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“Just so you know,” he said flatly, “this isn’t the only situation where someone’s going to have to write checks. I think you should do something about that.”
“Like what?” She was truly puzzled by his attitude.
“Get your name on the checking account.”
“And how do I accomplish that? Simply walk into the bank and tell someone I want access to my father’s money?” Dena shook her head. “They’d either laugh me out of the bank or call the sheriff.”
Ry looked at her for a long moment. “Call Simon’s lawyer.”
“I didn’t know he had one.”
“Well, he did. His name is John Chandler.” Remembering the hell she was living through, Ry spoke with less tension. “Dena, hasn’t it occurred to you that Simon probably left the ranch to you?”
It took a second for that unlikely idea to sink in, and when it finally did she retorted, “Don’t make me laugh.”
Ry felt thunderstruck. “Well, who else would he leave it to?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.” Dena waved her hand. She’d had enough of this conversation. In fact, she wanted to sink back into the hole Ry’s appearance had pulled her out of. “Please go away. I don’t want to talk about any of this.”
“What you should be saying is that you don’t want to face any of this.” Ry shook his head. “I think you’re in for one very big surprise, lady.” Turning on his heel, he walked out.
“Oh, just shut up,” Dena muttered wearily, but Ry was already gone and didn’t hear her. It was just as well, she thought, although she was not going to put up with Ry Hardin or anyone else badgering her about the ranch. She was here for one week, and several days of that week were already over. The funeral was set for tomorrow. Someone had put an obituary in the newspaper announcing the time and place, so there would undoubtedly be a horde of people there.
But it would be her final agony. After tomorrow she could start returning to normal.
Dena laid her head back and looked at the ceiling. What was going to happen to the ranch? Did Ry really care or was he just concerned about his job?
She clenched her hands into fists. Damn him for giving her another worry, another reason to weep and feel helpless.
Outside, Ry walked back to the trucker. “There’s no one to sign a check, so I can’t pay you today. I could call your company and arrange a later payment, or you could take the wire and posts back to Lander.”
The man shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. What d’ya wanna do?”
Ry thought for a moment. Why was he so shook about this? About Dena’s disinterested attitude? To hell with it. If she didn’t care what happened to her father’s ranch, why should he? He probably wouldn’t be here to put in that new fence, anyway.
“Take ’em back,” he said, and gave the man the invoice. “If and when things ever get straightened out around here, we’ll order again.”
The man got into his truck and drove away.
There were two rooms in the house that Dena had been deliberately ignoring, her father’s bedroom and his office. The mere thought of entering Simon’s bedroom gave her cold chills. It was Nettie who had gone in and chosen the clothing for Simon’s burial, and it was Ry who had delivered them to Andrews Funeral Home. Dena appreciated their consideration. Nettie’s, she understood. Ry was a different matter. Ry bothered Dena in a strange way, one she couldn’t quite put her finger on. When she thought of him, that is, which wasn’t often. In fact, she was discovering that she was able to blank out her mind on many subjects. Maybe that was what overwhelming grief did to a person, she thought. If something was too painful to think about, you simply bury it so deep in your psyche it stayed buried.
Still, Ry’s comments about the checking account and having to pay bills and such had penetrated the soothing fog Dena preferred over saber-sharp reality at the present, and she geared herself up for a look at ranch records. It was not something her father had ever invited her to do, but she had to concede the fact of her age before she’d left the ranch, and also the dissension that had existed between her and Simon.
A shiver rippled up her spine as she opened the office door and stepped in. The room was as drab as she remembered. Dull, dark paneling on the walls. Worn carpet. It was depressing. Old furniture, a musty odor. For that matter, the entire house was drab. Because of Nettie it was clean, but Dena was positive no one had done any interior painting or even changed the placement of one piece of furniture since she’d left the ranch at eighteen years of age.
To be painfully accurate, nothing had been changed or improved since her mother’s death. Opal had been a natural-born homemaker, and everything in this old house that was now dull, nicked, snagged and all but ready for the junk pile had been bright and pretty and warmly inviting while she lived.
When Opal became ill, Simon had hired Nettie to take over the housekeeping and the preparation of meals for the ranch hands. Nettie had fit in at once. She and Opal had become close friends, and Nettie had suffered as much as Dena and Simon over Opal’s courageous battle with cancer.
And then it was over and nothing had ever been the same. Dena swallowed hard. She could fall apart so easily, and she would if she let herself dwell on the past. The present was difficult enough to deal with; dredging up her mother’s long illness and death was inviting disaster.
She shut the door behind her and walked over to the ancient desk Simon had used. There was a stack of ranching journals on one corner, a cup containing an assortment of pens and pencils about dead center, and some papers and file folders on the opposite corner. Dena sat in the old leather chair behind the desk and started to cry.
“Damn,” she whispered. She hadn’t come in here to cry. How was the human body able to produce as many tears as she had shed since her arrival home and Nettie’s emotional welcome? She carried a pocketful of tissues, because even while blocking out what she could of the emotional trauma caused by her father’s untimely death, tears would suddenly overwhelm her.
Taking one out, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she drew a deep breath and began opening drawers. In the bottom right-hand drawer she found a checkbook. Lifting it to the desk, she opened it. Seeing Simon’s handwriting caused more tears, and this time she let them flow. If only she’d seen this wonderful scrawl in replies to the dozens of letters she had written him over the years. How could he have been so hard as to protect and maintain a vow of silence where his only child was concerned, especially when she had tried so hard to atone for her rebellious behavior? Surely he had heard about her and Tommy’s divorce, and her departure from Winston.
But maybe he had also heard the lies that the Hogan clan had viciously spread far and wide about her.
Sighing helplessly, Dena again pulled out a tissue. Her stilldamp eyes widened in surprise when she read the amount of money in this checking account—over sixty thousand dollars. Well, there was certainly enough money to pay any bills that might come up, and to handle the men’s payroll for an extended period.
But it was in the bank and no one could sign checks. Maybe she had better call that lawyer, as Ry had suggested in a rather overbearing manner. Her hackles rose for a few moments. How dare Ry Hardin treat her as some kind of idiot child? Just who did he think he was?
Mumbling to herself about Ry being no more than an employee and acting like lord of the manor, Dena looked for and found her father’s personal telephone directory. She flipped pages until she saw John Chandler’s name and number, then reached for the phone and placed a call. After two rings a male voice came on the line.
“Hello. This is John Chandler. As I notified all my current clients of my vacation before I closed shop for two weeks, you must be unaware of my schedule. I will be back in the office on the fifteenth, so please either leave a message at the beep so I may return your call at that time, or call me again. Thanks for your patience.”
The message startled Dena so much that she hung up rather than identifying herself for John Chandler’s recorder. The man was on vacation and obviously not aware of Simon’s death. The fifteenth, Dena mused, glancing at the calendar on the wall. Four days away. Maybe she would still be here, maybe not.
But did she dare leave without solving the checkbook dilemma? Someone had to be given access to ranch money. The men couldn’t work without pay, nor could the ranch function without supplies.
She sat back in her father’s chair, stunned by the responsibility suddenly thrust upon her. She should not have to deal with this on top of her father’s death.
But the problem was not going to vanish just because she wished it would.
What on earth was she going to do?
Frowning, she wondered if anyone knew where John Chandler had gone for his vacation. Was it possible that he’d gone nowhere and was merely resting at home?
No, if he was in the area he would have heard about Simon.
Wait a minute. If Ry knew Simon’s lawyer was a man named Chandler, maybe he knew more—like, for instance, where he’d gone for his vacation. If she discovered the attorney’s location, she wouldn’t hesitate a moment in calling him. She needed legal advice, and the sooner the better.
Before going outside to look for Hardin, Dena went to her bathroom and washed her teary face. There was nothing to do about her puffy eyes except hold a cold, wet washcloth on them for a few minutes. It helped some, but there really was no way to conceal the ravages of so much sorrow. She brushed her hair and applied lipstick. It was the best she could do, and she left it at that.
Then she headed for the kitchen. Nettie was sniffling while she cut up chickens, breaking Dena’s heart all over again. Battling her own raw and wounded emotions, she cleared her throat.
“Nettie, would you have any idea of where I might find Ry?”
“He was looking for you about a half hour ago.”
“He found me and left. This is about something else.”
“Oh. Well, I never have tried to keep track of the men, honey. He could be anywhere on the ranch.”
“All right, thanks.”
Leaving the house through the back door, Dena stopped to look around. To her surprise, she spotted Ry walking into the barn. It looked as if he was carrying a large coil of rope.
Hurrying across the expanse of ground between house and outbuildings, she entered the barn and called, “Mr. Hardin?”
In the tack room Ry heard her and disgustedly shook his head. So he was Mr. Hardin now. What a peculiar woman.
“In here,” he yelled out. He pushed the coil of rope farther back on the shelf, fitting it in between other coils and some gallon containers of harness and leather oil. There were still harnesses hanging on wall hooks from the days when everything done on the ranch was accomplished with teams of horses. And saddles on racks, and bins of old horseshoes and metal parts and leather strapping to repair harnesses. As the tack room occupied a corner of the barn, there were two windows, one in each outside wall. Dust motes danced in the sun’s rays coming in through the east window. Simon obviously had never thrown anything away, and from the day Ry started working on the Wind River Ranch he had itched to clean out this room. At least half of its contents should be hauled to the dump. Some of it, of course, was saleable. But in Ry’s opinion, whatever was not needed in today’s operation should be either sold or discarded.
Dena walked in. Rather, she stepped just inside the doorway and stopped. In the years since she’d left, not one single thing had changed in this room. It was the same as the house, she realized, in need of a thorough going over.
Her gaze moved to Ry, and she suddenly felt accusatory. He was the foreman and certainly could have fit a little tack room cleaning into his work routine. Even if he hadn’t had the ambition to do it himself, he could have assigned the job to one or more of the other men.
“This place could use a good cleaning,” she said flatly.
Ry was in no mood for snide remarks. Rather than agree with her, which he most certainly did, he drawled, “Seems fine to me.”
“Are you saying you don’t see anything that could use some improvement in here?”
Because she sounded sarcastic, Ry took his time in looking around. When he finally brought his gaze back to her, he said, “I’m surprised you care about clutter and dust in here when you don’t give a damn about the overall operation of the ranch. Must be the female in you.”
Dena’s face colored, but she shot back, “A sexist remark if I’ve ever heard one.” Her mind, she realized, was shockingly dull, and for a few moments she couldn’t remember why she was even in the tack room. Why on earth was she standing here and trading insults with this man?
Then it came to her. “The tack room is more your business than mine. Clean it or wallow in the dirt, it’s all the same to me. The only reason I came out here was to find out if you knew where John Chandler went on his vacation.”
“Didn’t know he took one. I’ve only talked to him a couple of times. He’s not my lawyer.”
A dead end. Dena frowned and turned to leave.
“Hey,” Ry called. “If you really want to run him down, you might try calling his secretary. Her name is Sheila Parks. It’s possible she left town, too, but who knows?”
Dena stopped, one eyebrow raised. “Meaning she took her vacation the same time as her boss?”
Ry shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”
It did make sense. “I would imagine Ms. Parks is listed in the telephone book.”
“Beats me,” Ry said. “And it’s Mrs. Parks, but I don’t know her husband’s first name. Can’t be that many Parks in the area, though.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Ry didn’t like the way they’d talked to each other about the tack room. There was no earthly reason for them to bicker, and he decided then and there to turn things around. “Dena. I agree with you about cleaning up this place,” he said quietly. “I’ve wanted to do it since I started working here.”
Relief flooded Dena’s system over the drastic change in Ry’s voice and demeanor. The last thing she wanted was to be at odds with anyone right now. “But Dad wouldn’t let you, would he?”
Her perception surprised him, but why should it? If anyone had ever really known Simon Colby, it would be his daughter.
Ry took a step closer to her. “There’s something else I’d like to say. I’m not normally short-tempered, and I’ve snapped at you more than once. I’m sorry for it and it won’t happen again.”
She looked into his dark eyes and felt the sting of tears in her own. Her voice was husky when she spoke. “There’s really no reason for you and me to disagree about anything. I’m sorry I was so sharp-tongued about the condition of this room. If I’d thought at all before sniping at you about it, it never would have happened.”
Ry nodded in understanding. “You’re going through a bad time, and I guess you’re entitled to a little sniping.”
“I’m not sure that even grief entitles a person to treat other people rudely.” She managed a brave little smile that nearly broke Ry’s heart. He had to forcibly stop himself from moving closer to her and pulling her into his arms. Strictly to comfort her, of course.
“See you later,” she said then, and turned and left.
Ry walked to a window and watched her leave the barn and head for the house. Dena Colby aroused a complexity of emotions within him. Was it all because of the tragedy she was having to face more or less by herself, or was there more to it?
He wished he knew the answer to that question, because it suddenly seemed very important.
Three
There were three Parks listings in the telephone book, two with a rural address, one in Winston. Dena tried the town number first. A female voice sang out a cheery, “Hello?”
“Hello,” Dena said. “I’m trying to locate Sheila Parks, secretary to John Chandler. Is there any chance I might have reached her home?”
“Sheila’s my mother-in-law, so you didn’t miss it by much. Actually all three Parks in the directory are related. But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? Getting back to Sheila, she’s not in the area right now. I’d be happy to take your number and have her call you when she returns.”
Disappointed, Dena pressed on. “Would it be possible for you to tell me where she is, and if she can be reached by telephone?”
The woman was still friendly, but Dena noticed that a bit of reserve had entered her voice when she said, “Sheila’s on vacation. Who did you say you are?”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t say. My name is Dena Colby, and it’s really Mr. Chandler I need to speak to. I called his office and apparently he, too, is on vacation. Do you know where he went, by any chance? I wouldn’t be bothering anyone about this if it wasn’t extremely important. You see, Mr. Chandler is...was my father’s attorney, and Dad...passed away quite...suddenly.” It was so difficult to say, and Dena hadn’t thought of that in advance. She cleared her throat and continued. “I really need to talk to Mr. Chandler about...well, several things.”
“Please accept my condolences, Ms. Colby. I believe Sheila mentioned John and his wife vacationing in England. As far as reaching Sheila, she and Doug, my father-in-law, are traveling in their motor home. They could be almost anywhere, although they did talk about exploring the New England states. I’m sorry I can’t be more help, but that’s really all I know. Oh, except that they’ll be back soon. Shall I ask Sheila to call you when she gets home?”
Dena thought a moment. “No, that won’t be necessary. Mr. Chandler will be back on the fifteenth, and I’ll wait and talk to him. Thank you for speaking to me.”
“You’re quite welcome. You said your last name is Colby. I just remembered reading Simon Colby’s obituary. Is he your father?”
“Yes. Goodbye, Mrs. Parks.” Dena put the phone down before Mrs. Parks could get in any more questions. Dena appreciated the woman’s friendliness and trust, but the conversation had started getting uncomfortably personal.
She sighed heavily. Merciful God, how was she going to cope with it all?
But it wasn’t a matter of merely coping as far as the ranch went, was it? No one could pay bills or write payroll checks. That was much more than an emotional upheaval. And what about supplies? Groceries?
Too worried to sit still, Dena left the office to find Nettie. The housekeeper was still in the kitchen.
“Nettie,” Dena said, walking in. “I’m afraid we have a real problem. How are you fixed for groceries?”
Nettie looked at her with some surprise. “Land sakes, honey, you had me alarmed for a second. The cupboards, freezer and pantry are loaded with groceries. Why would you think that’s a problem?”
“Because no one on the place can sign checks.”
“Oh. Well, everyone will still have plenty to eat. You see, when I run short of supplies I drive to town and shop at Whitman’s Food Mart. Simon arranged a charge account with Whitman’s, so I wouldn’t have to bother him about kitchen money. Land sakes, it’s been that way for years and years. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.” She still didn’t. It hurt to think how self-centered she’d been in her teens, but facts were facts. Small wonder she and Simon had butted heads so often.
Dena rubbed the back of her neck. “Is there anything you’d like me to do, Nettie?”
“You mean help with the cooking?”
