Free Reclaiming Nick by Susan May Warren Page B

considered Cole a gentleman. Nick couldn’t believe he had actually felt sorry for the guy. Wanted to make him part of his family, begged his father to hire him on during the summer. Too late he’d discovered Cole’s games.
    Thankfully he wasn’t fooled any longer.
    Marching out to his Silverado, Nick got inside, noticing St. John’s battered Ford behind him. He couldn’t believe that thing still ran.
    Pulling out, he spit gravel as he drove back to the Silver Buckle.
    Maggy is Cole’s wife.
    Cole had stolen everything from him—his land, his woman. Notthat Nick deserved her—it had taken him about two years to figure that out—but he hadn’t found a woman since he left who laughed at his wry humor, who put up with his bullheadedness, who listened until he unraveled the thoughts that knotted his brain.
    Someone who might fit into his life.
    Then again, what kind of life did he want? Since he’d turned in his badge, he’d been waiting tables, occasionally throwing flapjacks.
    He’d sacrificed everything because of his temper, and even now his sins seemed to haunt him. According to Saul, Nick couldn’t do a thing to contest Bishop’s will. Not unless he found evidence that the will had been signed under duress—that Cole or some other benefactor had been in the room putting unseen pressure on his father during the signing. But Saul said they’d been alone in Bishop’s bedroom during that critical hour. Unless Nick unearthed a miracle—in Bishop’s journals or an untapped vein in Stefanie’s memory—he’d lose his past and his future to Cole the Thief. It felt like yet another punishment from God.
    When, God? Everyone else seems to have forged on. When will I get to pick up the pieces? Will I ever feel Your forgiveness?
    He drove into the Silver Buckle yard and parked right behind his father’s old pickup. He’d driven the truck yesterday out of some errant desire to reconnect, to belong to the ranch again. He strode past the pickup and headed into the house, bracing himself for another go-round with Stef.
    Only the old Maytag fridge met him as it kicked on and hummed in greeting. He tossed his keys on the counter, listening to his heart thump. He’d been ready, even eager, for a verbal sparring. Instead, Stef had left him a note in her bubbly handwriting.
    Dear Nick,
    Went to town. Dutch is in the barn, working with the heifers. Please check on our new chef. I’ll be back for supper.
    S.
    Peering out the window over the sink, he saw Dutch’s hulking frame exit the cow barn. The old boss, ten years his father’s junior, had been like an uncle to him. Nick had always been a little afraid of Dutch’s stern expression and huge hands. He wasn’t foolish enough to ask for—or expect—Dutch’s forgiveness.
    Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Nick leaned against the counter and drank it black, his mind churning. Dutch might know what Cole had on his father—Dutch had always seemed to take an extra interest in Cole and, in particular, his shapely widowed mother, Irene. Spent a lot of Sunday afternoons on her porch. For a long time Nick thought he might marry Irene. Cole had even called him Uncle Dutch.
    Nick finished his coffee, pocketed a granola bar, and headed outside. The smells of early yarrow and Wyoming kittentail hung in the warm air. The late-morning sun had begun to cut the chill from the cool air.
    Rounding the house, he shot a glance toward the hunting cabin. He’d have to figure out a way to talk their new chef into hitting the road. After he figured out how to get their land back, they wouldn’t need Ms. Sullivan anyway, and she’d be out of a job. He was doing her a favor.
    He stood there, remembering her troubled look as she watched him build the fire last night. Vulnerable, even afraid. He had the strangest sense that she might be lost or running from something.
    Then again, weren’t they all?
    He hoped Stefanie checked her references. He turned, heading for the corral.
    Pecos was