Lois Dyer - Cade Coulter's Return

“I guess this is it,” Cade said. He ignored the lump in his throat and pulled Zach into a hard hug. “You take care. Don’t get yourself killed taking some damn fool risk.”

Zach shook his head, lips curving in a faint smile. “You know me, Cade. I can’t resist a challenge.”

“Yeah, well just make sure some challenge doesn’t end your life.”

“I’m not the one joining the Marines,” Zach reminded him. “Or riding rodeo bulls like Brodie.” He slung one arm over his youngest brother’s shoulders. “Eli and I are the only two planning on having normal jobs—I’m off to college and he’s interning with a silversmith in Santa Fe.” He pointed a finger at Cade. “You and Brodie are far more likely to get yourselves killed than we are.”

“Maybe,” Cade drawled, a rare grin breaking over his face. “But you’ve got Mom’s thrillseeker gene, which means you could get yourself killed any day, anywhere.”

Zach shrugged. He couldn’t deny he loved to take risks.

Cade glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my appointment with the recruiter in Billings. You guys know my cell phone number. I’ll let you know when I’m out of boot camp. We’ll keep in touch.”

He met each of his brothers’ solemn gazes, waiting until each nodded their agreement, acknowledging they were making a promise.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Zach repeated.

Eli and Brodie echoed the words.

Barely five minutes later, Cade drove south, away from Indian Springs, his brothers and the Triple C ranch he loved, away from the father whose grief-stricken descent into alcoholism after their mother’s death had made his life a living hell for the past ten years.

He knew he’d never be back.

Early March Indian Springs, Montana

Mariah Jones shoved open the barn door and braced herself for the frigid bite of a March Montana day. The wind swept down from the buttes, carrying the chilly scent of snow, and she tucked her chin deeper into the shelter of her coat collar. Despite the pale sunshine and the protection of her fleece-lined coat, gloves and wool hat, she couldn’t escape the sting of cold.

She walked to the corral and upended a bucket of oats into the metal feeder just inside the pole fence. A longlegged sorrel quarterhorse left the shelter of the cattle shed across the pen and ambled toward her.

“Hey, Sarge,” Mariah crooned. The big gelding eyed her, his liquid brown eyes inquisitive, and she tugged off one glove to stroke her bare palm over his soft muzzle. He nickered, pushing against her hand and snorting softly before he lowered his head to the pile of grain.

Mariah rubbed Sarge’s neck beneath the rough tangle of his dark mane, drawing comfort from the gelding’s easy acceptance and the feel of his solid, warm body beneath her palm. She still had a long list of chores to finish before she could rest, but the familiar crunch of oats between the horse’s strong teeth and the inevitable signs of winter moving toward spring soothed the worry that nagged at her, stilling her for the moment. There was reassurance in the ordinary moments of ranch life—especially now, when the rhythm of life on the Triple C had changed irrevocably only a few months earlier.

She petted Sarge’s neck in absentminded movements, distracted as her gaze moved over the buildings that made up the Triple C headquarters. Across the wide gravel yard, the two-story structure of the main house was silent. There was no trail of smoke drifting skyward from the chimney, no movement behind the drawn curtains. The house looked shuttered and lifeless.

Grief caught her unaware, slicing into her heart with all the power of a razor-sharp knife. Her lips trembled and her vision blurred before she firmed her chin, willing the tears not to fall. Three months had passed since Joseph Coulter, owner of the Triple C, had died of lung cancer. They’d buried him in the small family plot in Indian Springs Cemetery, next to his wife and among the graves of generations of Coulters that had cared for the ranch before him.

“I miss him, Sarge,” she murmured, turning her face away from the deep porch, now so empty without Joseph’s gray-haired, lanky figure. The taciturn sixty-eight-year-old widower had become a father figure to Mariah and his passing had left a deep ache in her heart.

Everything seems quieter, she thought as her gaze slipped over the cluster of outbuildings, corrals and the big barn. She had the strange sense that the Coulter Cattle Company was holding its breath, marking time while waiting for the next generation of Coulter males to arrive and set it in motion once again.

The rumble of an engine broke the quiet. Mariah looked up just as a mud-spattered pickup rattled over the planks of the bridge across the creek. Moments later, the driver pulled up next to the corral and got out to join her at the fence.

“Any news?” she asked hopefully, searching the older ranch hand’s somber features.

Pete Smith shook his head, his weathered face doleful beneath the battered cowboy hat he wore. “Ned says the detective agency hasn’t found them yet.”

“Do they have any leads?”

“No.”

Mariah nearly groaned aloud. Ned Anderson, the local attorney representing the Coulter estate, had been unable to locate the heirs. A month ago, he’d hired a Denver detective agency to take over the search but Joseph’s four sons were proving surprisingly difficult to find.

“I realize it’s been more than a dozen years since Joseph had any contact with them but still, how is it possible for four men to disappear so thoroughly?” she said, frustration coloring her tone.

“I don’t know, Mariah.” Pete lifted the worn hat and rubbed gnarled fingers over his close-cropped white hair. Worry furrowed his brow. “I heard gossip over the years that said them boys made a pact. The older ones waited until the youngest was done with high school and they all left the next day. They swore they’d never come back to the Triple C but nobody ever said where they went when they left.”

“I hope they’re found soon.” Mariah’s salary and tips as a waitress at the diner in Indian Springs barely covered food and necessities. The feed store was running a tab for hay and grain but she had no idea how long they would continue to do so. And after months of medical expenses, Joseph’s bank account had been nearly empty when he died.

“Me too, Mariah, me too.” Pete awkwardly patted her shoulder, then clapped his hat on his head and jerked a thumb at the truck. “I’ll carry the groceries in before I get back to work on the tractor.”

The wind picked up and Mariah shivered as the two carried bags to the bunkhouse kitchen. The Triple C had been a haven for all three of them—Pete, fellow ranch hand J.T. and herself—when they each had desperately needed shelter. They’d vowed to remain and care for it until Joseph’s sons returned to take over. She knew all of them privately hoped to stay on. But the ranch belonged to the Coulter heirs—she could only pray they were found soon.

Mid-March Mexico

The sixteenth day of March was unseasonably hot, even for the arid acres of the Rancho del Oro, located deep in the Mexican state of Chihuahua.

Cade Coulter tossed a roll of barbed wire into the back of the dusty ranch truck and walked to the cab. He reached through the open window and grabbed a thermal jug from the passenger seat. With one easy gesture, he unscrewed the lid and tilted his head back to drink. The cold water washed the dust from his throat and he didn’t stop swallowing until the jug was nearly empty.

It’s too damned hot, he thought as he wiped his forearm across his brow. The aviator sunglasses he wore blocked some of the sun’s rays but not all. He tugged his Stetson lower to further shade his eyes from the sun’s glare and leaned against the truck’s dented fender. A memory of brisk, chilly air in Montana’s early spring intruded but with the ease of long practice, he ignored it, focusing on the present.