Jake (A Wyoming Sky Novel) Page 13

  But tonight in his arms, she’d been a very different Meg. All heat and fire and passion. And he’d have bet any amount of money that she had been as reluctant as he to walk away.

  Now that he’d met the other Meg, the sexy, too-hot-to-handle Meg, he couldn’t wait to see which one he’d uncover the next time he kissed her.

  And he fully intended to kiss her again. As often as he could.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rain started around dawn, and by the time Meg awoke, it was a steady, drenching downpour.

  The perfect day for a funeral, Meg thought, as she and Cory took their seats in the front pew of the Paintbrush Church.

  After his night in the barn, Cory had showered and dressed in a clean shirt and denims. Despite his attempt to tame his hair, it stuck out in wild tufts here and there, and fell below the collar of his shirt.

  Meg wore one of her business suits in charcoal silk. The narrow skirt and fitted jacket may have been the perfect choice for a courtroom, but now that she was seated in the simple church, they seemed too fussy. The designer shoes with skinny red heels and cutout toes had cost a fortune. When she’d worn them in D.C. they made her feel smart and sexy, a woman who understood fashion and how to use it to her advantage. Here in Paintbrush, surrounded by men in cowboy boots and women in sensible sneakers and walking shoes, she felt foolish and frivolous.

  When Reverend Cornell began the service, Meg glanced around. The entire Conway family had insisted on leaving their chores behind in order to show their support, as did the police chief, as promised.

  She was pleasantly surprised by the number of strangers filling the pews of the church. Had her father touched so many lives? Meg found herself wondering if the people were here out of a fondness for Porter Stanford, or simply to satisfy their curiosity about a man who had lived his life without regard to the rules that governed the rest of them.

  One cowboy, who sat in a far corner of the church, head bowed, hands folded, stirred a memory in her. She glanced at him a time or two but never caught his eye.

  Still, she couldn’t shake that fingers-along-the-spine feeling of being watched. She soon forgot about it, however, when the minister began the service.

  Reverend Cornell, tall, balding, bespectacled, had a voice that needed no amplification. He spoke in dramatic, funereal tones about a man who had kept mostly to himself, but had often reached out to help those in the town who were most in need.

  Meg sat up straighter. Was the good preacher merely stretching the truth in order to ease any grief Porter Stanford’s children might be suffering? Was it possible that her father had ever cared about anyone except himself? Was there a side to the man that she’d never uncovered?

  As the minister switched from his personal recollections of the deceased to talk in abstract terms about life and death, Meg allowed her mind to drift back to the years she’d struggled with her self-esteem, believing always that her parents had split because of her. Despite the fortune her mother had spent on counselors for her daughter, the seeds planted in her young mind had never been completely uprooted. She’d seen firsthand the tug-of-war between two headstrong people, vying for a child’s affection and loyalty. Those memories would remain for a lifetime.

  Her mother may have won the battle, taking Meg far from the home and father she loved, but in the subsequent years, Virginia had lost the war. She and her daughter had grown more and more distant as she’d struggled to balance the needs of a rebellious teenage daughter against the demands of a successful, career-driven new husband. In such a battle, it seemed inevitable that her daughter couldn’t win.

  Meg glanced at Cory, who was shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat. Though they shared the same father, their memories of the man were very different.

  In that instant the boy looked up, and their gazes met and held. Meg was stunned at the pain in his eyes. Without thinking she draped an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer.

  At her touch he stiffened, and seconds later, feeling awkward and completely out of her element, she removed her arm and clutched her hands tightly in her lap. It would seem that no matter what she did, it was the wrong thing, at least in Cory’s eyes.

  Reverend Cornell walked toward the casket, and the first chords of an old familiar hymn were played on an organ.

  The minister beckoned them forward, and Meg and Cory got to their feet and stood beside him. As the funeral director rolled the casket down the aisle, Meg and Cory trailed slowly behind.

  Though she kept her head lowered, Meg was aware of Everett Fletcher standing stiffly in a pew, and behind him the Conway family. Big Jim and Cole, with old Ela and Phoebe beside them. Quinn and Cheyenne, and Josh and Sierra.

  And then there was Jake. She tried not to look at him, but her eyes betrayed her, going wide, meeting his. In that quick glance she saw a look of understanding, and though she didn’t want to probe her already fragile feelings too deeply, she felt a wave of extreme gratitude that he was there and that he understood what she was going through.

  She glanced around for the cowboy who’d snagged her attention earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  As the others in the church fell into step behind them, they paraded out of the church and up the hill to the cemetery. The funeral director’s assistant handed her an umbrella, and she and Cory huddled beneath it as they followed the casket to the freshly dug gravesite.

  Meg noted the shiny new grave marker beside the open hole. It bore the legend Arabella Stanford. Wife. Mother. Other than those simple words, there was nothing more. Neither her date of birth nor her date of death were included. Maybe her father had intended to add more and had simply failed to follow through. At any rate, his name would soon be added to the stone, and the two who had been recently united in life would also be united in death.

  And wasn’t life strange? she thought.

  There was no time to puzzle over it as the small crowd began gathering around the minister, who read from a book. When the final prayer was concluded, Reverend Cornell walked to Meg and Cory and said a few words.

  Meg’s years of courtroom training took over, and though she didn’t have a clue as to what the minister had said, she mouthed platitudes, thanking him for offering comfort during this difficult time.

  He smiled and walked away, and only then did Meg realize that Cory was silently weeping.

  She felt completely helpless against his tears. Should she put her arm around him and risk having him pull away again?

  Even while that thought was swirling through her mind, she felt movement beside her and saw that Jake had come forward to wrap his big arms around the boy.

  “It’s all right to cry, Cory,” he said against the boy’s temple. “I’ve done it a time or two myself. That’s what we do when our hearts are broken.”

  Without a word Cory leaned into him, and the flood of tears that he’d been so valiantly fighting were unleashed like a raging river, soaking the front of Jake’s already wet shirt.

  While Jake held the boy, two cemetery workers began lowering the casket into the ground. A few friends and neighbors came forward to toss a shovelful of mud on the lowered casket and to offer their condolences to Meg. Several of them touched a hand to Cory’s head before making their way down the hill toward their waiting vehicles.

  A glance around told Meg that she and Cory were alone, except for the Conway family. The rest had already drifted away, back to their jobs or homes.

  The Conway family had very kindly waited until everyone had left before coming forward to speak to Meg.

  Jake touched a hand to her arm. “My family would like to say good-bye. They have to get back to the ranch.”

  “Of course.” She managed a smile as she extended her hand to Big Jim, and then to each of the others. “Thank you all so much for being here. Cory and I are grateful for your support.”

  As they spoke their words of sympathy and walked away, Big Jim held back. He laid a hand on Cory’s shoulder. “It’s ha
rd, saying good-bye to the ones who gave us life. If you ever find yourself in trouble, I hope you know that you can still talk to your daddy, just the way you did when he was walking this earth. The way I see it, death doesn’t mean the end of life. It’s just that we can’t see those who’ve passed over. But they can still see and hear us, and they still care about us.”

  The boy stared hard at the toe of his boot.

  Big Jim drew Meg close for a quick, hard hug. “You stay strong.”

  She took in a deep breath. “I will. Thank you.”

  He stepped back and walked away until he caught up with the rest of his family.

  Meg turned to Jake, who had offered Cory his handkerchief. “Thank you.” She was surprised to hear the tremor in her voice. Oh, sweet heaven. She prayed she wouldn’t embarrass herself by weeping.

  “I’ll wait for you at the church door.”

  “There’s no need—”

  He held up a hand. “Kirby Bolton said he’ll meet with you in his office. It’s right next door to the courthouse. When you’re ready, I’ll drive you there.”

  She nodded.

  He walked away, leaving her alone with Cory, who was staring at the workers. An older man drove a front-end loader, dropping mounds of mud until the gaping hole in the ground was filled. A second worker used a rake and shovel to smooth the soggy earth. Nearby lay a neat roll of sod, which would no doubt soon cover the spot until it blended perfectly with the other gravesites, completely obliterating the fresh grave.

  “Dad didn’t like the dark.”

  Meg turned to the little boy, wondering what to say.

  Cory’s chin jutted. “He’d sit up real late in the night. And whenever I came downstairs, he always had all the lights on in all the rooms. I asked him why, and he said he didn’t like the dark.”

  “I guess that’s true for a lot of us.”

  “But now they’ve covered him.” Cory blinked hard, and Meg prayed that he wouldn’t start crying again. She didn’t think she could bear it if he did.

  She thought quickly, needing something to say. “You know our dad isn’t there.”

  Cory looked up at her. “He’s not?”

  She shook her head, trying desperately to remember whatever childhood thoughts she’d ever had about death and dying. “That’s just his old, worn-out body there. But his soul, his spirit, is already in heaven.”

  Cory seemed intrigued. “Mom talked about heaven a lot.”

  “Well, then. There you are. What did she say about it?”

  “That there’s no pain there. It’s filled with happy, peaceful souls. And angels. She liked thinking about angels. She said she wasn’t afraid of going to heaven to be with angels.”

  Meg felt an unexpected jolt of gratitude toward the young woman she’d never met. “Your mom was right. And now our dad’s joined her there. And there’s no pain. No anger. Just light and peace.”

  Though she’d intended her words to soothe a troubled boy, she found her own heart feeling lighter, as well. Did she really believe what she was saying? She wasn’t sure. But right now, she needed some hope to cling to as desperately as Cory did.

  “Did Dad bring you here a lot to visit your mom’s grave?”

  He shook his head. “Dad didn’t leave the ranch much after she—”

  Seeing his lips tremble, Meg had a need to fill the awkward silence. “Anytime you’d like to come here and visit, you let me know.”

  “I will.” The boy beside her took in a long, deep breath before turning away.

  As she followed suit, she felt his hand sneak into hers. Warmth speared through her, and for the first time since waking hours ago, the iron band around her heart seemed to have loosened ever so slightly.

  Keeping the umbrella over their heads, she laced her fingers with Cory’s and led the way down the hill.

  True to his word, Jake stood waiting for them.

  With quiet authority, he helped them into his truck and drove along Main Street to the courthouse.

  Meg and Cory sat on either side of Judge Kirby Bolton’s desk in his small, cramped chambers.

  Stepping from the courtroom in his judicial robes, he looked every inch a wise magistrate. Dark, lively eyes were magnified by the thick, wire-rimmed glasses that added to his air of importance. Meg was startled to see that he was actually no more than five and a half feet tall, and thin as a stick.

  Once he was seated behind his desk, he became once again a force to be reckoned with. He folded his hands atop his desk and studied the woman and boy with obvious interest.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Especially you, Cory. I know how much your father meant to you, son.” His deep, theatrical voice resonated in the small room, causing Meg and Cory to sit up straighter. Despite the stern-eyed gaze and forceful tone, there was a softness in his eyes when he directed his words to Cory. “I hope you know that I’ll do anything I can to make this an easy transition. But nothing can take the place of a father.”

  Cory nodded before lowering his head.

  “I’ve been Porter’s legal advisor for more than forty years. There are few surprises in his will. He was a very straightforward man. He wanted the fruits of his labor to be given over to those who would appreciate the sacrifices he’s made for a lifetime.” Kirby Bolton peered at the two of them. “Despite the fact that Porter liked the ladies and enjoyed living the good life, he worked as hard as he played. As he was fond of saying, nothing was given to him. He had to earn every penny the hard way.”

  The judge opened a file and studied the top page. “There are no debts on your father’s estate. He saw to it that all taxes were paid in a timely manner. He recorded every wage that he paid to his wranglers. Whenever possible, he did business with locals. He saw it as his duty to keep his money circulating in the community in which he lived. And he hoped that his heirs would do the same.”

  Meg’s chin jutted slightly, but she held her silence.

  Kirby began to read from the will. “Two of my three wives received generous settlements at the time of our divorce and therefore are not entitled to any portion of my estate. My first ex-wife, Virginia, and my third wife, Arabella, rest her soul, predeceased me. Neither Virginia nor Arabella had extended family. Therefore, there are no other claimants to my estate but my two children, my daughter, Meghan, and my son, Cory. I desire that my estate be divided equally between them, with Cory’s portion held in trust until he reaches the age of majority, with my trusted friend and legal counsel, Judge Kirby Bolton, as executor. I charge my heirs to see to it that the ranch and all its holdings, including the wranglers, the herds, the vehicles, and ranch implements continue to operate as they always have, as a working ranch.”

  Meg clenched her teeth and fisted her hands in her lap, the only sign of her agitation. It would appear that Porter Stanford had hoped to dictate even from the grave.

  Kirby Bolton looked over his spectacles. “Are there any questions?”

  Meg tapped a finger on the arm of her chair. “I’d appreciate your clarification on a point of law.”

  The judge raised his brows. “Of course. Your reputation as a criminal lawyer has preceded you. I certainly respect your knowledge of the law. What would you like to know?”

  “Regarding the ranch…the estate,” she corrected. “Was my father merely stating his preference, or are these terms legal and binding? In other words, do I have the right to dispose of the ranch and everything on it as I see fit?”

  Judge Bolton folded his hands. “Your father had very strong ideas about how his estate should be handled after his death. Having said that, I would add that he was stating his preference; therefore it would not be legally binding in a court of law. His heirs have the right to dispose of the estate in any manner they happen to choose. I would warn you, however, that I have been appointed executor for Cory’s portion of the estate until he reaches the age of majority, and I have been charged with the duty to see to it that his best interest is being served. Since I would cast my vote in h
is stead, I would have to be persuaded that anything that veers from Porter’s stated preference is in the best interest of Cory’s future.”

  Meg’s eyes narrowed. “His best interest meaning that you believe he should be raised here, on our father’s ranch?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m certainly open to suggestions as to where and how Cory should grow into manhood.”

  Meg studied the judge. “Do you plan on taking physical custody of Cory?”

  Kirby Bolton smiled. “This was discussed at some length with Porter, when he dictated the latest version of his last will and testament, shortly after Arabella died. He wanted assurance that Cory would be taken care of, both physically and psychologically. We both agreed that it would be in the boy’s best interest if he could live with family.” Kirby Bolton gave her a long, appraising look before glancing down at the papers on his desk. “In the event that isn’t possible, I will oversee his physical care and education until he reaches the age of eighteen.”

  Meg could feel Cory looking over at her, but she kept her gaze averted, wondering at the strange rush of emotions. She ought to feel relief that her father had given her an out clause. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? Why then, this feeling of dejection? Was it because her father had already decided that she would be unwilling to take on the responsibility of a half brother? Had he already written her off as too selfish, too self-centered, to care more about a seven-year-old boy than she did about her precious career, her freedom, her comfort?

  Her temper flared.

  How dare her long-absent father judge her and label her?

  Or would it be more honest to admit that she was the one judging her own selfish motives?

  She shot the judge a challenging look. “Have you heard about the vandalism that occurred at my father’s ranch?”

  Kirby nodded. “Police Chief Fletcher came by to ask if Porter had any enemies that I knew about. I’ll tell you what I told him. Every man probably acquires a few enemies over the course of his lifetime, especially a man like Porter, who lived life to the fullest. I’m sure he stepped on his share of toes over the years. Irate husbands. Unhappy businessmen who felt that he’d taken advantage of them. And probably more than a few pretty women who hoped they could be the next Mrs. Stanford. But I don’t know of anyone who would want to break into his home or to vandalize his daughter’s vehicle. Along with enjoying the good life, Porter looked out for the folks in this town. Despite what his ex-wives may have thought of him, he was a good man.”