LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      “Maybe Uncle Dodd didn’t specifically mention the house in the will because he considered it unlivable.”

      Wyatt Smith glanced at his brother Jacob and back to the old house in front of them. Jake had only said out loud what everyone else was thinking. Barely a speck of white paint clung to the old two-story ranch house. Its once green scalloped shingles had faded to a military gray. The front door hung slightly askew, broken glass and all, and the porch showed gaping holes where floorboards ought to be. Obviously, Uncle Dodd hadn’t spent any money on upkeep in his final years, so why had he sold off all the cattle, and what had he done with the proceeds?

      “We’ll make do,” Wyatt stated flatly, ignoring the anxious hammering of his heart.

      He and his brothers could camp out, if necessary, until they got Loco Man Ranch whipped into shape, but Frankie, Jake’s three-year-old son and Wyatt’s nephew, needed a safe, comfortable place to live. There had to be three or four habitable rooms in this big old house. Besides, it was too late to change their minds now.

      They’d sold three businesses and two houses in Houston to make this move and raise the funds necessary to restock the ranch. Two thousand acres in south central Oklahoma could support a lot of cattle, and Wyatt was determined to bring the ranch back to profitability without selling off any acreage. Sink or swim, the Smith brothers were now officially residents of Loco Man Ranch on the very outskirts of War Bonnet, Oklahoma.

      He’d never dreamed that the old house would be in such a sorry state, however. This was where he and his brothers had spent many a happy summer, playing cowboy and riding horseback every day. They’d stopped coming for the summer, one by one, after high school, but they’d each made time to see Dodd at least yearly until circumstances had kept them in Houston, occupied with the deaths of their dad and Jake’s wife, as well as fully taking over the family’s businesses. But they were ranchers now and, like three generations of Smith men before them, their hopes lay in the land beneath their feet. God willing, they were going to put Loco Man back on the map. And put the past behind them.

      At least it wasn’t too hot yet. The weather in mid-April was plenty warm but not uncomfortably so.

      “Let’s see what we’re up against,” Ryder said, striding forward.

      At twenty-five, Ryder stood three inches over six feet, just like his older brothers. Thirty-five-year-old Wyatt prided himself on keeping in shape, but his build was blocky, while Ryder naturally carried his hefty two hundred pounds in his powerful arms, shoulders and chest. All three brothers had dark hair and brown eyes, but Ryder’s hair was straight and black, whereas Wyatt’s was curly and coffee brown. Jake’s slimmer build and wavy hair gave him a more polished air, especially in a military uniform, so naturally he had been the first—and thus far the only one—of the brothers to marry. Wyatt suspected that he still grieved the death of his wife, Jolene, deeply.

      Handing his son to Wyatt, Jake carefully followed in Ryder’s path to minimize the possibility of falling through a weak spot in the porch floor. Wyatt waited, with Frankie in his arms, at a safe distance. The existing floorboards proved solid enough. The door, however, presented a challenge.

      Jake elbowed Ryder out of the way and reached through the broken glass inset, saying, “My arm’s skinnier than yours.”

      Gingerly fumbling for several moments, he frowned, but then something clicked and the outside edge of the door dropped slightly. Jake carefully extracted his arm from the jagged hole and stepped aside so Ryder could pull the door open. Wyatt followed his brothers inside.

      Red-orange sand had blown into the entry through the broken glass, dulling the dark hardwood of the foyer floor and staircase. Framed photographs covered the foyer walls, all dulled by a thick layer of dust. Many of them, Wyatt saw at a glance, were poorly framed school pictures of him and his brothers, but others showed a sturdy girl with long, chestnut brown hair and heavy eyebrows, as well as a baby photo of a wrinkled newborn in a pale blue onesie. Everything else looked the same, dusty but familiar.

      Antique furniture still stood around the cold fireplace in the parlor, dimmed by time and dirt. The dining-room wallpaper looked faded, and fragile gossamer webs coated the splotchy brass

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