Christine

In the mid-afternoon light, Valentine’s looked like it always had —friendly, welcoming, and solid. It had been my anchor, since I’d first started tending bar for Tom Valentine. I had cemented my place in the community when Tom had retired and sold the place to me. And if Travis didn’t call? Couldn’t get past his feelings about Mac? I’d have to leave, I realized, as another wave of dread chilled me. If he couldn’t accept my past, and I stayed, Travis might leave his home and family again because of me. I wouldn’t let that happen.

“Hey. It’ll be okay,” said Grant as he stopped the truck. “I told you, Travis’s adaptable.”

“I keep seeing the look on his face.” My tears threatened again. “He felt betrayed.”

“You got it backwards, Christine. He’s been gone a long time, but he hasn’t changed much.” Grant switched off the ignition and twisted to face me. “I’m guessing he feels like he betrayed Mac, by falling for his girl.”

I rubbed my aching head. “But he has no reason to feel like that.”

“He’ll figure things out.” Grant’s lips curled into a one-sided smile. “And if he doesn’t, I’m pretty sure Dad’ll help him reach the right conclusions.”

“I love your father.” I stopped fighting the tears.

“He loves you, too. We both do.” He touched the top of my hand. “Should I walk you up?”

I shook my head. “No, DC said Bull’s bail was denied. There’s no more threat. But Sissy’s here in the bar, if you want to stop in and see her.”

A slow smile tugged at his mouth and he shrugged a little sheepishly. “Naw, not just yet. I’ll stop back later.”

It was so cute, the way his accent thickened with his emotions. The same way his brother’s did.

As I slid from the truck, my cell phone fell from my lap and hit the pavement. “Damn it. I’ve broken more phones by dropping them.” I picked it up and activated the screen to make sure it still worked. The little green happy face icon indicated she had voicemail. “Someone must have called while we were in the mountains.” I punched in the number to retrieve the message and listened.

“Hey, Bluebell, I’m getting out of here tomorrow. So get lots of rest tonight and wear something sexy when you come get me, because I plan to get very physical with you as soon as I see you.” He waited for a beat before he added softly, in his exaggerated Wyoming drawl, “And sweetheart, don’t do too much thinking —unless it’s about all the ways I’m going to be lovin’ you.”

Delight rolled over me like a tidal wave. “He wants me to wear something sexy when I pick him up tomorrow.”

“Told ya.” With a wink, Grant started the truck and then drove off in a cloud of dust.

I watched him for a moment then started toward the bar. Travis’s blue Corvette sat where he must have parked it the night before, looking a little forlorn. Someone had shown the decency of having the gravel parking lot sprayed down, leaving no visible traces of blood. A stray piece of crime tape clung to one of the bushes lining the walk to the door. Fluttering on the gentle summer breeze, it reminded me of how easily Travis could have died. Anger, fright, and sorrow blended into one intense amalgamation of emotion, and I snatched at the bit of yellow, crumpling it into a ball.

My thoughts drifted to the night before, my imagination filling in the gaps. Travis, a little irritated because I’d ditched him earlier, plotting how he’d make me pay, walking toward the door with his cocky half-grin, tossing his keys in the air and catching them over-handed the way he did when he was feeling frisky. Bull approaching unseen, belligerent, making nasty comments, throwing punches. Travis fighting back, probably making some comments of his own. Getting overpowered. Travis down. Bull not stopping. Travis helpless.

My breath caught in a sob, as memory kicked in. Travis cradled in Grant’s arms, unconscious, blood gurgling. So much blood, his face so pale in the bar’s exterior lighting.

I felt a touch on the arm and screamed.

“Sorry!” The woman jumped back a split second before I recognized her.

“Wanda.” I slowly let out my breath. Blood rushed in my ears but after a couple of deep breaths, my heart slowed to nearly normal. “I didn’t see you.”

“You looked like you were thinking kind of deep,” said Bull’s wife, the kindness in her tone overshadowed by the trouble in her eyes.

I appraised her, the woman who had married Bull just after her sixteenth birthday and borne him a son well before her seventeenth. The ensuing years hadn’t been remotely kind to Wanda. According to my math, me and Wanda were roughly the same age, but the other woman looked at least a decade older.

She had probably been pretty once, with her ash brown hair, pale blue eyes, and heart-shaped face. Now she only looked defeated and tired. Used up. Mousy hair was pulled back tightly from her plump face. She wore absolutely no makeup on her pale skin, emphasizing the dark circles beneath her red-rimmed eyes.

Her formless floral print dress, with the prim collar, looked like it had come from a 1930s version of Prairie Wife magazine. The dress hung loosely, even with Wanda’s plump frame, and hit her legs mid-calf. It had to be eighty degrees out but she was wearing a faded denim jacket. On her feet she wore what my grandmother had always called “sturdy shoes,” black Oxfords with rubber soles.

The woman could use a little fashion advice from her always smartly-dressed mother-in-law.

“Sorry, yeah.” I answered slowly, aware I had been silently staring. “A lot has happened in the last few days.”

Wanda looked at the ground. “I came to ask you to talk to Travis McGee, to see if he’ll consider dropping the charges. I heard how he’s gonna be okay and all.”

I simply stared at the other woman, unable to believe what she was asking or that she had the guts to ask it. Any sympathy I’d mustered for Wanda began to fade. “Your husband beat Travis so badly he had to be taken to the hospital in a helicopter. He’s only just regained consciousness and part of the time we weren’t sure he’d make it.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Wanda. She drew circles in the gravel with her toe. “If it’s about the cost and all, I know Bull’s folks’ll pay the bills.”

“Pay the bills.” I tried to stem my outrage. Adding a cat fight to what had already gone down in my parking lot wouldn’t help the situation any. “Y’all think they can just pay the bills and everything Bull did just goes away?”

Wanda flinched at the bite in my words. But she didn’t back down. She chewed her lip as, for the first time, she met my gaze. “Thing is, I need Bull to come home. My boy needs him home.”

“Wyatt told DC he saw the whole assault, saw his father provoke the fight.” I shook my head. “Why aren’t you afraid of how Bull’s going to react? For what he might do to your son?”

Tears filled Wanda’s eyes. “I thought you’d feel that way. But it’s not like you think. It’s not like anybody thinks.” Shoulders slumped and head down, she shuffled toward her car.

No one should look that pathetic and downtrodden. I’m going to regret this. But human decency gave me a nudge. “Wait!” I caught up in three strides and reached out to stop Wanda.

The sleeve of the denim jacket pulled up and exposed angry reddened skin over a good portion of Wanda’s forearm, but she yanked the sleeve back into place before I got a good look.

A chill rippled through her gut. “Oh, you’re hurt. What happened?”

Wanda tugged on the sleeve. “It —it’s nothing. I spilled some hot water yesterday.”

I hesitated. It was a reasonable explanation. But why was Wanda so nervous about it, so determined to hide her arm? “If it’s not like anybody thinks, Wanda, then how is it? Does Bull hurt you?”

“Bull keeps us safe,” whispered Wanda. “I have to go.”

With a sigh, I relented. “Okay, I’ll give Travis your message, but I’m not promising anything.”

I watched as the dejected woman walked heavily back to Bull’s tan pickup, and found my outrage had been replaced by sympathy. It was no secret Bull largely ignored his wife. Could he be abusing her? Why on earth would she want to stay with him?

* * *

Showered, dressed in my more typical attire of jeans and tank top, I stood at my usual place behind the bar. It felt almost as though the past couple of days hadn’t happened.

Except they had. And now I was left with an inexplicable feeling that Fickle Fate had never stopped toying with me. “Do you think that spot might be clean enough? You’ve been wiping it for ten minutes.” Sissy set a plate of chicken fingers and sweet potato fries in front of I. “Eat something.”

I glanced at the rag in my hand and tossed it aside. Frowning, I picked up a fry and twirled it between my fingers until Sissy pushed my hand toward my mouth.

“Grant told me more about the bad blood between the MacKays and the McGees. Sounds like one of those clichéd family feuds.”

Sissy rolled her eyes. “Not so clichéd, really.” She began stacking cocktail napkins. “Not many people know the details. Mostly they keep it close between them.”

“Because it was a long time ago?” I shot Sissy a pointed look. “Or because Wyatt is Mac’s son?”

Sissy’s hands stopped moving. “Did someone tell you that?”

I popped a chicken finger into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “After the fight, Wyatt told DC that Bull wasn’t his father. At first I thought he was just mad and disowning Bull. But other things I’ve heard are beginning to add up.” I pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator under the counter and cracked the top. “And Wyatt doesn’t really look like either one of his parents.”

“No one’s ever said for sure,” Sissy admitted. “But everyone kind of accepts that’s how it is. He looks just like Mac.”

That explained Travis’s reaction when he’d first seen the boy at the baseball field. But what had Wanda meant about things not being the way most people thought?

“Has Grant ever told you what brought Travis home?”

Sissy pushed a hand through her hair. “Grant said he wrote a letter asking him to come back for a couple of weeks. He didn’t say why, but I think it might have something to do with the thing at the high pasture.”

I picked up another fry. “They aren’t using the high pasture.”

“Well, no, not now they aren’t.” Sissy began sorting through the stack of menus at the end of the bar, clipping in an insert outlining the Wednesday specials. “About a hundred head of cattle were picked off with a hunting rifle this past spring.” She frowned. “Grant doesn’t want it to be common knowledge. He’s been trying to play it down because he’s afraid he’ll lose his boarders.”

I caught my breath. “The calf we found. Travis said the mother was injured but he never did say how, just that he had to finish her off. Afterwards, he was… well, different.”

The trouble had started before Travis came home. A chill ran the length of my spine. Had he been lured home with trouble at the ranch? Had Bull planned to hurt Travis all along?

The door opened and Wyatt MacKay hesitated on the threshold, scanning the room. When he made eye contact with me, he sucked in a deep breath and walked toward me with an air of determination in his steps.

“Miz Christine.” His soft voice was guarded and polite. “Do you have any work for me?”

Oh, crap, this could get thorny.

“It just keeps hitting the fan, doesn’t it?” Sissy murmured for my ears only.

“Wyatt, I’m not really sure your parents—”

“Please, Miz Christine. I need work real bad. I’ll do anything.”

He was just a boy, a teenager. I doubted he had anything to do with slaughtering cattle. He’d helped extinguish the fire. He had told the truth about the fight. It had also taken a lot of courage to ask for work. But thoughts of my encounter with his mother made her wary.

“Why are you asking me?”

He looked down, shuffled his feet. “I like you. You’re always nice to me.”

“So this doesn’t have anything to do with your father?”

Wyatt stiffened. His head snapped up. “I don’t have a father.” He swallowed convulsively then whispered, “I’m a—I’m a bastard.”

I recoiled, feeling like I’d just been sucker-punched. Bastard. The word echoed through my head. Did anyone even use the term anymore? He’s probably Mac’s son. I hadn’t been able to help Mac. Maybe I could do some small thing for his son.

“I can’t formally hire you on.” His face fell, and I held up a hand. “But I do need the floors mopped. Can you get it done before five o’clock?”

Wyatt nodded eagerly.

“Come on, I’ll show you where we keep the mops and buckets. You can hang your jacket in the back.”

What was it with the MacKay family and jackets in eighty-degree weather?

I met Wyatt on his way into the main area with the buckets and mops. He quickly stepped off to the side, angling himself awkwardly away from me, cursing under his breath.

But he hadn’t moved fast enough to hide the fresh blisters on his arm.

“Wyatt, what happened?”

I took the buckets from his hands and set them down. I held out my hand. Hesitantly he extended his arm. I ran my fingers around the painful-looking sores, and my rage stirred again.

The teenager said nothing, just stood still, looking at the wall.

“Did you get burned fighting the fire at the ranch?” I asked with a gentleness I wasn’t feeling.

It was impossible to miss the look of intense relief on Wyatt’s heavily freckled face. “Yeah, some sparks got me is all.”

“We have some burn salve in the first aid kit. You go on to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Charlotte to help you with this before you start on the floors.”

As he shambled through the swinging doors, I took the buckets out to the main floor. Everything I’d learned in the past week about the MacKay family boiled through my brain, none of it lining up with the image they presented about town. Maybe it was time to go to the source. At least one of them. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Grant’s number.

“I know you just left, but I really need your help. I just hired Wyatt for a casual job and I need to run an errand. I’m not comfortable leaving Sissy and Charlotte here on their own.”

“I’ll leave right now.”

* * *

The keys in Cammy Gordon’s hand jangled as she ushered me into the holding area. “The trooper can let you out when you’re finished.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, looking around. What the hell?

Surely I had stumbled into another Pine Haven time warp, or maybe the set of the same Old West movie that had generated the cabin in the mountains. Apparently the quaint western Wyoming town hadn’t quite made it all the way into the twenty-first century. A state trooper sat in a gray metal folding chair at a gray metal desk in the corner of the dimly lit room. Dull gray walls seemed to push inward. Either someone had an affinity for the color gray or they’d scored a good deal at the paint store.

Come on, even prisoners ought to have a little color in their lives.

The trooper looked up from the local newspaper he was reading when the door behind I whooshed shut. With a smile, he set the paper aside and stood, politely offering the chair. I declined with a wave and he resettled himself behind the sports page.

Bull sat on the edge of a narrow cot, behind the heavy gray bars, in the only cell. His orange jumpsuit —ah, a bit of color —left him resembling a crumpled Halloween decoration.

“Come to see me off before they transfer me up to Jackson?” At one time, the hard stare he directed at me would have struck a chord of fear, but not so much at the moment. “I got nothing to say to you, Christine. On the advice of my lawyer.” But he stood and limped toward the bars.

I studied him in silence, the man who would have killed Travis. Dirty dark brown hair, looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. A row of surgical strips closed a cut on his chin. Two black eyes flanked an obviously broken nose, that was swollen and red with more strips across the bridge. At least Travis had gotten in a few good hits.

“I’m not here about Travis,” I said, stepping forward. “You know, you and I always had an understanding. When you aren’t drunk, you’re actually not unlikable.”

Bull snorted and rolled his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders eased until he was slouching. For a split second, I thought I caught a tinge of regret in the big man’s eyes, before his expression became wary.

“I know I’ve done some things that weren’t right. I shouldn’t have come to your place Sunday when I was drunk.”

“No, you shouldn’t have come by at all. You have a wife… and a son you love at home.”

Bull’s head snapped up. A distinct flicker of pain entered his eyes, but he said nothing.

“Bull, I’ve heard the rumors. I know what people think about Wyatt and you. But I know you love him. He may or may not really be your nephew, but he’s your son in every way it counts.”

He moved stiffly back to his cot, lowering himself onto it with a grunt. He sat staring at his hands, clasped between his knees. They were swollen and abraded. Did the sight bring back memories of pounding them into Travis? I didn’t even bother to stem my satisfaction at his injuries or the obvious physical and emotional pain. He deserved it and more.

But I hadn’t come to gloat.

“Wanda came to see me at Valentine’s this afternoon.”

Bull tensed then drew several deliberate breaths. His lips drew into a thin line, as if holding in words he’d rather not say.

“She told me she and Wyatt need you at home.”

Bull lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “And you’re gonna tell me I should have thought of that before I beat the shit out of your man.”

“Nope. I don’t have to. You just told yourself.” I shook my head. “Bull, she said things aren’t like most people think, and she said you protect her and Wyatt somehow.”

He shrugged again and sniffed. “She doesn't know what she’s talking about. She ain’t always right in the head. The fact is, living with me has been bad for her. She and the boy should go home to her folks.”

His reaction didn’t come close to what I’d been expecting. Maybe a different tack was in order, given his obvious apathy regarding Wanda.

“Not long after Wanda’s visit, Wyatt showed up looking for work. I hired him for the day to clean my floors.” I raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any problem with that?”

Staring at the floor, Bull drew a deep breath, blew it out. “No,” he said in a low voice. “No, that’s not a problem for me. You always did fair by him.”

So, he does care about the boy.

“He has burns on his left arm. Fresh ones. He wants me to think he got them fighting the fire at the McGee ranch.”

Tension showed once more in his shoulders and neck, but he said nothing, didn’t even look up.

Ugh! I hated the feeling of pulling teeth. But I pressed on. “Thing is, when I saw Wanda today, she had burns on her arms, too, only not as fresh. And she wasn’t fighting the fire at Travis’s place. Bull, Wyatt’s also got old burn scars. The kind a person might get from the end of a cigarette.”

A muscle worked in his jaw and he clamped his mouth shut. For a moment I was certain he was just going to close down and shut me out. He pushed to his feet, rose to his full height without slumping, and stood with his damaged fists clenched.

“How fresh?” he demanded, his words strangled. For the first time since I had entered the jail, he met my gaze directly.

I wasn’t prepared to feel sympathy for the deep suffering reflected in his eyes. But there it was. Where in heaven’s name had that come from?

I held his attention as I spoke, making sure to keep my voice level. “Hours old. I didn’t see much of Wanda’s arm because she’s hiding it. She said she spilled some hot water. But Wyatt’s looked really fresh, at least six of them.”

“Do you know where my mother was when Wanda was talking to you?”

“Phyllis?” Frowning, I shook my head. “Wanda didn’t say. Why?”

Bull’s fingers worked agitatedly, flexing and releasing. “I need to talk to DC.”

“Bull, what is it? Does Wanda hurt Wyatt?” I paused, watching him closely for his reaction. “Or does your father hurt them both?”

Bull jerked upright. “I need to talk to DC.” Shaking his head, he clamped his mouth shut. He was done talking.

“Okay. I’ll ask Stella to call him for you.” I walked away from the bars and waited for the state trooper to let me out of the confinement area.

“Christine,” Bull called out as the trooper inserted his key in the lock. His next words seemed to be ripped from his mouth. “Wanda’s right. It’s not like everyone thinks. And Wyatt… he’s not my nephew.” He watched my face closely. “He’s not my son, either. But I do love him like he was my own. And if Mac would have known about him, he wouldn’t have stayed with McGee.”

He turned away just as the trooper opened the door. I hesitated but then sighed and stepped through the opening. I wouldn’t get any more from Bull, and what I’d gotten had only managed to raise more questions.