Jack caught a flight for home at eight the next morning. He didn’t particularly care for flying. Solid earth beneath his feet felt better than clouds and thin air, and he preferred the wide-open spaces of the prairie to the confines of a first-class seat.
As the plane fought bad weather, he tried to concentrate on the contract he’d promised his business partner he’d review over the weekend, but his mind wandered far too much.
Thoughts of Beau—what they would talk about, what he would look like up close instead of in an impersonal school picture, how his voice would sound—captured his attention. He wasn’t afraid to meet his son, but he was frightened over the uncertainty of their future. Jack knew full well that money could solve a lot of problems. But it couldn’t fix sixteen years of being apart. That was something only words and actions could mend.
He didn’t even know where to begin.
Thoughts of Beau led to thoughts of Lauren. She’d been radiantly happy last night, even though she was marrying a man Jack considered to be a jerk. He’d continued the charade long after Sam Jones had disappeared, fabricating a story as he talked with Lauren on the phone about Arabella having a terrible headache. Afterward he’d gone back to the party and attempted to have a good time, but something was missing.
The redhead.
She hadn’t said good-bye, and even now that weighed heavily on his mind. She hadn’t given him the chance to discover personal things about her, like where she lived, her age, her phone number, or whether or not her name really was Sam Jones.
That she’d run off while his back was turned was a less-than-subtle hint that she didn’t want him knowing anything more about her. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want to see him again. Of course, what she wanted and what he wanted were two different things.
When he was leaving the hotel that morning, he’d asked the concierge to send flowers to her at Antonio’s. He took a chance having them addressed to Sam Jones, hoping she’d told him the truth about her name. On one of the Breakers’ note cards he’d called her Whiskey, scribbled his phone number, and asked her to call him collect.
She made him feel good. Damn good. And he wanted to see her again. He’d even settle for hearing her voice—at least for now.
The plane arrived late in Denver, and the connecting flight touched down even later than it should have in Sheridan. From there it was a two-hour drive to the ranch. The weather was good, the evening sky cloudless, the moon full, and Jack used the time alone to run through the speech he planned to deliver to Beau.
I’m sorry, he’d tell him right at the start. I’m glad you’re here. Then he’d tell his son about the accident, about his mother’s death, about giving custody to Beth’s folks because he’d thought they were better able to take care of a baby than a sixteen-year-old kid who lived with a bunch of cowboys.
God, how could he tell Beau those things when for sixteen years guilt and remorse had eaten away at his heart?
When he turned onto the road leading to the ranch house, Rufus barked as he ran through mud and patches of snow to greet the truck. The dog jumped and twisted in circles, glad to see Jack even though he’d been gone less than two full days.
Pulling the pickup to a stop, he climbed out of the cab, ruffled the Border collie’s fur, and headed toward the unfamiliar silhouette he saw sitting on the porch. A lump formed in his throat. Even if he’d been able to utter the words to his speech, the emotions that had welled up inside him—anxiety, fear, love—would have kept him silent.
That was just as well. Right now, he had no idea what to talk about. They were strangers—a father, a son, who had nothing in common except their genes.
He mounted the steps, with Rufus right on his heel, tossed his hat, upside down, into an empty chair, and pulled another up close to Beau and sat. The boy never once looked up. Instead, he stared at the knife and piece of wood he was whittling.
Jack took a cigar from his pocket, leaned back in the chair with his legs crossed, and watched the stars twinkling overhead. “Have you been waiting out here long?” he asked.
“Most of the afternoon.”
He captured the sound of Beau’s voice, imprinting the tone in his mind. It was the first memory he’d added since the boy was four, when he’d watched from afar as Beau played in the park with his friends.
That day he’d promised Beau’s grandparents he’d stay away, that he wouldn’t interfere. He’d kept his word, standing quietly in the shadows, his emotions rendering him speechless. Words weren’t coming much easier now.
“It’s awfully cold to do nothing but sit and wait,” he said awkwardly.
“It’s no big deal,” Beau muttered. “I’ve been waiting for you for sixteen years. A few hours in the cold didn’t seem so bad.”
The statement hit him hard, but Jack knew he deserved every reproachful word.
Beau turned his head, and Jack saw the spitting image of himself at that age—square jaw, the first stubble of a beard, dark blond hair that had a mind of its own, and an angry, blue-eyed glare. Jack wasn’t big on crying, but he could feel a whole lot of tears building up behind his eyes.
“Smoking can kill you,” Beau said, staring at the cigar, and for one moment he allowed his eyes to take in the height and breadth of his dad before turning back to his whittling.
Jack stubbed out the cigar and tried his damnedest to think of something meaningful to say.
He leaned forward. With his legs spread wide, he rested his elbows on his knees and tilted his head toward his son. “Did your Grandpa Morris teach you to whittle?”
“Yeah, when I was a kid. He had arthritis in his knees and back, so he wasn’t big on sports. Whittling was about the most active thing he ever did.”
“What about you? Do you play any sports?”
“Some basketball and football. A little baseball, when the mood strikes. I wanted to rodeo once. Even thought I’d like to be a cowboy, but I didn’t have a horse.” Beau’s eyes flickered toward Jack, then back to the knife in his hand. “I wouldn’t have had anyone to teach me to ride even if I did have one.”
“I guess you deserve an apology.”
Beau laughed cynically, digging the knife deep into the wood and shoveling out a chunk that flew across the porch. “If you were going to apologize, you would have done it before you sat down in that chair and started asking about sports.”
Hurling the knife into the floor planks, Beau shoved up from the chair, and it skittered out from under him as he stormed from the porch and across the yard.
Jack watched him, seeing himself in every one of the boy’s moves. The baseball cap he took from his coat pocket and pulled low on his brow and the blue-and-gold letterman’s jacket he wore were a sure sign that sports weren’t just a passing thing. That sure as hell wasn’t something they could talk about. What Jack knew about sports could be written on the back of a baseball card. He knew cows, horses, how to rodeo and run a ranch.
As for teenage boys, he knew as much about them as he knew about women, and that wasn’t saying much.
He left the porch, following Beau at a slower pace. He was making a mess of things, but he knew he couldn’t fix sixteen years of wrong right away.
Beau straddled the top rail of one of the corrals. Jack rested his arms on top, staring at the moon rising in the distance.
“Do your grandparents know you’re here?”
“Yeah. Pastor Mike made me call them last night.”
“Are you planning on staying long?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Pecos, the gelding Jack had ridden since he was just a few years older than Beau, came toward him, looking for a handout. He didn’t have carrots, an apple, or even a sugar cube. Instead, he rubbed the horse’s jaw, wishing it would be that easy to smooth things over with Beau.
“I was sixteen,” Jack said, “the same age as you are now, when you were born.”
“So,” Beau snapped. “I wouldn’t give up my kid, no matter how young I was.”
“I’m not saying what I did was right, but I can’t change that now, and apologizing isn’t going to make up for sixteen years of us being apart.”
“I don’t think anything can make up for all that time.”
“If you felt that way, you wouldn’t be here now.”
Jack gave the boy a nudge with his arm. “By the way, I heard you hitchhiked all the way here. You can get killed out on the road. Don’t do it again.”
There was rage in Beau’s eyes when he glared at Jack. “What gives you the right to tell me what I can and can’t do?”
“I could tell you I’m your father, and you have to do what I say, but you know as well as I do that I gave up all my rights to you a long time ago.”
“Pretty shitty thing to do to your kid, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was,” Jack threw back. “But that’s history. The way I see it now, we’re starting from scratch. I’ve got to earn your respect, and you’ve got to earn mine. And don’t think I’m going to coddle you, tell you something’s right when it’s wrong, or let you do whatever you want, just because you think I owe it to you.”
“Maybe I should go back home.”
“If that’s what you want, go.”
Hell! He didn’t mean that, but it was too late to take it back now. He could already see the anger in Beau’s face.
“Fine. I shouldn’t have come in the first place.” He jumped down from the corral and headed for the house, but Jack caught his arm and brought him to a halt. The boy struggled, but Jack didn’t let go.
“Why did you come?” Jack asked.
“What does it matter?”
“If you came to tell me you hate me, go right ahead. You’re more than justified.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you here?”
Tears built up in the corners of Beau’s eyes, and he turned away, wiping them with the back of his hand. Jack watched the boy’s shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep breath. Slowly, he looked back. “I just wanted a chance to see you, to find out what you were like.”
Jack swallowed the hard, heavy lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m not an easy man to know.”
“Well, guess what. I’m not an easy kid to like.”
The television blared through the house when Jack walked inside. It was Saturday night, and that meant Mike and Crosby had a date in front of the TV. Ever since Mike’s wife had passed away four years ago, he’d come up to the house in the evenings. In the beginning he’d done it to fight off the loneliness. After a year or so he said he came in an attempt to save Crosby’s ornery soul, but when those efforts failed, he’d settled into the comfortable routine of keeping the old man company.
Jack liked having him around. Mike had been his friend for thirty-two years. They’d grown up together on the ranch, been taught in a one-room schoolhouse together, and gotten in trouble together when they were young. They’d taken separate paths when they’d grown up. Jack wanted to make money; Mike wanted to be a minister. Six years earlier, when Jack’s dad left the ranch for Santa Fe, Mike’s folks, who’d spent a lifetime working with and for Reece Remington, went with him. That’s when Mike and his wife moved from town to the ranch, taking over the log home where Mike had been raised.
If he’d looked forever, Jack couldn’t have found a better manager or a better friend. He’d been at Jack’s side after Beth had died and when he’d given up his child. Jack had been at Mike’s side through his wife’s illness, through her death. As far as Jack was concerned, Mike was family—and he’d do anything for those he loved.
Mike was as devoted to Jack and the ranch as he was to his God. Jack liked the combination—although he didn’t always like the preaching.
“How did it go?” Mike asked, catching sight of Jack and following him up the stairs and into his bedroom.
Jack slung his garment bag across the bed. He didn’t want to talk but knew Mike would hound him until he did.
“I would have preferred getting thrown and gouged by a bull.”
Mike leaned against the doorjamb. “It’s not going to get any easier.”
“Beau pretty much said the same thing.” Jack unzipped the bag and pulled out his newest tux. “Did you know he got kicked out of school last year?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yeah.”
“When I talked to Mrs. Morris last night, she told me Beau’s had a three-point-nine average for the last two years, just made captain of the baseball team, and was thinking about being a doctor, like his grandpa.”
Jack stopped unpacking. The kid had lied to him, but Jack chalked that up to anger. What he didn’t understand, though, was why the boy would give up so damn much to come to Wyoming, especially to find a man who’d never been a part of his life.
“Was coming here a surprise to his grandparents?” Jack asked. “Or had he been talking about it for a while?”
“A surprise. He didn’t show up at school on Tuesday, and when they called to check up on him, Mrs. Morris found a note on his bed saying he was going to find his dad.”
“Has he said much to you about his reasons for coming?”
“Not much. He’s got a stubborn streak. Takes after you, I imagine.”
Jack refused to comment. Mike was trying to make light of something that was resting far too heavy on his soul. “Any idea why he’d lie to me about school?”
“He’s a teenager. How can anyone know what’s going on inside his head. The way I see it, Jack, you’re just gonna have to talk to the kid and find out.”
“He’s not big on talking.”
“Neither are you.”
Jack heard Crosby approaching long before he reached the room. He had a distinct, limping walk, and a habit of clearing his throat just before beginning a conversation. “You two havin’ a party in here?”
“Just shooting the breeze,” Mike stated, as Cros hobbled across the room and plopped down on the bed.
“Talkin’ about that boy’s more like it.” He aimed his rheumy eyes at Jack. “Spittin’ image of you when you was a kid. Sure in hell hope he don’t have the same temperament, though. You was a piss-poor excuse for a man at that age.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” Jack unloaded a pair of shoes from the bag and tossed them into the closet, wondering why in the hell he couldn’t get any privacy in his own home.
“You going to keep him around?” Crosby asked.
“Were you thinking I’d toss him out?”
Crosby scratched the stubble on his wrinkled face. “Your pa and I wanted to toss you out a time or two. If Mike’s ma hadn’t caterwauled about you being a good kid under all that hate you was carrying around, we might have.”
Mike laughed, and Jack aimed a scowl in his direction. “Seems to me you were a pain in the butt when you were sixteen, and that you might have ended up in jail if you hadn’t found God and a good wife.” Jack ripped the second tux from the bag. “As for you, Cros, I’ve been thinking about replacing you. Lauren has a cook who fixes eggs Benedict for breakfast. That sure as hell sounds better than burned biscuits.”
“Replace me and you’ll lose the only sensible person on this spread.”
Crosby pulled a woman’s shoe from the garment bag and dangled it on a bent index finger. “What the hell is this? You cross-dressin’ these days?”
Jack snatched the redhead’s rhinestone shoe from Crosby’s hand and tossed it back into the bag, but not before Crosby got his fingers around the silky white gown. “A dress, too? Your pa told me that Palm Beach was full of crackpots, but I never thought you was one of them.”
“It’s a long story, and you’re the last man on earth I’d share it with. Besides, isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“S’pose.” Crosby struggled to rise. Neither Jack nor Mike helped. They both knew the old man didn’t want any fuss. He was eighty-two going on a hundred and ten, but he wasn’t ready to be put out to pasture—and Jack was in no hurry to have him go.
“You coming for breakfast in the morning?” Crosby asked Mike.
“Are you serving burned biscuits?”
“The best ones in eastern Wyoming.”
“I’ll be here then.”
Jack waited to hear Crosby’s boots on the stairs, then turned his head to Mike. “Okay, you saw the shoes and dress, so what questions are on your mind?”
“Why are they in your bag and not Arabella’s?”
“There is no Arabella.”
“Seems to me you were engaged yesterday morning. What happened?”
“In Arabella’s words, I’m self-centered, I have very little class, and I don’t have any idea how to treat a woman.” Jack laughed for the first time since last night. He grabbed one of the rhinestone shoes and looked at Mike. “Arabella did have one more thing to say.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m a son of a bitch.”
Mike grinned. “Did she tell you all that before or after Lauren’s party last night?”
“Way before. She didn’t go to Palm Beach.”
Mike glanced at the shoe Jack was holding. “Then where did that come from?”
Jack collapsed in a chair at the far side of his room, took a cigar from the humidor, and aimed his eyes at Mike. “I have a story to tell you, and knowing what an upstanding, ethical, and righteous man you are, you’re not going to like it.”