by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, Turner—”
“Think about it,” he suggested, bristling. He dusted his hands on his jeans as he stood.
She doubted she’d think of little else.
* * *
THAT EVENING, TURNER DROVE them into town. Heather’s fingers tightened over the edge of the pickup seat as they passed familiar landmarks, the park with the gazebo built in memory of Roy Fitzpatrick’s death, the yellow-brick building that had once been the Gold Creek Hotel and now housed Fitzpatrick, Incorporated, the post office on Main Street and the old Rexall Drugstore still standing on the corner of Main and Pine.
“I thought Adam would like one of the best burgers this side of the Rocky Mountains!” Turner said as he eased his pickup close to the curb.
They walked into the drugstore and a bell tinkled. The ceilings were high, with lights and fans, never renovated in the seventy years that the building had stood in the center of town. Shelves were neatly stacked; row upon row of cosmetics, medications, jewelry, paper items and toys stood just as they had most of the decade. The items had changed, turned over for new and improved stock, following the trends of small-town tastes, but the shelves were the same metal inlays that Heather remembered from high school.
The soda fountain in the back hadn’t changed much, either, and Thelma Surrett, Carlie’s mother, her hair grayer, her waist a bit thicker, was still making milk shakes. She glanced over her shoulder and offered Heather a surprised grin. “Well, well, well…look who’s back in town,” she said, turning on the milk shake mixer and snapping up her notepad as the blender whirred as loudly as a dentist’s drill. “First Rachelle and now you. Don’t tell me this town has changed its name to Mecca.”
Heather grinned. “Rachelle said Carlie will be back for the wedding.”
Thelma’s eyes shifted a little, and her mouth tightened slightly but she nodded. “In a couple of weeks. Guess she got tired of those long nights up in Alaska. Uh-oh. Who’s this?” she asked as Adam climbed up on a stool.
“This is my son, Adam,” Heather said, unable to keep the pride from her voice.
“Well, howdy, partner,” Thelma replied. She tapped the brim of Adam’s hat. “Should I rustle you up some grub?”
“Three burgers, onion, fries, the works,” Turner ordered, as Thelma turned off the blender and poured a thick strawberry milk shake into a tall glass.
“I want one of those!” Adam demanded, and Thelma, handing the drink to another customer, winked at the boy.
“You got it.”
“Take off your hat while you eat, Adam.”
“No!”
“Your ma’s right,” Turner added. “It’s just plain good manners.” He lifted the hat from his son’s head.
Adam clapped his hands over hair that raised with static electricity. “I hate manners.”
“Me, too,” Turner said with a chuckle.
Heather felt as if she’d been transported back to high school and the days she’d walked to the pharmacy after school, tagging along with Rachelle and Carlie. Eventually Laura Chandler had joined the group and Laura had flagrantly ignored Rachelle’s younger sister. “She’s such a drag,” she’d told Rachelle. “Can’t we ditch her?”
Rachelle, none-too-thrilled to be stuck with Heather, had, nonetheless stood up for her. “It’s okay,” she’d argued, and Laura had pouted, though Carlie had never minded. Well, things had changed—turned around in the past twelve years. Laura had ended up married to Brian Fitzpatrick. Years later she’d been accused of killing Roy, the boy who, had he lived, would have become her brother-in-law.
Thelma started burgers sizzling on the grill, and soon they were eating again, laughing and talking, listening to Thelma go on and on about Rachelle’s upcoming wedding and how she hoped Carlie would find a nice boy to settle down with and marry.
After finishing their meal, they wandered through the drugstore for a while, and as they were leaving, nearly ran into Scott McDonald. Turner’s face stretched into a grin, but Heather had trouble finding a smile. Scott had been one of Roy Fitzpatrick’s friends who had been with Rachelle the night Roy had been killed. After Roy’s death, Scott had been vocal in pointing out Jackson’s guilt, and had given Rachelle a rough time thereafter.
“I want you to meet someone, Scott,” Turner said, and Heather thought she might drop through the yellowed linoleum of the drugstore’s floor.
Turner introduced Scott to his son, and Heather managed a thin smile. Scott’s eyes flickered with interest, but he congratulated Turner on such a “fine-looking boy.” He and his wife, Karen, were expecting their first in February.
“I don’t know if that was such a good idea,” Heather said, as they wandered along the streets, window shopping at the bakery, jeweler’s and travel agency.
“He would’ve found out anyway. He’s Fred’s brother and Fred works for me.” Turner slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Sooner or later it’s all gonna come out.”
“I vote for later.”
“But it’s easier now. Less to explain.”
Her chest felt tight and worry crowded her brow as they strolled down the sidewalks. Adam found a pair of cowboy boots in the window of the shoe store, and Turner eyed a stove on display at the local Sears catalog store.
The town had a lazy summer feel. A few birds twittered and traffic rolled by at a snail’s pace. The city lamps began to glow as dusk crept over the land and they walked unhurried to the park and past the gazebo erected in Roy’s memory.
While Adam scrambled all over the playground equipment, Turner chased him, and Heather sat alone on a park bench. In the evening, with the wind soughing through the trees, Gold Creek didn’t seem so horrible. She had fond memories of the town where as a child she’d drawn hopscotch on the cracked sidewalks, jumped rope and ridden her bike along the flat tree-lined streets. Her family hadn’t had much money, but they’d made up for it in love.
And then her father had started drinking and his wandering eye had ripped apart that cozy blanket of security. Their mother had been devastated, the girls stunned. Tears and anger, pity and anguish had been followed by deep embarrassment. Gossiping tongues had wagged. Her father had filed for divorce and married a younger woman. The rumors had exploded. Later, Roy Fitzpatrick had been killed and Rachelle, alone, had stood up for Jackson Moore, the bad boy, telling the world that she’d spent the night with him, ruining her reputation.
Scandal had swept like a tornado through Gold Creek and the Tremonts were at its vortex. The friends and neighbors Heather had known all her life seemed to look at her differently, some with compassion, some with worry, others with out-and-out disgust. Life had never been the same. Heather had learned what it felt like to be an object of speculation while her sister became an object of ridicule. And Heather had begun to hate the small town she’d once felt was the center of the universe.
But now…if she faced the past, stood proudly with Turner by her side, maybe she could learn to feel comfortable in Gold Creek again. Not all the citizens were gossips. Not all were cruel. Not all had long memories. Not all cared. The people, and the town, had grown up, and Rachelle had been vindicated.
However, when the truth about Adam’s parentage came out, she feared her innocent little boy would become grist for a long-dry gossip mill. But now she was stronger. She and Turner would protect their son.
For Heather, what people thought was no longer as important as it once had been. She’d survive, with her head held high. As for changing her lifestyle, there were drawbacks to living in the city where oftentimes she’d felt isolated. In San Francisco there were so many people, but so few good friends. Knowing people from the time they were children created a bond that was like no other in life.
Rachelle, though she hadn’t seen Carlie in years, would never find a friend she understo
od better.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Heather watched as Turner pushed Adam on a swing. Adam shrieked in delight and Turner laughed, a deep, rumbling sound of pure happiness. In her heart, Heather knew she could never separate father and son. Now that they’d come to know each other, she wouldn’t stand between them.
Stars winked in the heavens and other children played a game of tag on the baseball diamond near the equipment. Mothers and fathers pushed strollers down the cement walkways. Teenagers cruised by in cars, searching for their friends.
There was a charm to this town, and whether she liked it or not, it was, and always would be, home. Tears touched the back of her eyes. She could return. Her mother was here. Her father was in a town nearby. Jackson had told Rachelle he thought they should buy some property here eventually, though that might have been a joke. But if he was serious, there was a chance he and Rachelle would visit occasionally.
And Turner, bless and curse him, Turner belonged here.
The course of the rest of her life depended upon Turner. As it had since the first time she’d made love to him six years before.
* * *
IT WAS AFTER NINE BY THE time they returned to the ranch. Nadine had made the spare room up for Adam, and after a quick bath, he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Turner and Heather were alone. They sat on the porch swing, hearing the chorus of crickets and watching thousands of diamondlike stars glitter in the dark heavens. The old swing rocked slowly back and forth, creaking on rusty hinges. Roses, gone to seed, scented the air. Turner placed his arm over the back of the swing, gently holding Heather closer. “I wasn’t kidding this afternoon,” he said, his voice surprisingly rough. “I want you to consider marrying me.”
She was touched, and her heart screamed “yes.” “You wouldn’t be happy,” she said, her head resting against his shoulder.
“You wouldn’t be happy.”
Right now she was more content than she’d ever been. She couldn’t imagine spending another day alone, without Turner. “I could be happy, Turner,” she heard herself say, “with you. With Adam.”
“But…?”
“But I’m not sure if I could live in the town.”
“We’re miles from the town, and there’s a fairly substantial lake between the ranch and Gold Creek. It wouldn’t be like before, when you were smack-dab in the middle of the city limits. And if you want to paint and draw, we’ll find you a place. You could still keep the gallery in the city and go there anytime you got the urge.”
Was it worth it? She gazed into Turner’s steel-gray eyes and her heart swelled with love. She knew there was only one answer. “Of course I’ll marry you, Turner,” she said, as his strong arms surrounded her. His lips touched hers, gently at first, softly exploring, until he brazenly covered her mouth with his own.
* * *
FOUR DAYS LATER, HEATHER had settled herself into the ranch routine. Though she did cook breakfast and dinner for Adam and Turner, she drew the line at lunch for the hands. She figured they’d gotten along without her all these years and they could get along without her now. Besides, she planned to spend a lot of her time sketching or painting.
She and Adam had scouted through all the old buildings and finally, though it needed a lot of work, she’d settled on an attic over the stables for her studio. Every evening, Turner had helped her haul out the junk—books, magazines, old bikes, broken saddles, trunks of clothes and everything else under the sun. She was ready to start work refurbishing the room and she eyed it critically.
The attic was unique with its windows, pitched ceiling and inoperable ceiling fan. Though the room was smaller than her studio in the city, and it would require a lot of elbow grease to clean it up, the attic definitely had potential. With a couple of skylights, new paint and refinished floors, the room just might convert into an attractive workplace.
“I think you’re right,” agreed her mother, who had come out to the ranch for a visit. “But you might check for mice,” she added, her practiced gaze sweeping the baseboards.
“I’ll get a cat,” Heather replied with a grin.
Ellen swiped at a cobweb dangling from the ceiling. “You know, I don’t approve of you living here,” she said, chewing nervously on her lip.
“Mom—”
“In my book you live with a man after you marry him, not before—and I don’t care how much you’re involved with him. It just doesn’t look right!”
It was on the tip of Heather’s tongue to tell her mother that she planned to marry Turner, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to steal any of her sister’s thunder. Rachelle had waited too many years for the moment when she would become Jackson Moore’s bride, so Heather and Turner had agreed to wait until after Rachelle’s wedding to make an announcement about their own wedding plans. There wasn’t any hurry. Despite what her mother thought.
“Living in sin is against everything I ever taught you.”
“It’s not sin, Mom.”
Together they walked down the outside staircase and crossed the yard. Nearby, Turner was breaking a mule-headed colt and Adam was watching in rapt awe.
“Well, I will admit, Dennis didn’t seem like much of a father,” Ellen said as they walked onto the back porch. She glanced at her grandson. “I always wondered about that, you know. And I do believe that Adam deserves better.”
Heather smiled.
“Maybe Turner isn’t so bad, after all.”
“He’s not,” Heather assured her mother as they entered the kitchen. “Here. Sit down. I’ve got ice tea. You drink and I’ll start dinner.” She poured them each a glass of tea, and while her mother lit a cigarette, Heather began slicing scallions and mushrooms. She nearly cut off her finger when Ellen announced that she was starting work as a clerk at Fitzpatrick Logging.
Heather dropped her knife and stared at her mother in disbelief. “But—”
“Look, I need any job I can get,” Ellen said emphatically as she sat at the table in Turner’s kitchen and ignored the glass of ice tea that Heather had set before her. The ice cubes were melting and her lower lip quivered. “That stepfather of yours is trying to make sure I’ll have to work until I’m seventy,” she said, trying to fight back tears of self-pity.
“I know, but I just find it strange. You applied at the logging company—what—six or eight weeks ago and you were told there were no positions, right? Fitzpatrick Logging was going to be laying off men, not hiring clerks.”
“Well, things must’ve changed,” Ellen said, a little miffed. “Anyway, I can’t afford to be picky, and when Thomas called—”
“Wait. Time out. Hold the phone.” Heather pointed the fingers of one hand into the palm of her other in an effort to cut her mother off, and her stomach began to knot. “Thomas Fitzpatrick called you himself?” Her suspicions rose to the surface. “Isn’t that a little odd?”
“It is, but I thought, well, now that we’re practically family…” Ellen let her voice drift off, and Heather decided not to argue with her mother, who had taken more than her share of heartaches in life.
“When do you start?”
“Tomorrow. Can you believe it? I was so worried that I’d have to get a job in Jefferson City or even farther away. This will be so close and handy.” She stared up at her daughter. “It really is a godsend.”
“Then I’m glad for you,” Heather replied, though she felt uneasy. Thomas Fitzpatrick wasn’t a man to be trusted, and her mother had always been susceptible to the rich—believing their stories, hoping some of their wealth and fame might rub off on her. Dennis Leonetti was a case in point. And the Fitzpatrick wealth was rumored to be much more than the Leonettis’.
Heather glanced out the open window to the corral where Adam was hanging on the fence and watching his father as
Turner trained a feisty gray colt. Shirt off, muscles gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun, Turner held the lead rope, coaxing the nervous animal to trot around him in a circle. In another pen, one of the men who worked for Turner, Fred McDonald, was separating cows from their calves. The fragrance of roses mingled with the ever-present smell of dust and filtered into the warm room. The cattle bawled, Adam yelled at his dad and Turner spoke in soft tones to the headstrong colt.
“He almost ran for state senator,” Ellen said, still defending Thomas Fitzpatrick. Heather managed to change the subject as she heated a pot of water for the pasta and stirred the sauce. They talked about the wedding, less than a week away, and Ellen’s face brightened at the thought that one of her daughters might find matrimonial happiness, an intangible thing that had eluded her in two trips to the altar. Ellen’s opinion of Jackson Moore had turned around and she was beginning to trust Turner. A good sign. Now, if she’d just reform her opinion of Thomas Fitzpatrick…
“So how’s my grandson been?” Ellen said, finally sipping her tea while Heather worked at the stove, trying, with Turner’s limited cookware, to fix dinner. She’d invited her mother over for shrimp fettuccine, but cooking on the old range had been a trial. There were definitely some things about San Francisco that she would miss. In lieu of a whisk, she used a beat-up wooden spoon to stir the sauce.
“Adam?” she asked as the creamy sauce simmered. “He’s been fine.”
“And the surgery?”
“So far it’s been postponed. As long as Adam’s in remission, there’s no reason…” She glanced out the window and smiled. Adam’s new boots already were covered with a thin layer of dust, and his cowboy hat was, these days, a permanent fixture on his head.
Fred finished with the cows and waved to Turner as he climbed into his old Dodge pickup. Turner let Adam help him cool down the horse.
“Boots off,” Heather ordered as the two men in her life approached the back door. “And hands washed.”
“Mine are clean,” Adam replied holding up grimy palms for inspection as he tried to nudge one boot off with the toe of another.
