Heart of Grace (Return to Grace Trilogy #1) (2 page)

He always lost. There was no taming this one. It was only
a matter of how long he’d be able to hang on.
He leaned back, one hand thrown up and to the side,
spurring his legs to stay balanced on the beast’s back. The
bronco bucked and snorted, desperate to rid itself of this
human interference.
The crowd was a blur in Cole’s peripheral, a kaleidoscope
of colors and shapes. He knew when eight seconds had gone
by. The shapes jumped up, the energy intensified.
He stayed on past the buzzer, waiting for an opportunity
to either jump off or for his relief to scoop him to safety.
Neither situation presented itself. He gripped his knees around
the bucking mass of fur and muscle, counting the rest of the
seconds in his head: 9, 10, 11…until the strength of the beast
overcame the strength of the man. His hand slipped from the
rigging and the bronco reared back sharply, throwing the man
from its back.
Cole slammed into the chute and fell onto the damp dirt,
waves of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He struggled
to stand, but to no avail. Each of his limbs moved in a different
direction. His head rang from the impact and the first surges
of pain exploded through his arm. As the clowns herded the
bronco back through the gate, Cole’s body gave up the fight
and he crumpled back to the ground. Somewhere amongst the
terrified murmurs of the crowd he heard the rush of his own
heartbeat and the echo of his own breathing.
The paramedics worked their way over to him, asking their
routine questions as they quickly garnered him onto a stretcher.
They needed to clear the way; there were other battles to be
lost here.
Cole offered a low grunt as they lifted him up. He’d have
preferred to walk, but he just couldn’t muster the gumption to
demand that they let him.
He took his trampled hat when it was offered to him and
reached his thumb into the air as they carried him out of the
ring. The shouts came like a freight train roaring through the
crowd. Feet stomped the cheap aluminum stands, the sounds
vibrating excitedly through air fragranced with dirt
and
manure.
He smiled weakly and pulled his hat over his eyes as the
loudspeakers announced that he had moved into first place.
It had been a hell of a ride.
****
Cole turned off the ignition of his ’57 Chevy and stepped
out of the truck, holding the injured arm close to his ribs. The
drive from Cheyenne took twice as long as it should have, and
he could have wept with the relief of being home. The green
rolled out for miles, surrounded by rugged mountains topped
with year round snow. Although it was late spring, a thick fog
clung to those peaks, bringing to mind the countless mornings
he had awoken to the same view.
In the crisp morning air his boots crunched on the gravel,
the only sound to be heard, save for the call of a dove
somewhere in the distance. He walked up the old wood porch
steps, past the swing he could not recall sitting in for some
time, and opened the heavy double doors to the house.
He removed his hat and hung it on the rack by the door,
taking in the scent of leather and sandalwood. Going away for
a time made the scents more potent when he returned. For
that, Cole was grateful. He may have strayed often, but this was
still his home and it welcomed him warmly.
There were things to see to at the ranch. One of his favorite
mares had recently given birth to a filly and Cole had yet to see
mother and baby. There were details to discuss with ranch
hands and plans to make for the summer; problems with the
arena to sort through. But he would do that later. Now the
feeling of home was his only thought.
He had been born in this house. He had learned to walk
on the Spanish tiled floors. His mother had scolded him for
spilling his grape juice on the cushion of the brushed leather
sofa. The stain was still there, the cushion flipped over so that
it did not show.
He shook his head and tossed his keys onto the kitchen
table. He was no longer a boy, yet there were times he missed
those days. As he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a
carton of milk, he tried to remember what it was like to run
across that tile with bare feet and mischievous intentions. The
memory was dim and faded. Frowning, he took a sip directly
from the carton and put it back on the shelf.
He wandered beneath the exposed rafters and into the
living room. The cold fireplace took up the largest wall, waiting
for winter. Cole sank onto the couch, his body fitted to the
cushions as if a lover had taken him in her arms. He closed his
eyes and willed his exhausted body to sleep, resting his
throbbing arm on a pillow.
It is good to be home.

Angela drove beneath a canopy of leaves and branches.
The midday sun cast broken shadows through the trees,
cloaking Grace in a dim glow that would change only slightly
from the spark of dawn to the waning light at dusk.

She supposed some might call it quaint; a typical image of
an average small town, winding through a grassy valley carved
out by Beaverhead River and its tributaries. The same old oak
tree still guarded the corner of Maple and Eighth, its thick
roots lifting the sidewalk and working their way into Mrs.
Hammerby’s yard. The town center still boasted its wooden
boardwalk stretching between cobblestone streets and painted
storefronts.

The red brick church with the thatched roof loomed over
the treetops as it had for the last hundred years. It discerned
the town like an old aunt; both pleased and disappointed by
what Grace had become.

Angela stopped at the town’s only red light and looked up
at the cross atop the steeple, rising over the trees toward a blue
sky. Her mother had made her go to church as a child, but the
hope they preached about didn’t change the fact that she was
always so afraid to go home. She broke bit by bit to remember
the things that had died in a small girl‘s heart. The light turned
green. She fixed her gaze back on the road and put her foot on
the gas.

Turning into the driveway of what had been her father’s
office, Angela reminded herself that this trip was all business.
There were no personal effects of her father’s to sort through
– her brother had taken care of that detail when he had been
in town for the funeral – and there were no friends to see, no
family of which to pay the obligatory visit.

She intended to immediately begin the process of assessing
the arena’s operations. The attorney had informed her over the
phone that her father had maintained only half of the stock
shares. That would make things easier; she had only to find
someone to purchase her father’s shares and she would not
have to get involved in the messy details of operations.

Angela shut the car door, settled her briefcase strap over
her shoulder and walked up the numerous steps to the wrap
around porch of the aged Victorian house, which had been
converted into office spaces.

She cringed at her reflection in the glass door. The tenhour trip, including a long layover in Chicago and a two-hour
drive from Missoula, was
dreadfully
apparent.
Her gray
pantsuit was a mess, the delicate linen fibers crunched and
wrinkled. Her long red-blond hair fell past her shoulders in
unruly waves.

Propriety and logic nagged at her. It might have been best
to check into her hotel and regain some equilibrium before
tackling the matter at hand, but impatience and anxiety had her
ignoring that logic and walking into her father’s office.

She wanted to get this part of it over with.
A teenage girl sat behind the lone desk in what might be
considered the lobby, with its trio of folding chairs and an old
serving tray with remnants of that morning’s coffee.
“Excuse me.”
Startled, the girl looked up from a book and brought
herself out of whatever fictional world had captivated her. Her
brown hair settled at her shoulders, tufts of blue and burgundy
peeking strategically through the strands. The girl studied
Angela from beneath heavy lashes; her mouth curved into a
smile, the upper lip slightly larger than the lower.
Angela took a step forward. “Hello, my name is Angela
Donnelly.”
“I’m Tina.” The girl set down her book and folded her
hands over it. “They told us you’d probably be coming, but
when you didn’t show for the funeral, we weren’t so sure.”
“Yes, well the arena has been left to my care,” Angela said,
“and I’d like to speak with the manager.”
“He’s not here.” Tina leaned back in her chair. “You’re
from New York, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time,” Angela said.
“If you could give your employer a message…”
“If you want, I can just tell you where he is.” The girl
reached across the desk and grabbed a pen and a piece of
paper. “He’s at home today. Cole’s got a ranch on the outskirts
of town.”
“Cole? Cole Jordan?”
“Yeah. He’s at Starhorn ranch, just off I-85. I’m sure he
won’t mind you dropping by. He said you two knew each other
as kids.”
“Yes,” Angela replied stiffly, “we knew each other. Thanks
for the info.” She gathered her things, nodded politely and
walked out of the office.
****
Angela drove toward Starhorn Ranch, the rough country
highway stretching for miles alongside fields sprinkled with
barns and stables. Green covered nearly every inch of ground,
reaching to tease the foothills of the huge mountains in the
distance.
The past was all around her, closing in as surely as those
storm clouds building over the mountains would bring the rain.
She parked in the gravel driveway and walked to the house.
The porch steps still creaked in the same spots. A breeze
knocked the old swing against the railing with a familiar
thump,
thump, thump
. She couldn’t help but wander over to see if the
ridges – caused by that constant thumping of the swing against
the railing year after year – had ever been repaired. They were
still there, although someone had painted over them. She
resisted the urge to linger, to sit and to remember. She and
Doug Jordan had sat and talked in that swing for hours at a
time.
Cole’s father had filled a void. He had opened his heart to
her, but the son had not been as kind. Cole had great fun in
teasing the gangly girl next door, her knobby knees, frizzy hair
and sour disposition giving him ample opportunity. Even so,
Angela had made it a point to be near Cole whenever possible,
using excuses to play on the ranch or to watch him practice in
the rodeo ring every
Tuesday
afternoon when
she was
supposed to be mucking stalls.
Angela shook her head. Her country roots had long ago
shriveled, and a schoolgirl crush was just a bittersweet part of
a less than ideal past. She found herself worrying over Cole’s
reaction at seeing her on his doorstep after all these years. The
doors to the house loomed ominously.
“Can I help you?”
She startled at the sound of his voice; a smooth tenor with
a hint of gravel. He walked up the porch steps, his stride easy
and confident. One arm was secured in a sling, the other loose
at his side. She dared herself to look at his face as he came up
that last step. She saw what she had expected: the day-old
stubble of a beard, deep blue eyes, and a slightly crooked nose
from getting punched by Harvey Jenkins in the ninth grade.
The air stuck in her throat and she felt like she was twelveyears-old again – shy and uncertain. She was not sure if her
reaction was
from seeing
her childhood nemesis
and
remembering the animosity that had been between them, or if
it was a more basic response to seeing Cole grown up and
looking like….well, like
this
.
He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and flashed a welcometo-Montana smile. “Howdy.”
“Hello, Cole.” She wondered if he could hear her heart
beating against her ribs. She lifted a fist to her chest in a futile
attempt to stifle it.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow
in a way that told Angela he had no idea how this stranger on
his doorstep could know his name.
“I’m here about The Bullpen Arena.” She could have told
him who she was, but she shouldn’t have to introduce herself
to Cole. He already knew things about her that few others did.
And yet, he did not recognize her. “I understand you manage
it?”
“That’s right.” He shifted his stance. His smile faded.
“Could we go inside?”
His eyes darted to her briefcase. “Is this business?”
“Yes.” She nodded and stepped through the door when he
held it open it for her. She breathed in the familiar scents of
leather and earth. It was the aroma of her childhood, of those
afternoons she had spent in that house. She turned to Cole and
saw him as a boy, half expecting him to whine and tell his father
she didn’t belong there.
She stepped down from the closed foyer to the open living
room, its exposed rafters high above her head. Not a thing had
changed except for the man who walked into the room behind
her.
“You kept it the same. Doug would have liked that.” She
turned to him and offered a wavering smile, widening her eyes
as the recognition dawned in his.
“Angie?” He let out a hoot and shook his head, a childlike
grin stretched across his face. “Well, I’ll be….it’s Angie
Donnelly. You’ve come back after all!”
She looked around the room and smiled, catching a bit of
his contagious grin. “I’m not back, just here to take care of
some things.” Her eyes settled on his again and the room
started to tip. The blood drained from her face and rushed to
her toes.
“Are you all right?” He took her arm.
“I’m fine.” She wished her heart would stop beating so fast.
Cole led her to the sofa. Through the thin material of her
suit, the cool leather forced the blood to drain out of her toes
and gush right back into her head. She took a deep breath and
leaned her elbows on her knees, desperately hoping she
wouldn’t faint, or worse, be sick.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“Don’t be.” Cole sat in the chair adjacent to the sofa. “You
okay now?”
She nodded.
“Good. I didn’t think you’d come, Angie.”
“Neither did I.”
He chuckled and settled back. “Glad to see you. And a little
relieved, too.”
“Relieved?”
“That you didn’t pass out, for one. Besides that, I’ve been
back only a day, two weeks ahead of schedule.” He lifted his
injured arm. The bitterness crept into his voice, so slight that
Angela would not have noticed if she hadn’t also seen the
narrowing of his eyes. “Henry’s will has been hanging out
there, and we’ve all been wondering what would come of his
shares of the arena.”
“Well, mystery solved.” Angela closed her eyes briefly and
pulled her briefcase onto the coffee table. “Apparently the
arena’s become my problem to deal with. And you should
know I fully intend to sell it. So let’s start with the basics: when
did you become manager?”
“Angie.” He stood and took her elbow, guiding her up.
“You’re two breaths away from passing out. Why don’t you let
me have Nadine cook you up some supper? We can talk later.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.” She took a retreating step
back and reached into the front pocket of her briefcase for a
business card. “This is obviously a bad time. I’ll be at the hotel
on Cherry Street. Call me on my cell and we’ll arrange a
meeting. I suppose I should have called first.”
Cole looked at the card she held out to him as if it were a
pile of dung. “So the rumors are true, as if I didn’t already know
it by that fancy suit. You’ve become quite the businesswoman.
Is that that the only reason you’re here, Angie, to talk
business?”
“I’m here to deal with the arena. Nothing more.”
“That sounds like business,” he said reflectively. “But there
is something else here, something you left behind besides your
daddy.”
“What would that be?”
“An old friend.” He moved closer and smirked
companionably. “Glad to have you back.”
She frowned at her childhood foe, taking in the scents of
her youth. Cole grinned. Her lips twitched into a smile. “You
and I were never friends.”
His grin faded and a sad glint moved into the Caribbean
blue of his eyes. “We should have been.” He gestured to the
stairs. “Use the guest room at the top of the stairs if you’d like
a minute to yourself. I’m gonna go call Nadine in from tending
the laundry. She usually starts preparing supper for the hands
around this time, so it’s no trouble. I’ll just have her fix you up
something real quick before the boys start coming in from the
fields."
"I don't know if-"
"It may be business you want with me, but let’s save it for
later. Let me do this one friendly thing.”
Glancing toward the top of the staircase, she realized she
could use a meal and a bit of freshening up. She nodded to
Cole and muttered “thank you” before moving toward the
stairs. She turned on the first landing and looked back at him.
He watched her intently. A tickle in her stomach quickened her
pulse when his eyes met hers and held on.
Three