The more both Cope and I learned, the more we doubted we could draw a line between Kilbourne’s mission and our own. Like so many other leads we’d once believed promising, this one fizzled as well.
8
Flynn
Crested Butte, Colorado
Two Years Ago
It took a few months, but Buck finally made it home. We’d all worried he wouldn’t make it in time. He said he would’ve come sooner, but he’d been on a mission. Our father didn’t believe him, but I did, and I told him so.
Buck cupped my neck with his hand and pulled me into a hug. “You have the sweetest, purest heart of anyone I’ve ever known, Flynn. Just like our mama did. Don’t let life ever change that about you.”
He was wrong. If my heart had ever been pure, I feared it no longer was.
So far, my father had outlived his prognosis by over eighteen months, not that the time between then and now was easy. I think it was his fear of death—and spending eternity in hell—that kept him alive. The doctors had offered various types of treatment, most designed to keep him more comfortable, but he’d turned them all down. Which meant he was in almost constant pain. While he might believe he was tough enough to handle it mentally, the physical strain on his body manifested itself in chronic fatigue, periods of incoherence, and ultimately, a seizure so severe that it landed him in the hospital for several days.
The toll it took on me almost landed me there with him.
“You don’t have to go see him every day,” said Holt when I walked in the house after ten at night.
“If I didn’t, no one would.”
“You think if one of us was in the hospital, he would give a shit?” asked Cord.
I wasn’t going to argue about whether he would or not. That wasn’t the point.
Holt walked over and put his arm around my shoulders. “You don’t have to be everybody’s everything, Flynn. No one expects that of you. Fuck, tell the old man to hire somebody to run the damn dining hall.”
His words almost brought me to tears. Working in the dining hall was the one thing I actually liked about my life. If my dad hired somebody, the first thing they’d do is toss me out of there.
I took a deep breath and counted to ten while I let it out. “No.”
Holt shrugged and walked away, but Cord looked up from what he was doing. “I know you’ve had a long day, but there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“I’m not—”
“Flynn, it isn’t about the old man, and it isn’t about hiring a new cook. It’s a business idea I want to run by you.”
“Yeah? What?”
“I want to turn part of the Roaring Fork into a dude ranch.”
“Seriously?” I couldn’t contain my smile.
“What do you think?”
“It’s an amazing idea.”
“We don’t have a lot goin’ for us right now. We’d need to renovate some of the old cabins and get the North Fork barn fixed up. About the only thing we do have that’s working is the food.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean?”
“What about the food?”
He cocked his head. “It’s really fucking good, Flynn.”
I felt my cheeks flush, and my eyes opened wide. “Do you think so?”
“Hell, Flynn, everyone thinks so. Word with the cowboys is that the Roaring Fork Ranch has the best food in the valley.”
“You’re playing with me.”
“Hey, Port, get in here.”
Our older brother walked around the corner. “What?”
“Which was your favorite dinner this week?”
Porter rubbed his chin. “That’s tough. They were all good.”
“Yeah, but what’s your favorite?”
Porter sat down in one of the living room chairs. “The enchiladas were pretty damn good, but then again, the bison chili was about the best I’ve ever had.”
“The best you ever had?” I said under my breath.
“Shit, Flynn, everything you make is the best I’ve ever had.” Porter studied me. “Why do you look so shocked?”
“You’ve never said anything.”
“That isn’t true,” both he and Cord said at the same time.
“You’re always too busy telling us how if you added this or that ingredient, it would’ve been better, instead of listening when we tell you how good whatever you made was.”
“I don’t do that.”
Holt came out of his bedroom and leaned his guitar against the wall. “Yeah, you do. You can’t take a compliment for shit.”
I looked between my three brothers. “I thought you were just being nice.”
“Nice? When have you ever known a Wheaton to be nice?” said Porter, messing up my hair. “You’re a damn fine cook, Flynn, and Cord is right. That’s about all this dude ranch idea has goin’ for it.”
I really couldn’t believe everything my brothers were saying. As much as I tried not to smile, I couldn’t help myself.
Cord flipped Porter off, and Holt picked up his guitar and started strumming, while I sat back in my chair, too stunned to get up and go to bed.
“You wanna hear more of my ideas?” asked Cord, sitting down next to me.
“Um, sure.”
I tried to listen, but I really wasn’t. All I could hear echoing in my head was my brother saying that everything I made was the best he’d ever had.
Cord had been rambling on for about ten minutes when Porter returned and sat down. “Here’s the other thing we’re thinkin’ about.” He handed me a piece of paper.
“Roughstock contracting?”
“Yeah, you know, raisin’ bulls and broncs for rodeos? Other stuff too.”
“Wow.”
“You think it’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know, Port. It sounds like it could be.”
“See?” he said to Cord. “It’ll work, I’m tellin’ you.”
Was he telling him because I said it sounded like a good idea? Since when did anyone care what I thought about anything?
“She’s
