The Ties That Bind

“J.T. located Zach a few months ago,” Matt continued. “Now we’re trying to find our mother. Or, failing that, to at least learn what we can about her. We were hoping you could help us.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. I got nothing to say. That ungrateful girl has been dead to me since the day she confessed that she’d gotten herself knocked up. I threw her out and told her to never come back.”

“For getting pregnant?” J.T. looked dumbfounded. “Women have babies out of wedlock all the time. Some are even planned.”

“Not thirty-six years ago they didn’t,” the old man snapped. “And I wouldn’t stand for it today, either. I’ll have no harlots or bastards in my family.”

“How about her belongings?” Matt inquired. “She must have left something here. Could we take a look at those?”

“Burned it all years ago.”

Seamus put his hands flat on the desktop and levered himself to his feet. “Let’s cut the crap. I know damned well you didn’t come here looking for your tramp of a mother. You came hoping to get your hands on this ranch. Well, I’m telling you that just ain’t gonna happen. The Rocking R isn’t going to fall into the hands of Mike Reardon’s by-blows.” He thumped the desktop with the side of his fist. “By heaven, I’ll give the place away before I’ll let that happen.”

“That’s it. I’m outta here. I told you two this was a bad idea.” Zach headed toward the door.

“He’s right. C’mon. We don’t have to take this.” Using his cane, Matt levered himself to his feet and followed.

Zach snatched open the door and strode out—and barreled into the young woman they had seen a few moments before. She hit his chest with an “Oof!” and bounced off.

“Damn.” Zach grabbed her shoulders to keep her from falling, set her aside with a terse, “Excuse me, miss,” and continued on toward the entrance.

He had a fleeting impression of startled violet eyes and skin like ivory silk, but beyond that he paid her no mind. He was too intent on getting the hell away from Seamus Rafferty before he lost his temper and planted his fist right in the old coot’s sneering face—grandfather or no.

“Seamus, is something wrong?” the woman asked as Matt and J.T. trooped past in Zach’s wake. “Who are those men?”

Neither Zach nor his brothers waited around to hear the old man’s answer.

“Of all the foul-tempered, suspicious, spiteful old bastards!” Matt snarled the instant they gained the front porch.

“Yeah, Gramps is a bit of a disappointment.”

“If that’s supposed to be funny—”

“Knock it off, both of you.” Zach fixed his brothers with a hard look. “We gave it our best shot and got nowhere. Now can we just drop this whole thing and forget about the past?”

“Suits me.”

“I don’t think we ought to give up,” J.T. argued.

Matt spat out an expletive and rolled his eyes.

“Look, you do what you want, but I’m out of here,” Zach said. “As soon as we get back to town, I’m heading for Sedona.”

“¡Pssst! ¡Señors! ¡Señors!”

As one, they turned to see the woman Seamus had called Maria peeking nervously from around a forsythia at the corner of the house.

“I must speak with you, por favor. Es muy importante.”

The brothers exchanged a brief look and moved down the porch to the woman’s hiding place.

“Yes?”

Clutching a flat cardboard box to her breasts, Maria glanced around nervously. “You wish to know about Señorita Colleen, sí? Sus madre?”

“Yes,” J.T. replied. “Do you know where she is?”

A stricken expression flashed over the woman’s face. “I…” She shook her head, then cast a quick look over her shoulder and thrust the shirt-size box into Zach’s hands. “You take this, señor. La señorita sent it to me over thirty years ago.”

“What is it?”

“Her diario. How you say…journal. Also a photograph that I hid from Señor Rafferty so he would not burn it. Señorita Colleen, she beg me not to tell her padre I have the journal.”

Matt snorted. “She probably knew he’d destroy it, like he did the rest of her stuff.”

Maria nodded. “Sí, it is so. La señorita, she want me to keep the diario safe and give it to her muchachos if you ever come here. I am an old woman. I begin to think you will not come while I still live.”

A door slammed at the back of the house and Seamus bellowed, “Dammit, Maria! Where the hell are you?”

She jumped guiltily. “I must go.” Grasping Zach’s arm, she urged, “Por favor. Read the diario. All your questions, they will be answered.”

“To save time, I think we should read it out loud,” Zach suggested when he and his brothers entered Matt’s motel room a short while later.

“Good idea.” J.T. stretched out on one of the double beds and laced his fingers together behind his head. “Why don’t you start?”

Matt sat on the edge of the other bed, and Zach settled into one of the room’s two chairs. Almost reverently, he lifted the cover off the box and found himself staring at a photograph of a young girl of about eighteen.

She was more striking than beautiful—a female version of the face he saw in the mirror each day—the same blond hair and green eyes, the same thin, straight nose, sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. Her mouth was a bit fuller and softer than his own, but the shape was identical.

It was eerie, looking at that face. The short hairs on Zach’s nape and forearms stood on end. No wonder the waitress at Hodie’s had been so shocked. And why Seamus had known instantly who they were.

While his brothers studied the photograph, Zach lifted the diary out of the box. The cheap vinyl cover was cracked and split and the pages felt brittle, the edges brown with age.

He looked at Matt and J.T. and cocked one eyebrow. “You ready?” An edgy awareness that they were about to uncover their past pulsed in the air.

“Yeah, we’re ready,” J.T. said, and Matt nodded agreement.

Zach cleared his throat and turned to the first entry.

“‘September 21st. I’m so scared. I’m on my way to Houston, but I don’t know what I’ll do if my mother’s aunt Clara won’t take me in. She’s elderly, and I barely know her, but other than Daddy she’s my only living relative. She never had children of her own, and when she came to the ranch for a visit a few years ago she was kind to me and urged me to come stay with her for as long as I liked. I just pray the invitation will still be open after I tell her about my condition.

“‘September 22nd. Heaven help me, I’m too late. I arrived at Aunt Clara’s this afternoon and found her house full of people. They had just come from her funeral.

“‘I got hysterical, and I must have fainted. A while ago I woke up and found myself lying on a bed in my aunt’s guest room. A lady was here with me. She introduced herself as Dr. Chloe Nesbitt and said she had been my aunt’s doctor and friend. Then she asked if I was pregnant.

“‘When I finally bawled out my story, Dr. Nesbitt was very kind. She said she would talk to Aunt Clara’s pastor about my situation. In the meantime, she was sure that I could stay here, at least until the estate is settled. She told me to get some rest and not to worry.

“‘How can I not worry? My darling Mike is dead, Daddy has tossed me out, I’m alone in a strange town where I know no one, I have no job, no money, no training other than ranch work and I’m expecting a child in five months! What am I going to do?

“‘September 23rd. I can’t believe it! Just when things look hopeless, a miracle has happened. Dr. Nesbitt returned this morning with Reverend Clayton and my aunt’s attorney, Mr. Lloyd Thomas. Mr. Thomas said that as my aunt’s only kin, I will inherit her entire estate! It isn’t a great fortune—a modest savings and this small house, is all—but it’s a roof over my head, and if I’m careful, the money will see me through until the baby is born and I can get a job. Bless you, Aunt Clara.’”

For the next hour Zach read from the diary. It told of Colleen’s struggle to make the money last, her fear of living alone for the first time in her life, of being in a strange place, her shock and joy when she found out she was expecting triplets, and her worries over how she could support herself and three babies. Underlying it all was a desperate loneliness that colored every word and wrung Zach’s heart.

Reverend Clayton and Dr. Nesbitt figured prominently in the entries over the next few months. The doctor saw Colleen through her pregnancy, and the reverend and others in his congregation took a special interest in her, offering spiritual guidance and practical assistance and advice.

“‘January 24th. Reverend Clayton is urging me to put my babies up for adoption as soon as they’re born. He thinks that would be best—for them, and for me. Perhaps he’s right. I don’t know. But, God help me, I can’t. I just can’t. I love them so much already. Every time I feel them move, my heart overflows. I cannot bear to give them up, to have them whisked away from me the second they are born and never get to see their sweet faces, never get to hold them. No. No, I can’t give them up. I love them. And they are all I have left of Mike.’”

Zach’s throat grew so tight he had difficulty forming the words. He thrust the diary into Matt’s hands. “Here. It’s your turn,” he said in a gruff voice.

Matt swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back against a mound of pillows and continued.

“‘February 7th. I’m the mother of three beautiful, healthy boys! They arrived yesterday, two weeks early, but Dr. Nesbitt says they are all doing fine. I have named them Matthew Ryan, Zachariah Aiden and Jedediah Tiernan.’”

“Jedediah Tiernan!” Matt hooted. “No wonder you go by J.T.”

“Stuff it, Dolan.”

“Do you two mind? Could we just get on with this?”

“Okay, okay.” Picking up where he left off, Matt continued.

“‘February 9th. Reverend Clayton came by during visiting hours. He offered me a job working in the church’s day care center. The pay isn’t much, but Reverend Clayton says I can bring the babies to the center. That means I won’t have to be separated from them or have the expense of child care. The reverend is such a good man. I don’t know what I would do without his help and support.

“‘February 10th. The first day home with the boys. I had no idea babies were so much work. I’ll write more later when I’m not so exhausted.’”

The entry was typical of the ones during the following year. A picture began to emerge of a young girl struggling to support and nurture three babies alone. To make ends meet she took in ironing in the evenings and on weekends, often working late into the night.

A few weeks before their first birthday Colleen began to mention that she wasn’t feeling well. By the end of February her boss at the day care center insisted that she see a doctor, in case she had something contagious. Then came the entry that stunned Zach and his brothers.

“‘March 5th. I have advanced ovarian cancer.’”

“Ah, hell,” Zach swore and raked a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” J.T. agreed in a subdued tone. “After all she’d already been through, she sure didn’t deserve that.”

Swinging his legs over the side, Matt sat on the edge of the bed. “Funny. That possibility never occurred to me. I always assumed she gave me away because she didn’t want me.”

“Deep down, I think we all did,” Zach said quietly. “We were too young to understand anything else.”

Matt thought that over, then nodded and resumed reading.

“‘Dear Lord, what am I going to do? I can’t afford to be sick. My babies need me. On top of that, I have no idea how I’ll pay for the treatment, but without it I’ll surely die. What will become of the boys if that happens? Daddy won’t have them. Even if he would, I don’t want my boys to grow up under his iron-fisted rule or to bear the brunt of his hatred for their father. God help me. And them.

“‘March 6th. I started treatment today. Feel even worse. Nausea is awful.’”

For the next eight months the entries were about the treatment and the ghastly side effects. And her growing financial worries. Within weeks she could no longer work. It was all she could manage to take care of her three toddlers. Left with no alternative, she was forced to go on welfare.

Despite aggressive treatment, her condition continued to worsen, and in December, after nine months of struggle, Colleen accepted the inevitable and wrote of her decision to ask Reverend Clayton help her find homes for her sons.

“‘November 23rd. Reverend Clayton and Mr. Thomas, Aunt Clara’s attorney, are handling the adoptions. I would like to interview the prospective couples myself, but the family court judge will not allow it. Even though these are private adoptions he demands complete anonymity on both sides, and afterward the adoption records will be sealed.

“‘The reverend and Mr. Thomas have tried but they couldn’t find a family willing to take three two-year-olds so it appears the boys will have to go to different couples. Oh, how I hate to think of them being separated. They are not only losing me, but each other, as well. But what choice do I have?

“‘January 10th. Reverend Clayton has selected three couples. I trust his judgment and I’m sure they will all be wonderful parents, but I can’t quite bring myself to commit to them. It shreds my heart just to think about handing my babies over to strangers and never seeing them again. For the boys’ sake, though, I have to stop being selfish. They are typical rambunctious toddlers, and I’m so weak now and in so much pain that I can barely get out of bed some days. I worry that I’m not giving them proper care.

“‘January 15th. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve agreed to the adoptions and signed all the papers. Reverend Clayton had the medallion made and cut, like I asked him, and all the couples have agreed to give them to the boys when they are older. I just hope that someday it will help them find one another again.’”

Matt turned the page, scanned it, then flipped over several more before turning back. “Looks like there’s just one more entry. After that there are just blank pages.”

“Go ahead. Let’s hear it,” J.T. said.

“‘February 24th. Today was the worst day of my life. I gave my babies away. Two social workers came and took them. I cuddled and kissed them for the last time, and I think they knew something was wrong. As they were being carried out they screamed and cried and held their arms out to me, calling ‘Mommie! Mommie!’ It broke my heart. Dear Lord, it hurts. It hurts so much I don’t think I can bear it. I want to die. Without my babies I have nothing to live for. Please, God. Please. Let me die now. Please.’”

Matt exhaled a long sigh and slowly closed the journal. A heavy silence hung in the room.

Colleen Rafferty was dead. The rush of disappointment and grief took Zach by surprise. For Pete’s sake. He had no memories of her. Until he’d seen that photograph he hadn’t even known what she looked like. Why did it bother him so much to learn that she was dead?

“Well, that’s it. Now we know,” J.T. said finally.

Zach gave a little snort. “Yeah. Now we know. For all the good it did us.”

Chapter One

The horse snorted and danced in the narrow chute. His ears lay back flat to his head and his eyes rolled, showing white all around.

“Better watch ’im, Zach. This here’s one mean side-winder,” one of the handler’s cautioned.

Zach nodded, studying the furious bronc with satisfaction. Hellbent was a good draw. Zach knew if he could hang on for the count he’d finish in the money. Maybe even in first place.

Ignoring the canned music and the announcer’s deep baritone blaring from the speakers, the crowd cheering on the contestant in the ring, he kept a wary eye on the fractious animal and eased down from his perch on the side of the chute and into the saddle. Immediately he felt the horse’s muscles bunch. Squeezing his knees tighter, he wound the reins around his left hand.

“Up next in the chute, from Gold Fever, Colorado, is Zach Mahoney.”

A cheer went up, and Hellbent tried to rear, hammering the gate with his hooves.

“Zach is— Whoa! Watch out there, Zach. You got yourself a mean one today.”

Between them, Zach and the handlers subdued the horse, but he felt the animal quiver with rage and knew he was in for a wild ride. He tugged his Stetson down more snugly on his head. Wrapping the reins tighter around his gloved hand, he adjusted his position and paused to gather his focus. When he was ready, he raised his right hand.

The gate flew open and Hellbent leaped out into the arena, eleven hundred pounds of bucking, snorting fury, his massive body arching and twisting and spinning.

Zach’s hat went flying on the third buck. In rhythm with the violent movements, he raked his blunted spurs over the horse’s shoulders and kept his right hand high in the air while his upper body flopped back and forth in the saddle like a rag doll. Every time Hellbent’s front hooves hit the ground Zach felt the jarring impact shoot up his spine all the way to the top of his head.

The crowd in the stands became a blur as the horse spun and pitched and did everything in his power to dislodge him. Never had eight seconds seemed so long. Zach’s thigh muscles began to quiver from the strain of gripping the horse’s flanks, but he gritted his teeth and hung on.

After what seemed like forever, in his peripheral vision he saw a pickup rider move in, and an instant later the horn blared, signaling the end of the ride. Zach grabbed the pickup rider’s arm and shoulder, lunged from the saddle and swung to the ground.

“What a great ride! Let’s give Zach a big hand, folks,” the announcer urged.

While the crowd clapped and cheered and the pickup riders caught Hellbent and led him away, Zach scooped up his hat, gave it three hard knocks against his pant leg to remove the dust, set it back on his head and ambled for the pens, doing his best to not limp. With each step pain shot through his left leg and hip—a nasty little memento from the enraged bull that had given him a toss four days ago. Damn. He was getting too old for this.

Most of the cowboys on the rodeo circuit were in their twenties. Some were even in their teens. Zach’s mouth took on a wry twist. Yeah, and there’s a reason for that, Mahoney, he thought. By age thirty-six they’re either too busted up to compete or they’ve wised up.

Not until Zach reached the exit gate did he allow himself to look over his shoulder and check his score. Yes! The ride had put him in the lead. Not bad for an old man.

By the time he made his way through the clutch of riders and handlers and accepted their congratulations, the last contestant was picking himself up out of the dirt, and Zach knew he’d won the top purse in the bronc riding event. Maybe even Best All Around, as well, but he wouldn’t know that for an hour or so when all the events were over. He’d come back then for the finale, but in the meantime he was going to his RV to apply heat to his aching hip and leg.

After retrieving his saddle and bridle, Zach slung them over his shoulder and headed back to his motor home in the camping area behind the rodeo arena. Halfway there a man in a FedEx uniform intercepted him with an overnight letter.

Zach frowned. Who the devil would be sending him a registered letter? He turned the envelope this way and that, but the return address was too faint to make out in the dim light of the parking lot.

When he stepped into the RV his cell phone was ringing. Zach dumped the saddle and bridle just inside the door, tossed his Stetson on the sofa and snatched it up. “Yeah, Mahoney here.”

“Zach, it’s J.T.”

Surprise darted through him. He hadn’t heard directly from either of his brothers since they’d they parted company in Clear Water, Montana, nine months ago.

No matter how much Kate and Matt’s wife, Maude Ann, might wish otherwise, the brotherly connection just wasn’t there.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Have you gotten an overnight letter from the Manning and Manning law firm yet?”

Zach checked out the return address on the envelope he still held. “It just came. I haven’t had a chance to open it yet. How did you know about it?”

“Because Matt and I each received the same letter a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh? What’s going on?”

“You’re not going to believe this. The letters are from Seamus Rafferty’s attorney, Edward Manning, notifying us of the old man’s death and that we’re beneficiaries in his will.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope. The old coot passed away yesterday. I called the law firm and talked to Edward Manning. He’s waiting to hear from us before scheduling the funeral so he can allow plenty of time for us to get there.”

“The hell you say. I’m not going to that old devil’s funeral.”

“I understand how you feel. That was Matt’s first reaction. Mine, too. But the Rocking R meant a lot to Colleen. She obviously felt it was our heritage. If Seamus leaves us so much as one square foot of the place, we owe it to her to accept it.”

Zach rubbed the back of his neck and looked up at the ceiling, torn between resentment and a nagging sense of obligation and loyalty to the mother he couldn’t remember. Damn. He didn’t need this.

Although…J.T. did have a point.

He sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”

The January wind swooping down the snowy mountain slopes cut to the bone, causing several people to huddle deeper in their coats and shiver. Gray clouds scudded overhead, heavy with the threat of more snow to come. The dank smell of freshly dug, frozen earth hung in the air. From the nearby stand of pines came the raucous cawing of a raven, and in the valley the cattle lowed mournfully, as though aware of the event taking place in the small family cemetery on the slope above the ranch house.

“Dear Lord, we commit unto your keeping the soul of Seamus Patrick Rafferty.” The minister picked up a handful of dirt and dropped the frozen clods onto the coffin. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. May God have mercy on your soul.” Clutching his Bible to his chest, he lowered his head. “Let us pray.”

Reverend Turner’s dolorous voice droned on, but Willa Simmons barely heard him. She was too angry and upset. Refusing to look at the three men standing shoulder to shoulder on the opposite side of the grave, she kept her gaze focused on the casket. They had no right to be there. No right at all.

The sun glinted off one of the coffin’s silver handles, and Willa’s eyes narrowed. Her hands curled into fists. It’s your fault that they’re here. Damn you, Seamus. How could you?

“Amen,” the reverend intoned, and everyone in the sparse band of mourners echoed the word—all except Seamus’s three grandsons. They stood stony-faced and dry-eyed, as they had throughout the service.

Zach Mahoney, Matt and Maude Ann Dolan, J.T. and Kate Conway, Edward Manning, Maria and the ranch hands and herself were the only ones there. A pitiful turn-out for a man’s funeral, Willa thought.

It was sad, but Seamus had only himself to blame. Over the years, with the exception of Harold Manning and his son Edward, Seamus had alienated every friend he’d ever had and all of his neighbors and acquaintances around Clear Water.

For an awkward moment the cowboys stood with their hats in their hands and shifted from one foot to the other, looking from Willa to Seamus’s grandsons, trying to decide to whom they should offer condolences first.

Edward solved the dilemma for them by turning to Willa with a murmured word of sympathy before skirting around the grave to speak to the three brothers and the wives of the two who were married. The reverend did the same, and the relieved hands quickly followed their example. After muttering a few words, each man wasted no time heading down the hill to the bunkhouse, eager to escape the unpleasant duty and shed his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

When the last cowboy sidled away, Willa slipped her arm through the housekeeper’s. “C’mon, Maria. Let’s go.”

“But, Willie, you have not spoken with the señors.”