bluff and looked out over the rolling plains of the ranch below. Home. Too infrequently, he felt the meaning of the word. Until last month there had been only brief visits during college and after that, eight years of working at a ranch hundreds of miles to the north. Not since before high school days in Detroit had he actually lived here. Yet something still drew him back, some part of him felt this was home.
He arched his back, the stiffness lingering from another sleepless night on Maddy’s lumpy sofa bed. He stretched and yawned loudly, knowing the velvet-antlered deer a few yards away couldn’t care less. They watched him cautiously, but didn’t skitter off as he stared back, his thoughts drifting to Maddy and little Billy. He couldn’t think of one without the other. He pictured the freckle-faced towhead with a missing front tooth and the area around his heart constricted. There was so much pain ahead for that little guy. How would he ever...
Ryder blinked and looked at the front gate, letting it pull his focus outward, away from a problem that couldn’t be fixed today. A large arch spelled out the words: The Montana Malones. Beyond the scattered livestock, he viewed the main house—a sprawling log building, an addition at the back rising a story above the original structure, virtually tripling the living space. There were private quarters for the housekeeper, Hannah, plus his younger brother, Joshua, and himself. There was space for Shane, too, but he preferred living with Bucking Horse in the small cabin behind the stables, where the old Crow had taught the firstborn everything he knew about horses. Their father had his own wing in the main house, separate from his three sons. As usual. Shane had probably made the right decision, Ryder thought, an old anger welling up inside him. If there had been room in the little cabin, he would have stayed there, too. But there wasn’t.
Smoke puffed from the chimney in the kitchen, and his stomach growled. The others would be at the table by now, Hannah hovering over them in her typical mother hen fashion. If he hurried, breakfast would be hot and plentiful. But hurrying held no appeal this morning. The warm spring sun, rising in the sky, casting shadows on his favorite twin mountains, did. He walked ahead, his gaze fixed.
He’d always thought the rugged cliffs looked like two giant molars, a pair of large Ms mirrored cleanly in the still waters that lay peacefully in front of them—two Ms that signaled the settling place for the Montana Malones. At least that’s what his great-granddaddy had written in his journal all those years ago. In spite of all else, it was a sight he never grew weary of watching. It was an ever-changing view, yet a constant in times of turmoil. On days like today, there seemed little point in dredging up the past. His father had hurt them all as boys—not so much with his words, but with his absence.
And other things.
But he was no longer a boy, Ryder reminded himself, resuming his stroll, and the old man was nearing retirement. Maybe it was time to let it go. Besides, his father had nothing to do with his reasons for moving back to the ranch. Shane’s letter had provided the last nudge he needed to move closer to little Billy. He’d written that Joshua planned to start a farm soon, leaving too much for Shane to manage. So big brother had reminded him in not-too-subtle terms that, since each stood to inherit a third of the ranch someday, it seemed only fitting he begin pulling his own weight. And Shane was right. Besides, he had no beef with his brothers, and the years and distance had made them practically strangers. The time was right on all fronts for things to change.
Ryder stopped and sat gingerly on the precipice, dangled his feet over the edge and spotted a small cloud of dust miles down the road. He watched the car move closer, idly wondering who it might be so early on a Monday morning. But then his thoughts returned to his brothers...and finally to young Billy. Never far from his thoughts was poor Billy.
“This is the last batch,” Hannah groused, dropping another platter of pancakes in the center of the table. “It’s not like cookin’ is the only thing I gotta do ’round here, ya know.” She grabbed a coffee urn off a side table and made the rounds refilling cups. “And another thing, if I don’t get help pretty soon, yer gonna trip over me lyin’ on the floor one day.”
“Now, Hannah.” Max wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and tried to look stern at his housekeeper of nearly forty years. “I told you last night, we have another young woman coming out this morning.” He looked at his watch: 5:45 a.m. “In fact, she should be here any time.”
“Young woman?” Joshua arched a brow.
Max smiled at his youngest son, who eyed him with a hopeful grin over the rim of his coffee. “Well, she sounded young.”
“Everyone sounds young to you.” Shane snapped, sharing a knowing look with his brother, before stabbing a couple of pancakes off the platter.
“I don’t see where it matters one way or t’other,” Hannah said. “She’d just be another hired hand, not some plaything for you boys.”
Max watched the exchange between his sons. At thirty-two and twenty-five, they were hardly what he’d call boys. But to Hannah, he knew, they always would be. He glanced over at the empty seat and frowned. They may be men now, but his middle son still acted like a middle child. Where was he this time? Or with whom, was more the point?
“Maybe that’s her now.” Hannah stood at the window with a stack of empty bowls in both hands. “I’ll go see.”
Max stood abruptly. “No. I’ll take care of it this time.”
Hannah didn’t budge. “You? Whadaya know about cookin’, anyhoo?”
“Not a damn thing...except how to hire someone who can.” He softened his tone, not having meant to sound so brusque. Still, Hannah had scared away at least six women so far. He wasn’t about to make this one number seven. He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Let me handle it, okay?”
“Humph.” She spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen, not looking too convinced she shouldn’t be involved.
Shane and Joshua craned their necks for a better view of the path to the door, but Max waved them back to their food, not wanting their interference, either. He ignored their complaints as he closed the double doors to the dining room and headed for the front of the house.
A once white Grand Am made its way up the dusty road and finally came to a stop at the end of the bark-strewn walk to the porch. Max sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward when the latest candidate stepped from the car. She was young, all right, and too damn good-looking. Not for himself, but for the three men he’d never been able to keep in tow. He watched her smooth her short, tight denim skirt down another inch, which still left it high above her knees. Her peach knit top fit snugly, leaving nothing to the imagination. Hannah would have his hide if he hired this one. Yet how much longer could Hannah handle everything on her own?
Max walked down the path to greet the young woman, seeing a warm and genuine smile lighting her face as he grew near. A good omen, he decided. Friendly counted for a lot in these parts. If she could string two words together in a halfway acceptable fashion, he’d offer her the job.
Savannah gave one last tug at Jenny’s embarrassing skirt, then pasted on her best smile and walked toward the man she assumed was Max Malone—the one and same person she’d spoken to on the phone last night; the one and same person she’d heard so much about in high school. Two more steps and she thought she saw Ryder’s dark eyes in his father’s, an observation that made her stomach do another cartwheel. How was she ever going to pull this off? The man stopped a yard in front of her and extended a hand.
“Max Malone. You must be Essie.”
She grasped his large, but smooth, hand and pumped it enthusiastically, grateful his gaze stayed at eye level. She’d kill Jenny for her silly stunt—substituting all of her smaller clothes for Savannah’s more modest wardrobe. What must this man be thinking?
“Well, you passed the first two tests.” His laugh was warm and easy. “You found the place and made it here by six a.m.”
She wouldn’t tell him she’d left the motel at four-thirty, or how many wrong turns she’d