For His Daughter. Ann Evans

concrete. “Like Rafe, for instance,” Nick said.

      There were several moments of silence. Rafe knew that most of the people here, while perhaps not having an actual ax to grind with him, might find him an interloper in their midst. No, maybe more than that. He let his eyes do a quick circuit around the room. How many of these people had he had run-ins with as a teenager?

      Short of killing his brother very slowly, Rafe couldn’t think of a suitable revenge. He shook his head. “Nick,” he said at last, clearing his throat. “I don’t think—”

      “Not Rafe,” Sam said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

      For just one moment, Rafe’s eyes met with his father’s. They had lightning in them.

      Rafe’s heart gave a kick of annoyance so faint he hardly felt it. He knew what the old man was thinking. Mustering all of his self control, Rafe said, “I’ll do it.”

      “No,” Sam said.

      Rafe felt his jaw setting in anger. If there had been a collective gasp in the room at that moment, it couldn’t have been more obvious that everyone knew more was going on here than just a simple difference of opinion.

      “Why not him? “Sheriff Bendix had the guts to ask.

      In spite of his surface poise and bland ease, Sam’s eyes hinted a warning toward the man. “My son hasn’t lived in this town for years. He cannot know what would work best for Broken Yoke. He has no interest in it.”

      Polly Swinburne swung a glance in Rafe’s direction. “I heard you bought up part of First Street downtown. Is that true? Because that doesn’t sound like someone who has no interest to me.”

      “It’s true. I’ve come back to BrokenYoke with the intention of making it my home.” Rafe’s eyes locked again with his father’s in a light challenge. “Permanently.”

      He waited, refusing to look away.

      Sam settled back in his wheelchair. “You have landed here for now. But a home is more than just an address.”

      Before Rafe could say anything, Nick jumped in. “That’s beside the point. As an outsider, Rafe has no preconceived notions about what would serve us best. What he does have is plenty of PR experience. All those years in Vegas and L.A. He’ll know what will catch people’s interest. How to massage the media to get the best coverage.”

      Someone laughed. “Way I hear it, you were always good at massages, Rafe.”

      “This is a serious discussion,” Howard Hackett complained, and Rafe tried to remember if the man had a daughter. Truthfully, he couldn’t recall many of the local girls he’d romanced and left behind.

      “I know how to handle the press,” Rafe acknowledged. “If you want me to do this, I will. Otherwise, I’m perfectly happy going about my own business.”

      “I nominate Rafe D’Angelo for publicity chairman,” Nick said quickly. “All those in favor say aye.”

      There was a surprisingly supportive vote of confidence in favor of the motion. There were no opposing votes, though Rafe suspected his father’s silence cost him dearly. He could tell from the older man’s posture in his chair that he wasn’t liking this turn of events. Not liking it at all.

      A short time later, the meeting broke up. Rafe was trapped in a round of congratulatory handshakes and slaps on the back, so that he couldn’t immediately join his father and brother on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Saddle. Calloway, Hackett and Swinburne, who he’d already begun to think of as the Unholy Trio, cornered him with promises to be in touch soon.

      When he finally emerged from the bar, he found his father and Nick waiting near the lodge’s van in the weak sunshine. From the matching set of their hardened jaws, Rafe could tell there had been harsh words exchanged. He could make a safe bet on the topic.

      He decided to ignore the ice forming between them. Before Rafe and his father were through with one another, he suspected there were going to be plenty more worthwhile arguments between them. He didn’t need to run interference for Nick, who had always been able to take care of himself.

      He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, wishing he’d remembered to bring gloves. Easter might be right around the corner, but there was still snow on the mountaintops and the air was chilly.

      Yanking his collar up, he said, “I’d forgotten how cold it can be up here, even in spring.”

      His father’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and something more petulant. “Easy to forget,” he snapped, “when you don’t come back to a place for twelve years.” He banged on the side of the van near the sliding door and looked at Nick. “We gonna stand around talking all day so I can freeze to death, or can we go home now?”

      Nick just grinned and shook his head, and in no time he had helped Sam to the backseat and stowed the wheelchair in the cargo hold. As Rafe closed the back doors, he nudged Nick’s arm to grab his attention.

      “Why did you do it?” he asked in a low voice so that Sam couldn’t hear. “You know you just made the old man mad.”

      “He’ll get over it.”

      “I’m serious. One son on his hit list is more than enough.”

      Nick shrugged. “The way I figure it, you’ll never get off his list if you don’t throw yourself into what matters to this family. Pop’s right about one thing, Rafe. Your home has to be more than just an address. Whatever you have planned for a future here, it will work better if you make your family a part of it.”

      “I’m not used to involving other people in my business. My private life stays private.”

      “Then you made a mistake coming back. Trust me, there’s very little in this family that isn’t a group effort. Whether you like it or not.”

      There was a muffled rap on one of the side windows. Pop, trying to hurry them along.

      They wove up the winding mountain road in silence. The sky was cloudless, a bright, clear, uncomplicated blue that the postcard companies must love. Every so often, Sam sighed heavily from the backseat, but neither Rafe nor Nick remarked on it.

      When the quiet reached an uncomfortable level, Rafe looked over at his brother. “So how’s the local rag of a paper? Is it still only fit for lining the bottom of a birdcage? I suppose if I’m going to drum up interest in this festival thing, I should start there.”

      “We have a new person in from Denver working the area,” Nick replied. He shrugged. “We do all right. Nothing much earth-shattering to write about around here.”

      Rafe couldn’t help a derisive laugh. “Oh, how well I remember that. A night on the town around here takes about ten minutes.”

      “You would know,” his father commented from the back-seat.

      There was another long, ugly moment of silence. Rafe stopped the impulse to turn in his seat to look at Sam. Don’t say anything. Don’t feed the temptation to strike back. You open that dialogue, and there’s no telling where it will go.

      He took a couple of calming breaths. “So this reporter… what’s he like?”

      Nick tossed him a grin. “She. Danielle Bridgeton. And from what I’ve heard around town, she’s not all that excited about being stuck up here. But I’m sure you can win her over. It’s part of the reason I suggested you. The old Rafe D’Angelo charm might come in handy.”

      Sam muttered something under his breath.

      Since he’d been gone, Rafe had become quite an expert in a lot of things. He knew how to break a horse, how to spot a cheat at the blackjack table, how to survive thirty days on a week’s worth of rations. He had learned patience and the art of compromise. So how could his father get to