He often wondered if this was why his mother left him and his father, if being a pastor’s wife was similarly suffocating, and she just couldn’t take it anymore. He never asked. Talking about his mother was hurtful to his father on a different, deeper level, and Roy had never wanted to go that far.
After chugging some water from the canteen, he headed toward the horse stalls to perform his daily inspection of the fences around the perimeter of the ranch. This was his favorite chore because he got to take Iggy, the chocolate-colored horse with a white streak across his muzzle, out for a ride. Iggy was his favorite horse, the only one he rode, and that was something the other ranch hands couldn’t understand—how he could still favor Iggy after the accident.
Three years ago, there was a shootout at one of the saloons in town not far from the ranch. Iggy had gotten spooked by gunfire in the distance and in his terror, he had bucked Roy off his back. Roy could still remember the sharp pain that quickly led to a sensation of numbness as he looked over and saw his leg twisted at an awkward angle. Mr. Whitfield, the ranch owner, had called for the local doctor, but the medical care wasn’t great in Wheats Ridge. He had no doubt he would have healed just fine had he been back home with Dr. Davenport.
As a result of the incompetency, his leg never healed just right, leaving him with an unsightly and cumbersome limp. He had gotten used to it over the years, and most of the time it didn’t bother him unless he had to run quickly or put extra weight on that side of his body.
Roy didn’t hold the accident against the horse, though; he understood all too well that sometimes impulsivity was born out of distress—for animals and people.
After ensuring that no part of the fence was compromised and none of the livestock would be able to escape, Roy rode back to the mess hall for breakfast. Despite the other ranch hands being too ill to do any chores that morning, they were already digging into their breakfast of salted pork, cornbread, and scrambled eggs.
“Hey, Limpy Roy. Where have you been all morning? Any later and you might have missed out the grub!” That was Jeff, one of the hands that was both the most irksome and the least diligent with the daily work.
“Working,” Roy deadpanned, scooping a smattering of eggs on his plate and pouring himself a cup of muddy coffee. The coffee here on the ranch did the work it was supposed to do, giving him an energy boost, but it was far from an enjoyable experience. A good cup of coffee was one of the few things he missed about home. “How’s the headache?”
“Already slept it off. You sure missed out on a good time last night, Limpy.” Jeff winked at him, and the other hands chortled in agreement. Roy knew that they were referring to not only carousing in the saloon but also patronizing one of the many brothels in town. While such ‘entertainment’ was illegal in the territory of Colorado, Wheats Ridge was known for being a town that did little to maintain public order and morality. This was a culture shock Roy had faced when he moved out here from Lakewood. Sheriff Williams ran a tight ship—this was another thing he knew all too well, having many a teenage memory of the sheriff’s firm grip on his arm taking him to the police wagon when he pulled some relatively harmless prank.
Here in Wheats Ridge, however, it was understood that not only would the local authorities turn a blind eye to brothels and gambling dens, but they might even be found frequenting such establishments themselves.
“You guys know that’s not my idea of a good time,” Roy said as he sat down at the crowded breakfast table, stabbing the meat with his fork and slicing it with his knife.
“It might actually be your idea of a good time,” Luke, another hand who was only slightly less irksome than Jeff, chimed in. “You wouldn’t know, because you never go out with us.”
“I like to get an early night.” Roy shrugged as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. “Someone has to be functional at the crack of down when work needs to be done, and it’s certainly not going to be any of you guys who stay out past midnight every night.”
Roy had become notorious among the other hands for turning down invitations to go to town. Now they no longer bothered to invite him, although they never stopped offering subtle hints. Roy wasn’t sure if his resistance to join in their lawless escapades was a remnant of Christian morality, a trait left over from being a pastor’s kid and was stubborn to detach itself from Roy’s conscience, or his innate desire for solitude—or both. It was true that he liked to get an early start in the morning, though. Roy had always been an early riser, which was one reason ranch life suited him so well.
The conversation among the hands shifted, and Roy was relieved to no longer be the center of attention. He finished his breakfast in a hurry so he could get back to his late morning chores, particularly the morning round-up of the livestock.
He mounted Iggy and pulled the reins, and they set off herding livestock across the ranch, redirecting them to their designated locations and searching for any animals that might have wandered astray. With the amount of land and number of livestock at Morton Ranch, this task took, at best, three hours. There was an unspoken agreement among all the other hands that this job belonged to Roy, and he was completely amenable to this arrangement. It was no secret that Roy was the hardest-working hand, assuming the most strenuous work without complaint. Truthfully, doing this kind of work brought Roy joy, and it distracted him from the dull ache associated with his memories of Lakewood.
When he first arrived at Morton Ranch five years ago, Roy discovered that throwing himself into manual labor allowed him to forget that he was ever the son of a pastor. He didn’t want to forget his father, Everett Burns, but he did often want to forget Pastor Burns. For Roy, this was an important distinction. There was a lot of trauma that came with never meeting the expectations of a community who seemed to be waiting for him to fail.
Here, Roy was not the son of a pastor. He could keep a low profile and live life on his own terms. Instead of sitting in a church, pretending to pray and unsuccessfully attempting to focus on a sermon, he could spend his time caring for land and animals. Roy figured that if God did exist, He would be happy to know that someone was working tirelessly to care for His creation.
Nevertheless, Roy often wondered, looking back, whether he had made the right decision in leaving so hastily, especially after one, heated argument where they both said things they likely didn’t mean. But time and distance made the chasm between he and his father grow larger, and after enough time had passed, he knew it would be too late to go home. He doubted he would even be welcomed—by his father or by the community.
The high sun indicated that it was just about lunchtime, so with all the livestock accounted for and safely corralled, Roy steered Iggy back in the direction of the barn. He was still several yards away when he heard the other hands hollering his name.
“What could possibly be the crisis now?” Roy groaned, prompting Iggy to pick up speed. As he got closer to the barn, he saw a tall, willowy woman in the distance, wearing a floral print dress with sleeves covering her elbows and a hemline that stopped a few inches above the ankle. It was hard to see her face properly as she was wearing a bonnet.
He dismounted Iggy and approached the group of hands surrounding the woman.
“This woman is here asking for you, Roy,” Jeff said, winking obnoxiously from behind her shoulder and elbowing Luke in the ribs, who snickered. Roy, ignoring their banter, frowned in confusion. No one had asked for him in five years. He kept to himself on the ranch, rarely heading out into town, and he hadn’t had contact with anyone back home since he left.
“Are you sure you’re looking for me?” Roy asked, taking a step closer. But his question answered itself when he got a good luck at her.
The woman was standing tall and upright, shoulders back and chin raised in an assertion of confidence. Wisps of honey-blonde hair were emerging from beneath her bonnet and accenting delicate facial features. It was her eyes that gave her away, though—they were a stunning bright blue, the way Roy used to imagine the Pacific Ocean back when he dreamed of getting away to California.
The last time he made that mental comparison was the last time he saw those eyes, back home in Lakewood. He was sitting on the front pew of church while his father preached, but he was distracted and not paying attention. As his mind wandered, he had looked across the aisle, and his eyes met hers, the girl sitting across the aisle in the other front pew. She quickly looked away from him and regained her intense concentration on his father’s sermon.
At the time, those eyes belonged to a girl, but the person standing in front of him was now a fully grown woman, none other than Cora Williams, the daughter of the Lakewood sheriff and one of his father’s most dedicated parishioners.
In an instant, Roy’s blood turned to ice. He couldn’t explain how, maybe just a son’s intuition, but he knew in his bones what this visit must mean—something terrible had happened to his father.
Chapter Three
Cora was sure she wouldn’t have recognized Roy Burns if she saw him casually walking through the streets of Lakewood. The last time she saw him, he was a boy of eighteen, his hair neatly above his ears in a proper haircut. He was clean-shaven, giving him the innocent, boyish appearance of a pastor’s son.
