Six
Duke Duggan turned the slightly battered half-ton up the dirt drive to Crooked Valley Ranch. Whorls of dust swirled behind him, clouding the frosty road as he made his way to the ranch house he remembered from childhood. It hadn’t changed a bit. The white siding and dark green window trim was definitely dated, but the wraparound porch he’d always loved still skirted the house, making it welcoming and cozy-looking.
Or it would look cozy if not for the brown grass and nearly naked trees. November was a pretty bleak month—past the glorious splendor of fall colors but before the blanket of pure white snow that would soon fall in the small ranching town of Gibson, Montana.
Nerves twisted in his stomach. This homecoming hadn’t been in his plans. The letter from his grandfather, sent via the old man’s lawyer, was tucked securely in the breast pocket of his denim jacket.
Duke had still been in the hospital overseas when his grandfather had died, and he wished he’d been here to go to the funeral. Despite the tensions between them, Joe had still been family, and Duke had spent a good part of his early childhood at Crooked Valley Ranch. Those had been the years when his dad had still been alive, and as time passed, it felt to Duke as if the memories were slipping further and further away. He worried that sooner or later they’d disappear altogether.
That time hadn’t come yet, though. He clearly remembered the rolling hills in the shadow of the mountains, waving grass, horses and cows dotting the verdant pastures, and a bedroom decorated with rodeo wallpaper—his dad’s old room. His dad had taught him how to ride a horse before he rode a bike, and it was something he’d always enjoyed during the times he’d spent at his grandparents’ place.
Duke also remembered arguments between his mother and his grandparents, Joe and Eileen—particularly after his dad had died. Mom had never loved the ranch, and her mother-in-law and father-in-law had known it. Something Duke did remember clearly was his mother repeating that she only stayed at Crooked Valley because Evan had wished it while he was deployed.
Sgt. Evan Duggan—Duke’s father and hero.
Duke had only been eight when his dad was killed in Iraq. Twenty-two years ago now. With no further reason to keep her promise, Mom had moved them away from Crooked Valley and the small town of Gibson to Helena, where she took a government job and supported them all. Duke, along with his sister, Lacey, and brother, Rylan, only saw their grandparents occasionally after that. A week in the summer, and maybe once or twice during the year on holidays. Once they were teenagers and more concerned with friends and part-time jobs, they saw the Duggans even less.
Duke had liked the time he spent there in the summer. He’d been able to ride every day, hang out with the hands, most of who had known his dad as a kid, too. They’d shared stories with him that helped Duke feel closer to his father—a man Duke really couldn’t remember all that well beyond a shock of red hair, a big smile and a uniform.
He’d liked it here, sure. What kid wouldn’t enjoy the freedom of the great outdoors? But that was a far cry from wanting to be a rancher himself. Especially when he wasn’t consulted and part ownership was just thrown in his lap, piled on top of his other worries. He didn’t want the ranch to fall into a stranger’s hands, but that didn’t mean he and his siblings were equipped to step in. No sirree. He knew how to be a soldier. He’d been damned good at it. He didn’t know anything about ranching.
One-third of this tired-looking ranch was his—if he wanted it. Trouble was, Duke didn’t really know what he wanted—other than a good dose of peace and quiet. Maybe the odd chance to blow off a little steam once in a while. Time to figure out what was next for him, because he’d only been home for two weeks and he had no idea what he was going to do for the rest of his life. He was out of the army and, without it, he wasn’t sure who he was at all.
Duke slowed the truck as he reached the sprawling yard that contained the house, several outbuildings in need of paint and shrubs that looked as if they hadn’t seen a trimmer all summer. He frowned. It didn’t look like the prosperous, well-tended ranch he remembered. Maybe he’d be better off going back to Helena and bunking in with Ricky Spencer. Spence had given Duke a place to sleep and an offer of a job at his auto repair shop after Duke had left the army behind.
Except working with Spence would just be a Band-Aid solution. He sighed. This probably would be, too. But maybe, once he’d been here for a few months, he’d have a better idea about the future. Like what he wanted to do about it. He was a soldier, period. Except he wasn’t, unless he wanted to be a desk jockey. Without a doubt he knew he’d go crazy doing that. With his hearing loss being permanent, his options were more limited than they used to be.
He felt like a puppet, at the mercy of whoever was pulling the strings.
Duke parked the truck next to the biggest barn, the one where he remembered disappearing to each day in the summer to spend time with the horses. He got out and stretched his arms over his head. The weak autumn sun felt good, though it did little to warm him. The air was clear and fresh, though. He let out a big breath, a cloud forming in front of his face. What did feel right since returning home was the big Montana sky, the sun, the smell of the air. There was nothing like it in the world—and he’d seen a lot of places.
Birds chirped in the skeleton branches of the scrub brush, but Duke had a problem telling where the tweets and burbles were coming from. Losing half his hearing had been a blow, but at least he could still hear out of his left ear, and he still had all his fingers and toes. That was what he kept telling himself anyway. The gash on his arm had healed to a pink scar and so had the bruises. But the hearing loss was permanent. He was damned lucky he hadn’t been killed by the IED and he knew it. That didn’t mean there weren’t adjustments that he had to make. Or that he deeply resented having to make them.
“Hey! I said, can I help you!”
Startled, he spun to his right to see a man, much smaller than himself, marching toward him from the back of the barn. He squinted and realized it was no man at all—it was a woman, in jeans, dirty boots, a denim jacket similar to his own and a battered brown hat on her head. The words she’d hurled at him echoed in his head. I said, can I help you! Clearly they’d been spoken more than once and he hadn’t heard. He clenched his teeth, annoyed at his disability once more.