by Robyn Carr
“We’re gonna find out,” Paul said. “First thing to do, just take a visual inventory, get the lay of the land, and look for a place she might’ve stored vital papers—like a will. We’ll decide how to handle this mess later. I don’t think we can legally start sorting and pitching anyway. Thank God.”
Noah broke away from the group and walked through the living room, past junk stacked on both sides of the room, down a path in the dining room, toward the back of the house. The remaining four men very slowly began to enter the room, gingerly lifting items to look underneath—a stray lamp shade, a few lamps without shades, a couple of unopened boxes shipped from Craft World, not one but two disconnected fax machines and a couple of outdated computer printers. There were stacks of mismatched dishes, paperbacks tossed everywhere, and—just as Mel said—underneath an enormous mound of sheets, towels and clothes was an old, purple velvet sofa.
Jack cautiously opened a tied-off garbage bag and peeked inside. “Anyone remember Hope ever wearing a ball cap?” he asked.
Heads were shaking—no.
He pulled one out of the bag. It was for the Denver Broncos. “There must be a hundred of ’em in here. But why?”
“Do you suppose this could be what we’re looking for?” Noah said from the dining room. He held a square metal strongbox. Written in marker on it, Vital Papers.
“Be damned,” Jack muttered. “How’d you go right to it?”
“I just tried to think about where she might spend the majority of her time,” Noah said with a shrug. “It sure wasn’t on the sofa. There’s a big kitchen back there—with a table, desk, computer and TV. Also a fantastic fireplace and big recliner—I think she worked in it, ate in it, slept in it. It was her office, bedroom and living room, I presume.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Mike said, heading for the dining table. “Let’s clear a space and see if we can find any pertinent information in that box.”
“You guys mind if I poke around a little?” Paul asked. “I’d like to see how many rooms in this old house. How many stairwells, water closets, that sort of thing.”
“Why?” Jack asked, lifting a pile of cookie sheets and pots off the table and transferring them to another pile.
“Because I’m a builder, and a little curious,” Paul said. “This place is a wreck, no doubt, but have you noticed it doesn’t smell or anything? No cracks, no walls caved in. There aren’t any stains from mysterious leaks, no obvious mold in one of the dampest places on the planet, the paint is chipped and peeling here and there, the floor is scratched and scarred, but it’s quality wood and it’s level, not warped. I think maybe under all the junk there might be a good, solid old house. When was it built?”
“Not sure,” Jack said, moving a pile of towels and gardening books in one heap. He took a stack of coffee table books off a dining-room chair, placing them on the floor. “In fact, I’m not sure of anything. I didn’t know much about Hope, and to tell the truth I don’t know who did. I never heard her say anything about who her oldest friends were. She knew Doc Mullins a long time, I know that, but they mostly squabbled. And Doc said she’d been in this house forever, widowed for over thirty years.” He took a breath. “That’s not a lot to know about a person.”
“Did you ever ask?” Noah inquired.
“Sure, but she was stingy with personal information. She said she married young, never had children, that once there had been a lot of land under the house but she’d sold it off to neighbors who needed grazing and planting land. I’m a bartender, man. We lend an ear, but try not to pry.”
“You might want to practice up on that not prying part,” Preacher mumbled.
Jack glowered at him. “Hope just wanted her one drink and a little conversation. She wanted a little peace,” Jack said. Looking around the room, he added, “And who could blame her?”
“And she wanted to fix up the town,” Preacher put in, moving a badly tarnished silver tea service all the way into the kitchen. He came back directly. “I think she did that because she was bored, and because she thought she was about the oldest resident of this town and had a stake in it. You know—leaving it better than she found it.”
As Paul wandered off to check out the house, the men settled in at a now-cleared, round dining table. Noah pushed the strongbox toward Jack. He opened it as if expecting a bunch of coiled snakes to jump out. Then he flipped the lid all the way back. “Wow. Appears she had one area of neatness in her life. Files. Labels.” He pulled out one that clearly said Birth Certificate. Then he pulled out one that said Marriage License. He couldn’t resist—he opened the file. “Whoa. She was married in 1941. Either Hope was lying about her age or she was about ten years old.” Under the papers lay an old black-and-white photo, which he pulled out. “Jeez, she was a looker,” he said, passing it around. She was a beautiful young blonde wearing an elaborate satin gown and gauzy veil and she stood next to a much older man.
“Grab a look at that birth certificate, Jack,” Preacher said.
Jack did so and nearly blanched. “Good God, she was older than she let on, born in 1925. She was…what…?”
“Eighty-six. Sixteen when she married,” Noah said, studying the photo. “And this guy, for a guy in ’41, I bet he’s at least fifty, which back then wasn’t considered young like it is now.”
“Fifty is considered young now?” Jack asked. “That’s encouraging…. Well, here’s a death certificate for the old boy. He died in…in… Here it is. He died in ’61. Fifty years ago. Hope was only…only…”
“Thirty-six,” Noah said.
“Are you going to keep doing that?” Jack asked irritably.
“At least until you can add and subtract faster,” the minister replied good-naturedly. He smiled at Jack.
Jack went through the files some more. One was labeled Deeds, one labeled Police Officer, one said Midwife. Jack peeked in that file—Hope’s contract with Mel, the position that brought his wife to Virgin River. Finally he passed a file that was labeled Will. “Oh, boy, here we go.” He pulled the folder and it was suspiciously thick. “This is a mess of papers.”
“Good,” Noah said. “She wouldn’t have any use for a lot of paperwork unless she had an idea what she wanted done with her remains and property.”
Jack didn’t feel like wasting time. He pushed the folder toward Noah. “Knock yourself out.” He passed the file labeled Deeds to Preacher. “Have a look in here. It’s probably records of property she sold off, that kind of thing.”
Noah chuckled at him and began leafing through the papers. “Interesting,” he muttered. Upstairs came the sound of a few thumps; Paul was pounding on walls to locate studs. “Amazing,” Noah said. Paul knocked on more walls. “Well, I’ll be…” More knocking sounded from upstairs.
“Care to share anytime soon, Your Worship?” Jack asked.
Noah smiled. “Mrs. McCrea had an attorney—Jacob Stanley of Eureka—and set up a Virgin River Trust so that whatever she left behind wouldn’t be eaten up in taxes but could benefit the town.”
Preacher was stacking up papers and spreading out a map that had been neatly folded in the file.
“Anything else?” Jack asked. “Any idea what she wants done with her possessions? Or her remains, for that matter?”
“I have to read a minute,” Noah said, flipping through documents.
Preacher appeared to be comparing deeds to the old map, moving them from one side of the map to the other as if checking them off. Noah was passing the pages he perused to Mike Valenzuela, Paul was upstairs banging on walls and Jack was starting to twitch.
“Oh, boy,” Preacher said finally. “Okay, near as I can tell from this, old Percival McCrea had a lot of money and bought himself just about all the land under what’s called Virgin River. Have no idea where he got his money, but it seems it was a long time ago and construction started on this house when he was a young man. Took three years to build and was finished in 1921. Whew. It looks like Hope started selling off the land in parcels
right after he died. How old is this town anyway?”
“Was all of it his?” Jack asked, pulling the map closer. It had been divvied up in different colors and some of the names printed on the map he recognized. Bristol, Anderson, Givens, Fishburn. “Holy cow,” he said.
“Looks like there were some homesteaders back a long time ago,” Preacher said. “But whatever wasn’t homesteaded, old Percival bought up. Then he shared it with his sixteen-year-old bride. Then she disposed of it. I’ll have to research a little, see what the land values were when she did these deed transfers, but it kinda looks like she let ’em go cheap. Hope built a town. Cool.”
“Jack?” Noah said. “Here it is, Jack. She’s left everything to the town. Her husband left her everything he had, and she left it all to the town.” He passed the document to Mike, who passed it to Preacher.
“No surprise there,” Jack said. “According to Hope, she didn’t have anyone else.”
“And you’re in charge of it. You were named the executor.”
“Me? Why me?” he asked.
“You probably seemed the obvious choice.” Noah flipped through the pages a bit. “Looks like it was Doc Mullins until you came to town. So, how about that? We don’t have to start calling you sir or anything, do we?”
“When you say everything…” Jack said hesitantly.
Preacher was the one to answer. “House, contents, land… I wonder if there’s something like a bank account. Knowing Hope, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mattresses and cubbyholes were stuffed with bills.”
“No,” Noah said. “Remember, this is the woman who was auctioning the church on eBay. She’s computer savvy. I bet half the stuff she bought she got off the Internet. I bet she has accounts on the computer. It’s in the kitchen. We might have a challenge figuring out passwords, that sort of thing.”
Jack leafed through her files. “Could it be filed under Passwords?” he asked, pulling out a file. He took on a decidedly superior air.
“Nicely done,” Noah said with a grin.
“This is making me very uncomfortable,” Jack said with a shudder. “I don’t want to be in charge of Hope’s stuff. I don’t want to be the town manager, either.”
“Take it easy. You start by going to see her lawyer. If there’s any money—like after land sales and such—you’re probably empowered to get a little help. You know—hire people.”
“Really, I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled. “I don’t want to be responsible for how it’s used….”
The sound of Paul’s heavy footfalls coming down three flights of stairs caused all the men to turn toward the staircase. He stopped at the bottom and smiled at them. “This is a great old house,” he said. “Studs every twelve inches, fire walls, top-quality oak, marble and granite, tongue-and-groove hardwood floors… I couldn’t build this house today for three million. It’s old and it’s awesome. I hope whoever gets it wants some help putting it right.”
“And there is my first potential employee,” Jack said.
Delivering feed to smaller ranches and stables was a job that Lilly had volunteered to do—she considered it as adding weight lifting to her exercise regimen. That, combined with yoga, kept her in shape. Plus, it was very important to Yaz that his only family stay involved in his business; it was to be hers one day. Lilly hoped Yaz would live a very long time because even though she knew all the details of the operation, she had trouble seeing herself as the owner of a feed store.
For the past three weeks, since the changes at the Jensen clinic, this menial part of her job had become infinitely more interesting. It was now a priority. She found herself looking forward to that delivery. If Blue was in the pasture, she ran out there just to see her. And she found herself feeling disappointed if she didn’t run into Clay. If Streak was not in the round pen, she would make it a point to spend a little time leaning into his stall, talking to him quietly, even though she knew Clay wouldn’t approve. Clay wanted the colt to focus on him and seemed almost jealous when Streak didn’t shy from Lilly.
She preferred to see all of them—the horses…and the man.
She had an easy rapport with Clay now; he had helped save Blue and they shared Native roots. He always respectfully asked after her grandfather though he’d never met the man. He asked her about the store, about how she spent her free time, how she liked living in this part of the country. She asked about the horses, about the progress on the new barn addition, whether he was settling in all right.
He did not ask her about her boyfriend and she never asked him if there was a woman in his life—but those unasked questions hung heavy in the air between them. Not only was it obvious he was attracted to her, she was having trouble denying that she also felt a pull. There was sexual tension between them and she knew it.
Even though Lilly occasionally dated, it had been a very long time since she had felt that buzz of awareness; it ran like a river through her veins and made her heart beat faster. She wasn’t sure if the shivers she was experiencing were from excitement or fear.
She drove up to the stable and turned around to back up close to the doors. By the time she had her gloves on and was pulling a bale toward the hatch, Clay was pushing open and securing the double doors for her. She lifted the bale out of the truck bed while he put on gloves. By the time she deposited her load in the feed room, he was right behind her, a bale in each hand.
“You don’t bother telling me not to help anymore,” he said, dropping first one then the second bale.
“Why should I waste my breath?” she said, smiling before heading back to the truck.
“Can you hang around a little while?” he asked.
“For?”
“I’m going to mount Streak. See how he does.”
She turned as if startled. “He’s ready?”
“We’ll find out,” Clay said, reaching into the pickup for a bag of feed.
“I don’t know about putting a saddle on him. I get the feeling…”
“I’m not going to use a saddle. Not yet, anyway,” he said.
“Have you tried this before? On him?” she asked.
“No, I was waiting for you. It’s obvious he matters to you, Lilly. And I think you matter to him. He’s quieted a great deal since he’s been our guest. Now he even goes along with the bridle, the bit, minds his manners. He even takes more kindly to the brush, if it’s not for too long.” He lifted the feed bags, stacked them together and hoisted them on a shoulder. “Stay a little while.”
She felt an instant rush of emotion, suspense, though she wasn’t precisely sure what caused it. The prospect of watching him mount that surly two-year-old? Watching Streak throw him? Or was it the deep timbre of his voice when he said, Stay a little while…
“Just for a couple of minutes,” she said. “I hope he’s in the mood. I don’t have much time today and I want to check on Blue.”
“It won’t take long. I’ll know right away if he’s going to cooperate. Any interest in Blue from your notice on the bulletin board?”
“Not yet, but it hasn’t been up that long…”
“Longer than you asked for,” Clay reminded her. “Lots more than a few days. We’ll have to do something with her soon. This isn’t Club Med.”
“I’m bringing her feed free,” Lilly said. “Have you noticed that?”
“I have,” he said with a smile. “It’s appreciated. Thank you.”
And then he took off with the feed bags, depositing them and heading for the tack room to get ready for his horse.
Stay a little while… Oh, boy. Lilly hadn’t realized she’d been longing to hear a man breathe that in her ear. That was nice.
“Your girlfriend is here,” Clay said to the horse as he slipped the bit in his mouth and bridle over his head. “Would be nice if you showed her you’re somewhat domesticated. She could be proud of you. How about that?”
She’s so young, he thought. It wasn’t like him to be attracted to a mere girl, a girl who looked more suited to
his son, but he couldn’t help how he felt. He thought about her when she wasn’t around, and when she was around his heart picked up speed and he felt warm all over. She was just so damn cute in her torn jeans and denim jacket. She had herself some fine-looking boots—eel skin, if he wasn’t mistaken. She pretended not to care all that much about riding, but she was clearly attached to the horses and those boots were too nice for just delivering feed.
And when he wasn’t thinking about how cute she was, he was breathing heavy at how hot she was. Tiny, fit, sexy. That silky black hair, cut along her jawline and swinging with each movement, he could almost feel it against his fingers, against his bare chest. Her eyes were so large and blue and he had an overwhelming urge to cause them to roll back in her head.
But the last thing he needed right now was trouble from some ancient Hopi grandfather. The old man would probably not relish the idea of his very young granddaughter messing with a thirty-four-year-old Navajo. Not that he really stood a chance…there was a boyfriend in the picture. Some young buck? he wondered. Someone the grandfather would prefer? Someone the grandfather chose?
He tried to force all this from his mind as he led Streak from his stall. There was a blanket already draped over the gate rail. He led the horse to the far side of the corral, draped the blanket over his back and one last thought slipped through, directed at Streak. Maybe you could try to not make me look like a fool.
He put a right foot on the middle rung of the fence, threw the left leg over and sat on Streak’s back. Clay stroked his neck and murmured in Navajo that all was well. And the horse seemed fine. Still. He didn’t even prance. Clay was impressed and leaned down to his ear. “Yeah, not so bad. You’re plenty strong enough for a big guy like me.” Then he let up on the reins, gave the horse a gentle nudge with his heel and moved him forward. He pulled left on the bit and the horse followed. Then right. Then slowed him to a stop. “You’re showing off,” he whispered to the horse. “You get an A.”
Clay took the horse around the pen again, nice and easy, pleased as much with himself as with Streak because timing was everything. He brought him up to an easy canter and took a couple of laps, then slowed him down.
