Reclaiming Nick (15 page)

“You okay, Mr. Noble?”

He turned back to CJ, saw concern on the boy’s face. “Yeah, kid, I’m okay. I . . . well, I know your dad. And your mom, I guess. Her name is Maggy?”

“You and them friends?”

Nick snorted. “Once upon a time. Yeah. Your dad and I actually roped together.”

CJ’s mouth opened. “Really? So you’re the one in the picture? the one from the paper?”

Nick had to scroll through his memory. He remembered a few pictures. The year they’d won state in football, the photos of the school prom, but Cole had probably kept the one of them with their buckle prizes raised high, hands clasped over each other’s shoulders at the zenith of their friendship. “The national high school rodeo finals. We won the team roping event.”

The boy’s brown eyes widened, and in them Nick saw no hint that Cole had been filling his son with lurid stories about his former best friend.

Then again, Maggy was this kid’s mother. Cole didn’t have to trample over Nick’s reputation to inflict pain. He’d married Maggy. That did the trick. “So, do you have any brothers and sisters?”

CJ shook his head. “Ma always wanted another baby, but . . .” He shrugged. “It’s just me. Ma and I run the ranch. Someday I will probably.”

He saw himself in CJ’s eyes, in his smile. Someday I will. He’d
said that too many times to the ranch hands and to his younger brother. He would be the king of the Silver Buckle.

No, apparently that honor would go to Cole. Or at least half of it. Saul Lovell hadn’t given him much hope in getting the will set aside. Not unless Nick could find a reason Cole would coerce Bishop. He’d done some online sleuthing. If Nick could prove that Cole had been in the room the day the will was signed, it would be enough for the judge to set the will aside and divide property the way it should be . . . among the Noble children.

However . . . he hadn’t found a shadow of suspicion, the barest hint of coercion, even with his casual, probing questions and his inspection of the family finances. According to Stef, only Saul, Bishop, and Big John Kincaid had witnessed the signing of the will.

But now this little buckaroo seemed willing to chatter. . . .

Nick stared at CJ and smiled. “CJ, would you like a drink of lemonade?”

Maggy knew CJ had left the moment she stepped into the barn. His horse was gone as well as his lariat.

He’d gone to the Silver Buckle; she knew it. No, CJ, please don’t. . . .

She stood on the porch and shivered in the wind, even though the sun’s heat lingered, despite its downward slide behind the ragged horizon. She felt grimy and old, having spent the morning checking the new calves and wrestling one out of a tangle of chaparral with their new hired man, Jay. She found him to be capable and quiet with horse sense and the cowboy manners to let her lead.
The fact that Cole had hired him without asking her permission had rankled her, but she let it go.

Just Cole’s meager interest in the ranch seemed like a good sign, even if he’d insisted on making the trip to Sheridan alone. Please, Lord, help them figure out what is wrong with him.

Jay came out of the barn, a sack of feed over his shoulder. If she’d been alone, she would have had to load it in the wheelbarrow to take to the corral. The relief at seeing someone stronger than she on their property . . . well, the emotions pushed tears into her eyes. She turned away from his wide back, his strong arms, realizing how fragile she felt inside and out.

And CJ was at the Silver Buckle. Most likely meeting Nick.

Maggy sat on the porch swing, let the creaking rock her. She closed her eyes and remembered. . . .

“Hey, Mags, check out my new rig!” The voice, even in memory, always had the power to start a tingle inside her, and with Nick’s approaching departure for college, she had savored every moment with him. It had taken only his maverick smile and the sizzle in his dark eyes for her to abandon her chores and climb in beside him and Cole.

Her mother had been waiting on their small front porch when she returned. Sometimes she could still smell that night. Could still see her mother’s silhouette. The redolence of summer and campfire smoke clung to her hair, and she refused to let fear destroy the feeling of Nick’s arms around her.

“It’s nearly midnight, Maggy.” Her mother’s voice stayed low, and she pulled her sweater tight around her body. Her mother never looked anything but old to Maggy. Maggy blamed it on her
job at the Big K, at the hours in the kitchen and the smell of cleanser on her chapped skin.

“Sorry, Ma.” She stepped into the dim light. “Nick got a new truck.”

“I saw that.”

Her mother’s tone betrayed her feelings and ignited all Maggy’s defenses. Didn’t Ma know that Nick loved her? that he was one of the wealthiest boys in the county? that someday Nick would ask her to marry him? that Maggy could give her parents a real home instead of the trailer they lived in? that her parents wouldn’t have to work from sunup to sunset and go to bed smelling of Ben-Gay? She shook her head, moved to go inside their two-bedroom trailer.

Her mother caught her arm.

Maggy turned, annoyance in her pose.

“Maggy, I know you love Nick. But he’s leaving Phillips. And, sweetheart, you’re staying.”

“He’s coming back, Mom. He loves me.”

Her mother’s eyes glistened in the dark. “Don’t do anything foolish, Maggy. Nick’s a wild one, and he’s hurtin’ from his mama’s passing. He’s headed for ruination if he doesn’t get his head on straight.”

Maggy couldn’t believe her ears. Nick Noble happened to be the best catch in eastern Montana. Not only was he take-her-breath-away handsome, but he hailed from a good family, had led their football team to a state championship in their division, and just a month ago won the top roping prize in the nation. He was funny and fun, and her mother should be on the sidelines hurrahing. “What is your problem? Nick’s a great guy. He’s cute and rich—”

“And doesn’t have a heart for the Lord.”

Maggy stood there, openmouthed, her eyes adjusting to her mother’s sad expression. “He goes to church.”

“When the mood suits him.”

“He works.”

“He makes a choice.” Her mother sighed, patting the place beside her.

Maggy ignored it and stared out toward the Silver Buckle. Inside, however, her mother’s words stirred a place that had her afraid.

Nick was wild. And she feared that someday he’d go too far. That even his charm wouldn’t be able to wiggle him out of trouble. More than that, sometimes she wondered if he really, truly loved her. She’d been his girl for three years, but sometimes she felt closer to Cole.

Or maybe she could just depend on Cole. Cole felt safe, the calm to Nick’s storm. Cole listened before he spoke and measured his words.

On those occasional times when Nick had made her cry, Cole had been the one to gather her into his strong arms without comment. Cole didn’t have Nick’s devastating good looks, but his generosity of spirit never let her down.

Her mother spoke through the darkness and voiced Maggy’s fears. “Nick has the ability to be a great man. But until he begins to follow his brand, he’ll always be a maverick. He’s going to hurt himself—or someone else—someday. And I don’t want you caught in the middle.”

In the end, her mother had been right. Nick had hurt them all.

Maggy rubbed her arms and stared past the bluffs and draws toward the Buckle, praying that her son wasn’t next on Nick’s list of casualties.

CHAPTER 10

S
HE COULD RIDE
this pony. Piper stood in the pool of light outside Lolly’s Diner, watching the shimmer of orange glaze the dusty horizon. She had her collar turned up and her hands shoved into her pockets as she waited for the deliveryman to load the last of the dinner into the back end of her Jeep. Spare ribs, potato salad, biscuits, and beans—the perfect roundup dinner. She would have to give Carter a hug and probably her entire collection of Monk DVDs for this favor.

This meal bought her time. It meant that for at least a few more days Stefanie and Nick Noble would buy her alias as a chef and let her pry deeper into their secrets.

Who exactly was CJ? She’d watched from Nick’s window as he taught the kid to throw a lasso. His patient voice and his gentleness with the boy weren’t lost on her—something that only irked her as the lesson lingered. She’d expected Nick to send the kid packing, not have a rodeo clinic. Then he’d served CJ some lemonade. Listening to Nick ask the boy about his family and his life didn’t
compute—until she remembered that he’d been a detective and had coerced her brother into a confession. Nick was clearly on a fishing expedition. So why was he plying CJ for information?

Just one more question in her notebook, along with the bigger ones: What was Nick searching for in the room at the end of the hall? What had caused the bad blood between Nick and Cole St. John?

And how could she use the information to serve up justice?

Most importantly, how was she going to get this food back home and into the chuck wagon without detection?

Piper tipped the driver, closed the hatchback, and drove to the Buckle, hoping she’d make it before Dutch or Pete or Nick emerged for morning chores. They all rose before the sun. Good thing her nightmares sometimes drove her to sit huddled in a blanket on the porch, watching the sunrise, or she’d have never known how early to rise to pull off her ruse.

Sure enough, the compound hadn’t yet stirred as she drove past the house, the barns, Dutch’s place, and the bunkhouse to the dining hall. She parked around back, then unloaded the potato salad into the plastic storage bins in the pantry, storing them in the fridge. The ribs arrived tangy and hot, surrounded by the magic of Styrofoam. According to Carter’s written directions, all she had to do was transfer them to the pots and bake them over the fire. She had spent all yesterday reseasoning the cast-iron pots—and nearly dying of asphyxiation.

She’d also nearly burned down the kitchen—well, not really, but from the smoke that heralded from the two ovens, it seemed that she’d created a small inferno. She had to smile at the memory of Nick charging up the path just as she’d been carrying the steaming cast-iron pot outside.

He had run up, wild eyed. “Are you all right? Is the kitchen on fire?”

Not sure what question to address first, she set the pot on the grass and bent over, coughing. Tears streaked her face. “I . . . was . . .” Coughing overtook her body.

“For pete’s sake!” Nick ran into the kitchen. Moments later, he burst through the door carrying another pot. “The room is filled with smoke!”

Oh, that Nick, he was quick. “Yeah, I know,” she’d said, covering her mouth as she coughed again. “I was seasoning the pots—”

Nick gave her a look of disbelief, then spun and returned inside. She watched him open the windows and disappear again. He emerged from the dragon’s mouth a few moments later with a glass of water. He handed it to her. “Drink.”

“Is it hemlock?” She gave him a small smirk.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“I’m kidding.” Piper drank, then wiped her mouth. “I’m sorry about the smoke.”

“I suppose they didn’t teach you in cooking school not to season pots inside the kitchen? That’s why we have a grill—or even an open fire. And why are you seasoning them, anyway? They’ve been oiled and seasoned for years.”

Of course. Piper scrambled for a response. Because she’d wrecked the seasoning by washing them with soap? Because she hadn’t yet found the answers she needed, and she had to keep up her charade? Because she didn’t want Nick to grab her by the scruff of her neck and throw her off the Silver Buckle without getting the answers to the questions that nagged at her? She stared at him, her eyes burning. “Sorry, Nick. I wasn’t sure how Chet had
seasoned them in the past. I wanted to make sure they were ready for roundup.”

Staring at his furious expression, she fleetingly felt the slightest tingle of fear. She lifted her chin, but in the back of her mind she called herself silly.

For a second, Nick had seemed genuinely concerned for her well-being.

As if to confirm that thought, he said, “Are you all right?” His voice softened this time, and he yanked the handkerchief from his neck and wiped her sooty cheeks. “Let me fire up the grill, and we’ll get these things seasoned properly.”

It didn’t help that he smiled, his eyes kind, his touch gentle. He packed a powerful punch with his dark curly hair, the slightest dusting of whiskers, a dusty blue work shirt, and a pair of Wrangler jeans. “I’ll bet this is different than what you’re used to working with.”

Words deserted Piper for a moment. “Uh . . . yeah . . .” Could he see through her? that she didn’t know the difference between baking soda and baking powder? that she had been fired from her only attempt at cooking—helping her mother make cookies for the school play?

“But I’ll bet you make a mean crème brûlée.”

Oh yeah, like nothing he’d ever tasted before, she felt sure. She found her smile. Nodded.

The sound of a truck gunning toward the dining hall made Nick turn.

“Piper! Are you okay?” Stefanie stopped her pickup ten feet short of them. “I saw smoke!”

“We’re getting the pots ready for roundup,” Nick said, shooting a look at Piper.

At his words, his smile, she’d felt something inside her shift, something she’d been holding on to for support: her steadfast belief that Nick Noble was an outlaw.

Now, as Piper dumped the ribs into huge kettles and found the serving bowls for the potato salad, she still felt her world sliding. She simply couldn’t get a fix on Nick—one minute he was showing her around the ranch and coming to her rescue, the next he was helping a neighbor kid rope a steer, and the next he was snooping into said kid’s life.

Apparently Nick could play games as well as she.

However, as long as she didn’t let his charm affect her heart, she’d be fine.

The sun had cleared the bluffs and shortened the shadows by the time Piper had the chuck wagon loaded. The Silver Buckle, along with three other ranches, participated in an old-time roundup at each ranch every May. According to Nick, they’d spend the day branding the new steers, and then partake of the meals furnished by the host ranch. Last week, they’d worked at one of the other ranches.

It made her think of the day her mother had dragged her to church for their potluck lunch. Although she’d attended Grace Bible Church for the better part of her childhood, she hadn’t darkened its door since the day she graduated from high school.

She simply didn’t see God’s intervention in her life the way her mother did. And she had the scars to prove it.

That day back then . . . it reminded her of the hope she’d foolishly harbored that someday she might have a family, sisters, her brother back, a father who loved her.

She’d walked out of the potluck right after the banana pudding
and had never returned to church. Childhood dreams were for children, not adults who knew better.

Still, today could be fun. A new experience and yet another opportunity to get underneath that Nick Noble guard.

She was loading the last of her supplies into the five-by-ten wagon outfitted with coolers and utensils and campfire cooking extras when the subject of her investigation appeared. She only momentarily lost her focus at his cowboy attire—a pair of leather chaps over jeans, a brown corduroy shirt, and a Stetson drawn low over his eyes. He was leading two horses.

“Howdy,” he drawled in his cowboy tenor.

“Right back atchya,” she drawled back.

His dark eyes sparkled, but he said nothing as he hitched the horses to the wagon. He mounted, then offered her his hand to join him on the seat. She took it, disgusted at how it sent tingles up her arm. So he looked like every cowgirl’s dream. She wasn’t a cowgirl, and she didn’t have dreams anymore. At least not the romantic kind.

He took the reins, holding them loosely between his fingers. “Ready to get this done?”

Piper nodded, then held on as the horses eased the wagon forward. They rode along the driveway before turning off onto the road.

She felt as if she might be riding back into time. She just hoped she might also be riding into Nick’s past and that today would be the day for some answers.

Every nerve in Cole’s body felt as if it had been branded. On fire, burning, he could barely stop himself from shouting as he watched
Maggy dress for the roundup. As if she might be dressing for the prom.

Although she’d said nothing, he knew she’d been waiting for this day for a decade. And everything inside him wanted to cry.

As usual, she took his breath away. She’d always been pretty—in high school he could barely keep his eyes off her. But as his wife, knowing her like he did, she’d become breathtaking to him. He loved to watch the way her beautiful green eyes took in every situation, how her hands deftly plaited her hair into two braids. Those same hands had held his when he’d returned home last night, her eyes searching his face for answers.

He hadn’t been able to tell her of his failing liver. Not all of it. He’d simply told her that Dr. Lowe had given him medicine, and that he’d probably be well soon.

He’d omitted the part that said he’d be well in heaven. Relief washed her expression as she’d hugged him, and he’d held on longer than a man who’d lied to his wife had a right to. When she drew away, she kissed him, and he felt pity in her touch.

He hated pity.

Most of all he hated the pity. Because of all the emotions that tied her to him, pity was the one he most feared. Pity would turn to disgust . . . then hatred. Then again, she’d once accused him of pitying her, and he’d loved her more each day.

The night ten years ago when he’d found Maggy sitting on the back steps of their church, the stars had spilled across the February sky like frost glistening against a black windowpane. She had had her hands cupped to her face, her shoulders wringing out her pain even as she muffled it. He would have missed her completely if he
hadn’t returned to vacuum the sanctuary in his mother’s stead after Sunday evening services.

The winter wreath over the back door hung, stiff and green, its blue-and-gold velvet bow laced with a dusting of snow. The chilled air bit at his ears as he squatted before Maggy, touching her softly on the arm. “Mags, what’s the matter?”

Somehow he had known, as she lifted her face, as he traced the tracks of tears, that Nick was to blame. Deep inside, he’d expected this moment.

Maggy shook her head, wiped her tears with her knitted mittens. “I can’t—”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.” He sat beside her, put his arm around her, drawing her close. “Remember, I’m supposed to look after you.” He alone knew how those words twisted his chest.

She sighed. “You can’t fix this.”

He brushed her tear away with his thumb, wrestling the sudden desire to kiss her. Softly, just enough to make her forget Nick and how he hurt her. Her auburn hair tumbled out of her knit cap in soft curls, and when she shivered slightly, he tightened her against him. “Let me try.”

She leaned her head against his chest, relaxing into him.

Cole closed his eyes, wrapped his other arm around her. If this was all he could have of Maggy, then he’d be happy.

A shard of fury divided his thoughts. Nick didn’t deserve her, had dallied with her for years, taking her love for granted. Cole knew all about Nick’s exploits at college—Nick wasn’t the only one of his classmates who attended Montana State.

Yet Nick had returned home for Christmas break, showing up at Maggy’s place and trotting her out on his arm for the annual pie
social and New Year’s Eve dance. Cole had watched them from across the community center social room, watched Maggy laugh, nearly glowing, and tried to feel happy for them. They seemed even closer than before. Apparently Prince Noble had her completely snowed.