Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel) (2 page)

She kicked a pinecone off the grass that topped a grave. “He was a deacon in this church for more than fifty yogurts.” She pointed to tombstones several feet away. “His and Granny’s stones are those two matching ones. My parents are buried next to them.”

“
How long
was your grandpa a deacon?”

“For fifty …” Eyebrows scrunched, the woman turned to Kate. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I just didn’t understand.”

“It’s not you, sweetie. It’s me.” The woman sighed. “My friends tell me I’ve been saying the craziest things ever since I tripped and hit my noggin on a headstone a couple years ago. They find it highly amusing. I’ll be talking along fine then something silly pops out. The doctor says it’s a form of ambrosia.”

“You mean amnesia?”

The older lady pursed her wrinkled lips. “I don’t know what I said, but my problem is called
aphasia
. I was told I might get over it—or I might not. The good news is that it’s a language problem, not an intelligence issue, thank God.” She snorted. “Although some might question that.”

Kate knelt beside the markers. “You must have meant to say your grandpa was a deacon for fifty years.”

“What did I say?”

“Uhm … yogurts.”

“Oh, my. No wonder my friends laugh.”

“They shouldn’t.” Kate shook her head. “They must know what you’re really thinking.” She’d endured her share of ridicule in school and foster homes, not to mention prison.

Miss Forbes patted her shoulder. “Thank you, but they’re just teasing. Sometimes I tease them, too.”

Kate studied the gravestones. Damp granite glistened around the hand-etched engravings.
Otis Elmer Haggerty 1883-1966. Dymple Elizabeth Haggerty 1885-1973
. “Your grandparents were named Otis and Dymple?”

The lines at the woman’s temples crinkled. “Yes, Granddad Otis and Granny Dymple.”

“I never heard of anyone named Dymple before.”

“Me neither, except for me.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. I was born with a dimple in the middle of my chin, just like Granny. See?” She touched her chin.

Kate nodded, though she wasn’t sure it was a dimple she saw or a crease. A single white hair jutted from a mole, brilliant in the morning sunlight.

“My mom and dad used to say they argued about what to name me until the moment I was born. That’s when they saw the dimple. I was named after both grandmothers. Dymple–with a
y
–Louise Forbes. You can call me Dymple.”

Kate stood and offered her hand. “I’m Kate. Kate Neilson.”

Dymple grasped her hand with both of hers, a look of recognition, maybe revelation flooding her face.

A chill shot up Kate’s spine. She shouldn’t have revealed her full name.

“Kate Neilson …” Dymple smiled. “I have a feeling you and I will become very good friends.”

***

The trail wound through the cemetery and ended on a rock outcrop that overlooked a river. Bounded by a metal railing and topped with wrought-iron tables and chairs and whiskey barrels brimming with petunias and alyssum, the ledge looked as urbane as a backyard patio.

Kate stepped to the railing. “This is a beautiful setting.”

“Residents of our little community gather here often. We have parties, weddings, marshmallow roasts—all sorts of get-togethers on this rock patio.”

Kate bent to sniff the blossoms in the barrel next to her. “Mmm. They smell wonderful. I’m amazed the church has such beautiful flowers this high in the mountains—and this early in the summer.”

“I trick them into early growth.”

“Really?” Though the effervescent lady intrigued Kate, she wasn’t ready to believe everything she said.

Dymple chuckled. “Really, but it’s no trick. I have a little greenhouse in my garden, where I start my own plants early in the spring as well as seedlings for the church.”

Kate leaned against the top rail. Below her, hummocks of snow clung to the rugged mountainside. Water seeped from the crusted mounds and trickled downhill to feed a river that ambled like a lazy snake through the verdant valley. She pointed to barely visible buildings at the far end of the basin. “Is that Copperville?”

“Sure is.”

Rows of concrete cellblocks marched across Kate’s memory. “Patterson is bigger than—”

“Bigger?”

Kate felt her cheeks warming and ducked her head. “The town is smaller than I expected.”

“Copperville was a fair-sized mining town in the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds.” Dymple swept her hand across the panorama. “A hundred or so years later, as you can see, it isn’t much more than a few businesses and a smattering of houses. I feel for those who couldn’t make a living here, but I prefer a small community. Wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

“Too bad I left my camera in the car. My Great-Aunt Mary and my friend Amy in Pennsylvania would love to see this.”

“Don’t you worry, sweetie. You can get good pictures at the overlook up the road.” Dymple patted her arm. “Are you vacationing in worm?”

Kate hesitated. She’d prepared herself to answer questions about her schooling and past employment without mentioning prison but hadn’t expected this one. “It feels like a vacation, because I’m finally out of college. But I came to
Wy-o-ming
to do a marketing internship at the Whispering Pines Guest Ranch. They’re going to train me this week for their tourist season, which starts next weekend, Memorial Day weekend.”

If Dymple caught the
Wyoming
emphasis, she gave no indication. “Good for you. The Duncans are wonderful people and their ranch has an excellent reputation. A bright young lady like you will fit right in.”

Kate wrinkled her nose. Maybe, except for the reputation part—and the bright part. She’d done so many stupid things, like trying to steal from yet another church. “So you know the owners?”

Dymple placed her hands in the pockets of her denim jumper. “Laura is a dear friend, and her son …” Her eyes sparkled. “Michael is a remarkable young man, my adopted grandson. You’ll like him.”

“Wow, small world.”

Dymple shrugged. “This is a typical small community, Kate. Everyone knows everybody in our little corner of the world—and everything they do.”

Kate stifled a groan. She should have stayed in Pittsburgh, where she was just another face in the crowd.

Dymple tilted her head. “You’re a long way from home. Why Wyoming?”

Kate stared into the woman’s transparent eyes. She’d come west to distance herself from her past. But that was a secret nobody, not even a kindly little old lady named Dymple, could ever pry out of her. “Oh, I just wanted a change of scenery when I finished school.”

“You made a good choice, Kate. Welcome to Wyoming.” She motioned toward the chapel. “Feel free to stop any time. The Sunday service begins in about an hour. I think you’d like Pastor Chuck.”

A bug crawled toward Kate’s fingers on the railing. She brushed it away. Not that the pastor would like her. She wasn’t
ecclesiastical
, the first word she’d learned in English 101 after Professor Eldridge challenged her online prison class to learn a new word every day. Over time, she’d become comfortable with multi-syllable words and with attending church services on the inside. But she wasn’t good enough to attend church with regular people, people who hadn’t done all the bad things she’d done. “Thanks, but I’d better not stay. I need to get to the ranch. The internship starts tomorrow morning.”

“Vaya con Dios, Miss Kate.”

Kate cocked her head.

“That’s how my Mexican neighbors in California said
goodbye
. In English, it means
go with God
. Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure God wants to go with
me
.” Embarrassed by her confession, Kate turned to leave.

Dymple grasped her arm. “What did you mean by that comment?”

“Nothing, really.” Kate chafed against Dymple’s grasp, but the older woman held tight
.
She looked down. “I’ve done a lot of dumb things. I know God supposedly loves me and all that, but …”

Dymple released Kate’s arm to gently lift her chin. “God not only loves you, sweetie, he delights in you.”

Kate pulled back. “Delights?”

“Yes, Zephaniah—he wrote a book in the Bible—said God delights in you and sings about you.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“He’s singing right now. Your ears just aren’t tuned to his frequency.”

“I’ll have to think about that.” Kate looked at her watch. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the tour.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll keep you in my prunes.”

“Prunes?”

“Oh, dear.” Dymple’s crinkled cheeks turned pink. “I’m jumbling
all
my words today. Prayers. I’ll keep you in my
prayers
.” She waved her hand toward the cemetery. “Come see me again. I live on the other side, just beyond those trees.”

“I’ll do that.” Kate started for the parking lot.

“One more thing,” called her new friend. ”Live your dream, Kate Neilson. Every day.”

Indefatigable
. Kate smiled, pleased to remember another word from English 101. Dymple Forbes appeared to be an indefatigable woman of boundless energy.

She swiveled and treaded the path back to the chapel. If only half the people she met in Wyoming were as interesting as … She slowed, nearly stopping. What was that strange look on Dymple Forbes’s face when they were talking in the cemetery?
Like she recognized me
. But that was impossible. Her arrests had caught the local media’s attention more than once, but surely Dymple didn’t get Pittsburgh news out here in the middle of nowhere.

Chapter Two

MIKE DUNCAN SLOWED THE
truck to maneuver around yet another mud hole. The winding mountain road was still recovering from the snowstorm. He shifted gears and plowed forward. Thanks to studded tires, his dad’s ancient Dodge, a pickup he’d nicknamed
Old Blue
, could handle almost any weather the skies chose to dump—at least that’s what his father had told the scoffers.

Both windows were open to the cool morning air. Mike’s dog, Tramp, sat on the passenger seat, his head out the window. The big collie barked at a doe and fawn that peeked from behind white-blossomed chokeberry bushes. The deer vanished, and Tramp returned to scrutinizing his dominion—nostrils quivering, tongue dripping, fur blowing in the breeze.

Mike reached over to scratch his aging dog’s back.

With a wag of his tail, Tramp momentarily acknowledged him.

Mike laughed. “Too busy for me, huh?”

He leaned out the driver’s-side window to savor the fresh smell of the cool, damp earth and the hint of early color that seeped across the meadows and hills between banks of snow. His bison were no doubt loving the tender new grass—that is, if they made it through the storm. Self-sufficient animals, buffalo could protect themselves and their newborn calves from storms that killed cattle. But it didn’t hurt to keep tabs on them—and the fence line.

He straightened, bouncing with the truck as it bumped downhill toward the bison pasture. What a nightmare it would be to round up the huge, unpredictable beasts if they broke loose and wandered into the woods. Each time he moved the herd to a new pasture, he’d proved the old adage true.
You can move a bison anywhere he wants to go.

The pickup bucked and skidded over the rutted trail, rattling like a bucket of bolts.

Mike shifted to a lower gear. He’d have to draft a couple of the guys to help him fill the worst of the ruts when the two-track road dried. As often happened with spring storms, the moisture greened the emerging grass but destroyed dirt byways. But he didn’t mind the extra work. The Whispering Pines needed every drop of water the heavens could spare, as his dad used to say.

He felt a stab of pain slice through his heart. Would he ever stop missing his dad? At breakfast, his mom had told him the intern she’d hired to take over his dad’s marketing duties for the summer would be arriving soon. He rubbed his chin. Though his dad had died months ago, he wasn’t sure he was ready to see someone else seated behind his desk.

His two-way crackled to life. “Hey, Bossman, can you hear me?”

Mike groaned and lifted the radio from his belt. Why couldn’t Clint just call him by his name? “This is Mike. Go ahead.”

The ranch manager’s voice sputtered through the airwaves. “Just checked the cattle. They weathered the storm okay, even the calves.”

“That’s good news—
really
good news. I’m not far from the Battle Creek pasture. I’ll take a look at the bison, but they should be fine. What about the horses?”

“Tanner and I are headed over now. Rusty is going to meet us there. We’ll round up the riding stock and drive them to the corral by the barn to get them ready for the guests.”

“Good plan. I’ll catch you later.”

He steered around a boulder that had tumbled off the damp hillside onto the road and made a mental note to bring the front-end loader when they worked on the road. Within minutes, he reached his destination, parked across the road from the fenced pasture and turned off the engine.

Tramp jumped out the window. He trotted toward the enclosure, tail high, nose to the ground.

Mike followed, sidestepping the boggy patches, until he came across grooves in the grass. “What in the …?” He eyeballed an ATV trail that tore up the hillside.

Tramp came bounding back as if to say, “Come on. Let’s go.”

He stroked the dog’s head. “What do you think, pal? Our crew knows better than to ride all-terrains through a wet meadow.”

But who would cross their land without permission? And what were they doing near his bison pasture?

Tramp licked his hand and scampered away.

Mike listened for the sound of an engine but heard only bird calls and muffled snorts from the herd. Probably kids out joyriding. If they were smart, they would have avoided the buffalo. But few people realized domestication was not the same as
tame
in a bison’s brain. He’d learned quickly to never turn his back on the capricious beasts, which remained as wild as when they ruled the Plains a hundred-plus years earlier.