Montana Read Free Page A

grandmother, who’d already been ill at the time with a fast-spreading cancer, had died shortly afterward. Gramps had asked Molly to come live with him, and for a while she’d seriously considered the invitation. She told herself now that if she’d had any sense, she would have taken him up on his offer. She might actually have done it if she’d managed to find work. Fluent in both French and German, Molly was employed on a contract basis by an import agency. Unfortunately there wasn’t much call for her skills in the cattle country of western Montana.
    During that visit Tom had been four and Clay still in diapers. Whatever memories Tom had were more likely the stories she’d told him about the ranch. Tucked against the foothills of the Bitterroot Mountains, the Broken Arrow was one of the lonely ranches scattered through the Flathead River valley. Molly often talked about it, especially after a letter arrived from Gramps. There weren’t many, only two or three a year. Her grandmother had been the one who’d taken care of family correspondence. Molly had discovered that Gramps hated talking on the phone even more than he hated writing letters; nevertheless, he made the effort to keep in touch with her. Each one of his letters was read countless times and treasured. Losing his lifelong love had devastated him, and even now, nine years after her passing, Gramps mentioned his wife in every single letter, every conversation.
    Molly always answered his letters and routinely mailed him pictures of the boys. Over the years they’d talked on the phone a number of times but their conversations had obviously been uncomfortable for him. Gramps never had been much of a talker, nor was he like the stereotypical kindly old characters who populated kids’ storybooks. Nope, he was actually a bit of a curmudgeon. He yelled into the telephone as if he thought that was necessary in order to be heard and fretted constantly over what the call was costing.
    No small man, he stood a good six-two and weighed at least two hundred pounds. Four-year-old Tom had found his appearance so scary that he’d clung to her leg the first few days of their visit. Clay had buried his face in her shoulder and wailed the instant Gramps came into view. Her grandfather didn’t have the slightest idea how intimidating he could be to small boys.
    Had it really been nine years since she’d last seen him? It seemed impossible, yet she knew it was true.
    â€œHe yelled,” Tom murmured, lost in his own thoughts.
    That was Gramps, all right. He was gruff and impatient and about as subtle as a gun in your face. To really know him was to love him, but he rarely gave anyone the opportunity to get that close. Never afraid to voice his opinions, Gramps went out of his way to make sure folks around him knew what he thought and why; anyone who dared to disagree was called a “danged fool.” Usually to his—or her—face.
    When Molly’s grandmother was alive, she’d smoothed the waters. Her charm and humor had more than compensated for Walt Wheaton’s prickly nature. By now, Gramps had probably alienated just about everyone in Sweetgrass.
    The foreman who’d phoned said he’d been around for more than six months. If Gramps had mentioned hiring a foreman in any of his letters, she’d missed it—hard to believe, considering how often she’d read them. But knowing Gramps, he’d rather chew nails than admit he needed help.
    Sam Dakota. The name sounded almost familiar. She grinned weakly, allowing herself to be amused for just a moment—maybe she was confusing him with South Dakota. Or maybe Gramps had mentioned him, but not in a discussion about hired hands. She was sure of that.
    The boys went to bed that evening with a minimum of fuss, for which Molly was grateful. She followed soon after, weary to the bone.
    It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that she couldn’t