the best mom in the whole world, even if she did have this annoying hang-up about his beloved Mr. Hollister. “But really, Mom, you’re going to have to do something about the cattle and the men pretty quick,” he finally said, sounding grown-up and almost knowledgeable. “The cattle are straying real bad. I saw some down on Mr. Hollister’s place just this morning.”
She drew in a breath. “Why didn’t you say so? For God’s sake, don’t just sit there. Get some barbed wire, and I’ll send for a few land mines….” She shuddered.
“He’s a nice man. You just don’t understand him,” Blake said.
She lifted her eyebrows. “Are we talking about the same Mr. Hollister? The one who looks like a hat and mustache sitting on a rock?” she asked, turning away from Blake’s amused grin. “I’ll bet if he ever smiled, his face would break.”
“Grandpa liked him,” he reminded her. “I do, too. You just don’t know him, that’s all. He’s a real jake guy.”
“I don’t want to know him. That’s why I spent every minute I came up here hiding out from him. And I will never learn to understand the language you speak,” she informed him. “It goes from mumble to street jive to unintelligible—” A loud knock at the door stopped her in midsentence. “Maybe it’s the man who can fix the generator,” she said hopefully and went to open the heavy oak door.
A rush of cold air hit her in the face, temporarily blinding her. Montana in winter was uncomfortable, even for natives. The windchill factor was nearly unbearable, and the snow never seemed to stop. This small ranch that she’d inherited from her father-in-law was located between the Bitterroot mountain range on the west and the Pryor mountains on the east, with the Wyoming border to the south. Tate Hollister’s much larger ranch and enormous house were on her north border and only about a quarter of a mile from the small frame house she shared with Blake.
She wasn’t really surprised to find Tate Hollister on her doorstep when she got her eyes cleared of snowflakes. He was tall already, but he seemed to have grown two feet since Maggie last saw him. He glared down at her from black eyes in a thin-lipped, deeply tanned face, which was all hard lines and sharp angles. He looked to be in his late thirties, and he was as wild a man as Maggie had ever seen. In his battered black ranch hat and sheepskin jacket, worn jeans and black boots, he looked like an outlaw. He needed a shave and his mustache needed trimming. His thick, shaggy hair was disheveled. Just the sight of him was enough to intimidate most men, much less Maggie.
“Yes?” she asked with forced pleasantness, her head cocked warily as he removed his gloves and slapped them into his palm.
“Ten head of your cattle are grazing on my winter feed supply,” he said without preamble. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Award them the Croix de Guerre for bravery above and beyond the call of duty,” she answered without hesitation.
He stared at her as if he wasn’t quite certain that he’d heard her. His head tilted slightly and his dark eyes narrowed, while Blake struggled with suppressed laughter. “I don’t think you understand the situation,” he tried again. “If you don’t get them off my land and out of my hay, I’m going to throw down on them.”
“That is an old Western expression,” Maggie explained to Blake. “It means he’s going to shoot them.” She looked back at Tate Hollister. “I hope you plan to give them a sporting chance. They are, after all, unarmed.” She smiled vacantly.
Hollister’s dark eyes were shadowed with surprise, and his mustache actually twitched, but there was no smile on his lips. “Mrs. Jeffries, this isn’t a laughing matter.”
“Yes, sir.” She curtsied. “What would you like me to do about the cattle?”
He looked as confused as a man could. He glanced at Blake, glowering at the boy’s grin, which was quickly
She drew in a breath. “Why didn’t you say so? For God’s sake, don’t just sit there. Get some barbed wire, and I’ll send for a few land mines….” She shuddered.
“He’s a nice man. You just don’t understand him,” Blake said.
She lifted her eyebrows. “Are we talking about the same Mr. Hollister? The one who looks like a hat and mustache sitting on a rock?” she asked, turning away from Blake’s amused grin. “I’ll bet if he ever smiled, his face would break.”
“Grandpa liked him,” he reminded her. “I do, too. You just don’t know him, that’s all. He’s a real jake guy.”
“I don’t want to know him. That’s why I spent every minute I came up here hiding out from him. And I will never learn to understand the language you speak,” she informed him. “It goes from mumble to street jive to unintelligible—” A loud knock at the door stopped her in midsentence. “Maybe it’s the man who can fix the generator,” she said hopefully and went to open the heavy oak door.
A rush of cold air hit her in the face, temporarily blinding her. Montana in winter was uncomfortable, even for natives. The windchill factor was nearly unbearable, and the snow never seemed to stop. This small ranch that she’d inherited from her father-in-law was located between the Bitterroot mountain range on the west and the Pryor mountains on the east, with the Wyoming border to the south. Tate Hollister’s much larger ranch and enormous house were on her north border and only about a quarter of a mile from the small frame house she shared with Blake.
She wasn’t really surprised to find Tate Hollister on her doorstep when she got her eyes cleared of snowflakes. He was tall already, but he seemed to have grown two feet since Maggie last saw him. He glared down at her from black eyes in a thin-lipped, deeply tanned face, which was all hard lines and sharp angles. He looked to be in his late thirties, and he was as wild a man as Maggie had ever seen. In his battered black ranch hat and sheepskin jacket, worn jeans and black boots, he looked like an outlaw. He needed a shave and his mustache needed trimming. His thick, shaggy hair was disheveled. Just the sight of him was enough to intimidate most men, much less Maggie.
“Yes?” she asked with forced pleasantness, her head cocked warily as he removed his gloves and slapped them into his palm.
“Ten head of your cattle are grazing on my winter feed supply,” he said without preamble. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Award them the Croix de Guerre for bravery above and beyond the call of duty,” she answered without hesitation.
He stared at her as if he wasn’t quite certain that he’d heard her. His head tilted slightly and his dark eyes narrowed, while Blake struggled with suppressed laughter. “I don’t think you understand the situation,” he tried again. “If you don’t get them off my land and out of my hay, I’m going to throw down on them.”
“That is an old Western expression,” Maggie explained to Blake. “It means he’s going to shoot them.” She looked back at Tate Hollister. “I hope you plan to give them a sporting chance. They are, after all, unarmed.” She smiled vacantly.
Hollister’s dark eyes were shadowed with surprise, and his mustache actually twitched, but there was no smile on his lips. “Mrs. Jeffries, this isn’t a laughing matter.”
“Yes, sir.” She curtsied. “What would you like me to do about the cattle?”
He looked as confused as a man could. He glanced at Blake, glowering at the boy’s grin, which was quickly
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