A Wife in Wyoming. Lynnette Kent

graduation, when he’d helped herd cattle down to lower pasture before heading off to college. He’d returned to visit since, but not at this time of year. Summer jobs, classes, internships, law school...he’d been busy then, and he’d been even busier since he’d joined one of the biggest firms in San Francisco and started working his way up.

      For now, though, he was home—not forever, not even for the whole summer. But with time enough to stand here as the sun set behind him, tinting the valley blue and purple. Time enough to pull the fresh air into his lungs and listen to the evening breeze rustle through the pines.

      Time. The one commodity he didn’t have in his portfolio these days.

      Ford headed back to the truck, started the engine and eased onto the empty highway, heading downhill. His law partners weren’t happy about the leave of absence. His clients... Hell, his clients were furious. He’d jeopardized his career—plus the security and status it provided—to take these weeks off.

      But family came first. And so he coasted down from the mountains and breezed south out of Buffalo toward their little town of Bisons Creek, where he headed up the county road to the one place that he still, after all these years away, called home.

      * * *

      AT THE HOUSE the screened front door stood wide open to the night air. Ford crossed the porch and stepped into the dark living room. “Anybody home?”

      A woof! and the scrabble of dog claws on the plank floor announced the approach of Honey, the chubby golden retriever who’d been the ranch’s top dog for the past ten years.

      “Hey there, Honey Bear.” He bent to ruffle her ears and scratch her along her spine as she circled in front of him, panting with delight. “Yeah, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

      Boot heels thudded down the hall from the rear of the house. “It’s about time you showed up.” His brother Garrett gave him a fake slug to the jaw before closing him into a bear hug. “We’ve got a million questions about this insurance stuff that nobody will answer. How was your drive?”

      “Fine.” Ford drew back and lifted an eyebrow. “Where’s the boss?”

      Garrett tilted his head in the direction of the bedrooms. “Sulky as a bear. I’d go in with a rifle, if I were you.”

      “When’s dinner?”

      “When you make it.”

      “Just like the old days.” Ford had started cooking for their motherless family when he was ten. “Let me talk to Wyatt first. And can we turn on some lights in this house?”

      “Leave it to you to get us organized.” Garrett flipped a switch and the living room became visible. Welcoming.

      “That’s better.” As Ford started toward his older brother’s room, Honey slipped ahead of him to lead the way. The lights were off at the far end of the hall, which was strange so early in the evening. Who the hell was running this place?

      He reached for a lamp just inside the bedroom door and switched it on. “Hey, Boss. No self-respecting rancher is asleep at 8:00 p.m.”

      “No self-respecting rancher gets thrown from a horse, lands on his butt and breaks his damn back.” Wyatt put up a hand from where he lay flat in bed. “Welcome home.”

      His brother’s hearty grip allowed Ford to relax a little. “Thanks.”

      But Wyatt was frowning. “You didn’t have to leave your job, though. Garrett and Dylan are managing okay.”

      “Yeah, right,” Garrett said from the door. “The two of us finish about half of what you did on your own in a single day. No problems there.”

      “The work’ll get done.”

      “It will get done faster with more hands to help.”

      There was an edge to his brother’s tone, and Ford gathered they’d had this argument before. “We’ll manage the chores, one way or the other. Right now I’m more interested in food. What do you feel like, Wyatt?”

      “I’m not hungry.” He’d turned his face toward the TV flickering in the corner.

      “You’re always hungry.”

      “Not when I spend the whole damn day in bed.” A metal brace was sprawled across the dresser, conspicuously unused.

      “Okay. I’ll figure it out and bring you a plate.”

      “Don’t bother.”

      In the kitchen Ford raised an eyebrow as he met Garrett’s eyes. “How long has he been this way?”

      “Ten days since he came home from the hospital. Won’t take the pain pills they gave him, just lies there except when he has to pee.”

      “I should have been here sooner.” He moved toward the refrigerator. “You should have called right away.”

      “I didn’t know the injury would get him so down.”

      Ford pulled four T-bone steaks out of the freezer and headed for the oven. “He won’t use the brace?”

      “I can’t convince him to put it on. I guess he’s planning to lie in bed until he stops hurting.”

      “Not a chance. We’ll get him on his feet. Right now find me some potatoes.”

      In thirty minutes he’d prepared four steak dinners, the task as familiar as if he still did it every night, instead of twice a year. He debated cutting Wyatt’s meat up, but decided he didn’t want the food thrown at him.

      He returned to his brother’s room. “Dinner’s ready.”

      “I said I’m not hungry.” But Wyatt’s stomach betrayed him, gurgling loud enough to be heard outside the house.

      Ford laughed. “I know the truth when I hear it. Come out and eat at the table like a man.”

      His older brother glared at him from under lowered brows. “You’re making trouble.”

      “You’re being a pain in the butt.”

      Wyatt swore, loudly, but he rolled to the side of the bed and then off, landing carefully on his knees. Pushing up with his hands, he straightened his legs before he could finally lever his top half upright.

      Ford picked up the metal brace. “That’s quite a process.”

      Wyatt muttered something unintelligible and presented his back. With a few fumbles, Ford got the brace over his brother’s head and settled it on his shoulders with the straps fastened tight.

      “There ya go.”

      At that moment the screen door in the front of the house slammed. “Got some food somewhere?” Dylan called. “I’m starving.”

      As Wyatt walked stiffly into the bright kitchen light, the youngest Marshall gave a whistle. “Look at you, Boss. We’ll have you in the saddle in no time.” He walked toward Ford. “So you finally came home. I’ve got a horse with your saddle on it out in the corral.” Then he came in for a hug. “Welcome back,” he said in a low voice, which Ford understood meant we need you.

      “Yep,” Ford said, meaning I’ll take care of everything. He slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “Let’s eat.”

      For a while the only sounds were chewing and swallowing as the four of them dug into their steaks. Ford took the opportunity to study each of his brothers, assessing changes since his last visit. Dylan, with his dark brown hair worn a little long and a sensitive curve to his mouth just like their mother’s, still looked young enough to be in college, though he’d graduated five years ago. Garrett’s hair was a lighter brown and neatly styled, probably to please his church congregation. Right now his blue eyes were shadowed and a little strained—he’d always been the worrier. Wyatt shared Dylan’s brown eyes and Garrett’s hair, cut in the practical, no-fuss way he’d worn