A Montana Man. Jackie Merritt

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      He arrived at the compound just as Tommy was coming out of the house and heading for his red pickup truck.

      “Morning, Dad,” Tommy called.

      “Morning, Tom.” Clint dismounted and let his horse go. He wouldn’t go far, Clint knew, and would, in fact, come back to him with a whistle.

      “Looks like we’re in for a nice day,” Tommy said as he opened the door of his truck.

      “Sure does.” Clint glanced at his watch. “You’re running a little late.”

      “I know. Better get going. I gotta pick up Eric.”

      “Are you sure you have time for that?”

      “I told him I’d pick him up this morning, Dad.” Tommy grinned and swung himself up into the truck. “Remember, Barrows don’t go back on their word.”

      Clint had to smile. He had instilled in his son the value of a man keeping his word. It was his own credo and he believed that honor was the primary difference between men of principle and those hapless individuals who drifted through life without hope, ambition or inspiration.

      “Well, drive safely,” he told his son. “See you this evening.”

      Tommy started the motor and rolled down the window. “See ya, Dad.”

      Clint stood in the yard and watched the red pickup travel the driveway, his pride swelling in his chest. There were moments like this when he became very emotional about his son. Tommy would soon graduate from high school, he was no longer Clint’s “little boy.” He was teetering between manhood and childhood, and would go away to college in the fall. Clint could only hope that Tommy would want to return to the ranch after he completed his education.

      When Clint could no longer see the red pickup, he whistled for his horse. It trotted over and Clint climbed into the saddle. It was time for his own day to begin.

      Five days earlier.

      Sierra’s new minivan was loaded to the roof with clothes, personal mementos and all of her painting supplies—rolled canvases, stretcher boards, tubes of oil paints, boxes of brushes and palette knives, easels, as well as several gallon cans of turpentine, which she used to clean her equipment.

      She had packed carefully, and everything was snugly fitted together in the vehicle. The only unfilled space was the very front of the van, and even then her purse, maps and a notebook and pen lay on the passenger seat, where she could easily reach them from the driver’s seat. Her bank account had been converted to five hundred dollars in cash and the rest in traveler’s checks. She carried no credit cards, and her wallet contained only her driver’s license and the cash.

      She was dressed for comfort in loose-fitting denim pants and a sweatshirt. Her long dark hair had been confined into one braid, and her face was devoid of makeup. Her skin was deep toned, appearing suntanned year-round; she had never needed cosmetics to enhance her coloring. She was thirty-three years old and looked five years younger.

      Her figure was exceptionally good, as firm as it had been during her college years when she had first met Mike. They had dated for a while, she had wondered how deep her feelings really were for Mike Findley, then graduation had separated them. She’d known he was going on to law school, and she had found a job in an art gallery and polished her talent with oil paints and private lessons. Eventually she had moved to San Francisco, recalling only absentmindedly that Mike’s family lived there. She’d thought of him occasionally, but never dreamed they would ever see each other again.

      It had happened. She’d been at a party, and had hardly believed her own eyes when Mike walked up to her. “Sierra? Sierra Benning? Is it really you?” he’d said with the grin she had found so irresistible in college.

      This time love had bloomed at once, and they had married after three months of romance and laughter, of dining and dancing, of Mike introducing her to his friends and his family, of her being showered with gifts and flowers and sweet little love notes. Their wedding had been...

      “No,” she said out loud, denying herself both the pain and the luxury of reliving that special day. The memories would always be there, but she needn’t deliberately drag them out and cause herself more heartache.

      She didn’t understand Mike’s infidelity and knew she never would. While he had been showing her how much he loved her in dozens of ways, he had been meeting other women in hotel rooms. She had slept very little last night, wondering what might be ahead of her, thinking of the past and the disintegration of her marriage, knowing she was doing the right thing by breaking all ties but still not completely at ease with her plans.

      The uneasiness would pass, she told herself. It had been a long time since she had taken a car trip by herself; concern was only natural, especially since she had no destination in mind.

      It was time to leave. There was sunshine this morning, though the temperature was almost cool because of a breeze off the Bay. Sierra stood next to her van and looked at the glistening white mansion that had been her home for so long. During that time span she had gone from delirious happiness to acute misery.

      It was over—all of it. Over with and behind her. She could look at her marriage as years of wasted time, or she could view her marriage and divorce as a lesson in life’s harsher realities. It was both, actually, and maybe that was good. Certainly she would have to know a man inside and out before she risked her heart again.

      Thinking of the irony of it all delayed her departure for another few minutes. Last week she had been a wealthy woman; today everything she owned fit into one relatively small space—the minivan. Ironic or not, she did not regret negating the divorce settlement. Her own attorney had refused to help her do something so “utterly ridiculous”—his exact words—so she had called Mike’s. He had been most helpful. In fact, he’d drawn up the papers with a haste that had struck Sierra as funny, as though he, like most of her friends, had been wondering if she’d lost her mind, and wanted to get her signature on the documents before she came to her senses.

      God, why was she thinking of that now? Clearing her mind with a slight shake of her head, Sierra slid behind the wheel of the van and turned the ignition key. She drove away from the Findley mansion without looking back. Her uppermost thought was that she was going to try very hard not to look back ever again. From this moment forward, she would concentrate on the future. She had one—somewhere. All she had to do was find it.

      

      It seemed that the farther Sierra got from San Francisco, the braver she became about traveling alone. The traveling itself was exciting, and she wanted to just go on and on. She felt absolutely wonderful and completely freed of the Findleys’ influence.

      Four days later she found herself in western Montana. She stayed in a motel in a very small settlement in the mountains that night, and went to the only café for dinner. There were a few other people in the place, and the waitress had greeted her with a friendly smile.

      “Would you like to order now, or are you waiting for someone to join you?” the woman asked.

      Sierra smiled. “If I waited for someone to join me, I’d starve to death.”

      “You’re traveling alone?”

      “That I am. I’ll have the pot roast and hot tea.”

      “Good СКАЧАТЬ