Elaine Grant - An Ideal Father

“Easy now, real slow,” Deputy Whitman said.

Cimarron withdrew his wallet and fished out his driver’s license.

“I bought that house. I have a right to be here.”

The deputy guffawed. “I know who owns this land, mister. And it ain’t you.”

“I’ve got the paperwork. Can I get it to show you?”

“Where is it?”

“Front seat of my truck.”

The deputy moved with Cimarron to the side of the truck. Cimarron opened the door and pointed to the folder lying on the console. He’d intended to show it to Sarah, but he’d never gotten the chance.

“Just have a look at the paperwork. I own the house and the property around it.” He pulled out the title and handed it over.

The deputy shined the light on the paper and checked the signature at the bottom. “Well, that sure looks like Bobby’s signature. Lord knows I’ve seen it enough on traffic tickets. But it might be forged.”

“It’s not forged.”

“Come around to the front of my car while I check this out.”

The deputy took the folder and Cimarron’s license with him and called in the information. Cimarron leaned against the fender of the patrol car, arms crossed, staring up at Sarah’s now-empty window, stewing over the possibility that she was responsible for him being on the brink of going to jail. A light came on downstairs a few moments later. If she’d reported him, there would be no more Mr. Nice Guy—and no more kitchen boy, for sure.

“Well, you checked out okay. But I’m not happy with you hanging around here. Find yourself somewhere else to stay.”

Cimarron rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Sarah knows I’m here and I don’t see why I have to leave. Especially since—”

“Hey, Griff,” Sarah said, coming across the parking lot in silky long pajamas and a robe. Sexy as hell, with her hair down and brushed to a satin sheen. The pale green color of the pajamas complemented her freshly scrubbed face.

“Hey, Sarah. Sorry to disturb you,” Deputy Whitman said.

“No, that’s okay.” She eyed Cimarron. “I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”

Cimarron lifted an eyebrow and shot her a wry look. Probably everybody in this one-horse town was protective of her.

“He’s got some kinda paperwork here, says he bought out your brother Bobby.”

Sarah glanced at the paper and frowned. “Yes, I know. But I’m contacting my lawyer first thing Monday morning to see if it’s legal.”

“It’s legal,” Cimarron said.

Both of them ignored him.

“Do you want me to take him in?”

“Now, wait a minute…”

“No,” Sarah said quickly. “I told him he could stay here for the night. Bobby sort of tricked him into buying the property. I’m sure I’ll get it straightened out next week.”

Deputy Whitman looked dubious as he handed back the paperwork. “I don’t like it. And I’m going to see that you’re locked in before I leave.”

“Really, Griff, there’s no need for that. Like I said…”

“Either I make sure you’re safe for the night, or I lock him up.”

“On what charge?” Cimarron demanded.

“I’ll think of something,” Deputy Whitman growled.

This was more than professional concern for Sarah. Cimarron sensed a strong undercurrent of male competitiveness in the deputy. Did he have an eye for the lovely Miss James? Cimarron couldn’t blame him, but that wasn’t grounds for arrest.

She held up her hands in appeasement. “Stop this. See me to the door if it makes you feel better, Griff.”

The deputy handed Cimarron his license and paperwork. “You find a better place to camp after tonight. And trust me, I’ll be back by here a few times before morning.” He guided Sarah toward the café.

Cimarron returned to his truck but stopped short of getting in, curious to see what move Deputy Whitman might put on Sarah. She quickly disappeared inside, however, leaving the officer standing on the stoop. He waited a moment longer and Cimarron took that opportunity to climb into the camper and close the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cimarron rose early. Wanting to avoid another visit by the overzealous law officer, he moved his truck behind the mansion out of sight of the road. Since Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want any help in the café this morning, he pulled out fishing gear, packed a lunch for two, then got Wyatt up and moving. He’d wait until the café closed to clear out a spot to live in the old house. Maybe Sarah would go visiting this afternoon and he could work in peace.

Finding a map for the house and surrounding property among his paperwork, he located the trout stream that Bobby had mentioned. According to the surveyor’s markings, Cimarron’s two hundred acres adjoined Sarah’s much larger holding halfway between the house and café. The property narrowed to about seven hundred feet of road frontage, more than enough for access to both buildings, and then spread out like a fan across the valley and the lower reaches of the closest mountain. On the map, a broad tributary of the Little Lobo River meandered diagonally through both pieces of property, and Bobby had sworn it was teeming with trout. Bobby’s credibility had taken a dive since he’d given Cimarron that map, but just casting a rod could relieve a world of tension.

Wyatt was a trouper, Cimarron had to give him that. In his worn cowboy boots and the black cowboy hat that his daddy had given him, the boy trudged through the underbrush without complaint, even when Cimarron had to extricate him from the thorny clutches of a bramble bush.

The dense woods suddenly opened onto a sweep of sunbejeweled water rushing by a grassy expanse of bank. Jutting boulders split the pristine current, and the hope of silversided trout in the deep pools lifted Cimarron’s spirits. The soft touch of the rising sun warmed his face. The scent of evergreens hung heavy on the morning air and the murmur of the water was the only sound to be heard. This was as close to heaven as Cimarron ever expected to get.

“Unca Cimron?”

Zap! The euphoria vanished.

“What?”

“Are we going to fish now?”

“I’m going to fish. You’re going to sit on the bank and eat your breakfast.”

Cimarron pulled a sandwich from his gear bag along with a bottled orange juice and handed them both to Wyatt. He’d confiscated the sandwich fixings from Sarah’s kitchen the evening before and stashed them overnight in the ice chest in the camper.

“I can fish,” Wyatt insisted.

“I don’t have another rod. Now sit there and be quiet. You’ll scare the fish off.”

Wyatt took the food and sat on the bank to eat, an unhappy scowl on his face. To access the items in his bag, Cimarron took out the other two sandwiches, tucked them into his jacket pocket and laid the jacket across a low bush, then pulled on a pair of stocking-feet waders and lightweight folding boots. From a hard cylindrical case, he removed a custom Winston fly rod with his name lettered in gold on the side. He’d done a modest reconstruction on a cottage that belonged to one of the managers of the company and had taken part of his fee in fishing equipment. Light and agile, the rod never failed to amaze him.

He rigged the rod and reel under Wyatt’s watchful eye, then fixed a tiny fly with a pinched-down hook to the tippet at the end of the leader and tightened the knot with his teeth. Rather than kicking the bushes himself to see what the trout delicacy of the week might be, he’d checked in Bozeman the day before for the current hatch and bought suitable flies and a fishing license.

Striding into the cold water, he flicked the rod back and forth, letting out line with a smooth, graceful motion. He allowed the fly to settle for a moment on the calm surface of a deep pool behind an outcropping of rocks, hoping for a rise to the bait.