LITMIR.BIZ

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young woman with red-gold curls gathered on top of her head, wearing a white chef’s apron, beckoned her inside. “I was just closing,” she said, “but you look like you needed feeding at least an hour ago. Would soup or a sandwich work for you? I’ve already shut off the grill.”

      “That sounds like manna from heaven,” Kathryn said. “I’m starving—I haven’t eaten since I left Walsenburg this morning. I thought I’d get here earlier, but I got stuck behind a hay truck and then it started to snow—”

      “You just came across Wolf Creek Pass? Brave lady. I’m surprised the road wasn’t closed—the forecast this morning said heavy snow above eight thousand feet.”

      “I wasn’t brave,” Kathryn said, “I was clueless.” She shuddered, reliving the moments of terror in the whiteout. “Luckily I got in behind a snowplow or I’d still be sitting on top of the mountain waiting for spring.”

      “You might have had quite a wait,” her savior said. “I’ve seen it snow on that pass in June. What can I get you? I have chicken noodle soup or chili. And coffee? Or tea?”

      “Chili sounds wonderful. And coffee, please.”

      “Green chili or red with beans?”

      “I’ve never heard of green chili,” Kathryn said.

      “So you’re not from around here—better stick with red. A bowl of old-fashioned diner chili will hold you till supper time.”

      She disappeared into the kitchen. Kathryn heard her tell someone to bring out a cup of coffee. A few moments later a little girl, possibly six, with the same ruddy hair and wearing her own miniature apron, appeared. She carried a mug in one hand and a cream pitcher in the other, setting them on the table with a sigh of relief.

      “Your chili will be right out,” she said.

      “Thank you,” Kathryn said. “You’re doing a great job helping your mom.”

      “That’s not my mom, that’s Aunt Lucy,” the little girl said. She returned to the kitchen, switching on overhead lights that had probably been dimmed for closing.

      Kathryn dosed her coffee with cream and sugar, gulping a few swallows before the waitress set the chili and a small salad on her table.

      “That should keep body and soul together until you land for the night,” the waitress said. “Do you have much farther to drive?”

      “I plan to stay in Durango for the night and then drive on to Hesperus tomorrow.”

      “Not much to see in Hesperus. You have family there?”

      “Not exactly—it’s a long story.”

      “I love a good story. You mind if I join you? I’m ready for my afternoon coffee.” The waitress returned to the kitchen and came back with her own mug and two slices of pie. She slid into the booth opposite Kathryn.

      Kathryn took her first good look at her rescuer. “I’ve never been out West before, but I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

      “I’ve been spending a lot of time on the East Coast. Where do you live?”

      “A little town near Hartford,” Kathryn said.

      “Do you ever attend local theater?”

      “That’s where I saw you, at the Seven Angels Theater in Waterbury. You’re Lucinda Cameron, right? Someone gave my husband tickets for The Seagull.” Could this possibly be Annie Cameron’s daughter, Lucy, who she had described so lovingly?

      “Just plain Lucy on my home range. Did you enjoy the play?”

      “I hated it,” Kathryn said. “I felt like going home and putting my head in the oven. But you were wonderful.”

      “Chekhov can be pretty heavy,” Lucy said with a laugh. “But he wrote great female roles.”

      “And now you’re running a restaurant?”

      “Temporarily. I started working at the Queen when I was fourteen, right after my mom died. The owner is one of my dearest friends—I’m keeping the doors open while she recuperates from knee surgery.” Lucy added cream to her coffee and leaned back. “So tell me your story.”

      Kathryn hadn’t yet rehearsed a coherent narrative. “Actually, I came to see you,” she said. “Your family, that is. My mother had lupus. She met your mother in the hospital in Albuquerque almost twenty years ago and they corresponded right up to the time your mother died. Mom kept all her letters—I thought your family might like to have them.”

      Lucy’s eyes widened. “I know who you are. I’ve read all of your mother’s letters. Her name was Elizabeth, and you’re Katie.”

      A lump lodged in Kathryn’s throat. “I used to be Katie, but no one’s called me that for years.” Brad had decided Katie sounded childish; eventually even her mother began calling her Kathryn.

      “Surely you didn’t drive all the way from the East Coast to bring the letters.”

      “Surely I did. The only address I had was the letterhead—Cameron’s Pride, Hesperus, Colorado. I could have gotten a mailing address by calling the post office there...” Kathryn flushed. “I know it sounds crazy, but I decided to deliver them in person.”

      She started to rise. “I’ve got the box in my car—”

      “No, no! You have to bring them to the ranch. We’ve all read those letters. Your mom was so proud of you—she wrote all about you, she sent pictures.”

      Lucy whipped her cell phone out of her pocket and hesitated with her finger poised. “You will come, won’t you?”

      “If you’re sure it’s no imposition.” In truth, Kathryn had hoped to visit the family and the ranch Annie Cameron had described in such glowing detail.

      “Are you kidding? We’ll be insulted if you don’t let us welcome you.”

      Lucy touched the screen. “Dad,” she said after a brief wait, “you remember all those letters the lady back East wrote to Mom? You’ll never believe who’s sitting here in the Queen—Elizabeth Gabriel’s daughter, Katie, all the way from Connecticut.”

      She listened with a big grin. “Of course I’m bringing her home with me.”

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      MIKE FARLEY CLOSED the last folder and sat back with a long whistle.

      “That bad, huh?” Luke said. “I told you I’d probably mess up.”

      “Are you kidding? You’ve done twice the job on these receipts anyone has before—you’ve saved me major time and trouble.” He took a printed sheet from one of the folders. “Plus a list of what’s missing.” He flipped one sheet with his finger. “According to this, Joel Baker never eats while he’s on the road. He’ll have to come up with a reasonable dining history so I can claim deductions for meals.”

      Luke breathed in relief. “I separated out the receipts that didn’t seem allowable for each rider—you’ll know if those should be added back in. To tell the truth, I kind of enjoyed it.”

      Mike gave him a sharp glance. “You’ve been hiding some smarts behind all your horsing around.”

      Luke shrugged. “Tom got the brains in the family.”

      “You got your share. How many hours did this take you?”

      Luke pondered. “About an hour each, more or less. And then I went back to check out inconsistencies and make notes. So maybe fifteen hours.”

      “I’ll send you a check—”

      “You don’t have to pay me—I was glad to help. Like I said, it

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