And why would anyone want it? The only thing he could think was that someone wanted to mess with him, maybe show him they could take what they wanted. They’d made it personal, taking those trophies.
He walked out, left that room, left the barn and headed for the house. Rick didn’t follow him. Fortunately no one asked where he was going. He didn’t really know.
His gaze settled on the house, a museum of a place in Georgian architecture that his grandfather had built. Columned porticos extended from each side of the house, those massive porches devoid of warmth or furnishings. Rose gardens ran wild because he didn’t really care. It was the one thing he’d let go, those flower gardens. They represented his only rebellion against his father’s legacy.
Carson took care of business. He took care of the ranch. He maintained the family reputation and standing in the community. He didn’t like roses, so if something had to be neglected on a ranch this size it was going to be the flowers.
As he climbed the steps of the front porch a car shot up the driveway, coming to a quick stop in front of the detached garage. He nearly groaned when he saw who it was. His sister, Jenna, five years his junior, and never one to take the family name seriously, jumped out of her little car and reached in the backseat. When she emerged she had her son by the hand. They were both dark haired and dark eyed, and the little boy looked tired.
Jenna looked on the verge of some kind of breakdown.
“Here.” She pushed her son’s hand into his.
“What?”
“I can’t do this. I need a break. Just a few days.”
“He isn’t a...” Carson looked down at the little guy and bit back every foul word he wanted to say to his sister. Her child wasn’t a puppy. He wasn’t something you handed off, like secondhand toys or clothing. He was a person with feelings.
And little feet that shifted back and forth as the boy squirmed and looked increasingly more uncomfortable.
“Head for the bathroom, Brandon.” Carson opened the door for the five-year-old. The little boy shot past him and into the house.
“He’s out of control,” Jenna informed Carson. As if that was his fault. He considered telling his sister that her son wasn’t out of control. She was.
“I’m not the one dragging him from town to town and from relationship to relationship, Jenna. That’s on you. Stay here, be a mom and take care of your son.”
“Don’t judge me.”
He groaned. “Why is it when people are messing up and someone points it out to them, they always fall back on judgment? I’m not judging you. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Carson, I just need a few days. I need a break.”
“You’re a mom, Jenna. I don’t think you get to walk away from that.”
“I’m not walking away. I just need for you to do this for me. Just this once. I promise when I come back I’ll do better. I’ll get my act together.”
“I think you should definitely get your act together. But stay here and do it. Don’t walk away.”
Tears were streaming down her face, and Carson took a step toward her. She shook her head.
“Carson, I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know why everything is going wrong and I can’t seem to make it right. I can’t be the mom Brandon needs. I’ve never been a good wife. I’m just empty. I have to go.”
“No.” Carson reached for her hand, but she evaded and headed down the steps.
“I’ll be back soon. I promise,” she called out as she got in her car.
He would have gone after her, but Brandon came out of the house, wide-eyed and mouth agape. When the little guy looked as if he was about to run after the car, Carson snatched him up.
Together they watched the little red car speed down the driveway.
“So, Brandon, have you had breakfast?” He didn’t know what else to say.
Or what else to do. He didn’t know what to do with a kid. He didn’t know how long it would take his sister to get her head on straight. Days? Weeks?
Brandon sniffled and a few tears slipped down his cheeks. “I spilled the milk last night, and there wasn’t anything to eat this morning.”
Carson pulled the door open and marched his nephew inside. First things first: food.
As he rummaged around looking for kid-friendly food, he thought about Jenna. His sister had seemed lost for years. Their mom’s death had rocked their family, but maybe it had been hardest on a girl just about to enter her teens. When he looked back he realized she’d always drifted. She’d gone from relationship to relationship. She’d never quite found herself. And now Brandon was suffering for it.
He found cereal in the cabinet that hadn’t been opened. It looked like the kind full of sugar and obviously what a boy would most want for breakfast. He poured a bowl for Brandon, then poured one for himself.
As soon as he got Brandon settled at the table with breakfast he needed to call in the theft of the trophies. It didn’t amount to much, but they needed every theft on record.
He thought about how he would question Ruby Donovan and her brother without really appearing to blame the younger man. Because everyone was a suspect at this point. He wouldn’t doubt if some people in town were putting his name on a list.
As he contemplated, something crashed. A shriek followed. He hadn’t been watching Brandon. He turned in time to see the curtain rod over the French doors come crashing down. The curtains fell, the picture frames on the wall to the left of the door shattered and glass flew everywhere.
Brandon was in the middle of the mess on an overturned chair.
“What in the world?” Carson lifted the boy out of the mess.
“I was going to try and get that spider.” Brandon pointed.
Carson groaned and shook his head. He had to find something to do with a five-year-old until Jenna came to her senses. But first they needed breakfast and a trip to the Donovans’.
* * *
Ruby walked down to the old barn that had been on her family farm since almost the beginning. And it looked every bit of its almost one hundred years. The weathered, wood-sided structure leaned a little from time, from wind and rain, but it was sturdy.
There were a few stalls inside, a hayloft in the top of the barn and a good corral. It was perfect for the business she wanted to start: teaching young children to ride. It wouldn’t bring in a lot of money, but until she could buy more livestock to replenish what had been sold off over the past few years and get a job, it would have to do.
Derek joined her, looking over the barn with the same critical eye she’d used moments earlier. He brushed a hand through his dark chestnut hair. The sun captured just the slightest hint of red. He was tall and thin, too thin. He had her hazel eyes but with darker, thicker lashes. He looked like their dad. And it worried her that sometimes he acted like Earl Donovan. Restless. Their dad had always been restless. He’d been a cowboy, a saddle bronc rider and an alcoholic.
“How can I help?” Derek asked. This was the new Derek, the kid who wasn’t quite twenty but wanted to change his life. She didn’t credit prison with that change; she credited his newfound faith.
People might doubt that faith. She didn’t. It was no jailhouse conversion.
“There isn’t a lot we can do,” she admitted. “I