Read Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] for Free Online Page A

he brought the steaming liquid to the animal’s back. Over and over he brushed, pulling out loose hair and flecks
     of dirt embedded from the day’s work. The large brown and white horse occasionally snorted, flicking either her alert ears
     or wiry tail, but remained contentedly still, enjoying the attention.
    Outside the open barn doors, the nearly full moon had risen above the eastern horizon in a sky filled with thousands of bright
     stars. Though the setting of the sun had brought with it a cooling of the day’s heat, whatever breeze that managed to stir
     the air elsewhere was lost inthe close confines of the horse’s stall. Sweat ran in rivers down Owen’s face, and the sleeve of his work shirt was damp from
     repeatedly wiping his brow.
    Usually, working his way through the chores of caring for his own two horses calmed Owen’s tumultuous thoughts after a busy
     day; the procuring of feed, the monotonous brushing, and even the shoveling of manure allowed him to relax, however long it
     took.
    But this night was different…
    Lately, the thought had begun to nag at Owen that the longer he remained at the Grant Ranch, the less he seemed able to soothe
     the raging emotions that had necessitated his coming in the first place.
    When Owen had watched the doctor drive away into the whirling snowstorm six months earlier, he had known that the end of his
     mother’s life was mere moments away. Watching her die, a shell of the vibrant woman she had once been, nearly broke him. At
     the instant she had finally given up the futile struggle to defeat her illness, there had been a part of him that had been
     relieved, and instantly ashamed for having had such a terrible thought. Never once had she opened her eyes. He had dug a deep
     hole in the frozen Colorado earth, listened while the priest had mumbled a few words into a stiff eastern wind, and then Owen
     and Hannah had set about formulating their plan for revenge.
    The first thing he had done was rifle through his mother’s belongings over Hannah’s protests. No matter howmany times he attempted to explain why it needed to be done, how it was the only way they would ever learn the truth, his
     sister still had fought him every step of the way, through every faded photograph, every scrap of paper containing a bit of
     their mother’s handwriting, and even to the meager clothing she had afforded herself over the years.
    But then his perseverance had paid off…
    Folded into a small, worn book of poems wedged into a back corner of his mother’s dresser, Owen had found a piece of paper
     on which Caroline had scribbled a few notes. Most of them were either illegible or nonsensical, but there was one pair of
     words that stood out:
    SAWYER, OKLAHOMA
    Neither Owen nor Hannah could ever remember hearing their mother speak about Oklahoma. They thought that Caroline Wallace
     had been born and raised in Colorado. So what was the reason for her writing? While Hannah insisted that whatever their mother
     had meant in making note of such a far-off place, it likely had absolutely nothing to do with the mysterious and absent man
     who had made her pregnant, then deserted her. Owen hadn’t been so sure.
    He had asked around the small town of Longbow, questioning anyone he thought might have some clue as to what his mother had
     meant in writing down the name of the town. Finally, after applying enough liquor to loosen the flapping tongue of Franklin
     Sullivan, who was what passed for the town’s attorney, Owen learnedthat, in the years before he and Hannah had been born Caroline Wallace had left the town of her birth and headed to Oklahoma.
     The reason for doing so had been lost in the haze of years gone by, but the lawyer remembered the sliver of a conversation
     he’d had with Caroline upon her eventual return. In it had been a name.
    “Grant, I believe, was the name,” he’d muttered, his words slurred by alcohol. “Or was it Griffin? Hell if I can