The Man From Montana. Mary Forbes J.

while the interior’s free space spread like a rectangular field for the animals to take shelter.

      This morning, the double rear doors stood open. With the milder temperatures, most of the herd huddled outside around feed he’d forked onto the snow and into the bins.

      A pair of newborn Angus calves lay on fresh straw inside the barn. Twins. The cow’s rough pink tongue cleaned their wet coats. Lifting her broad black head, she eyed Ash.

      “It’s okay, mama,” he crooned softly, walking toward the pair. He clipped tags onto the calves’ left ears, number one hundred and two and three.

      He read the tags five times to make sure, though, oddly, numbers had always been easier than words. He studied the twins. Of the calves born so far, these two tallied forty-eight bulls. Good odds for beef sales.

      “Dad?” Dressed in high-topped work boots and her red parka, Daisy came across the barn. “You mad at Grandpa and me?”

      “No, honey.” Nothing I can’t deal with.

      She dogged him out of the barn, into the herd. “Then why are you hiding out here instead of eating lunch with us?”

      Ever the perceptive one, his Daiz. “I’m not hiding. Just checking to see if we have more calves. The pair in the barn were born in the last hour.”

      “You think Grandpa’s wrong letting Ms. Brant interview him, don’t you?”

      “Not for me to say what your grandfather can or cannot do. He’s his own person.”

      “Okay, then you don’t want me helping with the story. I saw it on your face.”

      “We don’t know anything about this Ms. Brant. She blew into town two weeks ago. My question is why? To write an old war story? What for? More to the point, why now?”

      He pushed through the hulking cattle. Snow breezed into his face along with the scent of hay and hide.

      Daisy trudged after him. “You can’t judge every journalist because of Mom’s death.”

      “It has nothing to do with her death.”

      “Yes, it does. You even said so when I wanted to write our high school column last September. The first thing out of your mouth was, ‘You want to be like that guy who killed your mother?’ Jeez, like I’d run out, get my license and crash a car into some innocent person, all for a story.”

      He swung to a stop. “Your mouth’s getting way too brazen, young lady.”

      She threw up her hands. “Argh! You’re impossible! No wonder no one wants to be your friend.” Wheeling around, red hair flying, she stormed through the cattle, back into the barn.

      Ash watched her go. His heart hurt. His pixie-girl was on a fast track to independence and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. Oh, yeah, he knew she had a flare for the written word. In first grade, she was already reading the scroll line on CNN.

      That same year, Susie bought their daughter the first Harry Potter novel. The book had caused a horrible argument between Ash and his wife.

      Bottom line: he’d felt the content too advanced for his tiny daughter with her missing front teeth. And Susie, eyes flashing, had retorted, “How would you know? You can’t read.”

      Something had died in Ash that day.

      Something of Susie and of himself.

      She had hoisted his dyslexia as an obstacle flag in the road of their child’s education.

      He hadn’t expected to feel inadequate in his marriage. But that day he had. He’d felt unskilled as a man and inept as a father. Later, Susie had apologized, but the words remained. Dangling in his ear for all time.

      He stared around at the cows. Dim-witted beasts. Like him. Daisy was right; his friends were few. Caution learned the hard way.

      Rachel Brant’s soft voice whispered through his mind. “You’re a kind man.” He shook his head. Hell.

      The last damn thing he needed was another woman in his life. Daisy was his life. Tom. The cows.

      Damn straight.

      They were his life and they were enough.

      On Wednesday, Rachel tapped her fingers on her Rocky Times desk. Should she call the Flying Bar T about the guesthouse? Yesterday, the greasy-haired manager at the Dream On Motel had sputtered about a month’s commitment. The thought of Charlie in that grubby room another night sickened her.

      At two-forty-five, she called the ranch.

      Tom answered and gave her Ash’s cell phone number. “He’s the one you need to talk to,” the old vet told her.

      Of course. It was his wife’s guesthouse, after all.

      Ash picked up on the second ring.

      “Hello, Ash,” she said cheerfully. As if she called him every week, as if her pulse hadn’t executed a nervous kick. “Rachel Brant here. I was wondering—”

      “It’s ready.”

      “Oh.” Were you planning to let me know? “We can move in, then?”

      “Yeah.”

      She fisted her hand in a yes-gesture. “Would this afternoon be too soon? Say right after school? I’ll rent a U-Haul right away to take our stuff to the ranch. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours, tops.”

      “What time this afternoon?”

      “I work till three, then I get Charlie from Lewis-Clark Elementary.” And she needed to check out of the motel, buy some groceries for a decent supper. “Say four-thirty-ish?”

      “Four-thirty it is. I’ll leave the key with Inez.”

      “Inez?”

      “Our housekeeper. I’ve left instructions with her, in case you have any questions.”

      “So you won’t be there?”

      “Probably not.” Pause. “Will someone be helping you?”

      Was he concerned? “We only have a few boxes and some clothes.”

      “No furniture?”

      “No.” What was the point when she moved every other year to yet another town, chasing yet another part of the series?

      “I see.”

      Actually, he didn’t, but explaining would incite questions she had no intention of answering. “We’ll be out shortly.”

      “Right.”

      “Bye—”

      Dial tone.

      “—Ash.”

      The McKees were not men of long conversations.

      She dropped her camera into her briefcase—a habit she’d established years ago in case an unexpected story presented itself—and pulled her purse from under the desk. Time to get her child from school. Time to start the ball rolling on why you’re in this hole-in-the-wall.

      Shrugging on her long gray coat, she called to the lone reporter left in the newsroom, “See you tomorrow, Marty.”

      His blond head lifted.

      Marty, of the fatal crash that killed Susie McKee. A foolhardy, energetic kid raring for the next story. You should be in Iraq or the Congo, not in Podunk, USA.

      “You moving out to the Flying Bar T?”

      He’d eavesdropped on her call.

      “I am.”

      His mouth twisted. “Don’t let Ash McKee bite you on the ass.”

      Hooking her scarf behind her neck, she stopped. “Why do you say that?”

      “He’s