Chapter One
T ate Hollister lived alone, which wasn’t surprising to his nearest neighbor. He had a temper like black lightning and seemed to hate people in general, and boys in particular. Maggie Jeffries had gotten an earful about the taciturn rancher from her late father-in-law, and her son Blake was an ongoing verbal documentary on his life. If she hadn’t loved the boy so much, she might have had some terrible fights with him over the incredible case of hero worship he had for Hollister. Maggie had seen their black-eyed neighbor from time to time over the years, but he avoided her the same way he tried to avoid Blake. But he didn’t have a lot of success with the boy; Blake was almost ten and Hollister was his hero.
It was hard to overlook Blake’s constant chatter about the man, but Maggie loved her son, so she tried not to be annoyed. She also kept in mind that Blake had never known his father. Bob Jeffries had been a war correspondent. He’d died in Central America covering a story, leaving Maggie destitute and three months pregnant. She’d supported herself by working as a secretary to a printing corporation executive. When the company had moved its headquarters from Tennessee to Tucson, Arizona, Maggie had decided to go along with little Blake. Her parents were dead and her three brothers were scattered all over the country, but Grandpa Jeffries had still been alive. She wanted to be close enough that Blake could spend some time with him on his rural Montana ranch.
Over the years, Maggie had rapidly climbed to executive secretary and held a responsible job. Then Grandfather Jeffries had died unexpectedly in the fall and had left this small ranch to Maggie.
Blake, who’d been in military school for the past year, had jumped at the chance to go to Montana. Couldn’t they, he pleaded, just for the Christmas holidays? Then Maggie could decide if she wanted to sell the place, couldn’t she? After all—he played his trump card with a dejected expression that was only partially faked—they hardly saw each other anymore.
That had done it. Maggie missed her son, despite the fact that she wanted him to be independent and not tied to her apron strings. She’d asked for two weeks leave from her job, just through the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. Then she’d found them a temporary secretary to take her place, and she and young Blake had left for the wilds of Montana.
And here they were. In two feet of drifting snow, on a rickety, run-down ranch facing the Bitterroot mountains, with no close neighbors except for the elusive and unfriendly Mr. Hollister, whom Blake seemed to worship from afar for God alone knew what reason.
The ranch house was more of a large cabin than a house, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It had just four rooms, two of which were bedrooms. The living room and dining room were combined, with a small kitchen in one corner and a bathroom that was definitely an afterthought. The furnishings were wood, and all of it had a definite Indian influence, from the blankets and rugs to the paintings that decorated the rough wood walls. The only difference now was the few Christmas decorations that Maggie and Blake had added, like the pine boughs around the fireplace with their red velvet bows and the cheerful red and green candles and the artificial holly on the coffee table.
Maggie found the idle pace of life in Montana familiar. It brought back memories of her childhood spent in the mountains of southern Tennessee, so close to the Georgia line that it had once been disputed border territory. She’d lived in the backwoods with her parents and her brothers, and it had been a satisfying life until Bob had passed through covering a story and had wooed Maggie out of her mountains and into Memphis and a small apartment.
Sometimes that part of her life seemed like a long-ago dream. If it hadn’t been for the photos, she would hardly remember what Bob looked like, although she’d loved him
T ate Hollister lived alone, which wasn’t surprising to his nearest neighbor. He had a temper like black lightning and seemed to hate people in general, and boys in particular. Maggie Jeffries had gotten an earful about the taciturn rancher from her late father-in-law, and her son Blake was an ongoing verbal documentary on his life. If she hadn’t loved the boy so much, she might have had some terrible fights with him over the incredible case of hero worship he had for Hollister. Maggie had seen their black-eyed neighbor from time to time over the years, but he avoided her the same way he tried to avoid Blake. But he didn’t have a lot of success with the boy; Blake was almost ten and Hollister was his hero.
It was hard to overlook Blake’s constant chatter about the man, but Maggie loved her son, so she tried not to be annoyed. She also kept in mind that Blake had never known his father. Bob Jeffries had been a war correspondent. He’d died in Central America covering a story, leaving Maggie destitute and three months pregnant. She’d supported herself by working as a secretary to a printing corporation executive. When the company had moved its headquarters from Tennessee to Tucson, Arizona, Maggie had decided to go along with little Blake. Her parents were dead and her three brothers were scattered all over the country, but Grandpa Jeffries had still been alive. She wanted to be close enough that Blake could spend some time with him on his rural Montana ranch.
Over the years, Maggie had rapidly climbed to executive secretary and held a responsible job. Then Grandfather Jeffries had died unexpectedly in the fall and had left this small ranch to Maggie.
Blake, who’d been in military school for the past year, had jumped at the chance to go to Montana. Couldn’t they, he pleaded, just for the Christmas holidays? Then Maggie could decide if she wanted to sell the place, couldn’t she? After all—he played his trump card with a dejected expression that was only partially faked—they hardly saw each other anymore.
That had done it. Maggie missed her son, despite the fact that she wanted him to be independent and not tied to her apron strings. She’d asked for two weeks leave from her job, just through the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. Then she’d found them a temporary secretary to take her place, and she and young Blake had left for the wilds of Montana.
And here they were. In two feet of drifting snow, on a rickety, run-down ranch facing the Bitterroot mountains, with no close neighbors except for the elusive and unfriendly Mr. Hollister, whom Blake seemed to worship from afar for God alone knew what reason.
The ranch house was more of a large cabin than a house, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It had just four rooms, two of which were bedrooms. The living room and dining room were combined, with a small kitchen in one corner and a bathroom that was definitely an afterthought. The furnishings were wood, and all of it had a definite Indian influence, from the blankets and rugs to the paintings that decorated the rough wood walls. The only difference now was the few Christmas decorations that Maggie and Blake had added, like the pine boughs around the fireplace with their red velvet bows and the cheerful red and green candles and the artificial holly on the coffee table.
Maggie found the idle pace of life in Montana familiar. It brought back memories of her childhood spent in the mountains of southern Tennessee, so close to the Georgia line that it had once been disputed border territory. She’d lived in the backwoods with her parents and her brothers, and it had been a satisfying life until Bob had passed through covering a story and had wooed Maggie out of her mountains and into Memphis and a small apartment.
Sometimes that part of her life seemed like a long-ago dream. If it hadn’t been for the photos, she would hardly remember what Bob looked like, although she’d loved him
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