Mary J. - The Man From Montana

“You’re a kind man. I’m very—Thank you. For everything.”

His shoulders heaved a sigh. “Best get back to your boy.” Opening the door, he strode into a thick, lazy snowfall.

Tom was at the kitchen table with Daisy and Charlie, drinking hot cocoa, when Ash returned from the cottage, Rachel in tow. Seeing his stepfather in that chair, so mangled…and then for her to head back to town without a hint, without honesty…. Ash frowned. It wasn’t right.

He shot Rachel a look. Honesty is best up front.

Clever woman read his thoughts. Directly to Tom, she said, “Mr. McKee, as I mentioned on the phone the other day, renting the guesthouse isn’t the only reason I’m here.”

On her forehead sweat poked from her skin as if she’d sat for an hour in a sauna. “I’m freelancing for a magazine on the East Coast, as well as working at the town paper.”

“A magazine?”

“Yes, American Pie. It’s like The New Yorker. I’m doing a series. It’s about…”

She was nervous, Ash realized. A journalist nervous about a story. Interesting.

“It’s about survivors. From Hells Field.”

Tom scrutinized the woman for a long moment, eyes and face rigid as stone. Deep in the house, the cuckoo clock chimed the half hour. “What for?”

She leveled her shoulders. “Because it was one of the most controversial battles in that war. And you—you were the leader of a platoon of nineteen Marines of which only seven survived.”

A hush fell. Ash imagined angsty commotion in her mind as she waited: Tom would tell her to leave. He’d sic those cattle dogs on her the minute she and Charlie stepped outside. And Ash, family defender, would chase her car on his horse all the way down the road.

Tom’s lips pulled tight. “Old news. Fact is, the more years between, the more people forget. Better that way.”

She glanced at Ash, looking, he suspected, for support. For a split second his heart skipped and he almost stepped beside her. Then he saw Daisy, transfixed at the table, and he moved, instead, within reach of his daughter. Damn straight he was the defender of his family.

His positioning wasn’t lost on Rachel. Her gaze wove from one to the next, finally settling on Tom. “Wouldn’t you like something good to come out of all you’ve lost, Mr. McKee?”

The old man snorted. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Missy. Ain’t got nothing to say about Nam.” The chair hummed backward before he spun around and headed toward the hallway that led to his private rooms.

“Grandpa, wait!” Daisy jumped up from the table. “I want to know about Hells Field.”

Ash moved around Rachel, blocking her view with his back. “Daisy, let it be.”

“No,” she cried. “God. You’d think that war was garbage we should throw out. People died, Dad. Over fifty thousand of them. Grandpa was there and he was wounded, and I don’t even know why or how. This isn’t just our country’s history, it’s our history. Mine!” Her tiny nostrils flared. “Just like Mom is.”

Tom wheeled down the hall. Conversation over.

“Argh,” Daisy muttered. “Stubborn old man.”

“Daisy.” Ash gentled his voice, touched her shoulder.

She shrugged him off. “You’re as bad as him. You don’t want to talk about Mom any more than he does about Vietnam. It’s like every time something bad happens, we put a lid on it. Like that’s gonna make it go away. It’s not. And neither is Mom’s death no matter how many pictures you hang.”

“Daisy Anne—” Dammit to hell.

“It’s the truth.” Tears shone in her eyes and his heart broke. “Thanks for trying, Ms. Brant. At least you got them to admit there was a Hells Field.”

Ash glared at Rachel. You hurt my family. For that, he could not forgive her.

But she surprised him again. “Sometimes—” she turned to his daughter “—it’s better to let history and the past fade. It softens the pain.”

Not an hour here and she was peering into places he’d nailed shut for years. He started for the door. “I think you should take your son and go.”

“Why this war?” Tom spoke from the hallway, surprising Ash. Though his stepfather had returned, severity thinned his lips. “Why Vietnam?”

“Because my dad was in it,” Rachel replied, giving the old man her full attention. Tom’s pupils pinpricked.

“My grampa calls it the black hole,” her son piped up.

“Hush, Charlie.”

Tom zeroed in on the kid. “Why’s that, boy?”

“Cuz a bunch of people went in it and never got out.”

“Charlie,” Rachel whispered. Her gaze scooted from Tom to Ash like a creature trapped by wolves. “We’ll be getting back to town. It’s been a pleasure, Tom. Daisy.” She refused to look at Ash.

Feeling’s mutual, lady. He reached for the door but his nose caught her perfume, a wisp of springtime.

Oh, yeah. He wanted her gone.

“Just a minute,” Tom said, halting them all. “I’ll make you a deal, Ms. Brant.” He looked at Daisy. Under grizzled gray brows, his eyes eased. “My granddaughter wants to know about the war for a school project. You help her write that story and I’ll do your interview.”

Ash gaped. “Pops—”

Tom held up a hand. “However, my son and I will read your work when it’s done, and you’ll fax it from this house so there’s no chance of changes.” His jaw was resolute, his eyes strict. “Ash can decide if he wants to rent the cottage.”

“Thank you.” Relief washed over her face.

Before Ash could interject, Tom spun his chair toward the kitchen, Daisy in tow.

God almighty, Ash thought. Was the old man losing it? Less than a week ago, he’d been resolute about his secrets. Now this?

Determined to dig out his father’s motives later, he waited by the door, watched Rachel help her son with his coat. The scene conjured up Susie with Daisy at seven and Daisy batting her mother’s hands, declaring, “I can put my coat on, Mom. I can do it.” Charlie held out his thin arms for his mother’s help.

At the top of the porch steps, she faced Ash. Her brows were dark and sweeping. A swallow’s wings.

He fisted his hands in the pockets of his jeans when the breeze caught a strand of her hair against that lilting mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “for upsetting your family.”

If he pulled her against him, her head would rest against his collarbone. “Apology accepted.”

“Well.” She pulled on her gloves. “Goodbye, Ash.”

He could tell she didn’t expect to hear from him again.

“See ya.”

She walked through the snowfall to her car where Charlie petted Jinx and Pedro. A minute later, her Sunburst drove from the Flying Bar T and the dogs crept back under the porch.

From the office window, Tom watched Ash stride across the snowy yard. The dogs rushed from their hole to tag his heels. He was a good man, his stepson. A devoted father, a dedicated rancher. A proud man.

And upset with Tom’s decision about the interview.

Why? Ash had asked once Rachel had driven back to Sweet Creek. Why, after all these years, would Tom spill his guts to a journalist? Why not simply write it down—if he wanted Daisy to know?

What Ash didn’t understand, Tom mused, was that Rachel Brant held the key. She would unlock the past. Tom’s, Ash’s and, most of all, her own.

Tom could take it all to the grave. But she’d come, she’d come and—God help him—he could not pass up the opportunity.

Thirty-six years was long enough to live in silence. Hell, the five years following Susie was long enough.

Ash hadn’t liked Tom’s saying they needed to move on. Sure, moving on from Susie was his son’s decision to make, like moving on from Hells Field was Tom’s, but sometimes a man had to give his kid a push. Tom didn’t want Ash boarding up the pain for decades, or having it fester the way it could.