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Quinn

Forever

PROLOGUE

Wyoming—1996

Get in.” The rusted old Ford truck rolled to a stop beside the back door of the Conway ranch house, and Big Jim Conway, patriarch of the family, pointed to the passenger side as he barked commands. His voice had the rasp of a rusty nail. “Quinn, help your little brother.”

Quinn, at ten the oldest of Big Jim’s three grandsons, grabbed hold of little Jake’s hand. “Come on.”

As always, five-year-old Jake jerked his hand free, resenting any hint that he couldn’t keep up with his two older brothers. “Don’t need any help.”

“Don’t sass, boyo, or you’ll answer to me.” As always, whenever his temper heated, the trace of Irish brogue in Big Jim’s voice deepened.

Jake climbed up beside his grandfather, followed by seven-year-old Josh. Quinn climbed in last and pulled the door shut.

Quinn, the practical one, reached around his brothers. “There aren’t enough seat belts.”

“Double buckle.”

At the impatient command he stretched the seat belt as far as it would go. The truck was already speeding along the curving driveway of their ranch, leaving a trail of gravel in its wake.

“Where’re we going, Big Jim?” little Jake asked.

The three boys had never called their grandfather anything but Big Jim. No soft, cuddly nicknames like Gramps or Grandpa would suit this tough bear of an Irishman.

“We’re heading to town, boyo.” Big Jim couldn’t keep the frustration from creeping into his voice.

“Why?” Jake demanded.

“ ’Cause your pa needs some time alone.”

“He’s not alone.” The little boy’s tone was matter-of-fact. “The police chief is with him.”

Josh dug an elbow into Jake’s ribs to quiet him.

He turned on his brother. “Hey. That hurt.”

Big Jim shot a quelling look at his middle grandson, and Josh, always the rebel, hunched his shoulders in defiance. “Your pa and Chief Fletcher just need to talk.”

It had become a weekly ritual. Ever since their mother disappeared without a trace, Chief Everett Fletcher would stop by to fill in Cole and Big Jim on the latest details of the police investigation, which seemed to be going nowhere. No trail to follow. No witness to her disappearance. No strangers spotted in the vicinity. No rhyme or reason to the mystery. No solution. No closure. No end to the pain. Though they never spoke about it, Quinn could tell by their sad, mad faces that the news wasn’t good.

When he would leave, Big Jim would mutter and swear and take the boys away while Cole would go off to one of the barns and work off his frustration and grief in a frenzy of chores.

To discourage any further questions, Big Jim turned up the volume on the radio. They drove the rest of the way serenaded by Patsy Cline and Buck Owens until they reached the town of Paintbrush, more than an hour from their ranch. Along the main street they drove past Thibalt Baxter’s Paint and Hardware, the Odds N Ends shop with the slogan “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it” painted across the top of the building, and came to a halt outside Flora’s Diner, announced in gaudy pink and purple letters.

Big Jim handed Quinn some money. “While I’m picking up supplies at Homer’s Grain and Seed, you three can have some lunch at Flora’s.”

The three boys vibrated with excitement as they climbed down from the truck and walked inside.

“Why, look who’s here.” Flora, white hair looking like the cotton balls their mother used to remove her makeup, her angular face creased with a warm smile, came out from behind the kitchen as soon as she caught sight of them walking up to the shiny stools at the counter. Ordinarily she left the waitress duties to her daughter, Dora, a younger, wider version. But Dora was busy with the other tables. Besides, these customers were special in Flora’s eyes. The whole town was buzzing about the mysterious disappearance of their mama, Seraphine. “What’ll you boys have?”

“Burgers and fries.” Quinn spoke for the three of them.

“How about some milk shakes to go with that? On me, of course.”

Three heads bobbed up and down and she hurried away. When she returned, she passed around plates and tall soda-fountain glasses with thick chocolate shakes.

Flora’s burgers were the big, greasy kind that oozed mustard and ketchup. She always added extra fries and made their milk shakes so thick they had to use spoons. The whole time she served their food, she kept making soothing little noises about the poor, motherless boys.

They didn’t much care for the words or the fact that she sounded like she was cooing at a couple of babies, but they figured it was a small price to pay for the special food they never got to taste back at the ranch.

When she finally walked away to wait on a table, her voice lowered to a raspy whisper so she wouldn’t be overheard by the three boys at the counter. Unfortunately, Quinn could hear every word.

“Them’s the Conway boys. Their daddy and granddaddy are legends in this part of Wyoming.”

There wasn’t anything Flora didn’t know about anybody within a couple hundred miles of Paintbrush. The only thing she liked better than cooking was sharing what she knew with anybody willing to listen. If anybody wanted the latest news, they didn’t have to wait for the weekly newspaper. They just dropped by Flora’s Diner.

Quinn saw some people turn to stare and was grateful that Josh and Jake didn’t notice. They were too busy slurping their milk shakes.

At one table was Thibalt Baxter, who owned the paint and hardware store. He was the skinniest man Quinn had ever seen. So skinny, he had to wear both a belt and suspenders to hold up his pants.

Across from him was Dr. April Walton, whose father had been a doctor when Big Jim first came to Wyoming. Dr. April always boasted that she had a granddaughter just about Quinn’s age. At another table was Reverend Cornell, pastor of the Paintbrush Church, sitting with Judge Kirby Bolton and Randall Morton, who ran the fairgrounds where the annual rodeo was held.

Flora was having herself a good time relaying all she knew about the boys to a couple of customers, who were obviously new to town. “Their grandfather, Big Jim, carved their ranch out of pure wilderness, with a hundred head of cattle he herded from Saskatchewan, Canada, clear across Montana to the plot of land he’d inherited from an unknown uncle on his mother’s side. That herd has grown into more than a hundred thousand head of some of the finest beef cattle in the world, and he’s continued to add to his land. Now his ranch is the biggest in the state.”

“You don’t say.” The young cowboy shot another glance at the three boys. “Lucky kids.”

“Ranching’s just the beginning,” Thibalt Baxter added. “Big Jim’s land is rich in coal and oil.”

Flora nodded, eager to take back control of the conversation. “Which he leases to oil companies and mining companies for a...