Private Sins

by Gwen Moffat

  There was a pause. ‘There she goes,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Up that hill.’

  They ignored her. ‘So you’re saying Bret Ryan’s a liar,’ Sophie grated.

  ‘Well — no, if he says they’re married —’

  ‘Not that. He says they’re in touch with you, that you say Ali is willed to Jen.’

  ‘Then he is lying. He has to have some reason for saying that.’ He sat down in the dust and put his head on his knees. They regarded him: Sophie bewildered, Miss Pink speculative. Someone was lying — but for what purpose? Something to do with Charlie’s legacy, or his death, or both?

  Sophie raised her eyes and looked towards the hills. ‘Is that the horse you saw her on yesterday?’ she asked dully.

  ‘Presumably. It’s pale, it could be a buckskin.’

  ‘She left because you arrived,’ Sophie told Sam and it was an accusation.

  He raised his head. ‘If she turned against Val, she’s against me too,’ he said and then, the picture of despair, ‘Why?’

  ‘Ryan knows what’s behind it all.’ Sophie was vicious. She looked along the street as if willing him to appear but there was nothing to see beyond the sagging buildings other than the sage and rocks shimmering in the heat. ‘I’m not waiting here for him,’ she said and, remembering her manners, ‘I mean, we’re not waiting.’ Adding fiercely, ‘We have our own lives to lead.’ It was by way of an apology, a declaration that family problems were not to be allowed to interfere with hospitality towards a guest, and it was spurious. Obviously family came first with all of them. ‘I feel like a ball,’ she went on, ‘bounced backwards and forwards between other people.’

  Sam was bleary-eyed. ‘You don’t believe me? If we was in contact why would she run when I arrived?’

  ‘Because she didn’t want us to know she was seeing you? Oh hell!’ Sophie shook her head as if trying to rid it of cobwebs. ‘I don’t know where I am any longer. What do we do now?’ She glared at Miss Pink.

  ‘We’re doing nothing here. Shall we go home and eat?’

  Sophie’s jaw dropped. ‘Life goes on,’ Miss Pink pointed out. ‘People get hungry.’

  Sam giggled. Miss Pink looked for hysteria and saw none. ‘I’ll look around a bit,’ he said. ‘Maybe she’ll be watching and if she sees you leave, she’ll come down. I could go find a saddle’ — he gave a wry smile — ‘put it on one of my son-in-law’s horses and follow her.’

  ‘Well, he’s old enough to take care of himself,’ Sophie said as they drove away. ‘Although why I should say that I’ve no idea, except that I don’t like leaving him. Did we do right?’

  ‘Heavens, he’s not in any danger.’

  ‘Someone’s lying. I need to know what’s going on. We have to know; it’s affecting all of us.’ She was speaking as if Miss Pink were family. ‘If we meet Ryan on this road he’s not going to pass without me finding out why he said Jen was seeing Sam when she wasn’t.’

  ‘Actually, Ryan didn’t say Jen was meeting her father. They could have been communicating by phone.’

  ‘It’s the same.’ Sophie was grim. ‘Sam maintains he hasn’t been in touch with her at all. Do you think he’s lying?’

  ‘If he is, he’s a very good actor.’

  They reached the highway without meeting a vehicle. ‘Ryan’s still in town,’ Sophie said. ‘Or he went back to Val’s place. Oh, I hope not. We have to see Edna, ask her about the will, find out who Ali is to go to —’

  ‘There he is. Ryan — the trailer, see?’

  They were heading west towards Ballard. A pick-up and trailer were approaching, coming east. Sophie slowed down. As it passed they saw that it was indeed Ryan but he gave no sign that he recognised the Cherokee. Sophie glanced behind her and performed a neat U-turn, but instead of overtaking she kept back until they left the highway. After they’d gone about half a mile on the dirt road she crept up and flashed her lights. Ryan plodded on for a short distance, then stopped.

  Sophie climbed down without a word. Miss Pink stayed where she was. She wondered if Ryan carried a weapon. With the trailer blocking her view she couldn’t see if there was a rifle on a rack as was often the case in Westerners’ pick-ups. Her eyes widened; this was a family at odds, not a confrontation with a gunman.

  Sitting in the passenger seat she could see nothing of Sophie. She slid behind the steering wheel and looked along the side of the trailer. Sophie was standing back, stiff with some emotion — anger? Fear? Miss Pink switched off the ignition. Sophie was shouting.

  ‘… ask anyone!… her grandmother… you could have asked me!’

  Silence — he would be responding, but quietly.

  Sophie’s shoulders jerked. She gestured wildly. ‘You’re mad! It’s impossible. Val never knew… Why should she lie about it?’ She listened again, glaring, blinking. She spoke, but the words were inaudible. Her head was up, her face set; she seemed to be in command now, but as she continued to speak her body language was increasingly tense until she broke off… How theatrical people appeared when in the grip of strong emotion and you couldn’t hear what was said. She came back to the Cherokee, treading lightly, carefully.

  Miss Pink heaved herself over to the passenger side, the trailer drew away, Sophie climbed behind the wheel, turned the car and stopped. She switched off the ignition but kept her hands on the wheel. Miss Pink licked her lips nervously.

  Sophie said to the windscreen: ‘I’m not clear how I feel about this. I’m shell-shocked. He is in touch with Jen’s father, as he thinks — because Jen told him her father is Paul Skinner.’

  ‘Oh.’ A long pause. ‘Poor Sam,’ Miss Pink said.

  ‘Skinner isn’t, of course.’ Sophie was quick. She turned to her friend and smiled, but it was only her lips that moved, her eyes were cold and furious. ‘And guess who told Jen that Paul Skinner was her father.’

  Miss Pink could only shake her head helplessly.

  ‘Charlie,’ Sophie said, nodding. ‘My son-of-a-bitch brother-in-law told his granddaughter that her daddy was that gross lump of grease who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life, who stuck to Val like a leech, living on her earnings, a parasite — for all we know, a thief, a poacher… What’s got into you? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘No wonder the girl appears to hate her mother —’

  ‘Does hate her.’

  ‘— who she’ll think kept her parentage from her. It’s fortunate that Charlie’s —’

  ‘— that he’s dead. You can say that again.’ Sophie switched on the ignition and started down the road. ‘I put Bret right; I doubt he believed me but now we know what the problem is we can set to and sort it. Of course there’s no way Paul Skinner could be her father; why, Val didn’t even know Skinner when Jen was born…’

  She continued in this vein while Miss Pink appeared to listen and all the time she was thinking about relationships and babies and abortions, and dreading the moment when Sophie — and others — would start to think along the same lines. Or had someone done that already?

  *

  ‘That stallion goes to Jen,’ Edna told Sophie. ‘She’s to have all the horses except the five colts that come to you. And no, I don’t have a copy of the will; Charlie would never have shown it to me, but I’ve seen a copy. He never knew.’ She smiled slyly. ‘I went to school with our lawyer,’ she explained to Miss Pink.

  They were in Edna’s bedroom which, despite its four-poster, gave the impression of a room much lived in. They had come straight to Glenaffric to find her cleaning furiously. It was the Fourth of July and once again she was without domestic help. In the face of the family’s problems no one had remarked that this was Independence Day. A halt was called for lunch and they took sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea to this curiously intimate room with its old Chinese rugs and furniture upholstered in tarnished gold and threadbare crimson silk.

  Sophie said crossly, ‘I could do with a drink.’

  Edna had shown no surprise at their appearance unannoun
ced, nor at Sophie’s blunt questions regarding the stallion and the will; now, without turning a hair, she moved to an elaborate corner cupboard and produced a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and crystal glasses. She poured drinks with a steady hand and asked pleasantly, ‘Did you want the stallion? I dare say Jen would do a trade.’

  ‘We were at Benefit,’ Sophie said, ignoring the question. ‘She’s there. We talked to her — and to Ryan. They’re married. Oh, and there’s no baby. There wouldn’t be, of course. It’d be nine years old by now, but there never was one. Actually, we — I didn’t ask, but there was no sign.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Edna said. ‘She can start fresh.’ She brightened. ‘How is she? I’ve been expecting her.’

  ‘She’s fine: damning her mother to hell, refusing to meet her father… Sam arrived while we were there.’

  Edna was very still. ‘What was that about her mother?’

  ‘Jen says Val ruined her life. Bret Ryan told me Paul Skinner is Jen’s father. One assumes the two things are connected, in their minds at least. Meaning Jen’s got it in for her mother because she figures Val kept the truth from her about her parentage.’

  Miss Pink stood up, muttering something about the bathroom. The others ignored her exit. ‘Well?’ she heard from behind her, Sophie throwing it out like a challenge. There was a murmur from Edna. ‘These are your daughter and your grandchild!’ Sophie stormed. ‘You know it’s not true! Sam’s her father!’

  Miss Pink blundered round a corner, nearly knocking Clyde down. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, his eyes alert to the shouting. She pushed past him quite rudely.

  *

  Half an hour passed before Sophie came looking for her and found her leaning on a rail behind the corrals. Beyond the fence, mares with foals grazed unconcernedly, having already accosted the visitor for titbits and found her wanting.

  ‘She knew all the time,’ Sophie said without preamble, then thought better of it. ‘OK, let’s be fair; ten years ago Charlie hinted that he knew why Jen left, told Edna that the child should know that Skinner was her daddy. He said, he actually said, he’d told Jen himself. Edna’s like Val: got no spirit left now, she’s had too much of his lies, but back then I guess she reacted differently: horror, shock, whatever, and Charlie maybe, just maybe, realised he’d gone too far that time and he retracted. Said it was a joke, it wasn’t true, he was only teasing Edna; he’d never told Jen anything. But you see, Jen didn’t come back and there was never any contact, nothing to explain her going, and Edna says now she got to wondering was it true after all? Not that Skinner was Jen’s father of course, but that Charlie had told the child so.’

  Miss Pink’s gaze was fixed on the horses. ‘And Edna never said a word to any of you because she wasn’t sure,’ she murmured.

  ‘That — and shame: for him. That he could be so cruel, so heartless.’ Sophie paused. ‘Clyde came in,’ she added. ‘We’ve been talking.’

  ‘I gathered.’

  After a long silence Sophie said, ‘Has your brain made connections here?’

  ‘You mean with the other alleged piece of information from Charlie: that Jen wanted money for an abortion, or was it that she wanted money to go away and you considered an abortion?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Miss Pink sighed. ‘Yes, I do see a connection: that Jen was pregnant by the man she thought was her stepfather and who Charlie then told her was her father. That would account for the absence: hostility… guilt… towards Val. It can be put right now, of course.’ Now that Charlie was dead.

  ‘Try telling that to Edna and Clyde. They’re obsessed with the difficulties. How do you tell a woman that she’s wasted ten years of her life by exiling herself from a loving family (bar one monster) because she thinks she’s been a party to incest?’

  ‘It may not be that bad. She could suspect the truth already. That could be why she won’t meet Sam: she’s not sure.’

  ‘Bret thinks Skinner is her father.’

  ‘I wonder. Sam stayed behind when we left Benefit. Perhaps he went after her. In any case, she’s come back to Montana, so she must be looking for a reconciliation. After all, even if Skinner were her father Jen was still responsible for her actions — unless he raped her.’

  ‘Then she’d have told Val… No, maybe not. Children don’t always, do they? Skinner’s another one who should have been drowned at birth. Don’t look so disapproving, Melinda. I mean it.’

  ‘I’m not disapproving the sentiment, just your voicing it. It’s not a good time to mention killing and members of your family in the same breath.’

  ‘Skinner’s not family. Oh, you mean Charlie. Yes, I’d have cheerfully killed him and that was before I knew about this last obscene joke of his. Joke? But that’s how he’d have viewed it.’ Her lips stretched in a grin. ‘Poetic justice. He’d dragged the family through hell for ten years and in the end it was him was dragged to death. Neat, huh?’

  8

  ‘We’ve made no decisions,’ Sophie confided as they drove away from Glenaffric. ‘Everyone’s exhausted. We think it’s best to leave Jen to Sam. He may bring her here, to Edna, or she could come to me of her own free will.’

  ‘Like a nervous animal,’ Miss Pink said, ‘let her make the running.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Neither saw anything fanciful in the comparison. ‘I should drop by the ranch,’ Sophie went on. ‘I can’t just pass. But what do I say? If Sam hasn’t contacted Val she won’t yet know that Jen thinks Skinner’s her father. Someone has to tell her.’ They were approaching the track to the homestead. ‘I’ll play it by ear,’ she went on, ‘stress the fact that whatever happened in the past, Jen’s come back. Val will be furious when she learns the truth, but she can’t take it out on Charlie now.’ She gave a derisive snort. ‘Fortunately,’ she added.

  But if there was any truth in the suggestion that Skinner had seduced his stepdaughter he was one live man who’d be well advised to keep out of Val’s way. The fury she could no longer direct at her father could be deflected in Skinner’s direction. Miss Pink didn’t point this out. What she did say — and firmly — was that she would wait in the Cherokee.

  ‘Shoot!’ Sophie wasn’t listening. ‘There’s Byer. What in hell’s he doing here — and messing with my tack?’

  She climbed down, threw a baleful glance at the fellow who was carrying a saddle into the barn and stamped up the steps to the cabin. The car windows were down and her voice carried clearly. ‘What’s Byer doing here?’ she shouted over the slam of the screen door. The reply was inaudible.

  ‘I’m not having —’ It was cut off like a switch.

  Miss Pink left the Cherokee and strolled across to the rail where, on the other side of the corral, Ali was intent on a mare in another enclosure.

  ‘He’s doing fine.’

  She turned. Byer approached and leaned on the rail, joining her in her study of the horse. ‘Where did you ride today?’ he asked, more ingratiating than friendly.

  ‘I didn’t. It’s been a social day.’

  ‘You shoulda rode out. These old horses need work, get some of the winter fat off of ‘em. I’ll have Ali out next week: just gentle work, get him used to a man on his back again.’

  ‘I thought you worked at Glenaffric.’

  ‘Wherever. At the moment she needs me here.’

  There was no sound from the cabin. Miss Pink said innocently, ‘You mean Mrs Jardine or Miss Hamilton?’

  ‘Val. I’m giving her a hand. She’s not long back from hunting camp.’ Was he making conversation or did that remark have some special significance?

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘Bringing the saddle down. Rode up there bareback, probably did some cleaning while she was there.’

  ‘The cabin needed cleaning?’

  ‘I don’t know. You was there.’

  ‘I have no idea how tidy a hunting cabin should be. Were you there, Mr Byer?’

  ‘No. I went as far as the slide just. Light were failing even th
en.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant —’ Her quick ears had caught the sound of the screen door opening. She eyed him, demanding some reaction but his expression was bland, then he turned and went into the barn.

  Sophie didn’t speak until they were on the road. Even then all she said was, ‘We’ll talk back at the apartment. Have supper sent up again. How did Ali look to you?’

  ‘Very well, considering. Fascinated by a mare.’

  ‘Good.’

  She wasn’t thinking about the stallion, she was staring through the windscreen and, it would appear, practising deep breathing.

  In the wing mirror Miss Pink caught sight of snowy peaks against a southern sky and was seized by the craving to be down there where the snows were melting round drifts of glacier lilies, a place where there were no people, no tangled relationships. She considered how she might approach the subject of her leaving without making Sophie feel that she was driving her guest away.

  In the apartment Sophie closed the door and said bluntly, ‘Don’t shower. Not yet. Let’s talk.’ She fetched the Talisker and the bourbon. Miss Pink drifted to the sofa. Sophie went on, as if words had been dammed in the Cherokee, ‘It’s Byer. I told Val I wouldn’t have him there. She begged me to leave it be. I swear she was virtually crying, beside herself. So I forced her to tell me why I shouldn’t send him packing from my own property — my lease, anyway. That bugger’s blackmailing her.’

  Miss Pink sagged against the cushions. How bad could this get? She drank her malt rather than sipped it, put down the glass, longed for a cigarette. She had stopped smoking decades ago. ‘How can he blackmail her?’ she prompted.

  Sophie stared out of the window and said coldly, ‘Val visited Charlie at hunting camp and Byer knows she did.’

  ‘What’s wrong with — You mean, when she was out on the trail? She rode to the cabin —’ She hesitated. Sophie avoided her eyes. Miss Pink tried again, delicately, ‘Why does she need to conceal the fact that she was at the cabin?’