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

Chapter Five

T he next afternoon, Colt and Festus were about ten miles outside of Grand, Montana, when he passed a truck on the side of the road. It was hauling a trailer similar to the one he had back at home, and it appeared to have a flat tire.

“Good Samaritan time, Festus,” he said, slowing and signaling.

He left the dog in the cab and jogged over the rig. The trailer was loaded and, from inside, he could hear the sounds of anxious cattle. Black and white figures moved around inside. Dairy cows.

A figure straightened up from where he’d been examining the tire.

“Need a hand?” Colt offered.

“I’d be grateful of it,” the man answered. “But I don’t have a spare. I don’t want to leave the cows alone here while I go to town for a new one.”

“I’ve got a similar rig. My spare should fit yours just fine.”

The older man’s face broke into a smile. “Well, isn’t that just the best news I could have gotten today. Father Patrick Keane,” he said, pulling off his glove and extending his hand.

“Colt Boone. Happy to help.”

He set about getting the necessary tools out but the nervousness of the cows inside the trailer bothered him.

“You hauling these old girls to market?” he asked.

There weren’t a lot of small operators around anymore in these days of corporate farming. He counted six cows. Usually, changeover on dairy farms happened on a much larger scale. Unless these got accidentally bred off cycle. But since hardly anyone kept live bulls anymore, this wasn’t likely, either.

“Nope,” the priest said, making a face. “These poor things are the victims of a miscommunication, I’m afraid. Although hubris is also to blame. My own as much as anyone’s.”

Colt looked up expectantly. “You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“I agreed to create a nativity scene for my local Christmas festival and my co-worker insists I include real animals. It’s all for charity, you understand,” he quickly added. “We’re raising money for a women’s shelter and it’s a cause that’s close to my heart. The person in charge doesn’t believe I’ll do a good job and I’d like to prove her wrong. Not a very flattering look for a priest, I suppose, but there you have it.”

“Your cause sounds admirable.”

Colt got the trailer safely leveled, jack in place, and quickly swapped out the tires. “Where are you headed? The spare should get you to the nearest town but probably not much farther.”

“Grand. Their temporary home is about a half hour away.”

“That’s where I’m going, too,” Colt said. “When do you need them?”

“The sooner, the better.” The priest described a week of seasonal celebrations during which the stable, and the animals, would be on display. Colt wondered who was in charge of caring for them. The priest seemed well meaning, but not particularly knowledgeable. In a small, private event like this, animals were at the mercy of whoever was running it, and whatever they wanted to accomplish, with little to no oversight.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying it,” he said, “but I don’t believe they had Holsteins at the birth of Christ. In fact, they probably didn’t have cows at all.”

“There were likely no animals present, period.” The priest raised his eyebrows. “A student of religious history, are you?”

“Nah,” Colt replied. “I’m in the film industry. You learn things.”

“Would I recognize any films you’ve been in?”

Colt laughed. “I stay strictly behind the scenes where I belong. I’m a movie wrangler. But since I’ll be in town during your festival, I’d be happy to help if you’re looking for volunteers.”

The priest took off his hat and ran a hand through his silver hair. “I worked with cattle once, but it was a long time ago. I’d be happy for the help, son. Is a movie wrangler like a professional cowboy?”

Colt laughed. “No. I procure unusual things needed for films. Often it’s animals but it can be other things like classic cars, or antique tools or futuristic devices. You’d be surprised what people have out there. I have extensive contacts that I can call on as requests come in. When I provide animals, I also take care of them while they’re in our employ. If you like,” he added, “I could look for some more appropriate animals for your festival.”

Father Patrick’s shaggy brows lifted. “Could you now? That would raise my standing with Sue Anne Nylund. She wants it to look like the Christmas card scenes. She doesn’t care that the entire event likely occurred in autumn, not December.”

“In filmmaking,” Colt said, “any detail that bumps the viewer out of the story is jettisoned, no matter how authentic. Perfect historical accuracy is less important than building an emotionally evocative scene.”

The priest sighed. “Sue Anne is right again. What will you charge?”

“I’ll happily waive my fee. The owner I’m thinking about might also be convinced to do a charitable act, given the season and the cause.”

Maybe that would go a little way toward convincing Em that he wasn’t all bad.

“Young man, you’ve given me hope that my pride may yet be salvaged. I confess that the woman running the festival is a much beloved thorn in my side. I’d be grateful for anything that will prevent me from drawing her ire. Any advice you care to give is most appreciated.”

“First of all,” Colt said, peering in at the cows, milling about uncomfortably, “we’ll take these girls home and look for an ox instead, though a Jersey or Guernsey would fit the picture you’re creating. You’ll want sheep and goats, of course, and a donkey. Forget mules, they can be mean sons of bitches.” He stopped. “Excuse me, mean…animals.”

Father Patrick waved away his apology. “I believe this meeting may have been ordained, young man. What are the chances of you finding me any of the animals you’ve just mentioned?”

“On short notice?” Colt thought. He had several connections in Montana, mostly horses, but there was one good vendor who kept a variety of unusual species. “Let me make some calls. If it means we can get these ladies back to the herd, where they’ll be happier, it’s worth it.”

“I’m barely a half hour away from their farm,” the priest said. He sounded relieved. “I’ll sleep much better knowing I’ve got someone who knows what they’re doing at the helm of this ship.”

*

The streets of Grand were decked out in full seasonal glory when Em arrived, with her seat and steering wheel on maximum heat. She’d been born in San Diego and those first few years of life in warmth and sunshine must have left a mark because, despite living in Montana since then, she still hated to be cold.

She’d lost track of Colt when he’d stopped to help some guy with a flat tire. Probably just as well, since she was still squirming from her instinctive reaction to his almost-kiss. A split second later and she’d have pulled his head down to hers. Had he noticed? Please, God, no.

Foster sister.

Ugh. That was, what, fifteen years ago? And he was at Hetty’s for a few months, maybe a year, if you added it all up. Yet that’s how he pegged her.

She drove down the main street, watching signs for the Yellowstone Hotel, surprised and delighted to see traditional symbols celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ—the manger, the star, angels—combined with the nature imagery evoking the season’s pagan roots: holly, mistletoe, even gift-giving. In so many belief systems, from Ancient Egypt to Norse mythology to Chinese, Viking and Saxon tradition, and North American Indigenous beliefs, evergreen trees symbolized eternal life, renewal, rebirth.

Distraction with data. She felt herself relaxing.

Candles represented hope and the return of light and warmth after the depth of winter. The same imagery was used in Diwali, Kwanzaa, and Hanukkah, as well, if you knew to recognize it.

Perhaps Grand, Montana, was more progressive than she’d anticipated.

She hit the voice to text app on her phone and stated, “Diversity in traditional religious celebrations.” This might be a subject to explore for her next paper. Not quite the spine-tingler she’d been hoping for but she needed something.

After Jolene’s death, Hetty had continued the Hispanic celebrations Emmet and her mother had introduced her to: the tamales, empanadas and virgin margaritas on Noche Buena , with leftovers on Christmas morning. Theirs may not have satisfied Jolene’s ancestors, but in the fragmented family they’d created, it worked. With just the two of them—or including whatever strays Hetty had collected at the moment—it made Em feel connected to her mom, to Hetty and even to the greater world.

But now what? Would Hetty jump to celebrate the season in whatever way these sons and daughters—her real children—wanted? Would she be embarrassed by the silly things she and Em had always loved?

And how was she planning to include Colt?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Emmet pulled into the packed Yellowstone Hotel parking lot and hauled her bags out of the back, grateful that Hetty had booked a suite for them. Hetty was out for the evening, she’d told Em, but invited her to make herself at home, have a bath, watch a movie. A bottle of wine and a plate of crackers and cheese awaited her in the mini fridge, if she wanted.

So thoughtful. Em was tempted, but she was also feeling a bit restless from the drive. Also, curious to get acquainted with the town. Whatever was happening tonight seemed to have brought out everyone, according to the sounds of revelry. The girl who checked her in confirmed that it was the start of the Grand Christmas celebrations that happened pretty much all month at various locations.

“Tonight,” she informed Em with a smile, “the place to be is Lou’s Pub, just down the street. Good food, great beer list, even greater atmosphere. Here’s your key. If there’s anything you need, just call.”

Em was hungry and tired, but also, she needed to regroup. She wanted to observe, without being observed, before she had to put on her battle fatigues.

She dropped her things off in the room, which was surprisingly well appointed for such a small town, then went back downstairs, waved to the front desk girl and stepped out into the chilly night air. Music was coming from somewhere nearby. The lampposts along Main Street were hung with pine and cedar boughs, red ribbons and twinkle lights strung throughout. It was beautiful. And something smelled amazing.

Ah, there it was: Lou’s Pub. The signboard hung from an ornate piece of iron welded to the front of the building. Very authentic-looking. The place was probably owned by some guy in Florida. Or China.

But if they served good beer, who cared, right?

The snow crunched under her boots. She’d worn the thick-soled Doc Martens that were just out of style enough to be satisfactory to her. Also, cheap. She’d gotten these in a thrift store, barely used. Being a perpetual student had its challenges, but only if you didn’t know how to squeeze a nickel, and Jolene had taught her well, in that regard. Hetty’s safety net was always just beneath her, and she valued that, but at the same time, she insisted on looking after herself. Hetty and Jolene both had emphasized that, with a further caveat: Never be dependent on a man.

She hesitated in the doorway of the pub, then walked on, enjoying the fresh air and that lovely mix of solitude in the midst of people. She ought to collect her thoughts more before she saw Hetty.

What was really behind Colt’s visit? She’d seen the glint of ambition in his eye and no matter how he protested, he was too close to the film world not to see the full meal-deal potential in front of him. So what if Hetty had presented it on a silver platter? He’d still eat it.

But the more she thought about it, the more ambivalence she felt. Hetty’s story was all too familiar and sharing it might empower a lot of women who’d suffered similarly. Even now, women were being shamed for their choices over marriage and motherhood.

But bringing such deeply personal experiences out into the open for public consumption could be horribly invasive for Hetty. Depending on the treatment, it might even re-traumatize her or jeopardize the tentative bonds she was building with her newfound family.

Then again, Hetty was a champion of women’s independence. She might see her privacy as an acceptable sacrifice if it could encourage other women to fight for the lives they wanted. Over the years, Em had heard so many stories of women who lost their homes because they weren’t on the title; who didn’t have access to bank accounts in their husbands’ names only; who couldn’t drive cars after the death of their husband because the vehicles weren’t legally theirs. It boggled her mind…the vulnerability of not being a “real” person in today’s world, of being a—there was that word again—dependent.

Only Hetty had the right to decide whether to share her story. It was her choice, and hers alone.

Hetty’s independence had come at a huge cost and Em still worried that, in her heart of hearts, Hetty wished she had a partner, someone who loved her for who she was and didn’t try to control her or make her into someone she wasn’t.

No one wanted to be alone. Companionship and love came in many forms. If Em ever found a guy who loved her as she was, she was open to a relationship. But her forays into the dating world had shown her that not many men were looking for a biracial, orphaned foster kid who studied and taught gender equity issues.

Too young, too smart, too bitchy, as she’d told Colt.

Youth would solve itself in time. Smart, she’d apologize to no one for. And bitchy, well, that was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it?

She waited for a gap in the traffic, then crossed the street. On the other side on the bank of the Yellowstone River was a lovely park just begging for someone to add their footprints into the virgin snow.

The only guy who’d ever really seemed to…see her, to not look through her despite the trappings of her life at the time, was Colt. Of course, that was a long time ago and his own life had been no picnic. Maybe that was why. Two messed-up kids, sharing a few pivotal moments together, both insisting that they were fine, so fine, just great.

They’d first met a couple of years after Mako had been sent to prison for paying someone to kill Jolene in a supposed hit-and-run accident. Jolene had recovered enough to move into Hetty’s basement suite. It was a good arrangement. Hetty was there for the days when Jolene couldn’t leave the house, or even her bed, for when Em had to be picked up from school or had a concert or a sports event that someone needed to cheer her on for. When she could, Jolene helped with the cooking and cleaning. From time to time, other foster kids came and went upstairs. Hetty cared for them all, worked on her art, and life was as good as it was ever going to be. They were a family.

Colt arrived: polite, clean, and wary. Whatever circumstances led him to care, it hadn’t seemed to have imprinted itself on him. If anything, he seemed scrupulously intent on fairness and had a huge heart for the underdog.

Or under-cat, as it were.

On a cold winter morning before school, Em was getting her boots and jacket on, while he waited outside, watching the trash collectors move from bin to bin in the alley behind their house. Suddenly he began yelling. From the screen door, Em saw him run across the snowy yard. Hetty threw on a coat and chased after him, Em hot on her heels.

Colt was kneeling in the snow, ripping with his bare hands at a duct-taped box. From inside came pitiful mews and squeaks. Together they got the box open to discover two kittens, tiny silvery-tabby creatures with tongues like tiny, curled leaves, blue with cold, huddled on soiled newsprint.

There was no way of knowing who’d left them there, but Hetty took them in, like she took in all the strays that came her way, and Colt and Em had been right there with her, helping her drop tepid water into their tiny mouths to help rehydrate and warm them. The veterinarian they’d seen estimated that they were no more than five weeks old, too young to leave their mother but old enough to survive if they were willing to give them some TLC.

Colt, the tough kid who barely spoke, who watched everyone with hooded eyes, whose ropey arms had still-fading bruises on his too-thin flesh, embodied tender loving care with the tiny mites.

Bruiser and Rosie thrived under their attention, their skinny bodies filling out, their filthy, rough coats becoming thick and glossy, their cautious personalities becoming playful and trusting. Colt ate it up and it seemed to unlock something in him. He smiled more. He played with the kittens from the time he got home from school to bedtime, and Em was right there with him.

When he was sent home to his mother, he said goodbye to Hetty, Em and Jolene without emotion, but his eyes welled up when he stroked the young cats for the last time.

Even now, whenever Em thought of Colt Boone in the quiet of her heart, as opposed to the noise of her beliefs and knowledge, she owned that he was something special. Something different. At least, before he’d gone off the rails and become someone she didn’t recognize.

She reached up to a tree trunk and brushed off a skiff of snow. Into the rough bark someone had carved, a long time ago, a heart with the initials LM+ AM inside. She wondered who these people were and if they were happy together.

Did anyone really end up happily ever after? Or was happily for now the best you could hope for? What was wrong with that, anyway? Nobody got out of life alive. What was wrong with taking joy where you found it, for however long it came to you?

One childhood kiss had kept her warm for a lot of years. One bad night had put that memory on ice. Then Colt stopped talking to them, left town, got married.

And got divorced.

It had taken her most of the drive to process the fact that he wanted back into her and Hetty’s lives. Did this mean he’d changed? Or that he saw an opportunity too good to pass up?

Em could forgive a lot but the way he’d let Hetty down—Hetty who’d given that brittle boy a soft place to land when he needed it most, who gave him boundaries and then let him be whatever he had to be at that moment—that she couldn’t forgive. Whenever possible, Hetty kept track of all the kids who stayed with her. She wanted to know that they were succeeding in their lives, that they were happy, that they didn’t need her anymore. But for a long time, Hetty got a faraway, shuttered look in her eye when Em had brought him up, so she’d stopped.

Em knew that Hetty wasn’t naive. She accepted that some of the kids who came into her care were damaged beyond what a few weeks in a stable home could cure. She knew that opening herself up to them, that seeking them out, could result in them taking advantage of her. It had happened a few times that Em knew of, which meant it had probably happened more often than Hetty would admit to.

But that too was Hetty’s choice. It was a sacrifice made willingly. She’d do anything for her kids.

And Colt just let all that love drop into the void, left Hetty hanging, left Em hanging, questioning everything she’d once believed they’d had.

So why did Em still measure all men against the memory of the boy who’d held her tight while they’d huddled under the bed, surrounded by pillows, while the cops walked through the house with guns drawn, looking for the man who wanted to finish what he’d started with Jolene? Maybe even finish off her daughter, too.

Sure, he’d been kind to her that night, a twelve-year-old hero to a nine-year-old coward.

But was Colt Boone still a hero?

Her phone buzzed with a text. It was Colt.

Hey, are you here yet? I’m in Lou’s Pub. Want to join me?

She hesitated for a moment, then texted a quick “sure,” slipped the phone back into her pocket, and turned toward the pub. Because Emmet Garcia was no coward. Not anymore.

*

Colt Boone stood at the bar at Lou’s Pub, grateful to have snagged a tiny piece of real estate in the jumping room. After delivering Father Patrick’s Holsteins back home where they belonged, he’d dropped Festus off in the cabin at Belle Vista, where his host, Bayleigh, round with pregnancy, told him that if he wanted to unwind and get a bite to eat, Lou’s wouldn’t disappoint.

He looked around for Em, disappointed that he didn’t see her. What had he been thinking, moving her car? He’d thought it would be a good joke, a way to break the ice between them, but all he’d done was suggest he’d gone from petty delinquent to full-on criminal.

Not to mention that crack about animals. Surely she knew him better than that. He winced inwardly and flexed his fingers, tight from driving. Maybe coming to the busy pub hadn’t been the best idea.

He’d stay for one beer, think about how to convince Em he wasn’t a bad guy, maybe take a few pictures for background material.

“Here you go, sir.”

A grizzled gentleman wearing a bib apron set a pint of Guinness at his elbow. Colt didn’t have a drop of Irish blood in him, but he’d seen the signs prominently displayed along the wall and figured he might as well try to blend in.

He lifted the pint in thanks to the server. “Cheers.”

“Lou Monahan, owner and operator,” the man said. He wiped his hands on a towel, then slung it over his shoulder and reached out. “Welcome to Grand.”

Colt returned the greeting. “How’d you know I’m a newcomer?”

Lou snorted. “I’ve run this pub since before you were born, lad. Most folks, even teetotalers, make their way here eventually. If it happens in Grand, I know about it.”

“Good to know.”

He’d moved around so much, he couldn’t imagine being in the same place, with the same people, for so long. But if the man truly knew as much as he thought he knew, then he was a great one to chat up.

“What brings you to our fine town in the festive season, Colt Boone?” Lou asked in his lilting accent.

Colt smiled. “Perhaps I heard it’s the place to celebrate Christmas.”

Lou tipped his head. “It is, at that. But—and pardon me for saying so if I’m wrong—you don’t seem to be with anyone. Nor do you seem like a man who goes in for tradition.”

Colt blinked. How the hell could he tell that? The man didn’t know him from Adam.

“I’m meeting someone.”

Lou’s eyes took on a knowing glint. “Best of luck to you, lad.”

Colt shook his head. “It’s not like that. But you can help me. I’m in the film industry and I always keep my eyes peeled for interesting locations,” he said. “This town has fantastic character. You mind if I take some photos for my files?”

Lou’s shaggy brows lifted. “You a producer?”

“Oh, no.” Colt smiled. “Location scout and wrangler. But you never know when someone will be looking for just this atmosphere.”

“Go ahead, son. A little fame for Lou’s Pub would pad my retirement nicely, I imagine.”

A squeal of laughter went up from a table nearby where several older women were gathered. One looked like a schoolmarm caricature and seemed to be the ringleader. They leaned over the table, their gray heads tilted together, and another round of hilarity ensued.

Colt lifted his camera and took a few stills. The ambiance of the pub was perfect for a beer commercial but could also be used in anything from seasonal advertising to decor magazines. The priest he’d met on the road earlier smiled at him from the corner and Colt gave him a thumbs-up as he snapped. The man had interesting, photogenic features and kindness radiated from him. Hopefully it would come through on film.

A gust of wintry air wafted into the room as the door opened and suddenly there was Em, framed in the entrance, shrugging off her heavy coat. A long waterfall of dark hair slid past pink cheeks and red lips and he took a moment to admire her, as he hadn’t been able to in their brief, charged conversation earlier.

She’d gone from a bony, frightened kid to a stunning woman with don’t-mess-with-me posture and ass-kicking boots to match. The little ugly duckling had most definitely turned into a swan. She scanned the room and he caught her eye with a wave. She was heading to the bar when the expression on her pretty face changed. The lines in her face softened. She blinked. Bit her lip.

Holy smokes, was she tearing up? He followed her gaze but couldn’t make out who she was looking at.

He looked back and then, just as quickly, the emotion disappeared. If he hadn’t been watching right then, he’d have missed it.

She changed direction and began weaving her way through the crowd, clearly aiming for someone other than him. He left his seat and intercepted her before she reached the group.

“Hey,” he said softly, drawing her aside. “Take a breath, Em.”

She jumped, looked up at him, and her expression changed.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see you.”

She looked away again and that’s when the older woman at the table turned, laughing at something one of her companions had said. It was Hetty. Unlike Emmet, she had not changed a bit. Same blunt-cut hairstyle, same plastic-framed glasses, same beige clothing. There was something comforting about her sameness, yet his heart still thudded at the thought of talking to her again. He wasn’t expecting to see her this quickly, but that’s what he got for leaping without looking. This whole harebrained scheme was built on poor impulse control and he wished he was built differently but alas, this seemed to be his cross to bear.

“She looks busy,” he said. He lifted his camera.

“Yeah,” Em replied, her lips twisting into a half-hearted smile. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“Strength in numbers?” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s do this.”

She glanced down, but didn’t pull away. Her hand was cold in his and he gripped tighter, pulling her toward the table.

He captured the shock on her face the moment Hetty recognized him. He snapped a few shots of the people she was sitting with and even through the filtered lens, he could see the clear family resemblance of long-lost children, though whoever had fathered the triplets must have been taller and darker than Hetty.

“Colt?” She glanced between them and her face changed. “Em! Oh, thank God, you made it. I was getting worried.”

“Hey, Hetty.” He slid the camera around his back and dropped a kiss on her cheek, ignoring the surprise on the faces around them. “No, don’t get up. It’s great to see you.”

He bit down the irritation at how much more excited she was to see Em again after a few days apart, than she was to see him after years.

“These are the triplets I told you about,” Hetty said, making a round of introductions. “Would you like to join us?”

“No, no, I just wanted to let you know I made it in,” he said. “You look great, Hetty. Would you like a group shot right now?”

“Right, you’re the filmmaker.” Sawyer Lafferty, who was sitting next to his pregnant wife, the triplet Leila, extended his hand. “You’re staying at Belle Vista, right? I’ll probably see you there one of these days.”

“Good to meet you. I’m more of a wrangler than a filmmaker, though.” He smiled at the group. “We’ll let you get back to your visiting.”

Sawyer glanced between them and his eyes lit up. “Ah, you’re with Emmet?”

“No!” Em said quickly, dropping his hand. Color flooded her cheeks. “He’s my… I mean…we’re—”

“—friends,” Colt interrupted. “I stayed with Hetty for a while when I was a kid. We’re…friends.”

It was always so awkward explaining the relationship he had with Hetty, not to mention Em. He’d hated being a foster kid. He’d only spent a few months with her. A few times. Maybe a year, altogether. He hadn’t hopped around like so many kids did. Though he supposed bouncing between his mother’s place and Hetty’s home constituted a certain amount of insecurity.

Technically, Em was his foster sister. But friends felt more accurate, at least to him. What she thought, he was afraid to imagine.

“About the photos,” said Brade Oliver, the doctor. “You want to do what, exactly, with them?”

“It’s for me,” Hetty said quickly. “I asked him. It’s so I can look back on this and cherish the memories of how we found each other. This is a precious time. I never got to have baby albums, after all.”

“I’m hoping it helps Hetty make sense of her story,” Colt said. “I think you all agree it’s an unbelievable tale. I’m concerned that—now that she’s gone public as Mel Brezo—the media will start hounding her.”

“How do we know you’re not the media?” Brade asked.

“Brade!” His fiancée, Kendall, smacked him on the arm. “If Heather trusts him, that should be good enough.”

Colt smiled his thanks. “It’s a reasonable concern, though. I don’t know how to reassure you except to say that, with enough primary source material, Hetty will be able to control the narrative—”

“Colt,” Hetty began.

“—if, and it’s a big if,” he continued, “she ever decides she wants to go public with it.”

“Which I won’t,” Hetty said.

Colt nodded. “And that’s fine. That’s your choice.”

He had just enough contacts and skills to put together a package to present to the right people, to get this story into hands that would treat it well, tell it with compassion and, more importantly, her participation and cooperation. And yeah, maybe he’d have some involvement, too. If she ever changed her mind.

“We’ll visit more later,” he added. “I just wanted to say hi. Have a good evening, everyone.”

He gently squeezed Hetty’s shoulder and turned away.