An Ideal Father

“I don’t want your help,” she said.

“I know you don’t. But you need it.” He turned the crisping bacon with tongs taken from overhead hooks that were laden with a conglomeration of kitchen tools. A larger rack hung nearby, loaded with industrial pots and pans.

While the bacon continued to cook, Cimarron peeled one after another of the boiled brown eggs that were sitting in a bowl on the counter. Sarah scooped her chopped onions into a container, popped the top on it and began to slice the blood-red tomatoes nestled in a colander set in the sink.

The comforting smell of bacon filled the room, making it hard to hold a grudge.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For the griddle…and this…”

“I don’t see how you do it alone.”

“I usually have help. He’s sick.”

“Just two of you?”

“Yes. Bobby used to help out, but—” She laid the sliced tomatoes in a container, then diced the rest. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Lots of practice when I was young.”

“I see. Why?”

Cimarron busied himself moving the bacon to a paper towelndash;lined pan. “Do you want this bacon whole or crumbled for the salad?”

“A third of it whole, the rest for the salad.” She turned and leaned against the counter, her eyes on him as she dried her hands on a towel. “You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

He met her clear gaze straight on. “Nope.”

“Why are you helping me like this? To bribe me?”

“No. I don’t work that way.”

“How do you work, Mr. Cole? How did you talk my brother into selling out to you without so much as a word to me?”

Cimarron almost told her the truth, but then he bit back the words. She probably loved her brother, even though right now she’d never admit it. No need to paint her a picture of the louse Bobby really was. He shook his head and went back to his task with the bacon.

“What? Did you get him drunk? Or just keep offering him more money until he couldn’t resist?” Lingering fury smoldered in her words. “Have you been after him for a long time? Until finally you wore him down?”

She dumped stock and sautéed vegetables into a tall soup pot, seasoned the mixture and put a lid on to let it simmer.

“I think you’re a cheat.”

“Well, I’m not. I didn’t cheat your brother out of anything. Have you located him yet?”

“No.”

“Not likely to, either,” Cimarron muttered.

Sarah huffed, but backed off. “Where’s your little boy now?”

“Playing in a booth.”

“He’s very quiet. Most kids that age make a lot more racket. What’s his name?”

“Name’s Wyatt. Don’t worry about him, he’s fine.”

The bell over the front door tinkled and Sarah threw the towel aside, smoothing her hair back.

“Thanks for helping. Do you want to feed Wyatt before you go?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, really, I’ll get by tonight. There’s no need for you to stay. If you’ll leave your name and a way to get in touch, I’ll have my lawyer contact you to straighten this out.”

Cimarron shook his head, amazed at her stubbornness.

“You won’t have a problem there. We’re going to sleep in the house.”

“You are not! I won’t let you in.”

Cimarron reached in his pocket and brought out the key ring, dangling it in front of her. “Why would I buy a house and not get the keys for it?”

She stiffened and stared at the jingling keys. “Ooh, I’m going to kill Bobby.”

“I’d better get Wyatt out of your way.”

“Wyatt is not the one who’s in my way. And we’ll deal with this later.”

Cimarron followed her as she pushed through the swinging doors and went to greet the first dinner customers. He motioned for Wyatt, and the child came obediently through the kitchen door. Cimarron had a look through the cupboards and coolers until he found some sliced turkey and bread. He made Wyatt a sandwich and found a safe corner for him to play away from the kitchen appliances.

“Sorry, bud, you’re on your own for the rest of the evening.”

Wyatt settled down with his backpack at his side and took the sandwich and glass of milk Cimarron offered. “Okay.”

Enough with the okays! Maybe one day the kid would learn another word.

Cimarron continued to work in the kitchen, doing most of the cooking according to Sarah’s clipped directions while she waited tables through the next three chaotic hours. He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the kitchen intensified by Sarah’s anger. He held on to his own temper by the thinnest thread. No place for a blowup between them, with a café full of customers who would have very long memories and very loose tongues, if Cimarron’s recollection of small-town life held true.

When all was quiet and the last customer had paid and left, he let out a long sigh as he heard Sarah click the lock on the front door. He was whipped, tired to the bone, just as he was at the end of every long day since his brother died. The feeling was nothing like the exhausted satisfaction of hard physical labor on a house. Not at all. He could leave now and let Sarah finish on her own, but knowing she would be stuck working for hours if he did, he started scrubbing the pots and pans.

SARAH PAUSED in her cleanup of the dining room to cock an ear toward the kitchen. In there, Cimarron whistled softly amidst the clatter of metal as he washed dishes. He had worked like a Trojan tonight and now he was cleaning the kitchen, yet anger still roiled inside her. She didn’t want him doing anything else thoughtful to make her feel guilty.

She knew she was taking out her frustration with her brother on Cimarron, but she couldn’t help it. All her dreams, her plans, her future income had been blown to pieces by her brother’s greed. Cimarron seemed like a nice enough guy, but under the circumstances he could be a saint and she’d still feel the same way. She wanted her property back.

She rolled the cleanup cart to the doorway. “You can go now. I’ll finish up.”

“Most everything’s done in here, anyway.”

The pans sat on the drainboard, shining clean, the counters had all been wiped down. Damp dishcloths waited in the laundry basket in the corner. Unused food had been put away. All Sarah had to do was load the dishwasher and start the linens washing.

“Wow…thanks,” she said, wishing she liked him better. He’d saved her a ton of work. “I…I can handle breakfast myself in the morning. That’s the only meal I serve on Sundays.”

He nodded. “All right.”

“There’s a little motel a few miles down the road.” She hoped he’d take the hint.

“I know. I saw it on the way to Bozeman.”

“So, you can stay there.”

“I think not. I don’t have to pay to stay in my own house.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.” She jerked open the door to load the dishwasher, then straightened and looked around. “Where’s Wyatt?”

Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen, started to speak, then paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”

“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”

“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” Cimarron moved to the area where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out a breath of relief. “Here he is.”

Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into the bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag by its strap over one shoulder and lifted the boy over the opposite.

Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease and she wondered why. Newsreels of kidnapped children ran through her mind. True these two looked just alike, but family abductions happened all the time.

“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.

“I knew where he was.”

Sarah shook her head. “I saw that look of panic. You’d forgotten about him. Didn’t have a clue if he was still in the room.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue. “I’m going to put him to bed now.”

“In that dirty old house?”

“We’ll sleep another night in the back of the camper.” Cimarron lowered his voice as Wyatt shifted and mumbled something. “You and I will talk tomorrow about the house.”

The screen door slammed after him and Sarah was left alone and thoroughly dispirited. When all the closing chores were done, she did a final circuit of the café, double-checked the locked doors and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She loved living above the café for convenience, but she was looking forward to having more space when she moved into the bed-and-breakfast—a prospect now put on hold because of her double-crossing brother.

Although the café was decorated in pink, she’d chosen an array of other colors for her personal quarters—sunny yellow for the spacious living room and kitchen, and peaceful celadon green for the bedroom. Casual furnishings and a minimum of clutter made the apartment a perfect retreat after long hours in the café.

She opened a window and let the cool air and soothing night noises calm her nerves as she looked down on the parking lot. Cimarron’s truck, dark inside, was parked at the back. Hoping it would be gone in the morning, she began to get ready for bed. But she was pretty sure her worst nightmare would still be around when the sun came up.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CUSTOM CAMPER shell on the back of Cimarron’s pickup was outfitted with bare-bones necessities assembled to suit Cimarron’s vagabond lifestyle, but there was little space for an extra person—even one as small as Wyatt. His presence in the cramped space made Cimarron almost claustrophobic.

Cimarron settled Wyatt into the camouflage sleeping bag they’d bought after R.J.’s death. Wyatt considered sleeping on the floor of the camper “adventure sleeping.” Cimarron just considered it inconvenient. He had been stepping over and on toys, small articles of clothing and Wyatt for weeks, and he was at his wit’s end to find a minute of privacy in order to regroup and try to figure out a solution. He’d intended to stay in the house just to have a bit of room to move around, but Sarah’s stubborn resistance might make that difficult.

When Wyatt’s even breathing assured him the child was asleep, he slipped outside for some fresh air. The dark night was tempered by a half moon and also the warm glow of Sarah’s security light on a pole in the parking lot. Cimarron paced the lot for a few minutes to work off his tension.

What the hell was he going to do with this child? How could he raise Wyatt and give him a decent life? But there was nobody else to take him. Cimarron had no idea where his noaccount father might be—dead or alive. Even if he was alive, he’d never get his hands on Wyatt, considering the childhood he’d inflicted on Cimarron.

R.J. hadn’t talked much about what had happened with Wyatt’s birth mother, Joy, but Cimarron got the idea that R.J. hadn’t been the only bull in the pasture and Joy hadn’t had the ability or inclination to take proper care of a baby. She signed over her parental rights to R.J. soon after Wyatt was born. Remarried now, she’d made it clear when Cimarron called to tell her about R.J.’s death that she had no intention of claiming her son. Hell, she hadn’t even told her new husband she had an illegitimate child. There was no denying Wyatt’s paternity, however, and that left Cimarron stuck with the total responsibility of a family member—again. He muttered under his breath and kicked the light pole as he passed. Stupid move. He hobbled the rest of the way to the truck, choking back curses. About his foot, his fate, his future. Just wasn’t right. He hadn’t fathered that kid, and he didn’t want any more responsibility for other people. He hadn’t done a good job before, and he had no reason to believe he’d fare any better with Wyatt.

Sitting down on the broad bumper of his truck, he leaned back against the camper and closed his eyes, trying to allay the coil of panic that squirmed in his gut every time the undeniable truth hit him. His life would never be the same again.

Cimarron opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle turning into the parking lot. He squinted as a blinding spotlight flared to life, pointing directly at him. Red and blue lights reflected off the nearby buildings and his pickup.

“What the hell?” he muttered, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Don’t move. Keep your hands up where I can see them!”

A sheriff’s deputy eased toward Cimarron with one hand on his sidearm, the other moving a powerful flashlight around.

Cimarron raised his hands, turning his head to the side and grimacing at the bright lights. At least the deputy hadn’t drawn on him—yet. Cimarron glanced up at the window above the café and saw Sarah staring down. Damn it, did she call the cops on me? The deputy caught his attention again, moving enough to one side that Cimarron could turn away from the spotlight to face him.

“What are you doing here this time of night? The café’s been closed for hours,” he said. “Let me see some ID.”

“I’m sleeping in my truck. Sarah knows I’m here.”

“Yeah, sure she does. Now get behind the wheel of that truck and get moving, or I’ll give you a different option for a few nights.”

“Look, Deputy—” Cimarron eyed the deputy’s badge “—Whitman, I don’t want any trouble.” He slowly lowered his hands. “I’ve got a right to be here.”

“That ID?”

“It’s in my wallet.” Cimarron reached for his back pocket.

“Easy now, real slow,” Deputy Whitman said.

Cimarron withdrew his wallet and fished out his driver’s license.

“I bought that house. I have a right to be here.”

The deputy guffawed. “I know who owns this land, mister. And it ain’t you.”

“I’ve got the paperwork. Can I get it to show you?”

“Where is it?”

“Front seat of my truck.”

The deputy moved with Cimarron to the side of the truck. Cimarron opened the door and pointed to the folder lying on the console. He’d intended to show it to Sarah, but he’d never gotten the chance.

“Just have a look at the paperwork. I own the house and the property around it.” He pulled out the title and handed it over.

The deputy shined the light on the paper and checked the signature at the bottom. “Well, that sure looks like Bobby’s signature. Lord knows I’ve seen it enough on traffic tickets. But it might be forged.”

“It’s not forged.”

“Come around to the front of my car while I check this out.”

The deputy took the folder and Cimarron’s license with him and called in the information. Cimarron leaned against the fender of the patrol car, arms crossed, staring up at Sarah’s now-empty window, stewing over the possibility that she was responsible for him being on the brink of going to jail. A light came on downstairs a few moments later. If she’d reported him, there would be no more Mr. Nice Guy—and no more kitchen boy, for sure.

“Well, you checked out okay. But I’m not happy with you hanging around here. Find yourself somewhere else to stay.”

Cimarron rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Sarah knows I’m here and I don’t see why I have to leave. Especially since—”

“Hey, Griff,” Sarah said, coming across the parking lot in silky long pajamas and a robe. Sexy as hell, with her hair down and brushed to a satin sheen. The pale green color of the pajamas complemented her freshly scrubbed face.

“Hey, Sarah. Sorry to disturb you,” Deputy Whitman said.

“No, that’s okay.” She eyed Cimarron. “I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”

Cimarron lifted an eyebrow and shot her a wry look. Probably everybody in this one-horse town was protective of her.

“He’s got some kinda paperwork here, says he bought out your brother Bobby.”

Sarah glanced at the paper and frowned. “Yes, I know. But I’m contacting my lawyer first thing Monday morning to see if it’s legal.”

“It’s legal,” Cimarron said.

Both of them ignored him.

“Do you want me to take him in?”

“Now, wait a minute…”

“No,” Sarah said quickly. “I told him he could stay here for the night. Bobby sort of tricked him into buying the property. I’m sure I’ll get it straightened out next week.”

Deputy Whitman looked dubious as he handed back the paperwork. “I don’t like it. And I’m going to see that you’re locked in before I leave.”

“Really, Griff, there’s no need for that. Like I said…”

“Either I make sure you’re safe for the night, or I lock him up.”

“On what charge?” Cimarron demanded.

“I’ll think of something,” Deputy Whitman growled.

This was more than professional concern for Sarah. Cimarron sensed a strong undercurrent of male competitiveness in the deputy. Did he have an eye for the lovely Miss James? Cimarron couldn’t blame him, but that wasn’t grounds for arrest.

She held up her hands in appeasement. “Stop this. See me to the door if it makes you feel better, Griff.”

The deputy handed Cimarron his license and paperwork. “You find a better place to camp after tonight. And trust me, I’ll be back by here a few times before morning.” He guided Sarah toward the café.

Cimarron returned to his truck but stopped short of getting in, curious to see what move Deputy Whitman might put on Sarah. She quickly disappeared inside, however, leaving the officer standing on the stoop. He waited a moment longer and Cimarron took that opportunity to climb into the camper and close the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cimarron rose early. Wanting to avoid another visit by the overzealous law officer, he moved his truck behind the mansion out of sight of the road. Since Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want any help in the café this morning, he pulled out fishing gear, packed a lunch for two, then got Wyatt up and moving. He’d wait until the café closed to clear out a spot to live in the old house. Maybe Sarah would go visiting this afternoon and he could work in peace.

Finding a map for the house and surrounding property among his paperwork, he located the trout stream that Bobby had mentioned. According to the surveyor’s markings, Cimarron’s two hundred acres adjoined Sarah’s much larger holding halfway between the house and café. The property narrowed to about seven hundred feet of road frontage, more than enough for access to both buildings, and then spread out like a fan across the valley and the lower reaches of the closest mountain. On the map, a broad tributary of the Little Lobo River meandered diagonally through both pieces of property, and Bobby had sworn it was teeming with trout. Bobby’s credibility had taken a dive since he’d given Cimarron that map, but just casting a rod could relieve a world of tension.

Wyatt was a trouper, Cimarron had to give him that. In his worn cowboy boots and the black cowboy hat that his daddy had given him, the boy trudged through the underbrush without complaint, even when Cimarron had to extricate him from the thorny clutches of a bramble bush.

The dense woods suddenly opened onto a sweep of sunbejeweled water rushing by a grassy expanse of bank. Jutting boulders split the pristine current, and the hope of silversided trout in the deep pools lifted Cimarron’s spirits. The soft touch of the rising sun warmed his face. The scent of evergreens hung heavy on the morning air and the murmur of the water was the only sound to be heard. This was as close to heaven as Cimarron ever expected to get.

“Unca Cimron?”

Zap! The euphoria vanished.

“What?”

“Are we going to fish now?”

“I’m going to fish. You’re going to sit on the bank and eat your breakfast.”

Cimarron pulled a sandwich from his gear bag along with a bottled orange juice and handed them both to Wyatt. He’d confiscated the sandwich fixings from Sarah’s kitchen the evening before and stashed them overnight in the ice chest in the camper.

“I can fish,” Wyatt insisted.

“I don’t have another rod. Now sit there and be quiet. You’ll scare the fish off.”

Wyatt took the food and sat on the bank to eat, an unhappy scowl on his face. To access the items in his bag, Cimarron took out the other two sandwiches, tucked them into his jacket pocket and laid the jacket across a low bush, then pulled on a pair of stocking-feet waders and lightweight folding boots. From a hard cylindrical case, he removed a custom Winston fly rod with his name lettered in gold on the side. He’d done a modest reconstruction on a cottage that belonged to one of the managers of the company and had taken part of his fee in fishing equipment. Light and agile, the rod never failed to amaze him.

He rigged the rod and reel under Wyatt’s watchful eye, then fixed a tiny fly with a pinched-down hook to the tippet at the end of the leader and tightened the knot with his teeth. Rather than kicking the bushes himself to see what the trout delicacy of the week might be, he’d checked in Bozeman the day before for the current hatch and bought suitable flies and a fishing license.

Striding into the cold water, he flicked the rod back and forth, letting out line with a smooth, graceful motion. He allowed the fly to settle for a moment on the calm surface of a deep pool behind an outcropping of rocks, hoping for a rise to the bait.

He had spent a lot of hours like this as a youth, fishing a favorite stream near his home, escaping his burdens for a few hours at a time. Nature was better than any therapy.

When the fly floated downstream, he cast again and placed the fly once more. Once in a while, R.J. would fish with him, on the rare and brief occasions when he and their father came home. As much as he resented their inevitable abandonment, Cimarron always enjoyed spending time with his brother. R.J. could usually outfish him, but it didn’t matter by the time they got home and fried the succulent trout. Today Cimarron missed his brother’s camaraderie more than ever. He tried to get his mind off R.J. and everything else that had dragged at his heart lately.

A trout rose to his fly but didn’t bite. Patiently mending his lie closer to the rocks, Cimarron watched the concentric circles disturb the pool’s smooth surface.

Like the ripple effects of his brother’s death. Complications Cimarron didn’t want or need—he’d never know if his tirade at R.J. that morning had caused his brother to rush so much that he was careless and fell off the scaffolding. He’d probably always believe he was responsible. He carried enough guilt around, without adding his brother’s death to the list. And Wyatt. Exhaling heavily, he looked to the endless blue sky above for an answer, a measure of peace from the terrible conflict that tore at him.

The trout rose, then darted away, like Cimarron, not yet brave enough to take the bait. Roll casting, Cimarron set the fly near the boulders again and again, searching for the elusive trout, but he found concentrating difficult today.

He hadn’t fathered that child. Why in hell would R.J. saddle him with a lifelong responsibility? There had to be other avenues. Adoption. Foster care. Something. Anything!

Then he felt the satisfying jolt. His trout was back. The fly disappeared. Line taut, rod bent double, the reel squealed as the trout ran. Cimarron played him, let him run, patiently stripping the struggling fish in. Its scales glinted silver in the sunlight as it leaped for freedom.

Unpleasant memories disappeared from Cimarron’s mind with the thrill of conquest. He could just stay right here in Little Lobo, guard his house from Sarah’s wrecking ball and fish until his problems resolved themselves.

“You got one, Unca Cimron!” Wyatt pranced along the bank. “You got a big one!”

Jolted from his concentration, Cimarron flinched. The trout took advantage of the slack line and escaped. Even had the gall to give a victory leap a few yards away before vanishing. Cimarron swore the damn fish grinned at him.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Cimarron shouted, turning to the child. “You made me lose my fish. Can’t you do anything…”