Debbie Macomber - Montana

On his twelfth birthday—and the two birthdays after that—Tom had gotten a personal letter from Gramps and a check for twenty bucks. Before that, Gramps had always mailed his mother money and then she’d go shopping and pick something out for him. These last birthdays, the check was made out to him.

In his first letter Gramps had said a boy of twelve was old enough to know what he wanted. Old enough to go out and buy it, too. Tom never forgot the feeling that had come over him with that letter. For the first time in his life he’d felt like a man. He might not remember what Gramps looked like, but Tom loved him the same way his mother did.

His mother was worried. She worried about a lot of things. Tom could always tell when problems got her down. Work, his father, money. Now Gramps. Over the years, he’d come to recognize the symptoms. She’d grow quiet and then three small vertical lines would form in the center of her forehead. It hurt to see those lines and know there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help her. Those were the times he went to his room, put on his earphones and played music so loud his head pounded afterward. The music helped him not to think, because when he did, his stomach ached.

Tom wanted to help his mother. When he was a kid, he’d planned to become a magician and make all the bad things in life disappear with one flamboyant wave of a wand. He used to imagine doing that sometimes. With a flick of his wrist every problem would magically disappear.

The door to the conference room burst open, and Tom sat up straighter as his mother stormed in, her eyes blazing with anger.

Tom lowered his own eyes. He toyed with the idea of greeting her, then decided against it. She didn’t look like she was all that happy to see him.

“Gang symbols, Tom?” she said through clenched teeth, hands on her hips. “You painted gang symbols on the gym wall?”

“Outside wall,” he corrected, and regretted it immediately.

“Do you think it matters which wall?” she asked in a tone that told him the three-day suspension from school was the least of his worries.

Mr. Boone, the principal, walked briskly into the room, looking far too satisfied with himself—like he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. Tom had never had strong feelings about the man, but he was inclined to dislike him now—simply for the smug way he smiled, knowing Tom was in major trouble at home.

“As I explained earlier, Mrs. Cogan,” the principal said, “this school has a zero-tolerance policy with regard to gang activities. While I don’t really believe Tom’s involved in a gang, there are plenty of wannabes. I’d like to believe Tom’s smarter than that, but after today I’m not sure.”

“Get your things, Tom. I’m taking you home,” his mother instructed. He could tell from her voice that said she had plenty more to say later.

Nevertheless, Tom nearly leaped off the chair in his eagerness to escape. He grabbed his jacket and followed his mother outside.

“Of all the stupid brainless things for you to do,” she said as they headed out to the parking lot. Her steps were so fast he had trouble keeping up.

Yeah, well, he wasn’t especially proud of himself, either.

They climbed in the car and he thought she was going to take rubber off the tires the way she squealed across the lot. She missed the Stop sign and zoomed into the street, almost hitting another car.

“Mom!” Tom shouted, holding on to the edge of the seat as he was thrown against the passenger door. “It’s not a good idea for you to drive when you’re this mad.”

“Mad isn’t the half of it.”

“Okay, okay, so I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? Gangs, Tom?”

“I’m not in any gang!”

She tossed him a look that assured him she knew otherwise. “Then why spray-paint their symbols?” Without inhaling she added, “You’re going to repaint that wall all by yourself, young man.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the only one who painted it.” Talk about unfair!

“You’re going back to school first thing tomorrow morning to do it.”

“What about Eddie?”

His mother sent him a sidelong glance sharp enough to cut glass. “I don’t have any say over him, but I have all kinds of say over you.”

She liked to think she did. But this didn’t seem the appropriate time to discuss it. “According to what Mr. Boone said, I’m not supposed to be on school property,” he told her. One of them had to keep a cool head, and it was obvious his mother had already lost hers.

“Don’t concern yourself—I already asked Mr. Boone and he’s willing to make an exception.”

“That isn’t fair! How come I have to come back and paint the wall? Eddie should be there, too.” The anger was brewing inside him, and he tightened his jaw, knowing it would do neither of them any good to vent it now.

“Eddie’s parents can see to his punishment.”

Which meant Eddie was off the hook. Eddie’s mother drank too much, and even Eddie didn’t know where his father was. Tom certainly knew the whereabouts of his own father—and so did everyone else.

“Can’t I paint the wall after the suspension?” he asked, thinking he’d prefer to do it during the weekend. Having the entire school watch him suffer such humiliation held little appeal.

“No,” came her emphatic reply.

“Why not?” he demanded, clenching his fists.

“Because I need you for other things.”

“What things?”

“Packing.”

That captured Tom’s attention. He waited a moment, then asked, “Are we going somewhere?”

“Montana.”

His heart nearly burst with excitement. She’d found a way. His mother was taking them to Montana. This was good news, better than anything he’d anticipated. “We’re visiting Gramps?”

She didn’t answer him right away. Tom watched as her hands tensed on the steering wheel. “Not exactly. I handed in my two weeks’ notice this morning. We’re moving.”

Sam Dakota bolted upright out of a sound sleep. His heart slammed against his rib cage with a punch almost powerful enough to hurt. Cold sweat dampened his forehead and clung to his bare chest. One ragged breath followed another as his body heaved in a near-desperate effort to drag oxygen into his burning lungs.

The dream always woke him. Whenever he had it, he would feel that panic again, the fear as vivid and real as the first day the prison door had clanged shut behind him. It had echoed against the concrete walls, reverberating in his ears. Twenty-four months into freedom, and he still heard that terrible sound. It invaded his sleep, tortured him, reminded him constantly that he was a living, breathing failure. Thankfully he didn’t have the dream often anymore—not since he’d started working for old man Wheaton.

Closing his eyes, Sam lay back down, his head nestled in the feather pillow. He swallowed and flexed his hands, trying to ease the tension from his body, forcing himself to relax.

It was over. Over.

Prison was behind him, and so was the life he used to live. Yet at one time he’d been a rodeo star, riding bulls, flirting with fame. Fame and women. He’d had his own following, groupies who chased after him. They stroked his ego, cheered for him, drank with him, slept with him and, on more than one occasion, fought over him.

The groupies were gone, the way everything that had once been important to him was gone. In his rodeo career and after his accident, he’d faced danger, injury, death, and he’d done it without a trace of fear.

Riding the wave of success, he’d achieved everything he’d ever wanted. That was at the rodeo championships in Vegas, six years earlier. But the silver buckle that proclaimed him the best of the best had been pawned to help an old man hold on to his ranch. These days Sam stayed out of trouble, kept his nose clean, minded his own business. When the urge hit him, he moved on.