Chapter 2
Two
The land was counting on her. Gramps was counting on her. Drowning wasn’t an option. But oh, Sierra was tired.
She stood at the kitchen sink, cold water running over her hands as she scrubbed dirt from beneath her fingernails.
The granite dust from this morning’s rescue still clung to her skin, along with the memory of Tom Hendrick’s body sprawled among the rocks.
She’d found two hypothermic hikers and one dead rancher.
Not exactly the kind of day that made for easy dinner conversation with a ten-year-old.
The kitchen around her told the story of four generations of Blackwood women.
She loved this kitchen. Honey-colored cabinets her great-grandfather had built by hand, countertops worn smooth by decades of meal preparation, and the massive farmhouse window that framed the ranch like a living photograph.
Exposed beams stretched across the ceiling, darkened with age and smoke from the stone fireplace that dominated the great room beyond.
This house had weathered a century of Colorado winters, raised children through the Depression, and sheltered her family through good times and lean.
Now it might not survive her.
Through the window above the sink, empty pasture stretched toward the foothills where granite outcroppings caught the late-afternoon light.
The land rolled away in gentle swells covered with October grass, thick and green from recent rains—perfect feed for the thirty head of cattle that should have been grazing there.
Instead, fresh tire tracks scarred the muddy ground near the far gate, and the silence felt wrong.
Cattle made noise—lowing, shuffling, the sound of life.
This quiet was the sound of money walking away in the night.
“Mom, you see me nail that loop on the fence post?” Huck’s voice, bright with excitement, carried across the yard and into the window. “Morrie says I’m getting good enough to enter the junior competition.”
Sierra turned off the water and dried her hands on a dish towel that had seen better decades.
Through the window, her son stood in the corral that backed up to the house, coiling rope with the same focused intensity his father had shown at that age.
The way Huck tilted his head when he concentrated, the particular way his left eyebrow quirked when he was pleased with himself—his father’s expressions lived on in their son’s face.
“I saw. That was a clean throw.” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out ground beef, onions, and a can of tomatoes from the pantry. Spaghetti again. Simple, filling, and cheap. The kind of meal that stretched a grocery budget already pulled thin.
She’d spent her inheritance on the taxes to keep this place.
“Morrie says if I keep practicing, I might place at the Fall Festival Rodeo.” Huck appeared in the kitchen doorway, his rope still in hand, cheeks red from the cool air. “Can we afford the entry fee?”
Twenty-five dollars. She had exactly eighteen dollars and thirty-seven cents in her checking account until her inherited annuity payment came in next week. But Huck’s face held the kind of hope that made mothers move mountains.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Is that mom-speak for no?”
Sierra started browning the beef in her grandmother’s cast-iron skillet. Set another pan of water to boil. “It’s mom-speak for ‘we’ll figure it out.’”
“Sweet.” Huck dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, pushing aside a stack of bills she’d been reviewing. “Eli Martinez says his dad might sponsor some of the junior riders if they don’t have the money. You know, pay their fees and stuff.”
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t need help, especially not from neighbors who were probably struggling just as much as she was. “We’ll handle our own fees.”
“But if people want to help—”
“We handle our own business, Huck.”
Huck studied her face the way he did when he was trying to figure out if she was really okay or just pretending. Too smart for his own good, her stubborn, headstrong son. Determined to follow his own renegade heart. And break hers in the process.
Too much like his father in that regard.
“Go hang up that rope properly.” She added onions to the skillet. “Grandpa Elway would have your hide if he saw good rope just lying around.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Huck disappeared toward the mudroom.
Sierra opened the can of tomatoes and dumped them into the pan, then walked over to the garbage and dropped it into the recycling.
Her gaze fell on the folded American flag sitting in its frame, hanging on the wall. Thirteen folds of red, white, and blue. Of course, the gloved officer hadn’t handed it to her. But she’d ended up with it anyway.
That meant something, maybe.
She nearly reached up to touch it when the front door opened and boots stomped across the porch. Heavy work boots, not Huck’s lighter step. “Sierra?”
Walt “Morrie” Morrison pushed through the kitchen door, his hat in his hands and concern written across his ruggedly handsome face.
Early forties with steel-gray eyes and the kind of weathered good looks that came from a lifetime working outdoors, Morrie had worked for Gramps for fifteen years.
These days, he worked for whatever Sierra could afford to pay him, which wasn’t nearly enough.
His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and a well-groomed beard framed features that belonged in a Western magazine—all sharp cheekbones and strong jaw.
But it was the genuine worry in his expression that made Sierra’s chest tighten.
“Right here. How’d we do today?”
“Not good. Lost another dozen head from the north pasture. Found the fence cut clean through, tire tracks leading toward the county road.”
Sierra’s hand stilled on the wooden spoon. Twelve more head. At current market prices, that was another few thousand dollars gone. “Same spot as last time?”
“Different section, but same method. These boys know what they’re doing. Professional job, not some kids looking for beer money.”
“Any idea when?”
“Sometime after midnight, before dawn. I checked that pasture yesterday evening, and the cattle were all there.” Morrie pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “Sierra, we need to talk about hiring security. Or at least getting some cameras installed.”
“With what money?” The question came out sharper than she intended. “Sorry. I’m just—it’s been a long day.”
“I heard about the SAR call. Tom Hendrick, right?” He shook his head. “That’s a shame.”
“Yeah.” Sierra stirred the sauce, not trusting herself to say more. Tom’s death felt too close to Grandpa Elway’s accident, too convenient for people who might want to pressure local ranchers into selling.
No. Her grandfather’s death had been an accident. Oh, she wanted to believe that.
Because the other option could turn her cold, especially alone at night.
“There’s something else.” Morrie’s voice carried the tone he used when delivering bad news. “Mayor Jenkins called this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk to you about some kind of opportunity.”
Sierra’s stomach dropped. Mayor Alden Jenkins—the man who’d been circling her ranch like a vulture since Grandpa Elway died.
“What kind of opportunity?”
“Didn’t say. Just asked me to have you call him back.” Morrie pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “Here’s the number.”
Sierra took the paper but didn’t look at it. She knew Jenkins’s number by heart—he’d been calling regularly since the funeral, always with some new offer to “help” her through her difficult time.
In fact, she’d gotten too much “help” from people who saw her as incapable, alone, and in over her head. Like Ralph Rousseau from Rocky Mountain Land Developers. His business card sat in the recycle bin, under the can of tomatoes.
The water on the stove had come to a boil. She dumped in spaghetti. “Morrie, you ever think about how convenient it is that all these cattle thefts started right after Grandpa Elway died?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the timing feels awfully coincidental. Grandpa Elway dies in a suspicious accident three months ago, Tom Hendrick turns up dead on the mountain, and suddenly every rancher in the county is losing livestock.” Sierra turned down the heat under the sauce.
“Makes you wonder if someone’s trying to drive us all out. ”
Morrie was quiet for a long moment. “Jenkins has lost cattle too.”
Oh. Maybe she shouldn’t immediately jump to people trying to steal her home. “Maybe I should call him back.”
Morrie got up. “Smells good. And yes, maybe. I’m heading home.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay for supper?”
He glanced at her, narrowed his eyes, and looked like he might nod when Huck slammed into the house. “I put Jasper in the horse barn. And coiled up the rope.” His Jack Russell terrier puppy wiggled in past him, slipping on the wood floor.
“Jasper was out?” She glanced at Morrie.
“Huck was working on his cutaway roping.”
Right. “I guess Jasper’s the best choice.”
“Until I win that prize!” Huck slid onto a chair at the table. “I’m getting myself a quarter horse.”
Morrie smiled then. He bent and caught up the puppy. “Bandit, please learn not to scare the chickens.” The dog licked him on the face and he made a noise. Set the dog down.
“Help me set the table?” she said to Huck. She glanced at Morrie. “And you’re staying.”
He smiled.
“Sure.” Huck grabbed silverware from the drawer. “Hey, Morrie, you really think I’m ready for the junior competition?”
“I think you’re getting close. Your loops are consistent, and your timing’s improving.” Morrie accepted a plate from Sierra. “But competition’s different from practice. Lots of distractions, other kids watching.”
“I’m not worried about other kids.” Huck’s chin came up with characteristic determination. “Grandpa Elway always said if you know you can do something, other people’s opinions don’t matter.”