The Rebel of Copper Creek (2 page)

BOOK: The Rebel of Copper Creek
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Copper Creek, Montana—Present Day

G
et 'im in that chute, Griff.”

The cowboy's shrill voice had Griff Warren singling out the next calf from the portable corral and urging it into the narrow passageway toward a branding cradle. At least that was what the wranglers called it. Griff thought it was more like a torture chamber.

Once in there, the headgate slammed shut, the walls of the chute closed in, and the entire cage tipped to hold the calf on its side while Griff's newly discovered half brother Whit MacKenzie pressed a sizzling branding iron to the calf's right hip area.

The entire operation took only a few seconds, and the bawling calf was righted, released, and sent racing toward its mother in a second holding pen, while Griff, amid shouts and catcalls, was forced to prod the next calf toward the same fate.

The process was repeated over and over, for five hot, sweaty, endless days, until every calf born this spring on the MacKenzie Ranch had been branded with the unique MK on its right rump. Then they were herded by a team of wranglers, or in some cases trucked to the highlands in cattle haulers for a summer-long eating frenzy on the lush grasses that grew in the hills around Copper Creek.

When the last of the calves had met its fate, Whit dropped an arm around Griff's shoulders. “Great job, cowboy. You just had your baptism of fire. And look at you. Still standing.”

“Barely.” Griff, his shirt so wet it stuck to his skin, eyes red from the dust of frantic cattle, managed a weak grin.

Brady Storm, foreman of the MacKenzie Ranch, offered a handshake. “Welcome to Ranching 101, son. It's hard, dirty work. And not one of us would trade this job for a suit and tie in the city.”

Griff shook his head. “Don't tempt me, Brady.” He tempered his comments with a sly grin. “At the moment, that almost sounds like heaven.”

  

“Another fine supper, Mad.” Griff sat back, sipping coffee. Fresh from the longest shower of his life, he was feeling almost human again.

He'd been living with the MacKenzie family on their ranch since mustering out of the Marine Corps. He'd arrived in time to bury the stranger who had been his father. But though he'd been acknowledged as the son of Bear MacKenzie, he resisted accepting the MacKenzie name, choosing instead to continue using his single mother's last name as it had been recorded on his birth certificate.

“From what Brady told me, son, you deserve a good meal.” Seventy-year-old Maddock MacKenzie, Bear's father and therefore Griff's biological grandfather, was called Mad by all who knew him. The nickname suited him, since his temper was legend in this part of Montana. He seemed especially furious at being confined to a wheelchair since a ranch accident fifteen years earlier. And though he worked hard to hide his frustration for the sake of his family, it showed in the way he often slammed a hand down on the arm of the hated chair. Mad MacKenzie did everything he could to pretend that his life was the same as before, including his absolute refusal to have ramps built in and around the house, which he felt would shout to the world that he was a cripple, a word he detested.

The cantankerous old man winked at Brady Storm. “Brady tells me you've been jumping into ranch chores with both feet. But branding's another thing altogether. For a novice, branding can be pretty grueling, even for those of us who cut our teeth on ranch chores.”

“Tell me about it.” Whit, twenty-five and the youngest of Bear MacKenzie's three sons, shot a grin at his brother, Ash, who was seated across the table. “The first time Pa took me with him to help with the branding, I was five or six. The wranglers were still branding the old-fashioned way. Wrestling calves to the dirt, holding them down, and driving that hot iron into their rumps. I've never forgotten the smell of burning flesh and the bawling of those calves. I was sick for a week.”

“I guess to a kid it's pretty barbaric.” Mad polished off the last of his garlic mashed potatoes, one of his favorite side dishes, which he prepared at least once a week.

“Not just to a kid.” Willow MacKenzie, mother to Ash and Whit, turned to her father-in-law. “I may have grown up on a ranch, but I'm still troubled every spring during branding.”

“Can't be helped.” Mad shared a knowing look with the foreman. “We can tag a cow's ear or implant a chip, but the process our ancestors came up with is still the most efficient. The state of Montana is open range. We've got thousands of acres of rangeland. Those critters can hide in canyons, wander into forests. But the state demands that we register our brand with the state brand office. Not only the brand, but the exact location on each calf. That's why we've got that MK on the right rump of every one of our cattle. It's pretty hard for a thief to explain what he's doing with your property.”

Griff shook his head. “All I know is, I'm glad that particular chore is finished for the year. Now I can get back to learning the easy stuff.”

“You think tending herds in the high country in blizzards or summer storms is easy? You like mending fences and mucking stalls?” Ash shared a look with the others. “I guess that's what happens when you survive three tours with the marines in Afghanistan. Everything after that is gravy.”

The others around the table joined in the laughter.

Myrna Hill, plump housekeeper for the MacKenzie family, set a tray of brownies on the table before passing around hot fudge sundaes. “You have Brenna to thank for the dessert. She drove all the way into Copper Creek, to that cute little shop I's Cream, for Ivy's special chocolate marshmallow walnut ice cream.”

Ash nudged his bride, Brenna, seated beside him. “Is this a special occasion?” He put a hand to his heart. “Don't tell me I've forgotten an anniversary or something already.”

“Now you've done it, lad.” Mad's Scottish burr thickened along with his laughter. “Don't you know that the first rule of a new husband is to never admit that you've forgotten a special day? You're supposed to just smile and remain silent, and your bride will think you've known about it all along.”

“Now you tell me.” Ash put his arm around Brenna's shoulders and nuzzled her cheek. “Whatever the occasion, you know I'm happy to be celebrating it with you.”

“Uh-huh.” With an impish grin Brenna smiled at Myrna, whose cap of white curls bounced with every step she took. “I suppose, if you're feeling guilty enough, I could get a new washer out of this. Or maybe something really big, like a new truck at Orin Tamer's dealership. But the truth is, babe, you haven't forgotten a thing. I just thought you'd want some comfort food after dealing with all that branding for the past week.”

“Whew.” Across the table, Whit made a big production of wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “You really ducked a trap this time, bro.”

“Yeah.” Ash lifted Brenna's hand to his mouth and planted a wet kiss in her palm. “See how she pampers me?”

“Don't be fooled, bro.” Whit dug into his sundae. “Our Brenna's smart. That means she'll figure a way to get what she wants even without playing on your guilt.”

Brenna dimpled. “Better eat that dessert as fast as you can, or you may find it dumped over your very adorable head, my sweet brother-in-law.”

“That's ‘bro-in-law' to you, Bren.” He held up his now-empty bowl. “And you're too late.”

Around the table, the others enjoyed the banter while they finished their desserts.

Afterward, they lounged comfortably, drinking coffee and discussing the week's activities on the thousand-plus acres that made up the mighty MacKenzie ranch.

With the sudden, shocking murder of Bear MacKenzie, the operation of the ranch had fallen to his three sons and his widow, Willow. Since Maddock's accident, he'd merged his ranch with that of his son and had commandeered the kitchen chores, much to Myrna's dismay. Though the two shared some cooking skills, Mad's overbearing personality often drove Myrna to hide out in other parts of the house. But when she did work in the kitchen, she was more than ready to stand up to the old curmudgeon. And though they enjoyed spirited arguments, there was an underlying affection that was obvious to everyone.

Ash turned to his mother. “Any news from Chief Pettigrew on the investigation into Dad's …death?” As always, the very mention of Bear MacKenzie's murder at the hands of an unknown coward who had shot him with a long-range rifle caused a chilling silence around the table.

Willow shook her head. “As a matter of fact, Ira called this morning just to touch base and let me know he was doing all he could. The state police crime lab has concluded the estimated distance the bullets traveled. That's an important step in the investigation. Once they determine the exact location where the shooter was concealed, they can begin going over the area with a fine-tooth comb. Ira assured me that if even a single thread of evidence exists, they'll find and identify it.”

Mad patted his daughter-in-law's hand. “Keep the faith, lass. They'll get the coward who shot Bear.”

She nodded. “I know, Mad. But every time I go into town, I can't help thinking that someone smiling at me, talking to me, could be Bear's killer.” She shuddered. “I can't bear the thought that such a monster is still walking around, enjoying his life, while Bear is…” She couldn't bring herself to say the word.

Brady Storm, always sensitive to Willow's emotions, quickly changed the subject. “I saw Lance McMillan fly in that sleek new plane. What did he want?”

At the mention of their longtime lawyer's son, who had recently taken over his father's practice, Willow sighed. “I told him his father knew better than to interrupt a rancher at branding time. And without even the courtesy of a phone call. But he said he was on his way up to join his father on a fishing trip in Canada, and it was Mason who'd wanted me to sign some papers.”

Mad looked over. “What kind of papers?”

Willow shrugged. “Lance said they were just routine documents needed after the death of a spouse. I told him to leave them for me in the office and I'd read them later, when I have my wits about me.”

“Good.” Mad nodded his approval. “Mason would have never brought documents for a signature without taking the time to explain them thoroughly.”

Willow gave a short laugh. “That's what I said, though in truth I didn't want to give him any more of my time. The irony is, after I took my shower I went to Bear's office to read them, and they weren't there. When I phoned Lance, he said he'd spotted some typos and taken them back to be corrected. He has them with him in Canada. Now he'll have to bring them to me when he gets back from his fishing trip with Mason.”

“So his visit was a waste of time.”

“I don't know about Lance's time, but it was certainly a waste of mine.”

Willow looked up as Whit clapped a hand on the foreman's back. “How about a beer at Wylie's?”

Brady nodded. “I'm in.” He turned to Griff. “You joining us?”

Griff smiled. “Good idea. Willow? Mad? Ready for a night in town?”

Both Willow and Mad shook their heads.

Whit turned to the newlyweds. “Ash and Brenna?”

The two turned to one another, smiled, and shook their heads in unison. Ash spoke for both of them. “Thanks, but we'll pass tonight.”

Whit waved a hand toward the others. “What did I tell you? The way those two are looking, I'm betting that before the night's over my big brother will be promising his lady love that new truck she's been mooning over.”

“Nobody deserves it more,” Ash said, stonefaced.

“Oh, man.” Whit turned away with a mock shudder. “Now I really need a beer at Wylie's to wash away the taste of all that sugar.”

At that, everyone burst into gales of laughter. Even Myrna joined in as the men made ready to leave for town.

  

As the others headed outside, Mad snagged Brady's arm.

The foreman turned back with an arched brow. “Something wrong, Mad?”

“I want your take on Griff. How's he working out?”

“Even better than I expected. Oh, he's green. No doubt about it. But he's a quick study. You show him what to do, he gets it done.”

“So he's not just coasting on the fact that he's Bear's other son?”

Brady chuckled. “You know how gossip spreads like a range fire on a ranch of this size. Let one person know something, all of Montana knows it the next day. So the fact that he's Bear's son is no secret around here. But I've never once seen him use it as leverage. He's tough. This is a marine who's seen his share of war. Now, with that life behind him, he's ready for the next stage of his life.”

“How about Ash and Whit?” The old man's eyes narrowed. “You see any power plays between them and this newcomer?”

“Not one bit. Even though it's been a bitter pill for them to swallow, finding out their father had another son, they've stepped up to it like men. I haven't seen a trace of jealousy or animosity between them and Griff.” The foreman paused. “Bear would be proud of them, Mad. And so should you. Every time I look at Griff I see Bear.”

As he walked away, the old man blinked hard against the sudden tears. Damned dust motes. He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose before turning his wheelchair toward his suite of rooms down the hallway.

  

Copper Creek, more than an hour's drive from the ranch, was little more than a main street, with rows of shops and stores, a church, a school, a medical center, and a town hall connected with a jail and a courthouse. The Boxcar Inn was a real boxcar turned into the town's favorite restaurant, and owned by a retired railroad conductor and his wife. It was no competition for Wylie's Saloon, the official watering hole for the surrounding ranchers, who had been drinking with the owner for thirty-plus years. But the food at the Boxcar was a hundred times better than the greasy burgers at Wylie's.

BOOK: The Rebel of Copper Creek
7.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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