want to do something or need something, we can’t, and all because of money.”

Molly pulled out a kitchen chair and sagged into it, her energy gone, her spirits deflated by anger and self-pity.

“It’s not Mom’s fault,” Clay muttered, placing his skinny arm around her shoulders, comforting her.

“I don’t know what to do,” Molly said, thinking out loud.

“If you wanted to go by yourself,” Tom offered with a show of reluctance, “I could baby-sit Clay.”

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Clay insisted. “I can take care of myself.” He glared at his older brother, challenging Tom to proclaim otherwise.

“I can’t leave now, with or without you boys,” Molly told them sadly. She had less than twenty dollars in her checking account. It was the all-too-familiar scenario—too much month at the end of her money.

“I remember Gramps,” Tom said suddenly. “At least I think I do.”

The last time Molly had visited the ranch was shortly after her divorce almost ten years ago. Her grandmother, who’d already been ill at the time with a fast-spreading cancer, had died shortly afterward. Gramps had asked Molly to come live with him, and for a while she’d seriously considered the invitation. She told herself now that if she’d had any sense, she would have taken him up on his offer. She might actually have done it if she’d managed to find work. Fluent in both French and German, Molly was employed on a contract basis by an import agency. Unfortunately there wasn’t much call for her skills in the cattle country of western Montana.

During that visit Tom had been four and Clay still in diapers. Whatever memories Tom had were more likely the stories she’d told him about the ranch. Tucked against the foothills of the Bitterroot Mountains, the Broken Arrow was one of the lonely ranches scattered through the Flathead River valley. Molly often talked about it, especially after a letter arrived from Gramps. There weren’t many, only two or three a year. Her grandmother had been the one who’d taken care of family correspondence. Molly had discovered that Gramps hated talking on the phone even more than he hated writing letters; nevertheless, he made the effort to keep in touch with her. Each one of his letters was read countless times and treasured. Losing his lifelong love had devastated him, and even now, nine years after her passing, Gramps mentioned his wife in every single letter, every conversation.

Molly always answered his letters and routinely mailed him pictures of the boys. Over the years they’d talked on the phone a number of times but their conversations had obviously been uncomfortable for him. Gramps never had been much of a talker, nor was he like the stereotypical kindly old characters who populated kids’ storybooks. Nope, he was actually a bit of a curmudgeon. He yelled into the telephone as if he thought that was necessary in order to be heard and fretted constantly over what the call was costing.

No small man, he stood a good six-two and weighed at least two hundred pounds. Four-year-old Tom had found his appearance so scary that he’d clung to her leg the first few days of their visit. Clay had buried his face in her shoulder and wailed the instant Gramps came into view. Her grandfather didn’t have the slightest idea how intimidating he could be to small boys.

Had it really been nine years since she’d last seen him? It seemed impossible, yet she knew it was true.

“He yelled,” Tom murmured, lost in his own thoughts.

That was Gramps, all right. He was gruff and impatient and about as subtle as a gun in your face. To really know him was to love him, but he rarely gave anyone the opportunity to get that close. Never afraid to voice his opinions, Gramps went out of his way to make sure folks around him knew what he thought and why; anyone who dared to disagree was called a “danged fool.” Usually to his—or her—face.

When Molly’s grandmother was alive, she’d smoothed the waters. Her charm and humor had more than compensated for Walt Wheaton’s prickly nature. By now, Gramps had probably alienated just about everyone in Sweetgrass.

The foreman who’d phoned said he’d been around for more than six months. If Gramps had mentioned hiring a foreman in any of his letters, she’d missed it—hard to believe, considering how often she’d read them. But knowing Gramps, he’d rather chew nails than admit he needed help.

Sam Dakota. The name sounded almost familiar. She grinned weakly, allowing herself to be amused for just a moment—maybe she was confusing him with South Dakota. Or maybe Gramps had mentioned him, but not in a discussion about hired hands. She was sure of that.

The boys went to bed that evening with a minimum of fuss, for which Molly was grateful. She followed soon after, weary to the bone.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was Gramps. All she could think about was the cantankerous old man she loved.

At midnight, Molly gave up the effort and turned on the light. Tossing aside the covers, she went to her desk and sorted through the drawers until she found the last letter she’d received from Gramps. She sat on her bed, legs crossed, and read it slowly.

Dear Molly,

Thanks for the pictures of you and the boys. They sure don’t look like they’re any relation to us Wheatons, do they? Guess I can’t hold it against them that they resemble their father. They aren’t to blame for that. The picture of you is another story. Every time I pick it up, it’s like seeing my own sweet Molly at your age. Only she wore her hair long.

I don’t understand what’s with women these days. They cut their hair short like they want to be men. Ginny Dougherty, the gal who ranches the spread next to mine, for instance—damn fool woman thinks she can tend a herd as good as a man, so she decides to look like one. She might be a handsome woman if she kept her hair long and even wore a dress. I tell you, her husband would turn over in his coffin if he could see what she’s done to herself.

As for the hair business, I’ll admit men aren’t much better. Seems a lot of them prefer to wear it long—like back in the sixties, hippies and all. But I never thought I’d see grown men—gray-haired geezers, for Pete’s sake!—wearing ponytails. Even worse—what do you call them?—those pigtails. Far as I’m concerned Willie Nelson’s got a lot to answer for.

It isn’t just the way people do their hair, either. More and more strange things are going on in Sweetgrass. A man doesn’t know who to trust any longer. People talk as if the government was the enemy. I didn’t fight in a world war to hear that kind of crazy talk, but then folks around here never have been keen for my opinion. I give it to them, anyway, whether they want to hear it or not.

The weather’s been good and bad. Winter hasn’t been too hard so far—only one blizzard.

The chickens are laying more eggs than I can use, which means they’re content. There’s nothing better than bacon and eggs for breakfast. I hope you’re feeding the boys a decent breakfast every morning and not that sugar-coated junk.

Now about you. It sounds like Daniel finally got what he’s deserved all along. Imagine cheating those decent folks out of their hard-earned cash! I never did understand why you married that smooth talker. I knew the minute I met him he wasn’t any good. If you’d asked me before you were foolish enough to go through with the wedding, you might have saved yourself a lot of trouble. Well, at least you have your boys, so something good came out of the marriage.

You’re my only grandchild, Molly, and you’re all I have left. You know that. I remember the day you were born and your father called to say Joan had given birth to a girl. Your grandmother wept when she learned your parents decided to name you after her. They must have known something even then, because small as you were, you resembled my Molly, and you do so more every year. She was a beautiful woman, and you are, too.

I wish your marriage had been like ours. It was the best thing in my life, Molly. I’m glad you’re rid of that no-good Daniel, but I wish you’d marry again. Though I suppose that subject’s best saved for another day.

I want to talk to you about something else. I recently celebrated my seventy-sixth birthday, so I decided it was time I got my affairs in order. I had a new will drawn up. When I was in town last week, I stopped off and talked to Russell Letson. He’s an attorney who’s been around awhile, and his father and I used to be friends. I like Russell well enough, even though I suspect most attorneys are shysters. Anyway, I brought in my old will, and Russell and I talked a bit and he asked me a bunch of questions that got me to thinking.

There’s certain things you should know. First off, I’ve got a safe-deposit box at the bank. I put some medals in there from the war. When the time is right and they appreciate that sort of thing, you can give those medals to my great-grandsons. I suppose I should put your grandmother’s wedding band in there, but I never could bring myself to part with it. I got it on the nightstand next to the bed. Nine years she’s been gone, and I still miss her.

The ranch will be yours. I wish you’d moved here after Molly died, but I understood why you decided to return to California. For myself, I don’t know how you can breathe that foul air—I’ve seen what San Francisco’s like, on television. It can’t be good for the boys to be taking in all that smog. I’m hoping that after I’m gone you’ll give Sweetgrass another try. Folks here are hardworking and decent. Most years, the ranch should at least break even. And the house is solid. My father built it in 1909, and after he died, Molly and I added electricity and indoor plumbing. As houses go, it isn’t fancy, but it’s stood all these years and will stand longer.

That pretty well takes care of what I wanted to tell you.

I love you, Molly girl, and those youngsters of yours, too. I’m sure you know that, although I’m not one to say it often. This letter seemed like a good time to do it.

Remember—don’t let Daniel give you any more grief. He’s getting what he deserves. Gramps

Molly read the letter a second time and then a third. It all made sense now.

According to what the foreman had told her, Gramps must have written it two months after he got the pacemaker. Her beloved grandfather hadn’t said one word about his health problems, and she knew why.

Daniel.

Gramps hadn’t wanted to burden her with more worries while she dealt with the publicity and embarrassment of Daniel’s trial.

Gramps was right about Daniel; a prison term was exactly what he deserved. As an investment specialist he’d been regularly stealing retirement income from his elderly clients. He’d been clever about it, concocting schemes and falsifying numbers; it had taken several accountants and finance specialists almost a year to uncover the full extent of his crimes. Throughout his entire so-called career, he’d been cheating the very people he was supposed to be helping. He’d lied to his colleagues and clients, lied to the police and the press. He’d even been caught lying under oath. His trial had lasted for weeks, with mobs of angry senior citizens packing the courtroom demanding justice. They didn’t get their money back, but they were there to see Daniel sentenced to twenty years.

Because Molly had been so distressed by what was happening to all these people who, like her, had once trusted Daniel, she hadn’t paid enough attention to some of the remarks in Gramps’s letter. She’d read and reread his words for the comfort they gave her, for the way they brought him close, but she hadn’t stopped to question his sudden interest in a will and settling his affairs. Hadn’t recognized that he was preparing her for his death. It seemed obvious now that he didn’t expect to live much longer.

Besides this letter, she could remember only one other time Gramps had told her he loved her—the day they buried her grandmother. She had no doubt of his love; he said it loud and clear, but rarely with words. Open displays of emotion embarrassed him, as they did many other men, particularly men of his generation.

This letter wasn’t the first time he’d commented on her marrying again. That theme had been a constant one since the divorce. The ink hadn’t dried on the legal papers, and Gramps was already trying to introduce her to the bachelor ranchers in the area.

The thought of another relationship still sent chills up Molly’s spine. As she liked to tell her friends, she’d done the marriage thing and wasn’t interested in repeating it.

Tucking the letter back in the envelope, she lay down, not expecting to sleep. But she must have drifted off because the next thing she knew, the alarm was buzzing. Gramps’s letter was clutched in her hand, held close to her heart.

It was clear to her then. So clear she should’ve figured it out months ago. The answer had always been there, but she’d been too blind, too stubborn, too willful to see it. It’d taken nearly losing her grandfather to show her what she had to do.

The small conference room off the principal’s office was the last place Tom wanted to be. Referred to as “the holding cell” at Ewell Junior High, the room was cold even during the hottest weather, and it had an unpleasant odor that reminded him of a dentist’s office.

Eddie Ries sat in the hard wooden chair beside him. Eddie’s mother was on her way to the school. Tom hadn’t heard when his own mother would arrive. All he knew was that when she did, she wouldn’t be happy.

Suspended for three days. That was supposed to be punishment? Tom almost laughed out loud. Time away from classes was practically a reward for screwing up! Personally Tom was sick of school. Sick of a lot of things he couldn’t change. His no-good dad for one, and the way the kids had looked at him when they learned the guy in the news was his father. He was sick of feeling helpless and frustrated—which was why he’d become involved in something he’d never thought he would.

He wasn’t friends with Eddie. Didn’t even like him. Eddie went searching for trouble; it made him feel big. Made him look like somebody to the homies. A big man on campus when in reality he’d never fit in. Tom wasn’t sure he did anymore, either; maybe that was what had made him do something so stupid.

While he didn’t regret the suspension, Tom hated adding to his mother’s worries. He could see how this news about his great-grandfather’s health had depressed her. All through dinner the night before, she’d barely said a word; she hadn’t eaten much, either.

Tom hadn’t had much of an appetite himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about Gramps. He wasn’t sure if he remembered the old man or not, but he let Clay think he did, mainly because he was the oldest and should remember. Clay had been a baby that time they were in Montana.

On his twelfth birthday—and the two birthdays after that—Tom had gotten a personal letter from Gramps and a check for twenty bucks. Before that, Gramps had always mailed his mother money and then she’d go shopping and pick something out for him. These last birthdays, the check was made out to him.

In his first letter Gramps had said a boy of twelve was old enough to know what he wanted. Old enough to go out and buy it, too. Tom never forgot the feeling that had come over him with that letter. For the first time in his life he’d felt like a man. He might not remember what Gramps looked like, but Tom loved him the same way his mother did.

His mother was worried. She worried about a lot of things. Tom could always tell when problems got her down. Work, his father, money. Now Gramps. Over the years, he’d come to recognize the symptoms. She’d grow quiet and then three small vertical lines would form in the center of her forehead. It hurt to see those lines and know there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help her. Those were the times he went to his room, put on his earphones and played music so loud his head pounded afterward. The music helped him not to think, because when he did, his stomach ached.

Tom wanted to help his mother. When he was a kid, he’d planned to become a magician and make all the bad things in life disappear with one flamboyant wave of a wand. He used to imagine doing that sometimes. With a flick of his wrist every problem would magically disappear.

The door to the conference room burst open, and Tom sat up straighter as his mother stormed in, her eyes blazing with anger.

Tom lowered his own eyes. He toyed with the idea of greeting her, then decided against it. She didn’t look like she was all that happy to see him.

“Gang symbols, Tom?” she said through clenched teeth, hands on her hips. “You painted gang symbols on the gym wall?”

“Outside wall,” he corrected, and regretted it immediately.

“Do you think it matters which wall?” she asked in a tone that told him the three-day suspension from school was the least of his worries.

Mr. Boone, the principal, walked briskly into the room, looking far too satisfied with himself—like he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. Tom had never had strong feelings about the man, but he was inclined to dislike him now—simply for the smug way he smiled, knowing Tom was in major trouble at home.

“As I explained earlier, Mrs. Cogan,” the principal said, “this school has a zero-tolerance policy with regard to gang activities. While I don’t really believe Tom’s involved in a gang, there are plenty of wannabes. I’d like to believe Tom’s smarter than that, but after today I’m not sure.”

“Get your things, Tom. I’m taking you home,” his mother instructed. He could tell from her voice that said she had plenty more to say later.

Nevertheless, Tom nearly leaped off the chair in his eagerness to escape. He grabbed his jacket and followed his mother outside.

“Of all the stupid brainless things for you to do,” she said as they headed out to the parking lot. Her steps were so fast he had trouble keeping up.

Yeah, well, he wasn’t especially proud of himself, either.

They climbed in the car and he thought she was going to take rubber off the tires the way she squealed across the lot. She missed the Stop sign and zoomed into the street, almost hitting another car.

“Mom!” Tom shouted, holding on to the edge of the seat as he was thrown against the passenger door. “It’s not a good idea for you to drive when you’re this mad.”

“Mad isn’t the half of it.”

“Okay, okay, so I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? Gangs, Tom?”

“I’m not in any gang!”

She tossed him a look that assured him she knew otherwise. “Then why spray-paint their symbols?” Without inhaling she added, “You’re going to repaint that wall all by yourself, young man.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the only one who painted it.” Talk about unfair!

“You’re 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.”

Two

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. Sam had known plenty of women who could run circles around her in the beauty department, but he liked her picture. There was something about her that appealed to him. And he knew Walt cared deeply for her and his two great-grandsons.

Since his brief conversation with Walt’s granddaughter, Sam had found her drifting into his mind at the oddest times. Like now. Actually, it was easy enough to figure out why. He’d been celibate for too long. What he really needed was to drive into town one Friday night and let some sweet young thing take him home. But he couldn’t seem to dredge up the necessary enthusiasm.

In his rodeo days he’d enjoyed the occasional one-night stand, but over the years, he’d lost interest in sex for the sake of sex. When he crawled into bed with a woman, he didn’t want to worry about remembering her name in the morning. Besides, remembering names was a minor concern these days when it came to one’s bed partners. If he chose to self-destruct, Sam preferred to do it on the back of a bad-tempered bull, not in some bed with a lumpy mattress and a faceless woman moaning in his ear.

After that first invitation to share dinner, Walt and Sam began eating all their meals together. The old man routinely plied him with questions. Some he answered. Some he ignored. Walt depended on him, trusted him, and Sam tried to live up to the rancher’s faith in him.

The Broken Arrow was a good spread, with plenty of grass and a fine herd. If Sam ever considered settling down, it’d be on a place like this. Not that he could afford it. Some days he struggled against bitterness. If not for the accident, he might have had it all: fame, money, a good life. A demon bull had put an end to those hopes and expectations. But he’d endured.

In the process Sam had learned something about himself. He was a survivor. Fate might sucker-punch him again, only next time he’d be prepared. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t give a damn about anything–or anyone. Because if he did, he was vulnerable. It occurred to him that he was already becoming too attached to the old man, and that worried him.

By the time he’d sorted out his thoughts and calmed his raging heart, the alarm was ready to sound.

He climbed out of bed, put on a pot of coffee and dressed as the sun peeked over the Rockies, streaking the sky with translucent shafts of pink and gold. It’d become habit to check on Walt before he headed out for the day. He half expected to arrive some morning and find the old man had died in his sleep. He didn’t look forward to that, but as the rancher said, he’d lived a good life and suffered few regrets. That was the way Sam wanted it to be when his own time came.

The kitchen light was on when he stepped onto Walt’s back porch. Walt was rarely up this early anymore. With his heart as weak as it was, he spent half the day napping.

“Coffee’s ready,” Walt said when Sam let himself into the kitchen.

The old man seemed downright chipper, Sam noted, a pleasant contrast to his lethargic manner lately.

Walt gestured toward the coffeepot with his own mug.

“No thanks, I’ve already had a cup.” Sam had never been much for talk in the morning. A grunt now and then usually sufficed.

“I got a call from Molly last night.” Walt’s crooked grin took up half his face. “Looks like you’re going to meet her and the boys, after all.”

“She’s coming out?” Sam hoped to hell she was smart enough not to mention his phone call. As he’d told her, Walt wouldn’t appreciate his interference.

“Better than that.” Walt cupped the steaming mug between his callused hands. His eyes fairly glowed with happiness.

“How long is she staying?”

“For good,” Walt snapped as if it should have been obvious. “She’s finally come to her senses and sold what she could, packed everything else in a U-Haul and she’s driving on out. Should be here week after next.”

Sam lowered himself slowly into a chair. This was something he hadn’t expected. He folded his hands, resting them on the scarred pine table, as the old man’s words sank in.

“The ranch is hers,” Walt announced cheerfully. “There’s no one else. I just pray she’ll be strong enough to hold on to the place when I’m gone.”

Sam had done some thinking about the ranch and what would become of it after Walt died. He’d always known Molly would inherit the Broken Arrow. He’d even toyed with the idea of forming a partnership with her, running the ranch himself and sharing the profits. He’d make sure the arrangement was lucrative for them both, even if it meant working twenty-four hours a day. Eventually he could, maybe, save up enough to buy the spread himself.

His plans were still vague, but this was the first thought he’d given to the future in a hell of a long time. All that would change now. The last thing Walt’s granddaughter would want was an ex-con hanging around the place. In light of this news, it’d be best if he sought other employment. He’d write a letter or two that night, send out a few feelers now his confidence was back. He’d enjoyed working the Broken Arrow Ranch almost as much as he’d enjoyed the feisty old man who’d given him a chance.

“Don’t you have something to say?” Walt asked, glaring at him. Then he laughed, and the sound was like a sick calf choking.

This was probably the first time Sam had heard Walt laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“You.” Walt’s mirth died slowly. “I wish you could’ve seen your face when I said Molly was coming. Just wait till you see her in person. If she’s anything like her grandmother—and she is—you’ll be walking around with your tongue hangin’ out. That photo on the television doesn’t do her justice. She’s a real beauty.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Sam warned. Walt had misread the look, but Sam wasn’t inclined to correct him. He’d let the old coot have his fun.

“Ideas about what?” Walt was obviously playing dumb.

“Me getting together with your granddaughter.”

“You should be so lucky.”

Sam didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t up to this conversation. “It isn’t going to happen.”

Walt’s smile faded and he narrowed his pale eyes on Sam with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. “I doubt she’d have you.”

Sam couldn’t fault him there. “I doubt she would, either,” he agreed. Grabbing his hat from the peg on the porch, he headed out the kitchen door.

The sun broke over the horizon like the golden arm of God, ushering in another perfect California morning. Tom sulked in the bucket seat beside Molly, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. His posture told her that nothing she said or did would placate him for the grave injustice of moving him away from his friends.

Clay, on the other hand, bounced like a rubber ball in the back seat, unable to sit still. His excitement, however, did not appear to be contagious.

Because she wasn’t able to see out her rearview mirror, Molly checked the side one to make sure the trailer was all right. She wasn’t accustomed to hauling anything and the U-Haul was packed tight. Everything she’d managed to accumulate in the past thirty-four years—everything she hadn’t sold, donated to charity or given to friends—was jammed in it.

Although she was deeply concerned about her grandfather, Molly hoped the drive to Sweetgrass would be something the three of them could enjoy. A trip that would “make a memory,” as her grandmother used to say. She thought about her childhood summer visits and how her grandmother had let her name the calves and explore the ranch and gather eggs.…

The last year had precious few happy memories for her and the boys. This was a new beginning for them all. A challenge, too—building a new life, a new home. Few people were given this kind of opportunity. Molly fully intended to make the best of it.

“Are we there yet?” Clay asked, his head bobbing in the rearview mirror.

“Clay,” his brother groaned. “We haven’t even left California.”

“We haven’t?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Molly concurred.

Clay’s head disappeared as he sank down on the seat. His small shoulders slumped forward. “How long’s it going to take?”

“Days,” Tom said grimly.

Molly resisted the urge to jab him. From the first, her older son’s attitude about the move had been less than enthusiastic—although he’d approved of visiting Montana to go and see Gramps. But not to stay there forever, as he’d told her repeatedly this past week. He’d barely uttered a word from the time they started out a couple of hours earlier. As far as she could tell, he continued to blame her for making him repaint the gym wall. Molly didn’t know why she should feel guilty when he was the one who’d sprayed it with gang symbols.

If she needed confirmation that she’d made the right decision, Tom had provided it. The mere thought of her son involved in a gang turned her blood cold. She was terrified of the attraction a gang might hold for him—for any confused angry fatherless boy. Gangs weren’t an issue in Sweetgrass. The people were decent and hardworking, and she wouldn’t need to worry about big-city influences.

“Did I tell you about the Broken Arrow?” she asked in an attempt at conversation. If she displayed a positive attitude, perhaps Tom would start to think that way himself.

“About a thousand times,” he muttered, his face turned away from her as he stared out the side window. The scenery rolled past, huge redwoods and lush green forests, so unlike the fertile river valley of Montana.

“There’s horses, too,” Molly added. As she recalled, Gramps always had a number on hand. These were strong sturdy horses, kept for work, not pleasure or show.

Tom yawned. “How many?”

Molly lifted one shoulder, her gaze trained on the road. Interest. Even this little bit was more than Tom had shown from the moment she’d announced her plans.

“What about my report card?” Clay asked, launching himself against the front seat, thrusting his head between Molly and Tom.

“The school promised to mail it.” Molly decided not to remind her son that she’d answered the same question no less than ten times. They’d miss the last couple of weeks of school, but had finished all their assignments beforehand. Molly had feared even a two-week delay might be too long, considering her grandfather’s condition.

“You could’ve asked if I wanted to move.” Tom leaned his head against the back of the seat and glared at her. Apparently holding his head up demanded more energy than he could muster.

“Yes,” Molly admitted reluctantly, “you’re right, I should have.” This was a sore point with Tom. A transgression he seemed unwilling to forgive.

“But you didn’t ask me.”

“No, I didn’t. Gramps needs us right now and I didn’t feel we could refuse.” Perhaps she’d made a mistake; it wasn’t her first one and certainly wouldn’t be her last. Molly felt she’d had few options. Besides removing Tom from involvement in a gang, she had to get to Gramps as soon as possible, to be with him during his remaining days. And since she would inherit the ranch, the more she learned about the management of it now, the better.

“You’re taking us away from our friends.”

“Like Eddie Ries?”

It was clear to Molly that Tom needed a better class of companions. She worried incessantly about her son and wondered what had happened to the good-natured helpful boy he used to be. The transformation had come virtually overnight. He’d grown sullen, ill-tempered and moody.

In the beginning she feared he might have started using drugs. She’d gone so far as to call a drug hotline. She’d learned that the best way to figure out if her son was experimenting with illegal drugs wasn’t to dig through his backpack or his room for evidence. Kids were experts at hiding paraphernalia, and even better at convincing family they were innocent of anything so dangerous or devious. She suspected that was because parents didn’t want to believe their children were caught up in something so destructive and therefore chose to believe whatever the kids told them. Facing the truth was far too painful—and would demand action.

The true test, according to the pamphlet she’d read, was knowing your children’s friends. One look at the type of friends your son or daughter associated with was usually enough.

Until last fall Tom’s friends had been good kids, from good homes, who made good grades. She felt relatively reassured until he started hanging around with Eddie Ries. Even then it was difficult to gauge the truth.

According to Mr. Boone, the school principal, Tom’s friendship with Eddie had been a recent development. Molly hoped that was true.

“Will Gramps teach me to ride?” Clay asked, straining forward in his seat.

“Probably not,” Molly said with a renewed sense of sadness. “Remember, he isn’t well. I don’t think he rides anymore.”

“This is gonna be a bust,” Clay said, slumping against the window.

Molly shook her head in wonder. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you two?”

“We don’t have any friends in Montana,” Tom said sulkily.

“You’ll make new ones.” That was one thing she could say about her boys. Not more than a week after moving into the apartment they’d met every kid within a five-block radius. Neither Tom nor Clay had any problem forming new friendships. The ranch kids would be eager to learn what they could about the big city, and before long Tom and Clay would be heroes.

“Let me tell you about the ranch,” she tried again.

“Yeah!” Clay said eagerly.

“I’m not interested,” Tom muttered.

One yes. One no. “What’s it to be?” she asked cheerfully. “Do I get the deciding vote?”

“No fair!” Tom cried.

“Plug your ears,” Clay said, snickering.

Tom grumbled and looked away, wearing the mask of a tormented martyr. He had brooding down to an art form, one he practiced often. Molly couldn’t remember her own adolescence being nearly this traumatic, and Tom was only fourteen. She hated to think of all the high-scale drama the coming years held in store.

“Originally the Broken Arrow was over 15,000 acres,” Molly began. She said this with pride, knowing how difficult it had been for Gramps to sell off portions of his land. All that remained of the original homestead was 2,500 acres.

“How come the ranch is named the Broken Arrow?” Clay asked.

“Because they found a broken arrow on it, stupid.”

“Tom!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a stupid question. If I remember correctly, Tom, you asked me the same one.”

“Yeah, but that was when I was a little kid.”

“About Clay’s age, as I recall.” She recalled no such thing, but it served him right for belittling his younger brother.

“What about his foreman?” Clay asked next.

Gramps’s foreman. Molly had nothing to tell. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he was apparently devoted to Gramps. Devoted enough to make sure she knew of Gramps’s ill health.

She’d reviewed their short conversation a number of times in the two weeks since his phone call, afraid she might have missed something important. She wondered if there’d been something else he’d wanted to tell her, a hidden message beneath his words. She’d sensed his urgency, accepted the gravity of the situation. Yet when she’d phoned Gramps the next night, he’d sounded quite healthy. He’d been thrilled with her news, and she’d hung up equally excited.

Molly’s thoughts turned from Sam Dakota to employment possibilities. Eventually she’d need to find a job in Sweetgrass. While there might not be much demand for a translator, she wondered if the high school needed a French or German teacher. If all else failed, she could try getting long-distance freelance assignments. Perhaps she could tutor or give private lessons. Several of the upmarket preschools in San Francisco were beginning to offer foreign-language lessons to their three- and four-year-old clients. Hey—she could start a trend in Montana!

Molly sighed. She didn’t want to think about the dismal state of her finances. She’d sold everything she could—furniture, dishes, household appliances. She wasn’t carting away fistfuls of dollars from her moving sale, but with her meager savings and her last paycheck, she’d have funds enough to see her through the next couple of months. After that—“Mom,” Clay said, breaking into her thoughts, “I asked you about Gramps’s foreman.”

“What about him?”

“Do you think he’ll teach me to ride?”

“I … I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Why should he?” Tom asked, and rolled his eyes as if he could barely stand being in the same car with anyone so stupid.

“I can ask, can’t I?” Clay whined.

“Of course,” Molly answered, attempting to divert a shouting match.

After repeated warnings, Clay finally secured his seat belt and fell asleep, his head cocked to one side. Because the car’s air conditioner didn’t work, Molly had hoped to avoid the heat as much as possible by leaving before six that morning. Already both boys were tired and cranky. Not long after Clay dozed off, Tom braced his head against the window and closed his eyes.

The silence was a blessed relief after two hours of almost continual bickering. Molly was grateful for the quiet, grateful for her grandfather—and grateful to Sam Dakota for calling her when he had.