A Wife in Wyoming

Wyatt muttered something unintelligible and presented his back. With a few fumbles, Ford got the brace over his brother’s head and settled it on his shoulders with the straps fastened tight.

“There ya go.”

At that moment the screen door in the front of the house slammed. “Got some food somewhere?” Dylan called. “I’m starving.”

As Wyatt walked stiffly into the bright kitchen light, the youngest Marshall gave a whistle. “Look at you, Boss. We’ll have you in the saddle in no time.” He walked toward Ford. “So you finally came home. I’ve got a horse with your saddle on it out in the corral.” Then he came in for a hug. “Welcome back,” he said in a low voice, which Ford understood meant we need you.

“Yep,” Ford said, meaning I’ll take care ofeverything. He slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “Let’s eat.”

For a while the only sounds were chewing and swallowing as the four of them dug into their steaks. Ford took the opportunity to study each of his brothers, assessing changes since his last visit. Dylan, with his dark brown hair worn a little long and a sensitive curve to his mouth just like their mother’s, still looked young enough to be in college, though he’d graduated five years ago. Garrett’s hair was a lighter brown and neatly styled, probably to please his church congregation. Right now his blue eyes were shadowed and a little strained—he’d always been the worrier. Wyatt shared Dylan’s brown eyes and Garrett’s hair, cut in the practical, no-fuss way he’d worn for years. Age never told on Wyatt’s face; he looked pretty much the same at thirty-four as he had at twenty-four...except tired this time. Was it his injury, or was something else going on?

Ford would find out sooner or later. No need to push the issue. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked instead, which brought to order the usual dinner table board meeting for Marshall Brothers, Incorporated. Details for moving cattle, fences to be checked and machinery to get tuned up came under review, as always.

Only Wyatt hardly said a word.

“So what do you think, Boss?” Ford pushed his empty plate away and looked at his brother.

Wyatt glanced up from his plate. “What do I think about what?”

“We decided we’d flood the eastside pastures, grow our own brand of Wyoming rice.”

The oldest Marshall set down his fork and knife with a clank. “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard of. Rice won’t grow...” He noticed the grin on Ford’s face and frowned. “What’s your point?”

“That you’re not listening. Or eating much.”

“I’m not doing much. No reason to eat.”

The preacher in the family propped his elbows on the table. “Can’t you view this as a vacation? You’re always saying you don’t get a chance to read. When did you last take a day off?”

Ford answered the question. “When he was fourteen, maybe. Before Dad died.”

Garrett nodded. “Twenty years without a break?”

Wyatt shook his head. “I get plenty of downtime. I don’t need a vacation. I need to get back to work.”

Dylan clucked his tongue. “Well, that’s not happening in the immediate future. The doctor wants you quiet for at least three months.” He leaned his chair back, balancing on the two rear legs. “And since you’re staying still for a change, I want to do some sketches, work up plans for a life-size carving of your head. I found a piece of petrified pine that would be perfect.”

Wyatt’s frown evolved into an expression of horror. “I don’t want a statue of me sitting around somewhere for people to stare at. Next thing I know, you’ll be exhibiting me in one of your art shows. Keep your chair on the floor.”

The chair clattered as Dylan straightened up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I suppose you’d also suggest I spend less time carving and more time doing meaningful work?”

“As a matter of fact, I might.”

Cheeks flushed, brown eyes blazing, Dylan got to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, I might tell you to go to hell.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Dylan—”

But the youngest Marshall stomped out of the room without listening. The slap of the screen door announced that he’d left the house. And he’d broken one of the cardinal rules—leaving his plate on the table for someone else to carry to the kitchen.

Wyatt passed a hand over his face. “I can’t seem to say the right thing to him anymore.”

Ford stacked Dylan’s plate on top of his own. “Would a statue be so bad?”

Wyatt glared at him from under lowered brows. “Why don’t you model for him?”

“Maybe I will.” Ford struck a pose with the dishes balanced on one hand. “You could stand it in the corner and tip your hat every time you walk by me. We’ll put a plaque on the pedestal—Ford Marshall, Renowned Attorney.”

“That’ll be the day.” Garrett walked around to pick up Wyatt’s plate. “We’re more likely to turn your face to the wall and aim a swift kick at your butt when you’re not here to help out.”

Ford led the way into the kitchen. “Spoken like a true man of the cloth. I thought ministers were supposed to be kind and gentle with their flocks.”

“Brothers are exempted from that rule. Besides, I’ll bet you haven’t been to church since you were last here. Am I wrong?”

“Just can’t find a preacher in San Francisco as good as you.”

“Right. I believe that one. Well, plan on getting up tomorrow morning and heading into town, because around here the Marshalls still show up in the pew on Sunday morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Garrett took the dishcloth out of Ford’s hand. “You cooked. I’ll clean up. Go talk to the boss. Maybe get him outside for a few minutes.”

“Right.”

He found Wyatt where they’d left him, sitting alone in the dining room, staring at his bottle of beer. “Want to take a walk? It’s a pretty night.”

“I was thinking about going to bed.”

“Me, too. But I want to stretch my legs first. Come on.” He took hold of the chair and pulled it away as Wyatt stood up.

A sound very close to a growl came from Wyatt’s throat. “I can manage my own damn chair.”

“I’m sure you can. Want me to shove it into the backs of your knees? Then we could have a wrestling match, like we used to, and you could beat the snot out of me, like you used to. Would that make you feel better?”

Wyatt snorted a laugh. “Probably.”

“Not me, though.” They walked through the house, out the front door and down the three porch steps, with Ford pretending that he wasn’t on guard in case something happened, and Wyatt pretending he didn’t realize what Ford was doing. Out in the open, they both took a deep breath.

“I swear my lungs can’t fill up all the way when I’m in the city,” Ford said. “The air’s just too thick, too heavy.”

“I know what you mean.” Wyatt lifted his face as far as the brace permitted. “The mountains, the grasslands...the pure space of it all gives a man enough room to stretch out and live. I’m surprised, that you stay in the city as long as you do.”

“That’s where the work is. Not many prospects for a high-powered law practice in Bisons Creek.”

“Guess not. Wyoming’s got its share of corporate lawyers these days, though, what with the oil and coal companies all over the place. And we never run out of bad guys looking for a defense lawyer. Never stop needing prosecutors to punish them, either.”

“Of course not.” Ford stared up at the Wyoming stars, the familiar constellations in their early-summer formations, twinkling like far-off candles against the black velvet sky. “I’ll keep it in mind, if I decide to shift gears.” He let a silence fill with the sounds of nearby crickets and the whisper of the wind. “Everything going all right on the Circle M?”

The boss didn’t answer right away. “With ranching, there’s always something going wrong,” he said at last. “Cattle prices are down, the grass-fed market demand is slow. Winter lasted longer than usual, so we’re late moving herds into the higher pastures. The Forest Service has limited the parcels we can use, which means fattening up these early steers is gonna be harder.” He blew a rueful snort. “Same stuff, different day.”