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Wyatt muttered something unintelligible and presented his back. With a few fumbles, Ford got the brace over his brother’s head and settled it on his shoulders with the straps fastened tight.
“There ya go.”
At that moment the screen door in the front of the house slammed. “Got some food somewhere?” Dylan called. “I’m starving.”
As Wyatt walked stiffly into the bright kitchen light, the youngest Marshall gave a whistle. “Look at you, Boss. We’ll have you in the saddle in no time.” He walked toward Ford. “So you finally came home. I’ve got a horse with your saddle on it out in the corral.” Then he came in for a hug. “Welcome back,” he said in a low voice, which Ford understood meant we need you.
“Yep,” Ford said, meaning I’ll take care ofeverything. He slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “Let’s eat.”
For a while the only sounds were chewing and swallowing as the four of them dug into their steaks. Ford took the opportunity to study each of his brothers, assessing changes since his last visit. Dylan, with his dark brown hair worn a little long and a sensitive curve to his mouth just like their mother’s, still looked young enough to be in college, though he’d graduated five years ago. Garrett’s hair was a lighter brown and neatly styled, probably to please his church congregation. Right now his blue eyes were shadowed and a little strained—he’d always been the worrier. Wyatt shared Dylan’s brown eyes and Garrett’s hair, cut in the practical, no-fuss way he’d worn for years. Age never told on Wyatt’s face; he looked pretty much the same at thirty-four as he had at twenty-four...except tired this time. Was it his injury, or was something else going on?
Ford would find out sooner or later. No need to push the issue. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked instead, which brought to order the usual dinner table board meeting for Marshall Brothers, Incorporated. Details for moving cattle, fences to be checked and machinery to get tuned up came under review, as always.
Only Wyatt hardly said a word.
“So what do you think, Boss?” Ford pushed his empty plate away and looked at his brother.
Wyatt glanced up from his plate. “What do I think about what?”
“We decided we’d flood the eastside pastures, grow our own brand of Wyoming rice.”
The oldest Marshall set down his fork and knife with a clank. “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard of. Rice won’t grow...” He noticed the grin on Ford’s face and frowned. “What’s your point?”
“That you’re not listening. Or eating much.”
“I’m not doing much. No reason to eat.”
The preacher in the family propped his elbows on the table. “Can’t you view this as a vacation? You’re always saying you don’t get a chance to read. When did you last take a day off?”
Ford answered the question. “When he was fourteen, maybe. Before Dad died.”
Garrett nodded. “Twenty years without a break?”
Wyatt shook his head. “I get plenty of downtime. I don’t need a vacation. I need to get back to work.”
Dylan clucked his tongue. “Well, that’s not happening in the immediate future. The doctor wants you quiet for at least three months.” He leaned his chair back, balancing on the two rear legs. “And since you’re staying still for a change, I want to do some sketches, work up plans for a life-size carving of your head. I found a piece of petrified pine that would be perfect.”
Wyatt’s frown evolved into an expression of horror. “I don’t want a statue of me sitting around somewhere for people to stare at. Next thing I know, you’ll be exhibiting me in one of your art shows. Keep your chair on the floor.”
The chair clattered as Dylan straightened up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I suppose you’d also suggest I spend less time carving and more time doing meaningful work?”
“As a matter of fact, I might.”
Cheeks flushed, brown eyes blazing, Dylan got to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, I might tell you to go to hell.”
Ford rolled his eyes. “Dylan—”
But the youngest Marshall stomped out of the room without listening. The slap of the screen door announced that he’d left the house. And he’d broken one of the cardinal rules—leaving his plate on the table for someone else to carry to the kitchen.
Wyatt passed a hand over his face. “I can’t seem to say the right thing to him anymore.”
Ford stacked Dylan’s plate on top of his own. “Would a statue be so bad?”
Wyatt glared at him from under lowered brows. “Why don’t you model for him?”
“Maybe I will.” Ford struck a pose with the dishes balanced on one hand. “You could stand it in the corner and tip your hat every time you walk by me. We’ll put a plaque on the pedestal—Ford Marshall, Renowned Attorney.”
“That’ll be the day.” Garrett walked around to pick up Wyatt’s plate. “We’re more likely to turn your face to the wall and aim a swift kick at your butt when you’re not here to help out.”
Ford led the way into the kitchen. “Spoken like a true man of the cloth. I thought ministers were supposed to be kind and gentle with their flocks.”
“Brothers are exempted from that rule. Besides, I’ll bet you haven’t been to church since you were last here. Am I wrong?”
“Just can’t find a preacher in San Francisco as good as you.”
“Right. I believe that one. Well, plan on getting up tomorrow morning and heading into town, because around here the Marshalls still show up in the pew on Sunday morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Garrett took the dishcloth out of Ford’s hand. “You cooked. I’ll clean up. Go talk to the boss. Maybe get him outside for a few minutes.”
“Right.”
He found Wyatt where they’d left him, sitting alone in the dining room, staring at his bottle of beer. “Want to take a walk? It’s a pretty night.”
“I was thinking about going to bed.”
“Me, too. But I want to stretch my legs first. Come on.” He took hold of the chair and pulled it away as Wyatt stood up.
A sound very close to a growl came from Wyatt’s throat. “I can manage my own damn chair.”
“I’m sure you can. Want me to shove it into the backs of your knees? Then we could have a wrestling match, like we used to, and you could beat the snot out of me, like you used to. Would that make you feel better?”
Wyatt snorted a laugh. “Probably.”
“Not me, though.” They walked through the house, out the front door and down the three porch steps, with Ford pretending that he wasn’t on guard in case something happened, and Wyatt pretending he didn’t realize what Ford was doing. Out in the open, they both took a deep breath.
“I swear my lungs can’t fill up all the way when I’m in the city,” Ford said. “The air’s just too thick, too heavy.”
“I know what you mean.” Wyatt lifted his face as far as the brace permitted. “The mountains, the grasslands...the pure space of it all gives a man enough room to stretch out and live. I’m surprised, that you stay in the city as long as you do.”
“That’s where the work is. Not many prospects for a high-powered law practice in Bisons Creek.”
“Guess not. Wyoming’s got its share of corporate lawyers these days, though, what with the oil and coal companies all over the place. And we never run out of bad guys looking for a defense lawyer. Never stop needing prosecutors to punish them, either.”
“Of course not.” Ford stared up at the Wyoming stars, the familiar constellations in their early-summer formations, twinkling like far-off candles against the black velvet sky. “I’ll keep it in mind, if I decide to shift gears.” He let a silence fill with the sounds of nearby crickets and the whisper of the wind. “Everything going all right on the Circle M?”
The boss didn’t answer right away. “With ranching, there’s always something going wrong,” he said at last. “Cattle prices are down, the grass-fed market demand is slow. Winter lasted longer than usual, so we’re late moving herds into the higher pastures. The Forest Service has limited the parcels we can use, which means fattening up these early steers is gonna be harder.” He blew a rueful snort. “Same stuff, different day.”
“Well, my investments are sound, the dividends are high and we’ve got a solid buffer in place. If you have cash flow problems, just let me know.”
“Sure.” Wyatt’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Mostly, we’re just glad to have you here, Ford. Thanks for making the effort.”
“The Marshalls stick together,” Ford told him, meeting his brother’s dark gaze with his own. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
* * *
FROM HER PLACE in the church choir, Caroline Donnelly noticed the new arrival as soon as he entered the building on Sunday morning. He was tall and broad-shouldered like all the Marshall brothers, but Ford was the one blond in the bunch, his hair still the bright, sleek gold color he’d inherited from his dad.
Mr. Marshall had been her father’s business manager as far back as Caroline could remember. She’d known him as the smiling man who kept a bowl of hard candy on his desk and always let her have a piece when she came by.
“Sweets for the sweet,” he would say and wink at her.
The Marshall boys had never come with their dad to the Donnelly ranch—her dad had strict rules about who she could play with—but she’d gone to school with the oldest three. Because he was five years behind her, she hadn’t seen much of Dylan, but there was always talk in town about the latest stunt the youngest Marshall had pulled.
Ford, however, hadn’t been one for pulling stunts. Even before they lost their parents, he’d been the serious Marshall, the driven, studious one. He seemed the same now, with his expensive haircut and his designer jacket worn over a pair of jeans.
Actually, he looked even better now—like every woman’s fantasy of a cleaned-up cowboy with lots of money. It was all pretty much make-believe, but oh, so nice to dream about. His successful law career was a claim to fame as far as the citizens of Bisons Creek were concerned.
“Psst. Caroline!” Beth Forbes, the woman next to her, tugged on her sleeve. “Time to start!”
Caroline stood up belatedly and opened her choir book. Thank goodness she knew the opening song by heart, since she was on the wrong page. Those Marshall boys had always distracted her from what she was supposed to be doing. Especially Ford.
She tried to concentrate during the service, but she found her gaze straying to his face too often for her own comfort. They’d been in the same grade and some of the same courses—English, history, math. He hadn’t grabbed attention by clowning around or disrupting class, the way other boys did. But none of the troublemakers bothered him or tried to goad him into acting out. Something about Ford kept everybody at a distance.
Listening with half an ear to Garrett’s sermon, Caroline recalled the day Ford had returned to school after his dad died. Mr. Marshall hadn’t worked at the Donnelly ranch for a couple of years by then, but she’d wanted to say something since he’d been a big part of her life. So she’d stopped at Ford’s locker just before lunch.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” she’d said, meaning every word. “He was kind to me when I was little.”
Ford had slammed his locker shut, making her jump. He’d turned in her direction, but his dark blue eyes looked right through her. After a moment, he nodded and then walked away.
She’d been too spooked to speak to him again.
Not today, though. Today she would talk to him and make sure he listened, because what she had to say was important. Not just to her—though the work she was trying to do had cost her dearly—but to the whole community of Bisons Creek.
Butterflies flitted around in her stomach as she thought about talking with Ford. She’d been nervous enough when she’d expected to have to consult with Wyatt, but Garrett had told her that Ford was running the ranch this summer and that he was the one she’d have to convince. At least she’d have Garrett to back her up. Ford couldn’t walk away from the two of them.
She hoped.
As usual, Dylan fell asleep during his brother’s sermon, but today Ford elbowed him awake for the final hymn. In the choir room afterward, Caroline shelved her folder and spent a minute at the mirror to add a swipe of lipstick to her mouth and make sure her hair was okay. She put a hand on her stomach and drew a deep breath—the butterflies had taken up kickboxing.
Finally she went to the social hall, where refreshments were provided, giving members a chance to greet each other and chat over cookies and lemonade or coffee. Garrett had promised that he would make sure Ford stayed.
And there he was, surrounded by folks who hadn’t seen him since the last time he was home at Christmas, all of them asking about his glamorous San Francisco law practice and how Wyatt was doing. Dylan hosted his own fan club, composed of the single women from eighteen to thirty who wanted to be flirted with. The youngest Marshall was only too happy to oblige.
Caroline wolfed down three sugar cookies and a glass of lemonade before the crowd thinned enough that she stood a chance of getting through. As soon as she stepped into the circle, Ford glanced her way. His eyes narrowed slightly before refocusing on the face of the person talking to him. He smiled at the woman—such a nice smile, but one he used so rarely. And never with her.
If it were up to me, Caroline thought, I’d make him laugh at least three times a day.
Maybe, if the project she wanted his help on got going, she might get the chance!
Finally, with most of the congregation out of the way, she moved close enough to say, “Hello, Ford.” She breathed deep and held out her hand. “Welcome home.”
For a second—just an instant—he hesitated. Then his hand took hers, and his eyes brightened. “Hello there, Caroline. Good to see you. It’s been a long time.”
The warmth of his skin against hers was nearly as distracting as the smile. “Fifteen years, believe it or not, since graduation. I hear you’ve done magnificent things in San Francisco.”
“I do my job. What have you been up to?”
Garrett stepped up beside his brother. “Caroline runs the Department of Family Services in Bisons Creek. She’s working with the area’s disadvantaged families.”
“Really?” Ford lifted a disbelieving eyebrow.
Caroline nodded. “Really,” she said, and at that moment realized they were still holding hands. She slid hers quickly out of his grasp. “I majored in psychology, got my master’s degree in social work and was with the department in Casper for four years before moving back here. There are people in trouble in this area, just like anywhere else, especially the teenagers. High school is a lot more dangerous now than when we were there.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, which only made his shoulders broader. “So I understand. Garrett said you have a project you want to talk to me about.”
“I do.” She glanced around and noticed the volunteers were cleaning up the refreshment table. “Now might not be the best time, though. Could you meet me in town for lunch tomorrow?”
He glanced at Garrett. “I’m here to take on some of the work Wyatt can’t get to. I expect I’ll be in the saddle all day tomorrow. What about right now? Kate’s Café is still open on Sundays, right?”
“I’ve got some sick parishioners to visit,” Garrett said. “I can’t take a break for lunch today.”
Caroline hesitated. She’d expected to have Garrett’s support when she explained her plan. Would she be as persuasive by herself?
Ford read her indecision. “If you’re busy, maybe later in the week...?”
“No, not at all.” She would do this and do it well, for the kids. “Right now is perfect. Shall we meet there in about ten minutes?”
Dylan sauntered up. “Hey, Miss Caroline. You are looking especially fine today.”
She gave him the big smile he deserved. “Thank you so much, sleepyhead.”
He flushed and pushed his dark hair back off his face. “Stayed up till dawn working on a piece. Then somebody stomps in at seven and drags me out of bed to feed horses.” His gaze went to Ford. “So I’m a little short on shut-eye.” He yawned for emphasis. “Going home to bed.”
Ford propped his hands on his hips. “That leaves me without a ride.”
Caroline swallowed hard. “No problem. We can go to the café in my truck. I’ll run you home after.”
His gaze, meeting hers, was hard to read. “Great. I’m interested to hear what you have to say.” He stepped forward and pressed the tips of his fingers against her shoulder blade. “Shall we?”
They got a few interested stares from lingering church members as she led the way to her truck. Caroline wanted to yell, “Just business!” at them but restrained herself. She wondered if Ford would prefer that she had.
She unlocked the truck from a distance with the electronic key and was surprised when he followed her to the driver’s side to open the door.
“Th-thanks,” she said, after climbing in with as much grace as she could manage in a dress.
“You’re welcome.” He shut the door, came around the back and swung into the passenger seat with a cowboy’s smooth control.
