his neck, he winced as a vertebra near the top of his spine popped. Tadd Richter—what had Sam seen in that lowlife? And why did Kyle care? It was old news.
His coffee, bad instant stuff when it was hot, was now cold and looked as if it might gel. Kyle ignored the cup. The old chair groaned as he stood and walked to a cupboard where, once upon a time, Ben had kept his liquor. Empty. “Strike two.” No computer and no liquor, not in this den with its yellowed, knotty pine walls, faded prints of rodeo riders and braided rug tossed over an ancient plank floor. It was as if life out here in godforsaken Wyoming hadn’t changed in the past fifty years. “Thanks a lot, Kate,” he grumbled, though the ranch in summer had always held a special spot in his heart—a spot he’d rather not remember.
Jet lag hadn’t settled in and probably wouldn’t. The plane ride from Minneapolis to Jackson hadn’t been all that bad, nor had the trip out to the ranch in his hastily purchased, used pickup. No, it wasn’t the travel that bothered him so much as the feeling that he was being manipulated. Again. By his grandmother. From her damned grave.
Snapping off the desk lamp, he walked in his stocking feet through the long hall that ran the length of this rambling, two-story house, the place where he’d spent many of his summer vacations. Sometimes the family had taken trips to faraway and exotic places—Mexico, Jamaica, Hawaii or India. But the summers he remembered best, the ones he cherished, weren’t when he was ensconced in some opulent hotel boasting five-star restaurants, mineral springs and connecting pools. No, the best summers of his life he’d spent here, learning how to rope calves, saddle horses, brand the stock, skinny-dip in Stiller Creek and sleep under the blanket of stars in the vast Wyoming sky.
Kyle walked up the steep, uncarpeted stairs to the second floor, where a warren of attic rooms was housed. At the end of the hall was the bunk room in which he and his cousins had slept. He felt the worn wood of the door and touched the gouge where Michael had broken the lock when Kyle and Adam had locked him out. Kyle had been about twelve at the time. Michael, a year older and full of piss and vinegar, wasn’t about to let a little latch keep him from breaking open the door and seeking some kind of vengeance for his brother catching him off guard and nailing him with a stream of ice-cold water from the garden hose.
Smiling, Kyle remembered Michael, dripping from head to toe as he’d crashed through the door and sprawled into the room, clunking his head on the end of one of the bunks and nearly knocking himself out.
It seemed like a lifetime ago. Before he’d started shaving, before he’d really noticed girls. Before Sam.
Snapping on the light, he walked into the room and eyed the bunks, three sets now without sheets, mattress ticking faded, tucked under the eaves and in the dormers. Nowhere in sight was the carton of cigarettes they’d swiped from their grandfather, the Playboy magazines that one of the ranch hands had “loaned” the boys or the bottles of booze they’d hidden deep in their dresser drawers when a local cowboy had, for a stiff fee, bought them whatever kind of rotgut whiskey they could afford.
Running his hand over one of the bed frames, he stopped at the window they’d used for escape. The ledge was located close to an ancient apple tree with wide branches, and the boys had rigged an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys to lower themselves to the ground or climb back up. They’d thought they were so smart, but, Kyle suspected, their grandmother probably knew everything that was going on. She was just too clever to have missed all of their shenanigans.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, his fist curling in grief. To think that she was gone—really gone—caused a raw emptiness deep in his soul. What had she been doing, flying alone in the damned plane, looking for some rare plant in the Amazon rain forest? She’d never made it. Her plane had exploded over Brazil somewhere, falling to earth in a horrifying ball of flames. Her charred body had been shipped back to the States, where her stunned children and grandchildren had fought their disbelief and dealt with the fact that the most influential force in their lives was suddenly gone.
Opening the window, Kyle let in a late-evening breeze and stared across the rolling acres—his acres now, he reminded himself. Well, they would be in six months, if he could hack it here that long. It wasn’t as if he was unhappy to leave Minneapolis; his life there had stagnated and he’d never really found himself, never settled down, never held a job long enough to count. No, he’d been restless by nature, and maybe that’s why of all her grandchildren, Kyle had been picked by Kate to inherit this ranch. It was probably the old lady’s way of forcing him to put down roots.
Hell, he remembered the funeral and the closed casket covered with floral sprays, the church packed with mourners, the family members draped in black and fighting tears. Then later, stunned, barely able to speak, they’d sat around a huge table in Kate’s attorney’s office and listened while Sterling Foster, seated at the head of the table, his hands folded on Kate’s last will and testament, had eyed them all. “Kate Fortune was a remarkable woman, mother of five children—though only four were raised by her,” he began, his gaze moving slowly around the table. “Grandmother of what—twelve? And a great-grandmother as well.” He smiled sadly. “Though widowed for ten years, she was still the driving force behind Fortune Cosmetics. She survived the death of a husband, Ben, as well as the loss of her child…well, you know all this. First, she instructed me to give everyone the charms she’d collected at the times of your birth. I’ve taken them from the sculpture in the boardroom that displayed them all.” He passed a silver tray with white envelopes around the table, and when the platter reached him, Kyle found his name typed neatly on one of the packets. Oh, Kate, he thought sadly as he tore open the envelope and withdrew a silver trinket.
Sterling cleared his throat and lifted the neatly typed papers before him. “I, Katherine Winfield Fortune, being of sound mind and body…”
Everyone’s attention was on the lawyer, and Kyle felt his muscles tense. This was all so wrong. It was as if the world had suddenly stopped and shifted beneath his feet.
His sister Jane sat next to him, her fingers tightening over the sleeve of his coat, the antique lace of her cuff smudged with mascara where she’d wiped her eyes. She’d tried to be brave, but her lower lip continued to tremble and she’d clung to him for support. A single mother, she was supposed to be able to stand on her own, to face the challenges life threw at her. But none of them—sons, daughters, grandchildren—could believe that they’d lost someone so dear and integral, the foundation of their lives.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, a strand of cinnamon-colored hair falling out of its barrette.
He placed his hand over Jane’s and met Michael’s somber gaze. Michael’s eyes reflected his own misery. Michael. Always responsible. Where Michael had always done the right thing, Kyle had been the screwup. Michael shouldered responsibility; Kyle ran from it.
Jane seemed to gain some starch in her spine. Blinking and straightening her shoulders, she reached for the water pitcher on the table and poured herself a glass. At a signal from Allison, she poured a second glass. Allie the beauty, a model and spokesperson for Fortune Cosmetics, the rich girl with the thousand-watt smile. Now her pretty face was drawn and pale as she sat wedged between her brother and twin sister, Rocky. Even Rocky’s normally animated expression was lifeless in her grief.
Rocky seemed to gain a little strength from her only brother, Adam, who, as Sterling droned on, absently patted her shoulder. Adam was the oldest child and only son of Jake and Erica Fortune. Surrounded by sisters, Adam was someone Kyle used to look up to, a kindred spirit—a rebellious son. Adam had turned his back on the family fortune, knocking about the country for a few years before he joined the military, only to give it up when his wife died. Now Adam was a single father with three children and trying to cope.
Kyle didn’t envy him. Hell, he didn’t envy anyone here today. Tugging at his collar, he tried to concentrate.
Sterling, catching his eye for a brief instant, flipped the page and kept reading in his soft-spoken drawl. Kyle liked the guy. He seemed to shoot from the hip and rarely minced words. Reading glasses were propped on the tip of his nose, and his white hair, impeccably combed, gleamed silver in the gentle light thrown by brass fixtures.
“And