Page 2 of Heart of Stone

Dear Mr. Harrison,

We represent the estate of your late aunt, Mrs. Priscilla Ann Harrison Rivers, who passed away on April 30th. As Mrs. Rivers had no children of her own, her will stipulated that all her worldly possessions were to pass to you as her only living relative. This makes you the sole owner of the Copper Lake Ranch in Washoe County, Nevada.

As Mrs. Rivers was uncertain of your whereabouts, she made plans before her death for the ranch to be held for you for a period of one year, the taxes and salaries of her employees paid and an overseer left in charge to allow the ranch to continue to function while we attempted to find you. If you would please send a telegram to our office as soon as you are in receipt of this letter, we will begin to make arrangements to transfer the ranch to your ownership.

Sincerely,

Stephen Barrow, Esq.

For several minutes, all Stone could do was stare at the letter, unable to fully understand its meaning. An aunt? He’d barely known his father, remembering him only as an angry man who drank and hit both him and his mother; he certainly hadn’t known his father had any family, much less someone who owned a ranch and who would actually leave it to Stone, a man she’d never even met. It made him wonder why his mother had never said anything, although given her fear of the man she’d married, and her relief when he’d gotten himself killed in a fall from a horse, it was possible she hadn’t wanted anything more to do with his family.

The letter was dated five months before, and given the distance from Nevada to Texas, Stone was amazed it had found him before the one year deadline. Which meant that he had a decision to make: did he actually want to claim this unexpected inheritance, or just pretend that the letter hadn’t reached him and let the ranch go to whoever next stood to inherit?

He folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, then stared out across the dusty expanse of one of Circle J’s pastures, empty except for a few of the breeding cows that would provide the stock for next year’s market. The ranch was huge, and Stone knew that he, as a hand, saw only a small part of what it took to keep the place running. Mr. Stevenson and his foreman, Ben, worked hard every day and had the responsibility for every person and animal on the ranch. If there was a bad year, a cowboy could always move along to greener pastures, especially ones like Stone who didn’t have a family. But Mr. Stevenson had invested his whole life in this one place; if things went bad, he couldn’t just move on to the next place, the next job. He had to stay and do his best, no matter how bad it got.

Of course his own father hadn’t taught him that. Paul Harrison hadn’t taken responsibility for anything in his life; everything had always been someone else’s fault, especially his half-Indian wife’s. Stone couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d ever looked at his father with anything but fear and hatred, even though his mother had tried to make apologies for his father’s behavior. Perhaps she had even begun to feel as though she deserved the scathing words and the blows, after so many years of hearing how Paul Harrison could have been someone if only he hadn’t had a half-breed wife and son to tie him down.

That hadn’t kept Paul from hauling the two of them from town to town, always looking for a way to make easy money. People had called his father no-account and shiftless, claiming he’d never done an honest day’s work in his life, and Stone could believe it was true. He’d been less than ten years old when his father had died, and he couldn’t remember feeling anything but relief when it happened. From that moment on, he’d done everything in his power to prove that he was nothing like his father. He’d taken care of his mother, gone to school, and worked hard at any job he could get to help them to survive. He never wanted people to look at him the way they looked at his father. He did an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, and even though he’d not stayed on any one ranch for more than a couple of years, he always moved on in a way that left good feelings behind him.

He’d encountered plenty of people who didn’t like him over the years, mostly because of the color of his skin, but he’d dealt with it, and for the most part, he felt good about himself. He was a good cowboy, but could he handle running a ranch of his own? Did he even want to try? How would he feel if he failed?

If there was one thing he’d learned about himself over the years, it was that he’d pretty much always tried to do things exactly opposite of the way his father would have done them. Which meant accepting the responsibilities he was given and doing his very best to fulfill them. Now someone was entrusting him with a ranch; he didn’t know if it was a prosperous place or a rundown spread on the verge of collapse, but in his heart, he knew it really didn’t matter. An aunt he’d never known had seen fit to entrust her place to him, despite the fact that she must have known that he could have turned out just like his father. She’d given him a responsibility, and Stone knew what he had to do: make every attempt to be successful at it.

Exactly the way his father wouldn’t have done.

CHAPTER3

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Stone pulled Raider to a stop, and stared at the sight in front of him. The mountains in the distance were breathtaking, of course, but he’d seen them on the horizon ever since he’d arrived in Reno two days before. They’d gotten closer as he’d ridden southwest, and the terrain had become gently rolling foothills covered in luxurious green. As he crested a particularly high hill, he came upon a valley stretched out before him, containing a large lake of the most incredible, unearthly blue he’d ever seen in his life. It was positively dazzling in the sunlight, and he couldn’t move for a moment, struck by the beauty of it and an almost overwhelming wish that his mother could have lived to see it.

This, then, was Copper Lake, and the neat buildings perched on the shore must be Copper Lake Ranch. According to the papers he had in his saddlebags, his ranch was a spread of nearly ten thousand acres with upwards of eight thousand head of cattle. It still didn’t seem quite real to him, but Stone knew what he had to do. He clicked to Raider, and the horse started forward again; he figured he’d best get down there and introduce himself so he could get a start on taking care of what needed to be done.

Twenty minutes later, he dismounted in front of the ranch house. It was a solid wood and stone building, and it had been around for a while, for it had a mellow, weathered look that new buildings couldn’t match. He slipped the reins around a post and started up the steps, hoping someone was home. He couldn’t hear any movement, but he knocked on the door and belatedly snatched off his hat and held it in his hands as he waited to see if someone would answer.

He heard the familiar sound of boot steps on a hardwood floor, growing louder as they approached, and then the door opened, and Stone found himself staring into a pair of pale blue eyes.

“Can I help you?” The man’s voice was a deep, lazy drawl, a good match for his relaxed posture. He looked to be a couple of inches shorter than Stone and maybe a few years older, and his light brown hair was cut short and neat. His face and hands appeared tanned, but Stone was willing to bet he was lily white where the sun didn’t shine.

“My name is Stone Harrison.” He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to not show any nervousness. “I’m Mrs. Rivers’ nephew, and she left the ranch to me.”

“Well, it’s mighty nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison. We’ve been hopin’ you’d turn up.” The man smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Luke Reynolds. I’m... IwasPriss’ foreman.”

Stone took the man’s hand, and his eyes widened as he felt a tingle at the contact of their palms. He shook it quickly and released it, softening the abruptness with a brief, small smile.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said politely, knowing that things would be much easier if this man was on his side and inclined to help him. “To be honest, Mr. Reynolds, I’d be much obliged if you’d still consider yourself foreman here. A week ago, I weren’t nothin’ but a hand myself. I don’t know if Mrs. Rivers would have left this place to me if she’d known I’ve got no experience runnin’ a spread.”

Luke nodded, his smile widening as if the offer pleased him, and he held the door open, stepping aside in a clear invitation. “I’d be glad to stay on. Truth is, I’ve been here so long, I wouldn’t know where to go anyways.”

Relieved that things were so far going so well–after all, he could have been met with a shotgun and an invitation to leave–Stone crossed the threshold. The house was as neat inside as out, and even bigger than the Stevensons’ had been.

“Sounds like we’ll make a good team then,” he replied, fervently hoping that it would be true. He was feeling a bit out of his depth, but he couldn’t let it show. “I suppose you can tell me what needs doin’? The lawyers in Reno knew even less about ranchin’ than I did, and they wanted to talk in whys and wherefores till my head was spinnin’.”

“Oh sure.” Luke nodded amiably. “I was practically runnin’ the place anyway. I had to,” he added, glancing at Stone as he led the way into the parlor. “Priss was too sick to do it herself that last year or two, so she started trainin’ me up.”

The parlor was a far more comfortable room than Stone expected it to be, devoid of fussy little antimacassars and delicate china figurines like he’d seen in so many parlors; the furniture was sturdy and made of dark wood. The sofa looked to be made of leather, and the chairs were upholstered in thick brocade. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf took up most of one wall, and there was also a roll-top writing desk that looked neatly organized.

“Have a seat.” Luke gestured toward the sofa. “Can I get you somethin’?”

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