He slipped the note into her hand after church on Sunday, and then stood near her in the parking lot where the church's noisy youth group milled about, making plans for the afternoon. One of the girls invited him to go along for hamburgers and a basketball game later, but after a look at Jon's frowning face, he declined.
He regretted it when he stood alone watching Katie ride away in a car filled with young people—including Lance—but on Wednesday night, she slipped another note under his leg.
Dad never said anything about notes. He makes me ride the bus to school because he's too tight to pay for gas, but there's a cedar tree at the turn to our place where Tim and I catch the bus. It's hollow in the back. There might be something in it tomorrow after I get home from school. If you're interested…
Slipping the note into the pocket of his shirt, he grinned, envisioning her under-the-lashes look and the flicker of a smile on her lips.
The next afternoon, he made an excuse to his grandfather and drove to the twisted tree. The hollow space inside it held a folded paper, fragrant with cedar.
We can write every day this way. Tim won't notice anything. He wouldn't notice if a meteorite fell on his head, so if you can manage it, we could even do it twice a day…
At seven-thirty the next morning, her school bus lumbered past his grandfather's graveled lane. He waited in his pickup for a glimpse of her quick wave, and then he drove to the tree. The mode of communication frustrated him, but hungry for contact with her, he did it.
Friday night, he sat on the edge of his bed rubbing his fingers through his hair, still wet from the shower. He reread her note from earlier that day.
I think I can get away tomorrow afternoon to meet you at the clearing at one o'clock. There's a deer trail behind that old barn where the road crosses the creek a couple of miles from our house. If you follow it, it'll lead close enough to the clearing that I can see you…
That was a different thing from passing notes. If she got busted with one of his notes, her dad might have a fit, but if Jon caught her sneaking off to meet him…
It was a terrible idea. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. He'd told her dad he'd keep his hands off her and if he was alone with her…
He lay down, the springs of his bed squalling in protest. Clasping his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. Maybe if he rode Lucky…That'd keep anybody from seeing his truck parked at the old barn. He could make some excuse to leave work with his grandfather.
He rolled over on his side. No. He wouldn't do it. If he was patient her father would eventually realize the thing between him and Katie wasn't going away.
But a few minutes sitting beside her on the flat rock, the sun on her hair…?
He'd go. Just once. He'd tell her they couldn't do it anymore.
The next afternoon, a depthless, blue dome of autumn sky curved above bare branches along the deer trail. He rode Lucky past the old barn and along the edge of a rocky gulch where the creek, rimmed with ice in shady places, rushed thirty feet below him. A mile later, Katie's mare neighed from the direction of the clearing. Lucky jerked up his head and whickered back, his pace quickening.
Katie stepped from the trees and onto the trail, wearing boots and jeans, her hands in the pockets of the denim coat over a white hooded sweatshirt.
He dismounted with a creak of saddle leather, his gaze holding hers. She came to him, and without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, his heart pounding.
"We can't do this, Katie," he said, his face in the unforgettable fragrance of her hair.
"Is that what you came to tell me?" The brown canvas of his coat muffled her voice.
He didn't answer.
"You don't want to see me where we can talk and—" she raised her face to meet his gaze, color rising in her cheeks-" do this?"
"You know I do, but if your dad catches us, he'll—"
"What about what I want?" Her eyes challenged him.
"Your dad's gotta trust me or he's never gonna let you be with me."
"Gil," she said, her eyes filling with strain, "I need to see you. You don't know what it's like at my house now. It's like a funeral home or something. Everybody's sick or unhappy and Dad's so worried about Mom he's like a bear all the time. He says worrying about me is making her feel worse. I can't do anything right. He watches me like a hawk—"
"Where's he at now?" he asked in alarm.
"He went to town. He won't be back for two or three hours."
"What about your mom?"
"She sleeps in the afternoon."
"Katie…" he groaned.
She silenced him with a finger over his lips then reached for his hand. Leading Lucky, he followed her off the trail toward the clearing where Candy grazed.
He dropped the reins and lowered himself to a seat on the rock beside her. "I'll stay for a few minutes then you have to go—" A sudden expression of uncertainty in her eyes stopped him. "I want to see you, Katie, but if you get caught meetin' me…"
His gaze strayed to her hair, glossy in the sun, and tied back in a ponytail with a piece of blue satin. He fought himself, but then reached to gently pull the end of the ribbon. A sweet smelling wave of light hair released over her shoulders and around her face. He rubbed a silky strand between his fingers.
"It's beautiful," he murmured.
Shyly, she lowered her head to his shoulder and away from his gaze. He slid his arm around her and pulled her close. The few minutes he'd allowed himself stretched into an hour, but finally, he rose and pulled her to her feet after him.
He stood with his hands on her waist while she gathered the shining fall of her hair, tying it with the ribbon. Reluctantly, he released her then helped her mount.
She leaned down to touch his face, smiling softly. "Don't look that way. I wouldn't have thought you ever worried about anything."
"I'm worried about this, Katie." He caught her hand and held it. "We can't do this anymore."
Still smiling, she nudged Candy away. "I'll see you at church tomorrow."
After church the next day, her face wore a rebellious scowl as she slid into the back seat of Lance's Buick with two other girls.
He stood alone in the parking lot as Lance, with his long jaw set in a grim line, pulled the Buick past him. Briefly, he considered going after them…until he turned for his truck and met Jon's watchful gaze on him.
He had to figure out a way to get on her dad's good side.
***
The next morning, hammering, and the piercing whine of a circular saw sounded from a half-completed calf shed behind Jon Campbell's barn. Gil turned off his truck in the yard and pulled Katie's morning note from his pocket to read again.
If you follow that ridge behind your house all the way around, it ends up right behind my school. Don't bring your pickup. There's a pep rally, so I can meet you in the pine trees behind the water tank at 12:10…
He stared down at the paper on his knee in dismay. She hadn't listened to him at all. Why couldn't she understand—
A sharp tap rattled his window.
Starting violently, he jerked up his head. Katie's father stood staring through the window at him. The blood drained from his heart. How long had Jon been there?
He crumpled the paper on his knee, tossed it to the floor, and stepped from the truck.
"Scare you?" Jon asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Scared the crap out of me."
"Guilty conscience?"
He swallowed. "No. My mind was on…er…bills." He tried to grin. "Keep gettin' 'em in the mail."
That part was true at least. Rod Baker's medical bills arrived regularly—he'd broken Rod's nose and some little bone in his face—and so did the notices for lawyer fees and fines. He'd be paying for popping that jerk in the face for a long time.
"Know what you mean. Hate to get the mail," Jon said. "Why are you here?"
"Gramps had an elder call, so he sent me with his saw." He cleared his throat. "I thought maybe since Katie's not here I c
ould…er…give you and Karl a hand today?" That might help make some points.
Jon narrowly sized him up for a moment longer then turned away. "Suit yourself."
He reached over the pickup bed for the saw then followed Jon toward the hammering.
He worked through the morning, determined not to go to her. The school? Was she nuts? Somebody would see them. A few minutes after that somebody would tell somebody, and then somebody would tell her dad…
At ten o'clock, he checked his watch. Then again at eleven. If he left now, he'd just make it. If he didn't, he wouldn't make it before she had to go back to class. That'd be best.
He glanced at her dad…definitely best.
Five minutes later, he laid down his hammer.
"I forgot I told Gramps I'd get feed for him at the co-op," he said. "I'll be back this afternoon."
He slid his truck to a stop in his grandfather's drive. The old man's truck was still gone. He swore at himself as he threw his saddle on Lucky then galloped the horse up the cedar covered hill behind the ranch house. Lucky laid back his auburn ears and raced along the ridge toward the high school, his long legs driving like pistons.
Finally, he reined in at a grove of pine trees behind a graffiti covered water tank.
Katie wasn't there.
He'd probably half-killed his horse for nothing. He dismounted and led Lucky, blowing and lathered with sweat, into the trees.
The whole thing was crazy. A year ago he would've enjoyed the challenge…now, it just made him sick with dread. Probably half the kids in the high school used this grove as a meeting place. Some knucklehead and his girl would come blundering along in a minute. It'd be all over school that Katie Campbell—the Katie Campbell who'd never done anything bad in her whole life—was meeting an older guy, and then it'd be all over town…
He jerked off his hat and ran his fingers agitatedly through his hair. If they got caught, her dad might dig around and find out about his many brushes with the law in Idaho, including charges pressed against him—later dropped—by a father mad enough about him messing around with his underage daughter to wave a shotgun around. If Jon really wanted to try he could probably find a reason to press charges against him for something. He'd go back to jail. He'd never see her again.
He bowed his head to his saddle and prayed she wouldn't come—sincere words that came from his heart.
Then he prayed they wouldn't get caught if she did.
Light footsteps sounded on the path outside the grove then Katie brushed past the pine boughs and into the sheltering trees, wind-fresh color burning her cheeks.
"Katie, what're you thinkin'?" he asked. "We can't do this."
She stopped short.
"I care what people say about you even if you don't," he said.
The navy colored turtleneck she wore under her coat brought out the astonishing blue of her suddenly wary eyes. "You didn't have to come."
"Think about this!" he exclaimed. "If I get caught with you here your dad'll make sure I go back to jail."
She stared at him for an instant. Then turning on her heel, she stepped quickly toward the entrance.
He covered the distance between them in a couple of long strides, his boots silent on the carpet of pine needles. He caught her arm. "Katie, c'mon."
"Leave me alone." She jerked away, her eyes flashing. "I wouldn't want you to get in trouble."
He caught her arm again. "A few months ago it wouldn't have mattered to me, but now it does. Because of you. If your dad catches us, he'll make sure it's over between us. For good. I don't want that." He tipped up her chin. "Do you?"
"I thought you wanted to be with me."
"I do."
Her eyes flashed again. "Not bad enough."
She shrugged out of his grip. Before he could move, she disappeared through the opening in the pines then stones rattled on the worn path down the hill where he couldn't follow.
He stared after her receding footsteps in bewilderment. His first attempt ever to keep a girl out of trouble had just whirled around and bit his rear.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, a kid with red hair sat in Katie's seat on the bus. Gil found the tree empty, too. Disheartened, he drove to the Rancher's Co-op for the feed he hadn't gotten the day before. He poured a cup of coffee, black and thick like used motor oil, and leaned on the counter waiting for the manager to finish thumbing through a dog-eared parts book for the only other customer.
The bell on the door jingled. Jim Harris, a rancher whose land bordered his grandfather's on the south, hurried in. Expression harassed, Jim acknowledged him with a nod then turned to the manager.
"Bob, you know anybody who can take a pot load of cattle to Kansas?"
"Not off hand. Why?"
"Me and Greg were loadin' out steers this mornin' and he was straddlin' the chute. He slipped, and the whole pen of steers went straight over the top of him. They can't take care of him over there at the clinic, so they're flyin' him to Denver."
"He gonna be okay?" Bob asked, frowning.
"I don't know, but I gotta have somebody take this load."
"I'll have to make some calls," Bob said.
"I can take 'em," he said quietly, the pile of bills on his dash rearing up in his memory.
The tall rancher gave him a sharp look. "You ever haul cattle before?"
He nodded. "In Idaho."
"Can you leave right now?"
He hesitated. "There's one thing I have to do, but it won't take long."
"Good." The weathered angles of Jim's face relaxed. "Thanks, Gil."
He drove home and told his grandfather what had happened then he climbed the stairs to his room to pack a few clothes. Sitting on the bed, he reached for his notebook.
Katie, I'm taking a load of steers to Kansas for Jim Harris. I need the money to pay for the thing with Rod Baker. I want to get all that stuff cleared up so I can maybe have something to offer you one of these days. I'm sorry I hurt you yesterday. I was there because I love you. I've never said that to anyone before. I don't know how long I'll be gone. I hope only a couple of days. I'll leave you a note as soon as I get back.
That night, he delivered the Harris cattle to a western Kansas feedlot, but instead of sending him home, Jim kept him busy driving between Kansas and winter wheat pastures in Oklahoma in the temperamental Peterbilt, its 'cattle pot' loaded with five-hundred pound calves.
Just over two weeks later—an eternity—he collected his paycheck at the Harris ranch then drove straight to the cedar tree. Empty.
Heartsick, he pulled up his coat collar, his eyes watering in the wind filled with the metallic bite of a coming snow. He turned, scanning the road and winter brown grass of the pastures toward the Campbell place. Only the ridge of the barn roof showed over the brow of the hill almost a mile away, and nothing moved across the vast panorama except a scruffy grey coyote slinking along with an ear cocked toward him.
That night, his grandfather eyed him across the supper table. "What's the matter with you, Son? You've hardly said a word all afternoon."
"Tired, I guess," he said, looking up from his bowl of canned soup.
The old man's too perceptive gaze probed his. He looked away, and they finished the meal in silence.
Later, he sat in his dusty chair beside the stove—its springs had given way long before, leaving his knees somewhere near chest level. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared moodily at a tendril of cedar smoke filtering out of the pipe at the back of the stove.
Had he upset Katie so much she was finished with him? That couldn't be it.
Could it?
Maybe she just hadn't been able to leave him a note. Possibly her dad had found out about them. Or the meetings.
His stomach knotted. Or, maybe he shouldn't have told her he loved her. Maybe she didn't feel the same way…
At ten o'clock, his grandfather left for bed. He sat until the fire died down. The temperature in the room dropped. He rose to fill the fir
e box of the stove with cedar logs then turned out the lamp. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the phone rang.
"Gil, it's me," Katie whispered.
Taken off guard, he glanced toward his grandfather's room then moved around the corner.
"What's wrong?" he asked in an undertone. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home. I need to see you." She was crying.
He stared at the wall, a pale rectangle in the dark. "At your house?"
"No. I'll ride Candy to the old barn by the creek."
He hesitated.
"Please, Gil."
He stretched the phone cord away from his grandfather's room. "Katie, what's wrong?"
A tense silence filled the line, as if she listened for something.
"I've got to go," she whispered. "Please?"
"I'll be there." He hung up.
"Who was that?" the old man called from his bed.
He hesitated. "Wrong number." He turned toward the door. "I'm…gonna drive down through the bottom pasture, make sure we don't have any new calves. May take a while, so just…er…go back to sleep."
His grandfather stayed silent for a long time. He rubbed his hand over his face. The old man couldn't know about…anything. Could he?
"Don't take too long," his grandfather said, finally. His bedsprings squeaked when he rolled over. "It's cold out there."
***
The old barn crouched in the moonlight, a black shape half hidden in trees with bare branches scratching at the sky like claws. He turned off his pickup inside the barn and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. A tumbled pile of old hay bales spilled across the west end.
The air inside the cab quickly cooled. He shivered and checked his watch—forty-five minutes since he'd talked to her. She shouldn't be out alone. Anything could happen.
He opened his door, blinking in the cab light, and then eased it shut with a quiet click. Just outside the barn door, a full moon cast long tree shadows on the ground, and a wash of Milky Way glittered with diamonds in a black velvet sky. Pure air, smelling only of frost, burned his nose and lungs. A chorus of coyote yips sounded from across the creek.
The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough) Page 13
