Reclaiming Nick Read online

  “With the chunk of land your mother left you and your father’s bequest, you own the biggest section of the remaining Noble property. Of course, you’ll have to wait until the land officially becomes yours, but as your father’s lawyer, I’m obliged to convey the offer to you. You can sign the purchase agreement today contingent on—”

  “Wait—go back to the word remaining. I don’t understand. Was some of it sold?” Nick pushed the folded papers back toward Saul.

  Saul hesitated a moment. “It was divided into four sections.”

  Nick stared at him. “Last count I had, there are only three of us in the Noble family—Stefanie, Rafe, and me.”

  “Actually, you and your siblings are entitled to only half of the Silver Buckle land. Your father deeded the other half to Colton St. John.”

  Half? Nick stared at Saul, nearly choking on the word. “Half?” Nick felt something hot and heavy punch through his chest. “The Silver Buckle has been in the Noble family for three generations! How could my father—?” Words vanished, and Nick found himself on his feet, stalking back to the counter, coffeepot in hand.

  “You need a refill?” Nick bit out the words to the redhead, filling her coffee before she answered. The order of beans sat baking under the heat lights; he grabbed the bowl without a tray, burning his hands. He plunked it down before the brunette, dropping a spoon on the table next to the bowl. It clattered and nearly fell on the floor. He noticed Saul watching him with pursed lips as he turned away.

  Cole St. John. Nick still had a scar on his hand where they’d mixed blood so many years ago. Blood brothers, through thick and thin.

  Cole St. John, wide receiver to his being quarterback, bulldogging partner, coconspirator in the case of the missing school mascot.

  Cole St. John, son of the woman who’d stolen his father, Bishop Noble.

  Nick swallowed as he sidled close to Saul’s booth. He kept his voice low and tight. “What did he do to make my father deed him our land?”

  Saul shook his head.

  Nick looked out at the bullet gray sky and its refusal to grant a glimmer of cheer. This morning from his apartment above the café he’d seen a line of black clouds piled up against the far-off mountains. He’d hoped it meant rain, but apparently it only meant high winds and trouble.

  “I may not have been the son I should have over the past ten years, Mr. Lovell, but I can promise my father this: I’ll make sure that St. John never sets one foot onto Silver Buckle land.”

  It took Piper Sullivan about 2.3 seconds to confirm that everything she’d assumed about Nick Noble hit the mark. Underneath that six-foot-one-inch frame, dark eyes, and muscular alpha-male exterior lurked a bona fide bully. A man whose world revolved around one focal point—himself.

  Case in point, his chest-thumping attack on the two tired cowboys making small talk with some pretty locals. What did he think would happen—that they’d buy the girls one too many milk shakes? maybe ask them to go for a stroll along the muddy street? She hadn’t spotted even a hint of a saloon in this no-stoplight town, and they looked like two post–high school girls stuck in a one-horse smudge on the map. And Protector of the Weak had just eliminated two of their very few options for escape.

  And if his barroom-bouncer act didn’t confirm her reporter’s instincts, his low-toned vow to the lanky man at the booth said it all.

  Nick Noble was trouble.

  “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” Noble growled as he moved away from the booth. Clearly the man had delivered some dark news, because Noble’s expression went from sizzling to downright hostile. And the way he poured her coffee made her want to don protective gear.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, not wanting to add to his mood. Thanks to her father she knew how quickly a bad mood accelerated to danger, pain, and sirens. And this time, thanks to Noble, Jimmy wasn’t here to protect her.

  “You okay, miss?”

  The voice, full of more concern than she expected, jerked her from her thoughts. She looked up, frowning. Noble stood over her, coffeepot in his hand.

  “You’re hurt.” He gestured to her bandaged wrist.

  She realized she’d been rubbing it again. Even bandaged, the scar still felt funny, nearly numb. Wouldn’t it be nice if all wounds eventually went numb?

  She found a different voice. Not that he would recognize her, but she hoped to smear beyond recognition any associations for the next time they met. “It’s healing. I’ll be fine.”

  She watched as Noble filled the other woman’s coffee, then dug out her guest check. The redhead at the counter paid him, and he didn’t even look as she slipped out the door, obviously hoping for his attention. Apparently he didn’t bend easily to feminine wiles. Perfect. Piper didn’t want him assuming anything the next time she showed up with an innocent smile.

  She could do this. She could. They didn’t award her the Silver Pen for investigative journalism two years running for buckling under pressure. After going undercover at a stockyard to expose a ring of mad-cow beef smugglers and wheedling her way into a lumber company to confirm illegal clear-cutting of a national forest, she could easily fake her way onto the Silver Buckle Ranch. And hopefully into Nick Noble’s confidence.

  She owed it to Jimmy. To her mother. To herself.

  She ate slowly, gathering information, listening, plotting. Piper remembered the headline she’d read on the Internet: “Convicted Murderer Exonerated.” She wondered where Jimmy had spent his first night out of jail. By the time she’d read the news, it had been too late to travel down to Colorado to greet him. She didn’t know what to say, anyway. Especially after she hadn’t visited him even once during his five-year prison term. She felt sick that she’d actually been relieved when he’d bargained for a lesser sentence and she didn’t have to appear in court. She’d been able to hide from all of it while her half brother lived his nightmare out in the open.

  I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Jimmy. I’m sorry I failed you.

  Her way would be better for both of them—proving that Noble had lied, had purposely framed her brother for murder. And proving that her brother could have never been a killer would be a thousand times better than any apology, regardless of how heartfelt. Payback. Justice. Healing.

  If Piper played her cards right, her ploy would net them both a new future.

  Noble slipped her a guest check, and she peeled off the bills and left the café. For now she knew enough.

  Noble was guilty. And she planned not only to prove it but to destroy his life. Just like he had Jimmy’s.

  There were times when Maggy St. John felt like the land might consume her whole. It poured over her senses—all of them. The sharp smell of sagebrush, the squeak of prairie dogs in the warm afternoon sun, and the wind, tasting of spring and new life, throwing tumbleweeds from one horizon to the next. The sight of the morning sun rising over the east, gold like syrup running over the bluffs and draws, and in the afternoon, kissing her face with warmth. She loved this land. And she hoped it loved her back.

  She tugged her beaten hat over her auburn braids, tightened the string under her chin, and gauged the clouds for rain. Cumulus had been gathering in the east, over Silver Buckle land all day, but they refused to unload their burden on any of their lands, greedy for the western mountains. Please, Lord, let it be a fertile summer. Growing up on the range, Maggy had seen many a drought but none like the last five years. The ground seemed dead, and the billows of dust in the wake of passing vehicles this early in the season set her jaw tight.

  “Ma, should I catch Suds for you?” CJ closed the door to the house behind him and met her at the edge of the porch. “Or do you want to ride my horse this afternoon?”

  Maggy smiled down at her ten-year-old, reaching out to wipe a smear of ketchup from his mouth.

  He jerked away. “Mom!”

  “I can’t believe you can even move after four hot dogs.”

  CJ laughed as he buckled the straps to his leather chaps. Thankfully, he h
ad the energy of ten cowhands because she and her husband, Cole, counted on their son more than they ought. Especially now.

  Tugging on his hat, CJ stared out at the sky with the wisdom of a seasoned cowhand. His reddish brown hair stuck out the bottom of the hat, curling around his ears. Sometimes CJ looked more like Cole than she’d ever imagined he would.

  “We gotta get those heifers into the barn before the storm hits or they’ll panic and drop their babies out in the field.” He glanced at her as he tugged on his worn work gloves. “I’ll take Suds if you want.”

  “No, I’ll ride him. He’s just mad because I didn’t put him in with his girlfriend last night. They have a little thing going. He won’t buck me off again.” Her hip still hurt from the animal’s last temper tantrum.

  “What about riding Pecos?” CJ glanced at the paint that stood in the corral. The horse lifted his nose to smell the wind, as if longing for home.

  “Not yet.” Maybe never. She still couldn’t believe that Bishop Noble had gifted her the horse. Trying to repair the broken bridges. But they weren’t his bridges to repair, and well, sometimes things were better left broken.

  Maggy zipped her jacket tight against her chin, feeling the chill seep into her body. Today she wore her long johns under her jeans and three layers—a thermal shirt, a flannel shirt, and her wool-lined jacket. Sometimes she felt ninety instead of twenty-eight. And stiff and crabby to boot. But thirty minutes on the back of her horse would have her limber and sweating, and the cool air would revive her youth as she hunted down the heifers—soon-to-be new mothers—hidden in the draws of the winter pasture.

  For an unchecked second, she wished for the days when Cole rode Suds. How many times had she watched him from this porch, riding in from the range, with their collie at his heels? With his wide shoulders, a white smile against his tanned face, hat-tousled dusty brown hair, and lazy dark brown eyes, Cole conjured up every image of an Old West hero. His patience and strength had drawn her in, and every minute beside him had made her a grateful woman. If only she could somehow still make him believe that.

  They’d made a good team back then, when the alfalfa rippled like waves under the wind and their love felt young and forever. When their dreams felt within their grasp.

  Those easy days had slipped away from them right before their eyes. And Maggy hadn’t the first clue how to keep from losing them completely.

  But now everything would change. With Bishop’s death, regardless of the grief, they’d find a new season of forevers. A new season of hope. Please, Lord.

  Maggy followed CJ to the barn and watched while her son roped her horse, then his horse, Coyote. He had a natural throw, so like another man she’d once admired.

  “Where do we start?” CJ asked after he’d saddled his horse.

  Maggy kneed Suds in the gut. He let out his air, and she quickly cinched the saddle tight. “Your father said he saw the heifers bunching up near the south draw. He went out to see if he could locate Old Nellie. She still thinks she’s some sort of midwife.”

  Maggy had learned, first by watching her father poke cows as a cowboy for hire and then by working shoulder to shoulder with Cole, that cows weren’t unlike human mothers. The first baby scared them and usually threw them off. More often than not it took an experienced mother to come alongside and show them the ropes. Old Nellie mothered the first timers like a grandmother, earning her keep every year for nearly a decade.

  Maggy wished her own mother had done the same for her. But they’d been too busy trying to start over. After watching her parents pack up their lives and move to Arizona hoping for an easier life, Maggy swore to herself that by the time she got too old to run a ranch, she’d have land, a home, and enough cash to hire the help she’d need. And someday CJ would own his father’s land.

  His father’s land. Bishop Noble had kept his word. She could hardly believe that the land might be theirs. She’d said more than one prayer over the past month that Saul Lovell wouldn’t be able to track down Nick Noble. Or rather that Nick’s anger had cooled, and he might be willing to forgive for all their sakes. Now that would be a miracle from the Lord.

  CJ led the horses through the gate before Maggy closed it, then swung into the saddle. She had thought that by now she’d have at least one more son to help with the work. If Cole’s health didn’t improve, they might have to take on a hand come summer.

  The clouds shadowed the trampled grass. Only the creak of the saddle and the occasional lowing of cattle passed for conversation as they climbed the ridge that overlooked the winter pasture. They brought the cattle in close during the cold months to keep an eye on them and make it easier to distribute the hay. Sometimes Maggy hiked out here to stand at the ridge and check on the herd, heavy with calves, their black bodies huddled nose to nose for warmth. She loved the sight of a contented Angus.

  Today, however, the herd seemed loud and agitated. Maggy and CJ reined their horses, scanning the horizon.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see your dad. And something has the cows spooked.”

  “Is it a wolf?”

  Maggy shook her head, not sure. It drove her to fury when the government had kept the predator on the endangered-species list. Ranchers had little protection against wolves stalking and destroying thousands of dollars of precious beef. She’d called her senator’s office so many times, she practically had his telephone number imprinted on her fingers.

  “Maybe it’s a coyote. Or the weather.” Although large animals, cows were easily spooked, and the looming storm might have them on edge. She urged her horse forward, watching for prairie-dog holes as they descended into the valley.

  The sound of nervous mooing came from a tangle of cottonwoods that sheltered the still-frozen creek.

  “C’mon,” CJ said to Coyote, breaking out in front of Maggy.

  For a second, she heard Cole’s words: “CJ’s cowboy enough to handle a .22. It’s men who kill, not weapons.” Still, Maggy couldn’t help wanting to hold CJ close, especially now. He’d have to fill Cole’s shoes soon enough.

  She urged her horse to a canter. Overhead, a hawk screamed, slicing through the brisk air, right into her soul.

  CJ disappeared over the edge of the wash.

  Spotting Maggy’s horse, a cow ran from her path, its eyes bulging in fear.

  “Mom! Come quick!” CJ’s voice carried the edge of panic she’d come to fear. A tone that drove their hopes and dreams one more step out of reach.

  No, Lord, please—

  Maggy topped the ridge and her heart caught.

  Along the shore of the creek, in a pocket of mud and trampled cheat grass, his hat lost and his leg crumpled beneath him at an ugly angle, Cole St. John lay unmoving, bleeding into the earth.

  CHAPTER 2

  NICK TAPPED HIS BRAKES to take his pickup off cruise and turned off Highway 59, heading west toward Phillips and the Silver Buckle Ranch. The low sun glimmered through the shaggy protective bluffs of Custer National Forest that rimmed the small town.

  Nick decided that a decade hadn’t diminished the charm of Phillips, Montana, population 1,847. The town still resembled an Old West Hollywood mock-up, with the false fronts and a wooden boardwalk separating the now-paved street. Part of some John Wayne Western had even been shot here—which had given the town enough funds to add the streetlights, spruce up the old community center, build the football stands, and install a stoplight at the main intersection.

  He drove past the dime store and noticed an updated carved wooden sign for Claire’s Gifts and Books. Beside it, the Red Rooster grocery store had updated its coin-operated rides with a truck and a race car. Across the street, on the corner by the light, Big John’s pickup still sat in the shade in front of Lolly’s Diner, an old dining car she’d picked up from the Northern Railroad and turned into a novelty establishment. In high school, Nick had spent nearly every Friday night at Lolly’s, dropping quarters into the jukebox and hanging out with Maggy an
d Cole. He wondered if Big John had popped the question to Lolly yet and if Lolly still served coffee that could curl a person’s hair.

  Across from Lolly’s, a few cars were parked in the dirt lot beside the Buffalo Saloon. The false front had been repainted, along with the plate-glass window that for too long had been covered by plywood after an unnamed someone had driven his truck through the front window. Thankfully, Nick had been able to wheedle his brother, Rafe, out of that trouble before their father caught wind. Nick bet that Rafe still owed the saloon owner money. He smiled at the memory. Rafe had since become the local hero. How far they’d both wandered from their roots.

  Next to the Buffalo, the appearance of spring garden supplies—rakes, hoses, fertilizer—advertised a sale at Phillips’s redbrick hardware store. Nick well remembered the smell of dust and the creak of the floor as he had searched through bins for nuts and bolts to match machinery parts. The building next to the hardware store advertised Custer Travel on one side and Hal’s Barbershop on the other. The barbershop’s candy-cane light, long since defunct, collected dust, but Nick spotted old Hal in the window, doctoring a patron in an old-fashioned shave.

  Nick felt suddenly eighteen again, sucked back in time. He couldn’t help but glance at the school—all twelve grades housed in a one-story brick building—situated north of Main Street across from the small neighborhood of modular homes. Behind the school, the afternoon sun glinted off the goalposts of the football field. Despite Phillips’s meager population, summers spent on the range lifting hay bales and punching cows made for the best defensive line in the county. One that had cut off the blitz and allowed Nick to bring their team to a triple-A victory two seasons running.

  A momentary smile and the image of Cole meeting him in the air with a victory clap sent a shard of pain through him. Evidently some things had lost their charm. Soured, even.

  Nick turned south on County Road 73 right by the auction barn, a steel gray building with pens out back. Glancing at the cattle prices, Nick shook his head. Feed and gas costs rose with the economy, but the price of beef never seemed to keep up. Especially with the mad-cow scares.