Читать книгу: «The Rancher's Answered Prayer»

Chapter One

“Maybe Uncle Dodd didn’t specifically mention the house in the will because he considered it unlivable.”

Wyatt Smith glanced at his brother Jacob and back to the old house in front of them. Jake had only said out loud what everyone else was thinking. Barely a speck of white paint clung to the old two-story ranch house. Its once green scalloped shingles had faded to a military gray. The front door hung slightly askew, broken glass and all, and the porch showed gaping holes where floorboards ought to be. Obviously, Uncle Dodd hadn’t spent any money on upkeep in his final years, so why had he sold off all the cattle, and what had he done with the proceeds?

“We’ll make do,” Wyatt stated flatly, ignoring the anxious hammering of his heart.

He and his brothers could camp out, if necessary, until they got Loco Man Ranch whipped into shape, but Frankie, Jake’s three-year-old son and Wyatt’s nephew, needed a safe, comfortable place to live. There had to be three or four habitable rooms in this big old house. Besides, it was too late to change their minds now.

They’d sold three businesses and two houses in Houston to make this move and raise the funds necessary to restock the ranch. Two thousand acres in south central Oklahoma could support a lot of cattle, and Wyatt was determined to bring the ranch back to profitability without selling off any acreage. Sink or swim, the Smith brothers were now officially residents of Loco Man Ranch on the very outskirts of War Bonnet, Oklahoma.

He’d never dreamed that the old house would be in such a sorry state, however. This was where he and his brothers had spent many a happy summer, playing cowboy and riding horseback every day. They’d stopped coming for the summer, one by one, after high school, but they’d each made time to see Dodd at least yearly until circumstances had kept them in Houston, occupied with the deaths of their dad and Jake’s wife, as well as fully taking over the family’s businesses. But they were ranchers now and, like three generations of Smith men before them, their hopes lay in the land beneath their feet. God willing, they were going to put Loco Man back on the map. And put the past behind them.

At least it wasn’t too hot yet. The weather in mid-April was plenty warm but not uncomfortably so.

“Let’s see what we’re up against,” Ryder said, striding forward.

At twenty-five, Ryder stood three inches over six feet, just like his older brothers. Thirty-five-year-old Wyatt prided himself on keeping in shape, but his build was blocky, while Ryder naturally carried his hefty two hundred pounds in his powerful arms, shoulders and chest. All three brothers had dark hair and brown eyes, but Ryder’s hair was straight and black, whereas Wyatt’s was curly and coffee brown. Jake’s slimmer build and wavy hair gave him a more polished air, especially in a military uniform, so naturally he had been the first—and thus far the only one—of the brothers to marry. Wyatt suspected that he still grieved the death of his wife, Jolene, deeply.

Handing his son to Wyatt, Jake carefully followed in Ryder’s path to minimize the possibility of falling through a weak spot in the porch floor. Wyatt waited, with Frankie in his arms, at a safe distance. The existing floorboards proved solid enough. The door, however, presented a challenge.

Jake elbowed Ryder out of the way and reached through the broken glass inset, saying, “My arm’s skinnier than yours.”

Gingerly fumbling for several moments, he frowned, but then something clicked and the outside edge of the door dropped slightly. Jake carefully extracted his arm from the jagged hole and stepped aside so Ryder could pull the door open. Wyatt followed his brothers inside.

Red-orange sand had blown into the entry through the broken glass, dulling the dark hardwood of the foyer floor and staircase. Framed photographs covered the foyer walls, all dulled by a thick layer of dust. Many of them, Wyatt saw at a glance, were poorly framed school pictures of him and his brothers, but others showed a sturdy girl with long, chestnut brown hair and heavy eyebrows, as well as a baby photo of a wrinkled newborn in a pale blue onesie. Everything else looked the same, dusty but familiar.

Antique furniture still stood around the cold fireplace in the parlor, dimmed by time and dirt. The dining-room wallpaper looked faded, and fragile gossamer webs coated the splotchy brass light fixture above the rickety dining table. Wyatt hoped the comfortable, roomy den and Dodd’s ranch office were in better shape, but the important rooms right now were the kitchen and downstairs bath.

Despite the fact that he and his brothers had run through these rooms like wild boys summer after summer, Wyatt felt as if they were trespassing. A lack of human habitation seemed to have reduced the gracious old house to a shabby pile, and made Wyatt abruptly doubt his plan. Then Ryder pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen, and suddenly Wyatt saw home.

The appliances, cabinets and countertops were hopelessly outdated, and most of the paint had worn off the familiar old rectangular table. Thankfully, however, the room appeared as habitable now as it had the last time Wyatt sat in one of those old ladder-back chairs.

While Ryder checked the water, Jake took Frankie into the bathroom, and Wyatt tried the burner on the big, white stove. Pipes banged as water started flowing. Wyatt struck a match to ignite a tiny flame.

“Looks like we’re low on propane.”

“Pilot light on the hot water heater must be out,” Ryder said, holding his hand beneath the gushing spigot.

“We can heat water on the stove until we can see to it,” Wyatt determined.

Jake returned, Frankie following and hitching up his baggy jeans. “Storage room is full of junk, but everything seems in working order in the bathroom.”

That was good news because unless Uncle Dodd had updated the plumbing, which seemed unlikely, the only shower in the house was in that downstairs bathroom.

“Check the bedrooms,” Wyatt said to Ryder, who strode off at a swift clip for the staircase. “Jake, think you can find a broom?”

Before Jake could even begin to look, the sound of a vehicle arriving turned them both toward the back door.

“Company already?” Jake asked, swinging Frankie up into his arms.

“Folks around War Bonnet are friendly,” Wyatt commented, “but this is ridiculous.” Through the glass inset in the back door, he saw a small, white sedan pull up next to the back stoop. He walked over and threw the deadbolt, relieved that the door swung open easily.

As Wyatt watched, a curvy brunette of average height slid from behind the sedan’s steering wheel. Dressed in a simple gray skirt with a bright pink, sleeveless blouse, she presented a polished, feminine picture. Her short, stylishly rumpled, cinnamon hair framed a perfectly oval face with enormous, copper-colored eyes. Though she seemed oddly familiar, Wyatt couldn’t place her. Maybe she was one of the town kids who the brothers had sometimes played with. Whoever she was, she was lovely.

If this is the War Bonnet welcoming committee, he thought, things are looking up already.

Then she parked her hands on her hips, tossed her cinnamon brown head and demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”

* * *

“Your house?”

After the week she’d had, Tina was in no mood to explain herself, especially not to some big lunk who probably thought he was God’s gift to women. That’s what all the good-looking ones thought, that women should fall at their big feet in stunned silence and stay that way. Well, she’d had enough of biting her tongue and hoping, praying, to be treated fairly. She’d come home—the only place she’d ever thought of as home, anyway—and here was where she intended to stay. Even if the house did look as if might fall down in a stiff breeze.

She reached into the car and grabbed her handbag. “That’s right. My house.” She lifted her chin at the big man in the doorway. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“I’m Wyatt Smith.”

Oh, no. One of the Houston nephews. She should’ve expected this. Another man crowded into the doorway behind the first, a young boy in his arms. Both had the dark Smith hair and eyes. Wyatt slung a thumb at him. “This is my brother Jake and his son, Frankie.”

Wyatt and Jacoby. Well, that was two of the brothers. “I suppose Ryder is also here.”

Wyatt frowned. “Who are you?” he asked, as if he ought to know her, though they’d never met.

“I’m Tina Walker Kemp.”

If the name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it. He folded his arms across an impressively wide chest.

“What makes you think this house is yours, Tina Walker Kemp?”

“I don’t think it,” she said, placing one foot on the sagging bottom step. “I know it. My stepdaddy left me this house.”

“Your stepdaddy,” Wyatt repeated, his tone skeptical.

“Dodd Smith.”

“Whoa!” Wyatt exclaimed. “Uncle Dodd left us this place.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what the will says.”

“That’s exactly what it says,” Wyatt countered firmly. “And I have the will to prove it.”

Tina lifted her eyebrows. “So do I.”

Just then her six-year-old son, Tyler, yelled, “Mo-om, I gotta go!”

Tamping down her impatience, Tina turned back to the car and opened the door for him. They’d just driven four hours without stopping, after all, and she’d let him have that extra juice box. Besides, if the house was safe for Jake Smith’s son, it must be safe for hers. She signaled for Tyler to join her, and he hopped down out of his seat, having already released his safety belt.

When Tyler reached her side, she automatically lifted a hand to smooth down the spike of reddish-blond hair that always managed to stand up. He automatically dodged her, jerking his head out of reach. The Smith brothers exchanged glances, and Jake stepped back, gesturing at Tyler.

“Come on in.”

Tyler followed without bothering to look to his mother for permission. Sighing inwardly, Tina followed her son up the steps. Tyler squeezed past Wyatt, who didn’t bother to move out of the way. Instead, Wyatt just stood there, challenging her with every ounce of his considerable weight. Mimicking his stance, Tina stopped on the narrow stoop, folded her arms, met his gaze squarely and purred, “Excuse me.”

His shadowed jaw worked side to side as he ground his teeth, but then he stepped back and let her pass. She walked into the kitchen, both dismayed and comforted by its condition. Fortunately, she had learned long ago to keep her opinions to herself, so she made no comment. Just in case the Smith nephews thought she might be unfamiliar with the place, however, she pointed to the back hallway and addressed her son.

“Right down there, honey.”

Tyler trotted off, flipping a curious wave to the youngest Smith, who hugged his father’s neck with one arm and copied Tyler’s gesture with the other.

“Potty,” the boy said just as Tyler disappeared from sight.

“Frankie’s what? Three now?” Tina asked Jake.

Nodding, Jake narrowed his eyes suspiciously before stooping to set the boy on his feet. “That’s right.”

The boy darted away from his father and into the arms of his uncle. Wyatt scooped him up with practiced ease. Jacoby, meanwhile, frowned at Tina.

“You sure seem to know a lot about us.”

“I ought to. Daddy Dodd talked about you constantly.”

“Unca Wyatt,” Frankie asked, pointing a timid finger at Tina, “who’s that?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Wyatt replied dourly.

Tina sighed. “I told you. My name is Tina Walker Kemp. Dodd Smith was my stepfather. He left me this house and—”

“You are confused,” Wyatt interrupted. “Uncle Dodd left this place to us, all two thousand acres of it.”

“I’m not confused,” Tina insisted. “Daddy Dodd sent me a paper which states clearly that the house and mineral rights to Loco Man Ranch are mine.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Jake erupted.

“In Oklahoma,” Wyatt said, his voice low and growling, “mineral rights are separate from property rights. But nothing was ever said to me about the house not being part of our bequest.”

Jake threw up his hands. “That’s just swell.”

Ignoring him, Wyatt demanded of Tina, “And just when did Daddy Dodd send you that paper leaving you his house and mineral rights?”

Ignoring the lump of fear that had risen in her throat—if Daddy Dodd had written a later will without telling her—Tina calmly answered, “Over two years ago, right after my divorce.”

Wyatt scowled, but whether it was due to the timeline, the fact that she was divorced or the paper in her possession, Tina couldn’t say. Not that it mattered. She had come home, and she had no intention of leaving. She couldn’t. She had no other safe place to go.

“Now, why would Dodd leave you the house and mineral rights?” Jake wanted to know.

“Because he knew I love it here,” Tina replied, sweeping aside a stray hair on her forehead. “I didn’t want to leave when he and my mom split up, and I came to visit as often as I could.”

Wyatt’s dark eyes held hers. “You were how old when they split?”

“Almost sixteen.”

“And that was how long ago?” Jake demanded. Grimacing, he added, “Sorry, you just don’t look old enough to be the only stepdaughter I ever knew Uncle Dodd to have.”

“Well, I am old enough,” she retorted firmly. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“So, thirteen years ago,” Wyatt muttered. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Wait a minute... You’re Walker.”

Tina couldn’t help chuckling. “That’s right. He called me Walker because my mother called me Tiny instead of Tina, and I had some issues with that nickname. He was the only person in the world to call me by my last name.”

Wyatt finally put it together. “Your mother was Gina Walker.”

“Correct.” Though technically it was Gina Schultz Walker Haldon Smith Murray Becker. Gina hadn’t believed in dropping the surnames of her husbands; she’d just added to them.

“That’s you in the photos in the foyer,” Wyatt deduced.

Tina grimaced. She’d been a tubby teenager, self-conscious about her shape, and her overbearing mother had called her Tiny in a futile effort to get Tina to slim down. When she looked in the mirror now, Tina still saw an overweight woman, but at least she knew how to dress for her figure these days.

“I think one of Tyler’s baby pictures is hanging there, too,” she said in a half-hearted attempt to change the subject. “At least that’s where Dodd said he was going to hang it last time we were here.”

“And when was that exactly?” Wyatt asked, sounding tired suddenly.

“Tyler was maybe eight months old, so about five-and-a-half years ago. Maybe a month or two longer. I think it was June.” She thought a moment. “Yes, it was June. I was hoping to stay through the Fourth of July, but...”

She flashed back to the sound of the telephone ringing in the middle of the night. Her husband, Layne, had raged that she’d abandoned him when he’d needed her most and demanded that she return home. She’d stupidly gathered up her sleeping baby and hit the road, only to find that the emergency he’d referred to was nothing more than a lost commission. As his wife, accepting blame for everything that went wrong in his life had been her primary role, but at the time she’d still believed that if she was just patient and long-suffering enough, Layne would magically morph into the steady, loving husband and father she’d imagined he would be when she’d married him.

Pushing aside the unwanted memories, Tina cleared her throat. “Things were in better shape the last time I was here.”

Wyatt shook his head grimly. “Wait’ll we check the roof and plumbing, not to mention the electricity.”

Fear tightened into a lump in Tina’s stomach. The electricity had been downright scary the last time she was here, so she had no doubt that the wiring needed upgrading, but she refused to be daunted. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll set things to right.” Somehow.

“You sound awfully sure of that,” he said, “even though I stand here with a will that leaves me and my brothers everything.”

She gave him her steeliest glare. “Oh, I am sure. One man has already taken me for everything I owned, and I’ll never let that happen again.”