The Wrangler’s Christmas Gift (The Malones of Grand, Montana #4)

Chapter Two

T he woman once known as Heather Hudson Scott arrived at the Yellowstone Hotel in Grand, Montana, on Monday at five o’clock, the first time she’d been back since stealing away in the dead of night, nearly three decades earlier. Her stomach was roiling and she had a bad taste in her mouth. She should have stopped for lunch, but she had no appetite.

She pulled into the parking lot, took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her neck, where a faint headache was starting. The excitement of seeing her children again wasn’t quite enough to blunt the fear of being back in the town where she’d been so unhappy. Weldon Scott wasn’t exactly a popular man, but in the story of their marriage, as read by this town, he wouldn’t be portrayed as the villain. She would.

But for at least today, nobody knew who she was. She went by Heather Malone now but most people called her Hetty and she allowed it. Her paintings, signed as Mel Brezo, were where her true identity shone through anyway.

The anonymity that had served her so well, for so long, wasn’t wearing off slowly like cheap gold plating, but rather splitting apart, like a plastic shell grown brittle with age and exposure, no longer capable of protecting anything. For better or worse, everyone would soon connect the person she was now with the person she used to be.

As she entered the rustic boutique lodging, she was delighted to recognize the art hanging near the elevator bank. The creator of the vibrant landscape, with a color palette and style so similar to her own, was none other than her own daughter, Leila Monahan Lafferty, blood of her blood.

Even now, months after that first reunion, it still brought her heart to her throat. Her lost daughter. A true miracle.

Once upon a time, she’d given up the right to call any woman her daughter. Now, she had two. Three, if she counted Emmet, which of course she did.

That miracle, however, had come with its own challenges.

Someone once said that a mother loves her children in order of need. Heather couldn’t say that her love changed in amount, infinity being, well, infinite. But she recognized that she had the least anxiety over Leila, who was delighted to have found her. She was more concerned about Em, the daughter of her heart, for whom this reunion was more threat than miracle.

And then there was Diana, the daughter at whose feet Heather could only fall and beg forgiveness. If regret had a color, it would be the scarlet of her heart’s blood.

“Would you like both keys to your suite, Ms. Malone?” asked the young woman behind the counter. “Or will Ms. Garcia be checking in separately?”

“You can keep them here for her,” Hetty said. “I’m not sure of her arrival time.”

Em would be here in a few days. Heather was grateful—she’d need her comfort and support—but it wouldn’t be easy for Em to watch these new people lay claim to Heather’s time and love. It had been just the two of them for a long time. But they’d get through it. Em would discover that she could be part of Heather’s newfound family too, if she’d let herself.

At least, that’s what she was counting on. But Em’s reaction to the news of seeing Colt again added another layer. Em and Colt had been close as kids, but he’d gone through some rough years, been thoughtless, made mistakes. Who hadn’t? The boy they’d known had changed and grown. But Em’s prickly exterior hid a deeply sensitive heart and Heather guessed that she wasn’t about to let Colt hurt her again.

If there was a bellboy, he wasn’t available, so Heather rolled her luggage to the elevators and made her way, thumping and bumping down the narrow hallway to her room. She’d packed as light as she could, given that she could be here for more than a month, and the weather required heavy clothing. But she’d brought a lot of gifts with her and the amount of packaging used for children’s toys was criminal. All that cardboard and wire.

The suite was nice, not fancy but clean, with comfortable furniture in the living area and a kitchenette with enough supplies to serve for light meals if they didn’t want to go out.

She was skilled in solitude and could cook as well for herself as she could a crowd of hungry kids. If she did choose to eat out, she had no problem getting a table for one and reading or people-watching while she ate.

In the early years of her career, she seldom kept regular hours, painting all night, if she was on a roll, and then sleeping until noon. She’d kept in touch with the women’s shelter that had helped her find her feet in the early dark days after she’d left Grand and, through them, she’d gotten involved in social work, first in volunteering, then through paid office work, and finally by getting her degree, all while growing her Mel Brezo career.

She’d never intended to become a foster mother. Her attempts at motherhood, first accidentally, then deliberately had both failed, spectacularly. But years later, the first time a child had come to the agency she worked for needing respite care and none of the people on their list could take her, Heather had brought her home. A six-year-old girl, too quiet, too thin. Heather set her up at the table with watercolors while she made macaroni and cheese and a grilled tomato salad. The little girl, Katie, had painted a house with no windows or doors and a giant man standing outside it. When Heather had inquired as to the identity of the giant, she’d only said, “He’s not my dad.”

A foster home had become available the next day and Katie disappeared into the system, but Heather never forgot how it had felt to see the child’s eyes light up at the simple meal. She’d helped someone and for the first time in ages, she felt like she had something to contribute.

She began taking in other kids in need of short-term placement. They wouldn’t be there long enough for her to become attached, and then suffer when they left, but she could still be a soft place to land for however long they needed it.

And then she met Jolene Garcia. She’d arrived at the safe house with her little daughter Emmet in tow, having barely escaped the man who’d basically held them prisoner. Mako Fedorenko didn’t find them for months, but once he did, safety for all of them was a thing of the past. Only after Jolene had been struck by a car, a hit-and-run on the way to work, did Fedorenko stop his campaign of terror. His hitman failed to kill her, but her injuries were so severe, she could no longer live independently. Heather, by then enjoying some modest success as a painter, had a small house and resources to support them both, and for several years, the three of them were a kind of family. But Jolene’s health deteriorated, and before her death, she asked Heather to look after Em permanently, a request she was honored to grant.

Other children came and went, but Emmet was forever. That’s what she’d always said and Em had believed her.

But Em had never had to share her before, not like this.

Heather finished unpacking and then put her jacket back on. She needed to get a few basic groceries. She slipped back into her sturdy winter boots, then suddenly couldn’t recall if she’d packed the dressy boots she intended to wear to the wedding. She rifled through her things. Nope. No boots.

She pulled out her phone and sent Em a text. Hopefully she hadn’t left yet and could swing by the house and pick them up for her. Three dots lit up immediately and she breathed out in relief. Whew! Thank goodness she could always count on Em. Em didn’t agree with her decision to spend the holidays in Grand, and she wasn’t happy about Colt being included, but she wasn’t willing to let Heather be here without support.

What Em didn’t realize was that Heather didn’t need support. She appreciated it, valued it, loved it, but she didn’t need it. She’d done far harder things in her life with far more against her. But that was mostly before Em’s time and she had to admit, her first reaction to the triplets when they found her hadn’t been an example of her shining strength.

She cringed, recalling how she’d fallen apart when Leila and Lucas showed up. She’d actually swooned. Or close enough. How embarrassing. But then she’d rallied. She took a deep breath to center herself and touched the back of her neck again, where a small tattoo reminded her that she’d come through far worse. She wasn’t done yet.

Every day, she reminded herself of who she was: Heather Malone, a woman who’d chosen her own way, after others had decided for her. She’d had everything thrown at her and overcome. Now, she was having something new—and wonderful—thrown at her, and she would rise to the occasion and be her best self, her favorite self, once more.

She slipped on her usual gold chain, tucked the scarf around her neck and left the suite, stopping briefly in the foyer to admire the painting again. The use of color and light showed Leila’s natural eye and strong skills in the artist and Heather felt another flush of pride.

Leila had brought some of her paintings to Malcolm Black’s office, the day she and Lucas had dropped the bomb of their existence on Heather’s quiet life.

A good bomb, as it turned out.

Heather waved to the woman behind the front desk and pushed into the blustering December wind. The sun was long gone, but rather than a clear black, the sky was a heavy gunmetal gray that portended more snow overnight.

She pulled up her hood and shouldered her way into the wind. She’d passed a small market on the way in, only a block or two away. The exercise felt good after so many hours in the car.

Grand had changed, she was relieved to see. The boardwalk had been developed along the main drag, with a lovely riverside park. The businesses on the other side upheld the rustic image of a settler town, but they were clearly upscale shops and restaurants meant to appeal to tourists.

She thought back to the shock of that first meeting with two of her three triplets. Leila had embraced her almost immediately, with Lucas cautiously behind her but they’d both grown up in happy families, knowing they were adopted. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that she’d met Brade, the baby boy she’d believed stolen from her, in nearby Forsyth for an awkward lunch they’d barely touched. Brade’s childhood had been different, and he’d only received his first clue about his origins on his adoptive father’s deathbed. Some of the anger he carried from that spilled over onto her. She didn’t blame him.

After, she’d forced herself to drive through Grand, alone. She wore sunglasses and a hat and didn’t get out of her car.

Back to the town where it had all begun, she expected to see eyes full of judgment, people who remembered her either as the pregnant runaway who’d worked in the diner or as the crazy wife Weldon Scott had hidden away on his ranch. The crazy wife who’d died—or so the story went—leaving Weldon a single father.

Diana.

That Weldon had a living wife would make a bit of a stir, of course. After she left him, he made her swear never to come back, explaining that Diana believed she was in heaven, and that the town understood she’d been killed in a car accident while out of town.

He couldn’t bear the shame of having his wife desert him.

She had no choice but to agree, and how could she argue? She was an incompetent, unfeeling wife and an even worse mother. Leaving her precious daughter was a protective measure, the last, best gift she could give.

Now, walking down the quiet street after dark, she told herself that a place shouldn’t hold such power over her. She was returning now, if not triumphant, then at least vindicated. After all this time, to discover that she’d been right, she’d been lied to, she’d been manipulated and gaslit… She had no words.

Right now, she could just breathe and be grateful for this moment, when enough shards of anonymity remained to hide her.

Or so she thought.

*

The wrangler once known as JP Malone was at his usual spot in Lou’s Pub, observing the regular customers, noting those who were solitary and wondering which gruff exterior might be masking the slow death of loneliness. It was early December and quiet solitude in this watering hole would soon be a thing of the past as seasonal festivities wound up. But right now, the regulars huddled over their drinks, exchanging little more than nods or barely raised eyebrows. Lou welcomed everyone, of course, but he had the ability to recognize when conversation was needed and when it was not, which is why so many old cowboys and ranchers gravitated to his place.

Since his heart attack, even Weldon Scott had begun venturing into public again, at his daughter’s insistence. The events of the past year had given gentle Diana a formidable tongue when necessary and Weldon seemed to recognize the caring behind it.

Blue Fraser was visiting his stepdaughter over the holidays but Lacey must be busy, for he was lifting a glass with a couple of the less popular Grand residents. Carl Beaman had been banned from playing the role of Santa after Tate Shannahan decked him for grabbing her ass a few Christmases ago, though it seemed he had mended his ways. And ever since Austin Peters got kicked in the head by a steer, he’d been prone to wagging his willy in public, which had dissolved most of the sympathy earned by his injury.

Father Patrick, of course, added his acceptance to Lou Monahan’s welcome, though ass-grabbing, willy-wagging and anything else deemed disrespectful to women was quickly quashed by all the grizzled cowboys still in possession of their faculties.

The wrangler flexed his knee, wincing. Old aches hurt more in the depth of winter but it was pain of the heart that worried him more at this time of year. For himself, he was at peace in that regard, and grateful for it. But for those laboring under the burden of grief or failure, the Christmas season often sharpened regrets and added weight.

There’d been quite a few newcomers to stir things up lately, too, and change could be difficult. Not to cast shade on Grand—Carl Beaman and Austin Peters aside, it was full of good people with open, accepting minds—but the eighty-twenty rule applied: twenty percent of the people caused eighty percent of the problems. To be fair, most of that twenty were troublemakers due to insecurity, fear and ignorance, in the purest sense of the word. But what they lacked in certainty they made up for in speculation and that made them dangerous.

There was nothing like a scandal to get tongues wagging and the mystery of Grand’s latest multiples—triplets adopted as infants to separate families—had scandal written all over it.

Brade Oliver, physician and heir to a pharmaceutical fortune, was the first of them to seek answers in Grand. He and Kendall McKinley, a lovely local woman who’d earned every bit of happiness she got, were getting married soon. Father Patrick would do the honors, just as he had officiated at the wedding of Brade’s newfound sister Leila a few months back. In this very bar, in fact, which was appropriate, since Leila had basically grown up in her dear old dad’s pub!

Brade had pushed Lou Monahan hard for any information he had about Leila’s origins. Lou and Angela, unlike Brade’s parents, had never hidden the fact that Leila was the daughter of their hearts as opposed to their bodies, but it seemed they’d been given little to no information about her birth parents.

Talk about change: Leila had found a brother, a sister, a husband and a daughter in a few short months. Then she and Brade discovered Lucas, and went from being twins to being triplets. Shortly after, Lucas and Leila found their birth mother, alive and well, having believed them dead and gone.

So many miracles, yet even this joy would be tinged with sorrow for all the questions unanswered, all the years lost.

But the truth is , he thought, we only recognize the fullness of what we have when we know what we stand to lose. Joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy, love and loss and hope in an endless loop.

The wrangler once known as JP Malone had spent years developing that fine balance between tolerance for the foibles of others, and intolerance when those foibles caused pain to others, but it had served him well in Grand. Most people, he’d found, simply wanted to be accepted and safe. When people felt safe, they had the freedom to become their best selves.

Unless they’d been kicked in the head by a steer, of course.

*

At first, Heather didn’t recognize the older woman. She was speaking to someone through her hands-free device, but her voice was unforgettable. The school secretary, if she recalled correctly.

“I don’t care, Father,” the woman said, snapping the words off cleanly. “The nativity scene needs animals. Yes, living ones. It’s not my fault if you aren’t prepared. The Forsyth shelter was your choice of charities, not mine, but did I argue? I did not. I want a good, old-fashioned, traditional Christmas festival and the nativity scene is the cornerstone. Find the livestock.”

Heather grabbed a container of yogurt and turned away, but it was too late.

“I’ll call you back.” She touched the side of her ear. Her eyes glittered. “Hello! You must be new. I’m Sue Anne Nylund. Town councilor, school secretary, welcoming committee. If you want to know anything in Grand, I’m the person to ask.”

Heather smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hetty Malone.”

Since meeting the triplets, she’d been trying to use her real name, but she’d been Hetty for so long, it came out automatically.

Sue Anne’s eyes narrowed. “Hetty Malone. You look familiar. You visiting family?”

Well, if Sue Anne wasn’t already privy to what had to be one of the biggest stories in Grand, Heather wasn’t about to be the one to inform her.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “Excuse me.”

Sue Anne followed her to the till. “Wait. Hetty. We don’t have any Malones in town. Who are you visiting?”

As if it was any of her damn business. But Heather schooled herself to be polite. The town gossip wasn’t the person to get on the bad side of, this early in her time here.

“I’m here for a wedding,” she said.

“Oh, how lovely! Brade and Kendall’s wedding?”

“That’s right. Do you know the couple?”

“Yes, of course,” Sue Anne said, as if there was no other possible option. “I’ve watched Kendall grow up. Then that handsome doctor moved to town. I wasn’t sure about him at first.” She lowered her voice. “He’s adopted, you see.”

Sue Anne waited for Heather’s reaction.

Heather waited for her to realize there wouldn’t be one.

“It seems that good people took him in, however, so it all turned out well. He’s been looking for his birth parents. I told him, you’re probably better off without them, but no one listens to old ladies, do they?”

She laughed merrily.

“I wouldn’t know,” Heather couldn’t resist saying. “What makes you think his birth parents are bad people?”

“Oh, not bad people.” Sue Anne leaned in. “ Unfortunate though. His mother was probably a girl who got herself into trouble. Who knows about the father.”

Heather kept silent.

“I mean,” Sue Anne continued, finally reading the room, “I have every sympathy for the poor mother. She made a mistake, got caught and was left holding the bag. Thank goodness we had places that would look after her, so she could move on with her life after, and the child could be placed in a proper, loving family with the resources to raise him. And now, it seems the woman had triplets, can you imagine?”

“Yes,” Heather said. “Actually, I can.”

Sue Anne frowned at her. “You know, you remind me of someone.” She tapped her chin and then suddenly her eyes widened. She dropped her hand. “I’ve got it. It’s Diana O’Sullivan. You look just like her. Are you an aunt, perhaps? But no, Diana has no maternal relatives.”

“If you say so.” Heather watched to see if the pieces would fall into place.

“But…” Sue Anne flicked her head sideways as if shaking off a fly. “Weldon never said anything about other family.”

Heather handed her debit card to the cashier, who was eyeing them, probably excited to have something out of the ordinary happen to break up his otherwise boring shift.

“I guess every family has their secrets.” She tucked her card back inside her wallet and began packing her items into her bag. “Thank you, young man. Sue Anne,” she said with a nod, “great to meet you.”

Sue Anne Nylund wasn’t someone to be ignored. Heather hadn’t gotten more than ten steps outside the store when the woman came running up behind her.

“Hetty!” she called. “Wait. My book club is meeting at Lou’s Pub tonight. Why don’t you join us? It would be a good chance to meet a few people.”

Heather hesitated. It was an opportunity to take control of the narrative, as Colt called it. She was here to deal with past wounds, after all, and what better way to begin than with the healing power of truth? But she was tired and grubby and Sue Anne’s energy wasn’t doing her headache any good.

“I’ve had a long day driving,” she said. “Maybe another time?”

“Of course. You probably have plans with Diana and her family…?” She let her words trail off.

Clearly Sue Anne wasn’t going to let it go. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak.

“I appreciate your interest, Sue Anne,” Heather said, turning to face her. “As I said, I’m here for a wedding. A family wedding. Brade and Kendall invited me. You know that unfortunate woman you referenced? The one who made a mistake and ended up with triplets? Well, that was me. I’m the mysterious birth mother, Weldon Scott’s ex-wife, and Diana O’Sullivan’s mother. I am so grateful to be in Grand to celebrate the holidays with my family, and to share in my son’s happiness. That’s my priority. Thank you for the invitation. Enjoy your book club meeting. Merry Christmas and have a great day.”

Then she turned and made her way back to the hotel, her steps a bit unsteady, her tongue tinny with the taste of triumph.

*

The door to Lou’s Pub opened, letting in a stream of icy air that made it all the way to the corner where the old wrangler sat. Sue Anne Nylund and her gaggle of gray-haired pals bustled in. Of course, it was Thursday, their night for Prosecco and gossip. They called themselves a book group, but no one was fooled.

Sue Anne peered around the room, zeroed in on her target and raised her chin. “Livestock, Father,” she called in a singsong voice. “Don’t forget. I want this done right.”

The priest just lifted his glass in her direction.

She asked after Blue Fraser and gave Carl Beaman and Austin Peters a sharp reminder to behave themselves, then waved Lou over for their orders.

“Hello, ladies,” Lou said, slinging a pristine white bar towel over his shoulder. “Tonight’s specials are nachos, fully loaded, and Guinness pie with a kale salad on the side.”

He rattled off the list of beer, though why, no one knew, as the women had been coming here for years and rarely shifted from their sparkling wine. Lou believed that everyone coming to an Irish pub ought to drink Irish beer, but he always kept a few bottles of wine behind the bar. Kendall McKinley had recently begun venturing beyond Chardonnay, to everyone’s surprise. Her love affair with Brade had allowed the girl, who everyone in Grand felt deeply protective of, first to unbend, then blossom. Their upcoming wedding had stirred great curiosity, as it was rumored to include the triplets’ birth mother.

“…just met her,” he overheard Sue Anne say. The gaggle leaned in and a muffled hum of conversation drowned out whatever else Sue Anne said.

The wrangler bit back a smile. This birth mother had just handed Sue Anne the best Christmas gift ever: drama.

For himself, he was delighted the holidays would be marked by another happy event. Leila Monahan had been a beautiful bride, her face wreathed in disbelief, as if still unable to comprehend that her surprising second chance at love was actually working out.

So many people in this town had histories full of pain and hardship, but that was life, wasn’t it? Overcoming the challenges and growing and finding love. It was a miracle.

Unless you’d been kicked in the head by a steer, of course.

The wrangler understood all this and had long ago given up on love of his own but had found a way to grow into a satisfying life, nevertheless. He had friends. He had a community. If those people were ignorant of his checkered past, it was necessary. He hadn’t lied to anyone. He’d simply let go of a persona that hadn’t worked for him and built a new life around the one that did. No shame in that. People shifted from stage to stage throughout life, like snakes shedding old skins. Usually it was gradual—he’d read somewhere that the cells in the human body turned over at rates that made us brand-new people every seven years—but sometimes, as with Austin and Leila and himself, those changes happened in moments that divided life clearly into before and after.

He knew Leila and Sawyer’s story, of course. He had nothing but respect for how the couple had managed their own painful past, how they’d overcome the hurt they’d caused each other, how they’d built a new, mature love that encompassed Sawyer’s sprite, Piper, as well as his troubled ex-wife. Few could do what they’d done but they were determined. And so deeply committed to each other. And now, from what he’d heard, they had another child on the way. He was happy for them. They deserved everything good.

Another word from Sue Anne’s table drifted above the general hum interrupting his thoughts.

“…Malone…”

A frisson of awareness ran up his spine, raising the tiny hairs at the back of his neck. It was a common enough name, but still. It had been a long time since he’d used it himself and it was associated with memories safely—and firmly—tucked away. The chances of this birth mother being someone he knew were infinitesimally small.

The wrangler hoped the presence of this woman, whoever she was, would not overshadow the wedding celebration. The one he feared for most was Diana. Discovering three older half-siblings and a mother not dead, but alive after all these years, had not been easy on her. So many secrets, so many lies.

The wrangler didn’t forgive easily, though he worked at it daily. He’d been forgiven so much, himself, that it was a gift to be able to pass that on, to offer solace and absolution to those with hearts burdened with guilt or grief, as the two were so often intertwined.

“…invited her to join us…”

He sat forward in his seat. Was he about to see this mysterious Malone woman? Was she a long-lost relative of his? Or just another soul trying to make amends for being human?

The wrangler once known as JP Malone nursed his beer for a long time before accepting that this mystery woman wasn’t going to show up. Then he looked around again at the many folks whose stories he knew, and a few he didn’t, in various places on that ever-turning wheel of joy and sorrow. He finished his drink, straightened his collar and walked lightly out of the gentle pub into the dark, cold night.