by Susan Fox
He didn’t add the rest. During the frequent bad spells, she didn’t cook meals, buy groceries, do laundry, clean the house. Evan had become self-sufficient. He tried to make himself unobtrusive, too, knowing that his mother hadn’t wanted him, didn’t love him. That she blamed him—along with his dad—for ruining her life.
When the welfare ran out, he didn’t want to spend the money from his part-time jobs on food. That was his “escape Hicksville” fund, accumulating for the day he graduated from high school. No, he was always able to rely on Mrs. Bly’s standing invitation for supper.
And now here he was, heading out to the ranch for one of those meals. How far he’d come . . .
“Memories?” Jess’s voice was gentle.
“I don’t know which were worse, the bad times or the good ones. When Brooke was happy she was amazing. She bubbled like champagne. She’d dress in bright clothes, do her hair up fancy. She’d get a job as a waitress or sales clerk, she’d bring home money and food, she’d hardly drink at all, and she’d—”
“What?”
“Say she loved me,” he said ruefully. “It was like living in a beautiful dream. Pure illusion, yet time after time I’d get sucked in because I desperately wanted to believe.”
He stared ahead, watching the two-lane highway unwind and noting that the scenery was the same as always: split-rail fences along the road, rolling ranch land with cattle grazing, an occasional house and barn, and low hills in the background. His peripheral vision told him Jess kept glancing his way.
“You should believe,” she said. “The loving woman was the genuine one.”
“Mothers who love their kids come to parent-teacher meetings and open houses. When you’re little they tuck you in and read stories, and when you’re older they wait up and ream you out for being late.” He thought he’d gotten over the bitterness long ago, but its sourness tinged his voice.
Almost under his breath, he added, “Mothers who love their kids don’t mind being called ‘Mom.’ ”
Her hand darted out, touched his thigh, then retreated.
He appreciated her compassion, but he was grown up. Time to get off the subject of his mother. He needed to tell Jess about his reason for being here. How should he start?
“Evan? You realize Brooke was ill?”
Her question distracted him. “Ill? You mean alcoholic, right? Yeah, she and my dad were both alcoholics. I know that’s a disease, but that’s not a lot of consolation when you’re the kid who suffers for it.”
“I know. But it was more than that, Ev. All those days when she couldn’t get out of bed?”
“Clinical depression? Probably so. But she didn’t do anything about it. Never went to a doctor. Never took me either. Not even the time I broke my arm.” He cleared his throat. “The time he broke my arm.” The days of denial were long gone.
He glanced over at Jess’s solemn profile, then said, “Brooke had to know she could get help for her problems. But she didn’t want to get better. She enjoyed being miserable.”
Jess swung the truck off the country highway onto gravel and he turned away from her to see the “Bly Ranch” sign. It was the same wooden one he remembered, just ten years more weathered. Oh shit, they were there already. He’d lost his opportunity to confess, and yet he couldn’t regret hearing the news about his mother. “Jesus, I can’t believe Brooke finally got it together.”
Jess nodded. “She was in a car accident. She’d been drinking. Smacked into a tree, and no, she didn’t hurt anyone but herself. Ended up in the hospital. She was manic, and the doctor diagnosed her as having bipolar disorder and put her on medication.”
“Bipolar disorder.” He whistled softly. “Jesus.” He replayed the memories again. The dark, dismal spells, but yes, they alternated with the times when she was almost frenetically active and cheerful. “Damn. I should have realized.”
“You were a kid.”
“Afterward. I should have figured it out when I grew up.” But he’d always avoided thinking about his parents.
Jess didn’t comment.
Evan felt shell-shocked. “So, she was diagnosed,” he said slowly, “and she’s on medication?”
“Yes. It’s been four years. She joined A.A. then, too, and has stayed sober. She goes to church every Sunday.” Jess darted him a sideways glance. “She must like the person she’s become—or the one she found inside herself.”
He realized he was shaking his head slowly, not in disbelief but in wonder. “And who is that person?”
They weren’t at the house yet, but Jess pulled the truck to a stop on the side of the road and turned to him. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”
“No!” It was one thing for Jess to tell him about his mother, and maybe he could even believe her. In the abstract. Good for Brooke if she’d built a new life for herself. He’d done the same. But there was no reason those two lives needed to intersect.
He shook his head firmly. “I have no need to, and why would she want to see me? I’m the kid who ruined her life. I’d remind her of a past she’d rather forget.”
“Ev, she boasts about you.”
“What? She doesn’t know anything about me.”
“She knew you were hell-bent on succeeding, and she knew you’d do it. She Googles you and knows a lot about your career.”
“You talk to her?” Why did it feel like a betrayal?
“She cuts my hair.” Jess gave a soft laugh and flipped her ponytail. “She despairs over me. All I let her do is whack an inch off the ends. And she keeps telling me I should get a manicure.” She waved her right hand in his face. “These hands. Can you imagine?”
Her nails were short as could be, and would benefit from a nailbrush.
He tried to imagine her with a fancy manicure like Cynthia’s, and laughed. “Some things don’t change.”
Jess shrugged. “Yeah, and I hate wearing make-up, and I often forget to put on sunscreen.” She slanted him a mischievous glance. “I’m guessing Brooke would thoroughly approve of Cynthia.” Her tone turned snarky. “But Cynthia probably pays ten times as much for a haircut as your mother charges, and would never condescend to let a hick-town stylist touch her precious locks.”
He chucked her under the chin. “Catty.” And why should his fingers burn from that slight touch?
“But true?”
“Yeah, true. Cynthia’s appearance is an important part of who she is.”
“Unlike some of us, who have better things to do with our time.”
So did Cynthia. She put in just as long hours as Jess, and her hairstyle and manicure were as much a part of her work costume as Jess’s Western shirts, boots, and Annie Oakley outfit. But he figured saying so would only hurt Jess’s feelings.
“You look great,” he said. “Just as great as she does.” He meant it. He could have added that her natural, rather earthy style was even sexier, but no way was he saying that. He couldn’t understand why he even felt that way, when Cynthia was exactly the kind of woman with whom he’d always envisioned sharing his life. “You’re just different types. You’re natural and she’s—” He broke off, not sure how to phrase it.
“Yes?” That catty gleam still lurked in her eye. “Were you going to say ‘artificial’?”
“I wasn’t. And she isn’t.” Cynthia was as genuine in her own way as Jess was. “Sophisticated.”
She flipped her ponytail again. “Okay, I’m not insulted. The last thing I want to be is sophisticated.”
He grabbed that flirty tail and tugged it. “Lucky for you, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever be.”
She stuck out her tongue, and then they were both laughing. He did love Jess’s laugh. Like the woman herself, it was bighearted and engaging.
As they held their gaze, their laughter turned to smiles. Smiles that softened at the edges into uncertainty. On his part, into longing.
He had no idea what Jess felt, but she suddenly busied herself getting the truck back on the road.
&nbs
p; Also as suddenly, he realized he’d let himself get distracted again. “Jess, could you stop again for a couple of minutes? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Hah! And risk Mom’s wrath? There’s ice cream melting in the back.” She pressed more firmly on the gas pedal.
Resignedly, Evan took in the view: green fields marked off by neat split-rail fences; a herd of cattle grazing in the distance; three horses in a paddock. The line of trees over by the creek was taller than he remembered, but that was about all that had changed. He’d never paid much attention to the Bly cattle ranch, but he’d been there so often he must have absorbed images by osmosis. “Cottonwoods,” he murmured.
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I didn’t. Not consciously. I heard your voice in my head. We were playing down by the creek, and there was fluffy white stuff all over the ground. It smelled odd. I asked what it was and you said it came from the cottonwoods.”
She didn’t say anything, but her lips curved in a smile.
When Jess shut off the engine, a dog rushed up. It was medium sized, mostly black but with some white in its coat, and it had pointed ears and a long, rather bushy tail.
“This is Pepper,” Jess said, squatting down to stroke the wriggling body. “He’s our cattle dog, an Australian Blue Heeler.”
“He’s just a young one.”
She peered up at him. “How did you know that? You were never an animal person.”
“I remember you telling me if a dog’s feet are too big for him, he isn’t full grown. It stuck with me.” He grinned. “Besides, look at him. He’s got absolutely no dignity. Everything about him screams puppy.” He bent down and got in a few strokes, finding the dog’s warm hide pleasant to the touch. He was less pleased with the sloppy licks that landed on his hand.
He stood up and wiped his hand gingerly on his pant legs. “What happened to Dandy-girl?” The Bly’s Border Collie had always tried to sleep on Jess’s bed at night, and often succeeded.
“She died last year. Old age. It was hard for all of us. Especially Rob.” With Pepper at her heels and Evan trailing, she headed for the back door.
The moment they went from the mudroom into the kitchen, Mrs. Bly dropped her paring knife. “Evan!” She hurried forward and wrapped him in a warm embrace, and he hugged her back, memory and affection bringing a swell of moisture to his eyes.
Fortunately, she stepped back before he embarrassed himself. “Let me look at you,” she said. “Little Evan Kincaid, all grown up. I can’t believe how you’ve filled out. Hasn’t he, Jessica?”
“He has,” Jess said dryly from behind him.
Jess’s mother hadn’t changed much herself, still trim in a loose shirt and jeans, only now there were gray threads in her wavy hair blending in with the sandy ones. “Mrs. Bly, it’s so kind of you to invite me.”
“Nonsense, dear. The moment Jessica said you were here, I insisted she bring you around. Why, the thought that you’d visit Caribou Crossing and not come see us! I’m dying to hear everything that’s happened since you left town. And by the way, call me Miriam, okay?”
“I need a shower,” Jess said. “You two can catch up.”
“Not without your father. He’d never forgive me. Jessica, you go wash up. Evan, Wade’s out in the barn, in the office. Would you bring him in? I just have to finish the salad, and then we’ll be ready to eat. Ice cream, Jessica?”
“Oh, shoot, it’s in the truck. I’ll get it.”
She’d forgotten the ice cream? He realized he’d forgotten the wine. A fine pair they made. “I’ll do it,” Evan said.
But a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Anxious to see Jess’s dad, Evan walked the familiar pebbled path through the Bly vegetable and flower garden, down to the barn, where one end had been converted into an office.
He found Wade Bly hunched over a pile of papers, tugging thoughtfully at his short silver-streaked beard. Jess’s father didn’t hear him, and Evan paused in the doorway, watching the older man. Where Mrs. Bly—with her sandy hair, freckles, and abundant energy—seemed hardly to have aged, her husband looked like a different man. Or, perhaps, the father of the vigorous man Evan had once known.
But, when he glanced up and saw Evan, Wade’s smile banished the years. “Son, it’s good to see you.” He strode toward Evan, hand outstretched. His walk was a little lopsided now, but his handshake was firm.
“You, too, sir.”
The older man laughed and his eyes—Jess’s expressive chocolate ones—twinkled. “Sir? I may look older than the hills but I don’t need to be reminded of it. Call me Wade, now that you’re a grown man.”
“Mrs., uh, Miriam said supper’s almost ready. She wants you to come up to the house.”
“This morning Miriam had all her cookbooks out. She was worried she couldn’t compete with those fancy New York eateries. I told her you’d probably appreciate some good old-fashioned home cooking. Figured you wouldn’t have changed all that much?” He kinked an eyebrow.
“That wasn’t her world-famous meatloaf I smelled?”
“And mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, glazed carrots.”
His stomach gave an approving growl. “My favorites.”
“I guess. Though it seemed to me you were happy to eat pretty much anything she put in front of you.” The older man’s expression turned serious, saying something without exactly putting it into words.
Evan nodded. “That’s the truth. And I’m very grateful.” For more than just the food, he meant, and he knew Wade Bly understood.
Wade nodded. “We were happy to help. You were our Jessie’s friend and a fine boy in your own right. You were, and always will be, welcome in our home.”
The two men glanced at each other and then away. Evan had to clear the lump in his throat before he could say, “That means a lot.”
“Well, let’s not keep Miriam waiting.”
As they started up the path, Evan again noticed the other man’s slight limp. “How have you been, sir?”
At the older man’s exaggerated scowl, he amended, “Sorry, I mean Wade.”
“I’m doing all right, but I put a scare into the womenfolk. Had a stroke a few years ago and it took me some time to come back from it. Jessie’s a saint. Might’ve lost the ranch, but for her. She still takes on more than her fair share. Those dang women are always at me to slow down.”
Evan had thought Jess impractical and unambitious for not having achieved more in the last ten years, when in fact she’d been helping her parents keep their ranch. “I was surprised to see Jess at the Crazy Horse. Never figured she’d end up babysitting a herd of dudes.”
“It’s a good job. She still has dreams, though.” He gave a fond smile. “You know our Jessie.”
“Wouldn’t she make a good partner in this ranch? She could gradually take it over, and then it’d be hers when you retired.” That might be a more reasonable, achievable dream than her no-frills camp.
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But she turned me down. The girl’s got no love of ranching. A person should do what they love. If they can.” He paused to pick a couple of dead blossoms off a trellised rose. “But I don’t need to tell you that. You were the most single-minded boy.”
Pepper bounded out to greet them. Wade bent slowly to pat his head and Evan squatted to stroke him.
“Didn’t think you were too fond of animals,” Wade commented.
“They made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to act around them.” He gave the dog a final pat on its rump.
“Don’t have to act any particular way. Especially with dogs. Just be friendly and they’ll be thrilled to bits.” He put a casual arm around Evan’s shoulders. “Glad to see you’ve loosened up some.”
As they neared the back door, Evan snapped his fingers. “You go ahead. I have to get something from the truck.”
He welcomed the opportunity to be alone, to cope with the unaccustomed emotions that threatened to swamp him. After years
of absence and silence, he couldn’t believe how unquestioningly the Blys had welcomed him. He didn’t deserve their generosity.
Especially given the reason he was here in Caribou Crossing.
Chapter Nine
As he reached into Jess’s truck for the tub of ice cream and the bottle of wine, Evan thought about dinners at people’s houses back home in Manhattan. Bright but superficial greetings; meals that were often more trendy than tasty, catered rather than cooked, and often calorie-wise.
They didn’t compare so well to Miriam Bly’s warm hug and her husband’s firm handshake. Or, he thought as he hurried back to the house, to the savory smell of meatloaf.
He put the ice cream in the freezer and handed Wade the brown paper bag. Miriam came to look. “Wine. What a treat.”
He had, in consultation with Will at the Crazy Horse—not saying that he was going to Bly Ranch, just that he wouldn’t be eating with the guests and needed a special bottle of wine—chosen a Syrah from a BC winery called Red Rooster. He should have known that whatever choice he’d made it would have been welcomed with equal delight.
Evan was washing his hands at the kitchen sink when Jess joined them, her hair damp on the shoulders of a sleeveless blue shirt she wore with beige cotton capris. As she passed, he smelled something citrusy, the kind of fresh, natural scent that came from shampoo or body lotion, not perfume.
Cynthia was always first to try Calvin Klein’s latest offering. He’d never had the heart to tell her he found the perfume cloying. Sometimes after he’d been with her, he wished he could scrub the inside of his nose to get rid of the lingering smell.
With Jess, he wanted to lift her hair, bury his nose in the nape of her neck, and breathe her in. Then kiss the soft skin and—damn, even with her parents there, he was getting aroused.
