Montana. Debbie Macomber

Might as well argue with a tree stump.

      Clay put a green salad on the table with a bottle of no-fat dressing.

      Walt frowned. He preferred his own brand and he didn’t care if it was loaded down with fat. A man could only be asked to sacrifice so much. As it was, he already had one foot in the grave. His cholesterol count was the least of his worries.

      “Do you want me to invite Sam again?” Molly asked, standing stiffly behind the kitchen chair.

      Although she’d made the offer, Walt could see she had no desire to do so.

      “If he doesn’t want to eat with us, fine. The choice is his.”

      She nodded. “My thought exactly.”

      Sam hardly knew Russell Letson, and he wasn’t sure why he was so angry with the guy. Except for that incident his first day in Sweetgrass, he and Russell had very little to do with each other. Which was fine with Sam. It occurred to him, as he pitched a forkful of hay into Sinbad’s stall, that he couldn’t think of a single reason to dislike the man—other than the fact that Letson had invited Molly to dinner. True, Sam had an innate distrust of lawyers, but he had no personal reason to feel wary of Russell Letson. And, of course, what Molly chose to do was none of his business.

      Then why did it bother him so much?

      The muscles across Sam’s shoulders tightened. He’d mucked out the stalls and put down fresh straw—although it wasn’t really necessary—simply because he felt the need to keep moving. If he worked hard enough and long enough, maybe his thoughts would leave him alone.

      Not only did Sam dislike Letson, he wasn’t sure he liked Molly Cogan, either. Not that anyone was asking his opinion. Nor was he offering it.

      An endless series of questions buzzed around his head like pesky flies. But Sam decided he wasn’t going to concern himself with the answers. He wasn’t willing to waste time analyzing his feelings about Molly. First and foremost, why should he care who she dated? He didn’t, dammit!

      Perhaps he should think about moving on. He’d worked on the Broken Arrow Ranch longer than anywhere, and he wasn’t the kind of man who was comfortable staying in any one place. When he was in town that afternoon, he’d gotten the addresses of a number of large ranches in the state. This was as good a time as any to inquire about jobs. He’d been here too long, and he’d grown restless. At least that was what he told himself.

      But he realized almost immediately that it was a lie.

      Working for Walt Wheaton had given him a sense of satisfaction. The old man had needed him, and Sam had definitely needed a job. And more. He’d needed a home, needed some respect, needed to be useful. He was willing to admit that now, although it wasn’t easy. The last six months had given him perspective.

      The bitter taste of his anger was gone and he was able to look back on his time in prison with a sort of … acceptance. He’d been drunk and stupid, raging over the loss of his career and every dime he’d saved. He’d been looking for trouble that night—almost four years ago now. The fight had been his fault, and he’d paid the price for his stupidity.

      Sam had thought he’d learned his lesson, but he hadn’t been in Sweetgrass more than a few minutes when he made the same mistake. He’d gone into Willie’s for a beer; all he’d wanted was to quench his thirst. Everyone in the bar had been content to ignore the quarrelling couple. Sam, too. Until the drunk started slapping the woman around. That was when he’d stepped in. The fight had spilled into the street, where Walt Wheaton was standing, talking with a couple of old cronies. Before long, the sheriff was on the scene and Sam had been hauled away. Walt had seen the whole thing.…

      Sam was grateful to Walt for hiring him without asking endless questions about his past. He didn’t understand what had prompted the old man to bail him out. All the rancher cared about was Sam’s skill in running the ranch, and once assured he knew his way around a herd, Walt had offered him the job.

      Unless someone else had told him, Walt didn’t know Sam had served a two-year sentence in a Washington-state prison. Sam didn’t figure it was relevant; besides, being an ex-con wasn’t something he was proud of. And it wasn’t something he liked to talk about.

      Sam still wondered why this sick old man had trusted him. It’d been a long time since anyone had willingly placed faith in him. That was why Sam had stayed, why he’d worked himself to the point of exhaustion, month after month. Sam would rather have died than disappoint Walt Wheaton.

      It’d been a long time, too, since he’d allowed himself to care about anyone. Feelings were a luxury a man on the move couldn’t afford. They’d always made Sam uncomfortable, for more reasons than he wanted to examine.

      Over the weeks and months he’d worked the Broken Arrow, he’d become fond of the crotchety old man. On some level they’d connected. He owed Walt, in a way he’d never owed anyone before. He also saw Walt’s despair over the deterioration of his ranch, and he was determined to salvage as much as he could. In an effort to prove himself worthy of Walt’s faith, Sam had struggled to build up the herd. He’d ridden the land so often he was familiar with damn near every square inch of it.

      And he’d made a mistake. A big mistake. He’d started to dream.

      Once in a while he’d find an excuse to ride up to the crest of the hill that overlooked the valley and dream that this land was his.

      He supposed it was because he carried the sole responsibility for this ranch now. He’d started to feel he belonged here. And that was dangerous.

      At night, it had become his habit to walk among the outbuildings and check everything one last time before he turned in. All too often his thoughts grew fanciful and he’d pretend that inside the house a woman was waiting for him. His wife. He’d pretend that his children slept upstairs, tucked securely in their beds, loved beyond measure.

      It was never meant to be. When Walt died, the Broken Arrow would pass to Molly and her two boys. Then she’d find herself a new husband, who’d send him on his way.

      He grimaced. His dreams were downright laughable, and the sooner he put them out of his mind, the easier it would be to pack his bags and move on. With this experience under his belt, he’d apply elsewhere and await the replies. No point in lingering when he could read the writing on the wall. He’d be out of a job by the end of the year.

      All of a sudden Sam realized he was no longer alone. He turned and found Tom, the older of Molly’s two sons, standing just inside the barn. The boy looked hesitant, glancing about as if he wasn’t sure he should be there.

      “Do you need something?” Sam asked gruffly, sounding more unfriendly than he’d intended. Actually he liked Tom. The boy reminded him a little of what he’d been like at that age.

      “No. I … thought I’d feed the horses.”

      Sam noticed the boy had one hand behind his back. “And what do you think you’ll feed them?”

      Tom brought his arm forward and revealed a handful of carrots.

      “Have you been around horses much?”

      Tom shook his head.

      “Then let me give you a few guidelines.” The last thing the old man needed was the shock of having one of his great-grandkids bitten by a horse. Or kicked in the gut.

      Hearing voices, Sinbad arched his sleek black neck over the edge of the stall. The gelding was friendly, just right for a boy about Tom’s age. Gus, Walt’s Morgan horse, wasn’t opposed to a bit of attention himself, but Sam would rather steer the kid toward the more reliable Sinbad.

      “You like to ride?” Sam asked, while he showed Tom the proper way to hold a carrot without risking the loss of a couple of fingers.

      “I never have,” the boy admitted.

      “You’re going to have to learn, then, aren’t you?” If his mother decided to keep the ranch, Tom would