Page 1 of Killer on the Homestead
Chapter One
Duncan Kirk stood in the front yard of his childhood home while his dad chattered on about the improvements they’d made to the old foreman’s cabin.
He would have rented a car and driven himself, or hell, bought one, but he’d only just gotten cleared to move from an immobilizer to a soft sling for his shoulder. The drive would have been too long and too painful on his own.
He could have hired a driver, but no matter how much money he had to spare, his parents would have seen it as an insult.
So his father had picked him up at the airport and driven him…home.
Funny to think of Bent County, Wyoming, as home when he’d barely spent more than a handful of holidays at his family’s ranch since he’d left for college.
But it was home, all the same. Because baseball had been home for these odd fifteen years, and now it was gone. Duncan hadn’t really thought about or missed the ranch or Wyoming in all this time, but now that he was here…
It was surprisingly comforting.
The house didn’t look the same. Nothing really did. Bent County had expanded and grown, and his parents’ ranch had come along with the times.
But still, it was nothing like his house back in LA, hislifein California. The life he was returning to was nothing like the world he’d been living in for almost half his life.
Six months ago, he’d been pitching in front of a sold-out crowd in Dodger Stadium. World Series. Game seven. The moment every little kid who loves baseball dreams of. It was supposed to be his crowning achievement. Oh, he’d thought he had a few years left in him, but he knew he was reaching the peak of what he could do.
Age would take him eventually, but not yet. Or so he’d thought.
He’d gone through his normal warm-up, been amped and buzzed at the noise of the home crowd. He’d visualized a complete-game shutout, obviously. He wasn’t too greedy to think of a perfect game. He’d have been happy with anything that resulted in a win, but in the pregame, it was all about seeing the end. Knowing it was within his grasp.
He’d taken the field. Stared down the intimidating leadoff hitter known for his powerandspeed. Then he’d thrown one pitch, felt a terrifyingsnapin his shoulder that had sent a numbness down his entire arm, and watched the ball sail over the catcher’s head.
He’d come out of the game. His team had lost.
And his career was over.
Reallyover. The doctors had made that clear. He might get his shoulder back to functioning in a somewhat normal capacity, with lots of work and years of healing, but not the kind of shape that could throw a ball over eighty miles an hour, and with the kids coming up these days topping triple digits, he didn’t have a prayer.
Everything he’d worked for since he could remember was gone. It was always coming for him, that inevitable end. He just wished he’d had somesayin the when, and the how.
Instead, he was back in Wyoming. Still a young man, all things considered, but feeling old and wrung out.
When his mother opened the front door and stepped onto the porch while drying her hands on a dishrag, a wave of love and nostalgia swept over him strong enough to make him smile and forget the dull pain in his shoulder.
He walked up to the porch as she walked down the stairs. She enveloped him in a tight hug, though she was careful about his left shoulder. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
For a moment, he just stayed there. He didn’t know what the hell to do with his life without baseball, but his steady, stable parents and the sight of the ranch that had been in their family for well over a century reminded him that he’d figure it out.
He pulled back, smiled down at his mother. “Good to see you, Mom.”
“You would have seen me sooner if you’d let me fly down for your surgery,” she said, swatting him with the dish towel. “Come on now, dinner’s waiting.”
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but he wouldn’t say no to his mother’s cooking. He walked inside, Dad trailing behind and bringing in his bags, even though Duncan had told him he’d handle it.
It was going to take some getting used to, being back with his parents who did as they pleased. But at least he wasn’t staying in the main house. None of them would survive that. The cabin that had been built for a foreman generations back would suit. A lot smaller and more rustic than he was used to, but that was fine.
He took a seat at the dining-room table Mom had already set. He let her fuss, mostly because she liked it and partly because his shoulder was killing him. It was time for another painkiller, but he needed to eat before he took the pill.
And to not take it around his parents. His mother would fuss no matter what, but he wanted to keep the fussing to a minimum. If she knew he was still in a lot of pain…
Well, he’d be back in his childhood bedroom, and that wasn’t going to fly.
They ate together much like they did when he came home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Dad talked about the ranch. Mom caught him up on the goings-on in Bent County, though he only remembered half the names she mentioned. The Youngs still lived next door, though Tim had died and Joan had moved to Florida. Their daughters ran the ranch now, though mostly the oldest, Audra.
