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

Chapter Four

A s he walked out into the snowy front yard, Colt’s eyes teared against the blinding Montana sun, even as his corneas felt like they were being sliced by an ice pick.

He put Festus into the truck, then returned Em’s car to where he’d found it. When he leaned into her a moment ago, he’d caught that familiar scent of something light and sweet, like cotton candy, and instantly the tough college professor was replaced by a gentle, long-legged girl with eyes as wild as her hair, who laughed at his jokes and played jacks with him on Hetty’s living room floor. Em and Colt…and Tammy.

Stop it. Those days are gone. You can’t go home again.

Foster sister. What the hell made him jump to that outdated qualifier? He should have stuck with old friends. But their relationship had never been easily defined. She’d trusted him once, but they’d been kids, forced to grow up too fast. Then he’d made a shit-ton of mistakes and didn’t know how to undo them. It was easier to go away and pretend the past didn’t exist.

Easier. But not better, in the long run. Well, the hard work began now and whatever Em thought about him, they were at least aligned in their desire to look after the woman they both cared about: Hetty.

As far as he was concerned, the biological children presented an emotional threat to Hetty, but not a material one. He’d done his due diligence. They were legit. But the threat to Hetty’s privacy was real. Her story would, sooner or later, be all over the news and after that, producers would be vying for film rights. Eventually, someone was going to get to her and he only hoped it would be the right person. What they did with her experiences would likely make their career. What it did to Hetty was another question.

Hetty didn’t see this, and Em didn’t know to look. But he did. If he got good, usable footage of these early emotional interactions, then he and Hetty together could decide what to do with them. He could at least allow her some measure of control over the narrative.

Em met him at the door to her Subaru. Her eyes, so wide a moment ago, were obscured by sunglasses now.

“What if her family doesn’t want you taking pictures?”

“Then I have a nice drive through some pretty scenery and I get more location shots for my files.”

She cocked her hip. “Location shots. What does that mean?”

“I scout locations, too. Take pictures, record short clips. Producers are always looking for specific things but they don’t necessarily know where to find them. Who knows, maybe Grand, Montana, is a good setting for a movie.”

“Colt,” Em said warningly. “Don’t even think it.”

“What?” he said. Tough and astute, now.

“There is no way I’m letting you write a cheesy made-for-TV movie of Hetty’s life.”

“I’m not a screenwriter, Em. And that’s exactly what I want to prevent!”

“Really.” Her tone was dry. “There’s nothing in it for you?”

He hesitated.

She pounced. “I knew it. God, Boone. You haven’t changed a bit.”

That stung. “I do want to reconnect with her, Em. We have—”

He stopped. He needed to make amends with Hetty and Em, both. But he didn’t know how to do that. It wasn’t his story to tell.

“History?” Em finished for him. “You sure do. And if your goal was only to grovel for her forgiveness, that would be fine. But honestly, Colt, she’ll be really preoccupied. She’s got a lot on her plate already, without being distracted by yet another person with whom she has a complicated relationship.”

That was true. Was he being selfish? Or could his reconciliation with Hetty bring a measure of peace in a small corner of her life?

“Then maybe,” he said quietly, “sorting out one complicated relationship will give her more spoons for everything else. I care for her, Em. I always have, even if you don’t believe it. And I want to protect her. Because you’re right. Someone is going to want this story. Maybe I can help her find the right person. Maybe I can create material that she can then use however she wants.”

Em heaved an enormous sigh of defeat. “Fine. If that’s what you’re telling yourself. But listen, Colt, she’s there to celebrate Christmas with her family and to attend the wedding. You being there is enough of a wild card. If she doesn’t have time for you, she doesn’t have time for you. You get that?”

He held up a hand, then crossed his heart. He’d never do anything to hurt her.

Not anymore.

They exchanged cell numbers in case they needed to chat on the road, and then Em drove off in a whip of icy snow. Colt pulled his truck onto the road behind her.

“Merry Christmas, Festus,” he said. “Time to hit the road.”

Festus yawned, rolled over and farted again.

Man, he had to change that dog’s diet.

He’d secured accommodation in a private cabin at a ranch called Belle Vista that was about a half hour outside of Grand. With no one else who might be concerned about his whereabouts over the holidays, he set himself to thinking about what, exactly, he was getting himself into.

His first stint in foster care occurred when his mother, Crystal, had needed an operation, and there’d been no one to look after Colt while she was in hospital. He didn’t remember much about the family he’d stayed with, only that the older kids in the house had shared their video games with him and he’d really missed that when he got home a couple of weeks later.

The second time he’d been old enough to be embarrassed they couldn’t list any family or friends he could stay with.

He had a father, of course, but he’d long since moved on from Crystal, now busy with his real family. Wife 2.0 didn’t want a reminder of her husband’s youthful mistake hanging around. There were relatives, too, an uncle and aunt he’d met once, and one or two more he hadn’t but none who lived within an eight-hour drive of Chinook and certainly none willing to shell out airfare for the kid of the loser sister they wanted to forget. His mom had never been one to look for handouts and she wasn’t about to start. He had a few school friends but his mom didn’t trust their parents any more than they trusted her, which had probably been smart on both sides.

The third time, he and his mom had gotten into a car accident. He wasn’t sure of the details. He wasn’t hurt beyond a bad bump on the head, but she needed surgery for a broken leg, and he’d been popped back into the system. At this home, the refrigerator had a lock on it, as did doors to various rooms. An older kid jumped him that first night and demanded his best comic books as a “tax.” Colt had been more angry than scared but then he’d puked on the kid, and he left him alone. The bump on the head turned out to be a concussion, something the foster parents looked after with long-suffering martyrdom, rather than tender loving care, but he recovered anyway.

The next time his mom cracked up the car with him in it, she was sent for court-ordered rehab. That’s when he landed in the home of Hetty Malone.

Hetty was nothing like the other foster parents. Her smile of greeting felt real. She looked him in the eye, explained the rules clearly, as well as the consequences of not following them. She told him what they’d be eating, and when, and asked after his favorite foods. She made sure he got to school on time and when she introduced him to other people, she put her arm over his shoulder and called him her boy.

He wouldn’t have tolerated being called her son, and she seemed to know it. But she still wanted to lay claim to him, and he hadn’t forgotten that feeling. Without knowing him or his mother, she’d welcomed him and called him her own.

The room she gave him was comfortable, with clean, soft bedding that wasn’t brand new, but had a heft to it that even then he recognized as quality. He’d felt safe with Hetty.

And then he met Emmet and Jolene.

Emmet, whose dark eyes seemed too big for her face, stuck to the edges of the room and avoided him whenever possible. Jolene reminded him of his own mother. Watchful, with the tight posture that suggested she was poised to run at any moment. But Em’s mom had trouble walking sometimes, let alone running, and she was in bed early most nights.

Jolene and Emmet lived in Hetty’s basement suite but they usually shared meals, and Em was often upstairs with Hetty before and after school. He’d assumed they were related, and when he’d asked Em how long they’d lived with her aunt, he was surprised at her response.

“We’re not related,” Em told him. “Mom calls her ‘my sister from another mister’ but then they just laugh. They don’t look like each other at all.”

Hetty had that generic white-lady look, with brown hair and light eyes while Jolene and Emmet looked Mexican-American. Or maybe just Mexican—he didn’t know. Their English sounded the same as his.

Now, he wondered if Jolene had been undocumented.

As he watched the taillights on Emmet’s car ahead of him in the darkening light, he knew that whatever her background, she’d overcome it. She’d gotten herself educated, as she’d always wanted, and was now working to do what she could to help others who suffered from unfair treatment. Just like Hetty.

He was nervous, tired, and wired, not a great combination.

“Dial Emmet,” he instructed his system.

“What?” came her voice as they connected.

“I’m bored,” he said. “Tell me more about Hetty’s situation.”

“Background material for your tearjerker? Or are you really interested?”

He sighed. “Two things can be true, Em. For example, I wanted to hear your voice and now that I am, I regret it. See?”

To his surprise, she laughed. “Funny, Pony-Boy.”

To his even greater surprise, her use of his old nickname sent a wave of warmth through his chest.

“Sing it, Sparrow,” he replied.

He remembered the softness of her skin and wondered whether, if she’d allowed it, his kiss would have landed on her cheek or her lips.

Despite their earlier friction, or perhaps because they were in the safety of their own separate vehicles, conversation came more easily now. The years fell away as they talked and it was as if all the things keeping them had never happened, as if they’d magically gotten older and farther apart, without affecting the bond between them.

Their Hetty had a whole past she’d never talked about.

“She gave the triplets up for adoption?” he asked. “Do you think that’s why she became a foster mother? To make up for the children she gave away?”

This time Em was more forthcoming.

“She didn’t give them away voluntarily.” Em’s voice was tinny over the airwaves but hearing her in the darkness of the cab lent a sense of intimacy to the conversation. “She nearly died when they were born; she thought only one son survived, but when she tried to find out what happened, she couldn’t find him. Somebody must’ve lied to her or forged documents or something.”

Colt still didn’t like the timing. “And she found out about this around the same time she came out as being the famous Mel Brezo?”

The snow was falling heavier outside and Em’s voice flickered momentarily. “That’s how they found her. One of the triplets—the girl—is also an artist and found an old painting that linked them together. Her name is Leila. She came here with her brother Lucas and confronted her. It was a rough scene.”

“Wouldn’t she have been delighted to find them? Wasn’t she looking for them?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Em said. “I don’t really understand it myself, but it has to do with her ex-husband. I think she suffered a major breakdown somewhere in those days. There wasn’t a lot of mental health support then, so whatever happened would have been bad. I think she left her marriage because after losing her first child, she didn’t think she was a fit mother to her second child, Diana.” She paused. “Have you heard of the Baby Scoop Era? Between 1945 and 1973, single mothers were considered unfit and forced to give their babies to ‘good people’ so they wouldn’t have to live with the shame of being bastards. Even after the maternity asylums were shut down, it took years, even decades, for attitudes to change.”

“Bastards.” Colt echoed the word but Em took it differently.

“So many women, hurt. So many children left with huge gaps in their identity.”

“Is that why you chose the field of work you’re in?”

She gave a little laugh. “I didn’t even know any of this at the time. I always wondered why Hetty was interested in my classes. I figured she was just being supportive. Now I can see that between her and my mom, I learned about women’s issues from the ground up.”

She was passionate about this, and he respected that. But was missing his point.

“The fact is,” he said, “our Hetty was revealed to be a wealthy, famous artist right around the same time that three strangers—four, if you count the second daughter—decided to claim her as their biological mother. Pretty convenient.”

“I know, but they have the DNA tests to prove it.”

“Doesn’t mean they still don’t want something from her. In fact, it gives them grounds to beg money from her. Are any of them in financial trouble?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He bridled, then sighed. “You’re going to see it however you see it. You have no more reason to trust me than you have to trust these strangers, I guess.”

She was quiet long enough that he wondered if they’d lost contact.

“The one who’s getting married—Brade Oliver—is a doctor,” she said, finally. “Not only that, he inherited a shit-ton of money from his adoptive parents.”

“Some people really have all the luck, don’t they?”

On that, they could agree. By the standards of the time in which Hetty had given birth to the triplets, Colt and Em would be considered bastards too, born out of wedlock to women of low moral character. In fact, the biggest problem in both their mothers’ lives was poverty. They had no financial or emotional support from fathers, families, churches or communities. Colt’s own deadbeat dad hadn’t suffered anything for his part in creating a son and Em had never mentioned a father. He’d seen how close she’d been with Jolene, before and after the…after that night.

He shook his head to clear the bad memories. “I could sure have used a rich long-lost relative back in the day. But surely they’re not all doctor billionaires. I bet at least one of them is after her money.”

“I haven’t met them yet, but Brade and his fiancée have invited her to come out for the Christmas season and be part of the wedding. Lucas and Leila seem for real. Lucas has cerebral palsy, and he runs a disability-friendly wilderness tour company. He’s moved to Grand to be with his fiancée, Bayleigh, who owns a ranch. They’re expecting a baby. Leila’s in Grand, too, married to a man named Sawyer. She’s also pregnant. Leila inherited Hetty’s gift for painting and doesn’t seem to want anything else from her.”

“And you’ve known them how long?”

“I’ve met Lucas and Leila once. Since then, what I know is what I’ve heard from Hetty. She speaks to them often by phone and they email too. I think they’re all being cautious.”

“That’s good. I still don’t like it.”

“I know, Colt,” Em said, sounding irritated. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But you know Hetty. Nothing’s going to stop her if she thinks someone needs her. There’s no point arguing. She’ll smile and listen to you and then go ahead and do whatever she wants, anyway. She’s staying in Grand, Montana, for five weeks. Maybe more, given the babies coming.”

Babies. That meant a second chance. Hetty would like that. Em would not.

She sighed and he felt badly for her. Hetty was a second mother to Em. Now this second mother turned out to have children of her own. Naturally, they’d take priority. Poor kid.

“She loves you, kiddo.”

A hiss sounded from the speaker. “I know she does. And I’m not a kid anymore, Colt. I don’t need your sympathy.”

He waited for the sting to fade. “I was offering friendship.”

Another long pause. “Friendship, huh?”

“Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

“That might work. But two conditions. First, keep your camera away from me.”

“Deal. Number two?”

“Don’t steal any more cars.”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

*

Back in her room, Heather put her few groceries into the mini fridge. As the adrenaline wore off, she wondered if she’d made things better or worse by announcing her presence to the town gossip. In the short time she’d been married to Weldon, she’d rarely interacted with anyone in town. Weldon wasn’t given to socializing at the best of times, and embarrassment at his new wife’s oddness had only made him more reclusive. But even she didn’t have to know Sue Anne Nylund to know of Sue Anne Nylund.

Her phone rang, startling her. She looked at the call display, then lowered herself to the small chair next to the window.

“Colt! It’s good to hear from you. Are you on your way?”

“Yes.” It sounded like he was driving through some bad weather. “Did you make it before the snow started?”

“I did. Are the roads okay? I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

She really was. She remembered all the kids who’d passed through her care, but some always seemed to stick tighter than others. Colt was one of those. At least, he had been.

He had come to her for the first time after his mother had driven their car off the road. She wasn’t sure how much Colt remembered, but when the cops had arrived at the scene they’d found his mother nodding behind the wheel, feeling no pain.

After the paramedics had taken her away, something had to be done with Colt. The police contacted social services, who were always strapped for foster homes, and twenty-four hours later, the skinny kid was in Heather’s kitchen, the backpack slung over his shoulder a meager nothing compared to the chip next to it. Part of her was furious at Crystal for putting her son in harm’s way, but she pushed this down, hard. Who knew better than her the myriads of things that could rise up from a woman’s past and drive her to do anything, or take anything, to escape the pain of her life? Besides, nothing would alienate her from this needy child faster than judging his mother.

Food, however, helped everyone.

She’d seen hunger in his eye, not just the hunger of the belly, but the deep ache of a growing body that hadn’t been properly nourished in some time. And beside it, the hunger for guidance, for a chance to set down the burden of looking after himself and rest, finally, knowing he was safe.

She fed him lasagna and garlic bread and salad and apple crisp and he wolfed it all down. Then she showed him to his room and told him the house rules. No violence, no drugs, no weapons. Jolene and Emmet lived in the walkout basement suite, though they spent most of their waking hours upstairs with Hetty. The suite had a separate entrance, but was accessible to the main house also, so Heather could keep an eye on them while allowing them privacy. Heather’s kids could be disruptive.

When Crystal got out of rehab, Colt went home and Hetty missed him. But he’d been back, a few times. And he’d stayed in touch, until…

“I’m looking forward to seeing you, too.” His voice was full of warmth. “I’m…I’m sorry I stayed away so long, Hetty. You’ve done so much for me and you deserve better than you’ve gotten from me.”

He spoke quickly, as if the words had been sitting inside him for a long time, just waiting for the dam to break, allowing them out.

“Sweetheart,” she said. “Forget about all that. Are you sure you shouldn’t pull over somewhere and wait for the snow to stop?”

“We will at the next opportunity,” he said. “I’m fine in the truck but I’m keeping an eye on Em in her little car.”

“Em? You saw her?” she asked. “And you’re still standing? Good for you.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’m not her favorite person these days.”

“She’s missed you, too, Colt.”

“If you say so.” He cleared his throat. “She’s not happy about me being part of this. She thinks I’ll be intruding. Are you sure you still want me there? Still want me filming?”

She hesitated. She wanted to see Colt and she wanted pictures of her interacting with her family, unstudied shots, not posed portraits. She didn’t want anyone else to be distracted by their cameras or their phones. Colt had always been good at this. He was the right one for the job, plus, it gave him something to do, a reason to be there.

“I’m sure. Sounds like Em got under your skin.”

He laughed. “She’s got a gift for that.”

“Oh yeah?” Heather said mildly.

She’d always nursed a private hope that the two of them would get together, a hope that had died when Colt married someone else. But now that he was single again…

“She thinks I’m barging in on private family time.”

She hesitated. A thread of loneliness ran through the bravado, and she yearned to reassure him but before she could choose the right words, he continued.

“She thinks I’m hoping to cash in on your story.” He paused. “I not going to lie, Hetty. You could have a book deal in a flash, if you wanted. Ghostwriters would line up to work with you. Screenwriters, documentary filmmakers. It’s only a matter of time until someone approaches you about the movie rights.”

“Movie rights!” She got to her feet, then sat back down again with a thump.

“Maybe not right away,” he continued. “But yours is an unusual story, with a huge human-interest angle. People will be vying for permission to interview you. To talk to your children and explore the background of how this all happened.”

“Even I don’t know how it all happened, Colt!”

Her children certainly didn’t know. There were so many unanswered questions but all she cared about was making sure that her children knew that she always loved them, that she loved their father, that she always wanted them.

Panic began to bubble inside her. She still hadn’t made peace with Diana and they needed time and privacy if there was any chance of building a new relationship.

People had wanted her to feel shame about her love for JP Malone. Yet that love had been pure. Her true shame lay in allowing her father to shove her broken self into the mold of wife, in allowing Weldon to believe she could learn to love him, in allowing him to convince her that one child could ever replace another.

The price had always been hers to pay, yet now that cost could come home for those who were innocent of it all: her children.

She should never have come to Grand. She should pack up and leave, immediately.

No. That hadn’t worked before and it wouldn’t work now.

“You want candids of your family,” Colt said. “I can do that. But my hope is also to gather enough material so that you hold the ultimate prize. Anyone who wants to tell your story will have to do it the way you choose, if they want access to those files. You become the primary source as well as the rights holder.”

He sounded so certain. She looked out the window to the streetlights festooned with greenery and fairy lights and wondered if she’d made a mistake in trying to have all her most beloved people with her at once.

“I’m here to get to know my birth children,” she said.

“I know. That’s the most important thing,” Colt said quietly. “But what if this is another way to continue your work helping women and children? What if other mothers who were forced to give up their children found the courage to seek them out because of you? Telling your story might help others to own their stories.”

“I’ve thought of that, Colt. If there was anything that could convince me, it’s that. But let’s not worry about that now, okay? We’ll get what we get now. If it feels intrusive, we’ll stop. Okay?”

“Absolutely. If nothing else, I’d like to be there to support you. I’m sure this is very exciting…but it must be hard, too. I really do want to reconnect but if this isn’t the right time or place, I understand. I can see you another time. I owe you that much.”

She sighed, her heart breaking afresh. “Oh, Colt. You owe me nothing. I want you here.”

The boy she’d anguished over was back and ready to talk. She heard in his voice the personality that had so long ago been plastered over with fear and rage, hiding every drop of vulnerability and insecurity that she knew lay underneath.

She’d always hoped her boy would become the man she glimpsed under it all. Her boy.

But how would his presence affect Brade, who still hadn’t warmed to her? Or Leila and Lucas? Or Diana?