An Ideal Father. Elaine Grant

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СКАЧАТЬ 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…”

      Wyatt crumbled visibly, his shoulders quivering as he backed away.

      Right. Cimarron bit back the word. What was he doing? Saying the same devastating things to his young nephew that had so often sent him scurrying for a hiding place before his father could see the tears and give him still more grief. He was becoming the man his father had been.

      “Hell, no!” he muttered. He sloshed to shore. “Look, Wyatt, I’m sorry I yelled.”

      But the damage was done. The child retreated to the spot where he’d sat to eat, hugged his knees and hid his face. Cimarron squatted in front of him.

      “Wyatt, look at me.”

      Wyatt shook his head.

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