No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ her first one and certainly wouldn’t be her last. Molly felt she’d had few options. Besides removing Tom from involvement in a gang, she had to get to Gramps as soon as possible, to be with him during his remaining days. And since she would inherit the ranch, the more she learned about the management of it now, the better.

      “You’re taking us away from our friends.”

      “Like Eddie Ries?”

      It was clear to Molly that Tom needed a better class of companions. She worried incessantly about her son and wondered what had happened to the good-natured helpful boy he used to be. The transformation had come virtually overnight. He’d grown sullen, ill-tempered and moody.

      In the beginning she feared he might have started using drugs. She’d gone so far as to call a drug hotline. She’d learned that the best way to figure out if her son was experimenting with illegal drugs wasn’t to dig through his backpack or his room for evidence. Kids were experts at hiding paraphernalia, and even better at convincing family they were innocent of anything so dangerous or devious. She suspected that was because parents didn’t want to believe their children were caught up in something so destructive and therefore chose to believe whatever the kids told them. Facing the truth was far too painful—and would demand action.

      The true test, according to the pamphlet she’d read, was knowing your children’s friends. One look at the type of friends your son or daughter associated with was usually enough.

      Until last fall Tom’s friends had been good kids, from good homes, who made good grades. She felt relatively reassured until he started hanging around with Eddie Ries. Even then it was difficult to gauge the truth.

      According to Mr. Boone, the school principal, Tom’s friendship with Eddie had been a recent development. Molly hoped that was true.

      “Will Gramps teach me to ride?” Clay asked, straining forward in his seat.

      “Probably not,” Molly said with a renewed sense of sadness. “Remember, he isn’t well. I don’t think he rides anymore.”

      “This is gonna be a bust,” Clay said, slumping against the window.

      Molly shook her head in wonder. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you two?”

      “We don’t have any friends in Montana,” Tom said sulkily.

      “You’ll make new ones.” That was one thing she could say about her boys. Not more than a week after moving into the apartment they’d met every kid within a five-block radius. Neither Tom nor Clay had any problem forming new friendships. The ranch kids would be eager to learn what they could about the big city, and before long Tom and Clay would be heroes.

      “Let me tell you about the ranch,” she tried again.

      “Yeah!” Clay said eagerly.

      “I’m not interested,” Tom muttered.

      One yes. One no. “What’s it to be?” she asked cheerfully. “Do I get the deciding vote?”

      “No fair!” Tom cried.

      “Plug your ears,” Clay said, snickering.

      Tom grumbled and looked away, wearing the mask of a tormented martyr. He had brooding down to an art form, one he practiced often. Molly couldn’t remember her own adolescence being nearly this traumatic, and Tom was only fourteen. She hated to think of all the high-scale drama the coming years held in store.

      “Originally the Broken Arrow was over 15,000 acres,” Molly began. She said this with pride, knowing how difficult it had been for Gramps to sell off portions of his land. All that remained of the original homestead was 2,500 acres.

      “How come the ranch is named the Broken Arrow?” Clay asked.

      “Because they found a broken arrow on it, stupid.”

      “Tom!”

      “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, but it wasn’t a stupid question. If I remember correctly, Tom, you asked me the same one.”

      “Yeah, but that was when I was a little kid.”

      “About Clay’s age, as I recall.” She recalled no such thing, but it served him right for belittling his younger brother.

      “What about his foreman?” Clay asked next.

      Gramps’s foreman. Molly had nothing to tell. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he was apparently devoted to Gramps. Devoted enough to make sure she knew of Gramps’s ill health.

      She’d reviewed their short conversation a number of times in the two weeks since his phone call, afraid she might have missed something important. She wondered if there’d been something else he’d wanted to tell her, a hidden message beneath his words. She’d sensed his urgency, accepted the gravity of the situation. Yet when she’d phoned Gramps the next night, he’d sounded quite healthy. He’d been thrilled with her news, and she’d hung up equally excited.

      Molly’s thoughts turned from Sam Dakota to employment possibilities. Eventually she’d need to find a job in Sweetgrass. While there might not be much demand for a translator, she wondered if the high school needed a French or German teacher. If all else failed, she could try getting long-distance freelance assignments. Perhaps she could tutor or give private lessons. Several of the upmarket preschools in San Francisco were beginning to offer foreign-language lessons to their three- and four-year-old clients. Hey—she could start a trend in Montana!

      Molly sighed. She didn’t want to think about the dismal state of her finances. She’d sold everything she could—furniture, dishes, household appliances. She wasn’t carting away fistfuls of dollars from her moving sale, but with her meager savings and her last paycheck, she’d have funds enough to see her through the next couple of months. After that—“Mom,” Clay said, breaking into her thoughts, “I asked you about Gramps’s foreman.”

      “What about him?”

      “Do you think he’ll teach me to ride?”

      “I...I don’t know, sweetheart.”

      “Why should he?” Tom asked, and rolled his eyes as if he could barely stand being in the same car with anyone so stupid.

      “I can ask, can’t I?” Clay whined.

      “Of course,” Molly answered, attempting to divert a shouting match.

      After repeated warnings, Clay finally secured his seat belt and fell asleep, his head cocked to one side. Because the car’s air conditioner didn’t work, Molly had hoped to avoid the heat as much as possible by leaving before six that morning. Already both boys were tired and cranky. Not long after Clay dozed off, Tom braced his head against the window and closed his eyes.

      The silence was a blessed relief after two hours of almost continual bickering. Molly was grateful for the quiet, grateful for her grandfather—and grateful to Sam Dakota for calling her when he had.

      She hadn’t met the man and already he’d changed her life.

      * * *

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