Homecoming (Sweet Hearts of Sweet Creek Book 1)

by Carolyne Aarsen

  Homecoming

  Carolyne Aarsen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Dear Reader

  Books coming to you

  Afterword

  Excerpt - The Only Best Place

  Excerpt - All In One Place

  Excerpt - This Place

  Excerpt - A Silence the Heart - coming soon

  Excerpt - Any Man of Mine

  Also by Carolyne Aarsen

  About the Author

  Disclaimer

  Coming Soon

  Chapter 1

  Mark tugged on the brim of his hat, and shoved open the dented metal door.

  Noise poured out like a wave, pulsating, raucous, the air heavily laced with the smell of smoke. He stepped inside squinting in the dim light as the door shut behind him. Not for the first time that day he wished he could head back to Sweet Creek and tell Ed he simply couldn’t find her.

  Then he remembered the feel of Ed’s fingers clutching his and the entreaty in his eyes. Mark was too close to quit. With a glance around the semidarkness, he worked his way through the crowded room to an empty table and dropped into the chair, scanning the crowd.

  Half an hour ago, he had tracked Sheryl’s address down to a dingy apartment block, three miles from here. No one was home but the policeman parked across the road had recognized the picture Mark had shown him and sent him here.

  A slim-figured girl approached the bar, carrying an empty tray. A long swath of blond hair hung down her back almost to the waistband of a tight, short skirt. Mark peered through the haze trying to get a better look at her.

  “What’ll you have?” Another waitress stood in front of him, tray tucked under one arm, her hand shoving her frizzy red hair out of her face.

  The question took him by surprise. He only wanted to ask a few questions but he would probably be less conspicuous if he looked like a customer.

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  She quirked a bored eyebrow up. “Really?”

  “That one,” Mark amended, pointing to a name that flashed blue and white behind the bar. It had been a while since he’d been in a bar.

  The red-haired waitress returned quickly and set a frosted bottle and glass on the table, then waited to be paid.

  “Does Sheryl Kyle work here?” Mark asked pulling out his wallet.

  The girl eyed him with distrust. “Why?” she asked handing him his change.

  Mark pulled out a worn picture, seeking to allay her suspicions. “I’m from Sweet Creek, B.C. She used to live there with Ed Krickson, her stepfather.”

  The waitress glanced at the picture. “I’ll see if I can find her,” she said with a shrug.

  Mark sat back. Please, Lord, let this work, he thought, the irony of praying in a bar making him smile.

  But he needed all the prayers he could send out. He needed to get back to the ranch and he knew if he came without Sheryl, Ed would lose all will to live.

  “Two pilsners and two ale.”

  Sheryl gave her order to the bartender and leaned on the bar. She eased her aching feet out of her two-inch-high heels. Dave, her boss, thought they made his waitresses look alluring.

  Sheryl wiggled her toes, relishing the soothing coolness of the hard cement floor, hoping the guys she had shouldered past to put in her order wouldn’t step on her feet with their heavy work boots.

  She wished she could relieve the pounding in her head that was keeping time with the resonant bass of the jukebox, pouring out its unintelligible tales of heartache and woe. The habitual haze of cigarette smoke hung in a grayblue pall over the rowdy patrons competing with the music.

  Friday and payday for the municipal workers had customers lined two-deep at the bar, flirting, making noise and wasting time.

  The bartender pushed the frosted bottles toward her, Sheryl slipped the beers onto the tray. With a tired sigh, she wriggled her swelling feet back into her shoes, and turned almost bumping into Tory.

  “Sheryl, you’re a brat,” the other waitress said, her tray making a metallic clatter as she dropped it on the wet

  bar.

  “You’re the one that just about dumped my order,” Sheryl groused, ignoring the complaints from the men beside her as she balanced her tray.

  “You’ve been holding out on me,” Tory continued, hanging well over the bar to take a quick drag off a cigarette that lay smoldering in an ashtray out of their boss’s sight. She tossed Sheryl a sidelong glance.

  “What do you mean?” Sheryl looked around, hoping Dave didn’t notice either her lingering or Tory’s smoking.

  “There’s this absolute hunk of a guy asking for you.” Tory fluttered her eyelashes.

  “By name?”

  “He asked for a Sheryl Kyle.” Tory took another quick puff and stubbed her cigarette out. “He knows everything...” Tory grinned at Sheryl’s shocked look. “Just kidding. Said you used to live in Sweet Creek, British Columbia. Showed me a picture.” Tory lifted one plucked eyebrow expectantly.

  “What did he want?” Sheryl ignored Tory’s obvious curiosity, stifling a rising clutch of panic. Sweet Creek hadn’t been a part of her life for seven years. “Is anyone with him?”

  “Drinking alone.” Tory pouted at Sheryl’s reticence, her lipstick faded away to a thin, red outline. “Actually sitting alone. He hasn’t popped the top off the beer yet. Asked if you could talk to him.”

  “Where is he?”

  Tory raised a hand to point, and Sheryl grabbed it.

  “Don’t do that,” she said. “I want a better look at him first. Just tell me where he’s sitting.”

  “By the west wall, toward the back exit. Can’t miss the honey. He’s the only one with a cowboy hat.” Tory leveled a serious glance at her. “You in trouble?”

  “I’m just being careful.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing until I scope him out.”

  Sheryl lifted the tray of drinks and, working her way through the jumble of tables, managed an occasional glance over her shoulder. A cowboy hat shouldn’t be too hard to spot amongst all the baseball caps and bare heads.

  By the time she delivered the drinks, her customers were growling. She flashed them her best smile and took a few moments to laugh with them. She managed to sidestep one customer’s hand and pocket his cash in one fluid movement, smiling all the while. No easy feat considering the snug fit of her skirt.

  As she looked up, she saw him.

  All that showed beneath the brim of the battered cowboy hat were the narrow line of his lips, the clean sweep of his jaw. Dark brown hair hung well over the collar of a faded denim jacket that sat easily on broad shoulders.

  Everything about him spoke of working cowboy. From the frayed cuffs of the denim jacket to the jeans that sculpted his long, lean legs stretched out in front of him and the scuffed, slant-heeled cowboy boots, crossed indolently over each other.

  He was nursing a beer, not really drinking, just holding it and looking as out of place in this bar as a horse would in the parking lot outside.

  Sheryl’s mind raced, trying to place him. Definitely not one of Jason Kyle’s buddies or a cop. He was too relaxed to be either.

  He pushed his hat back and looked her way. Dark brows ran in a straight line acro
ss his forehead, not quite meeting over the bridge of a long, narrow nose. But it was his eyes that held her—steel gray and piercing.

  She swallowed and took a step backward.

  “Kyle!” Dave’s all-too-familiar voice bellowed from behind her. “Get moving or you’re history, babe.”

  Sheryl gritted her teeth at her boss’s comments, pitched, as usual, three decibels higher than the jukebox.

  He stood beside her now, heavy set and domineering, his cologne overpowering the smell of cigarette smoke and liquor. Sheryl could tell by the set of his bulldog jaw he felt edgy. “I’ve got thirsty customers and you’re just standing there holding that tray like it was a rosary,” he growled. “One more slip up and you’re gone.”

  “Sorry, Dave.” She eased away from him, knowing she was treading on thin ice. She knew it would take only one more infinitesimal misjudgment on her part and she would be out of a job. Much as she hated the work, it paid the rent and covered the costs of her classes.

  “I asked to talk to Sheryl. That’s why she wasn’t serving anyone.” Now holding his hat, the stranger stood in front of them, a hint of contempt in his deep voice.

  “Who are you?” Dave turned on the cowboy. “I didn’t know there was a rodeo in town.”

  “Neither did I.” The man smiled, set his hat on a nearby table and pulled out his wallet. “I just need a few moments of Sheryl’s time.” He handed Dave a folded bill.

  Dave glanced at it, then with a leer chucked Sheryl under the chin. “Five minutes, Kyle.” He shoved the money in his pocket.

  Unconsciously Sheryl wiped her face, then turned on the cowboy, feeling cheap and humiliated. “Who do you think you are, paying him for my time?”

  “I wanted him out of the way for a while,” the dark stranger interrupted. “I figured he would understand a nice crisp bill.”

  “I don’t need to talk to you.” She turned to go.

  “It’s about your stepfather, Ed.”

  Sheryl stopped, feeling like he had just doused her with ice water.

  “Are you coming?” he continued, retrieving his hat. “Your boss is checking his watch.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.” Sheryl found her voice again, shock making her movements automatic. She followed him to his table. He didn’t look like anyone she’d ever met in the eight years she’d lived in Sweet Creek, British Columbia.

  “Sorry.” He glanced around at the seedy bar, laying his hat on the table beside his beer. “I didn’t think formal introductions would be necessary. I’m Mark Andrews, partner and brother-in-law of your stepbrother, Nate. Your stepfather sent me because he didn’t think you’d talk to Nate.” He pulled out a letter, unfolded it and handed it to her.

  Sheryl took it, her hands trembling. Though the spidery handwriting wandered across the unlined page, it was unmistakably Ed’s.

  Swallowing, she slowly sat down, laying the creased paper on the table. What did he want, after all this time? And why send a personal messenger after so many silent years? “How did you manage to find me?” she asked finally.

  Mark sat down across from her and laid a photograph on the table beside the letter. “Ed gave me this old picture of you. I knew you lived in Edmonton, and I had a few prayers on my side.” Mark leaned forward, spinning the beer bottle between his fingers, his eyes on her. “I found your place by eliminating all the other Kyles. The policeman parked across from your apartment was very helpful. I guess he comes here once in a while.”

  “So what do you want?”

  He toyed with the bottle some more. “Do you and your husband have any children?”

  “Why?”

  “I was wondering if you were able to travel.”

  “Why do I need to do that?”

  “Do you answer all questions with another question?” he asked, his voice tight.

  “Depends who’s asking.” Sheryl glanced pointedly at her watch. “Look, I really hate this place, and I really hate this job, but I don’t want to lose it. I’d appreciate it if you would tell me what Ed wants.”

  Mark looked up at her, his gaze level. A thin thread of fear spiraled through her when she met his steely eyes.

  “Would your husband mind if you went away for a while?”

  “Jason’s dead.” Sheryl twisted her watch around her wrist. The harshness of those two clipped words jolted her again. The sorrow she’d felt at Jason’s death had been eclipsed by relief as she walked away from his grave.

  “What about children?”

  “No kids,” she answered shortly. “Now could you please tell me what you really came all this way for?”

  Mark hesitated, pushed his beer around his hat and, just when Sheryl was about to get up, he spoke. “Ed’s been hospitalized for a stroke. He’s been asking for you constantly.”

  The mighty Ed Krickson felled by a stroke?

  Sheryl blinked, staring past him, dredging up her last memory of Ed. He had stood on the porch as Jason had thrown her suitcase in the back of his battered old pickup. Ed’s arms had been crossed tightly over his broad chest, eyes narrowed, saying nothing. What else could have been added to the yelling that had reverberated through the house every time Sheryl had stepped out of the door, every time she’d dressed up, every time she’d ignored him and his dire imprecations of spiritual ruin for the previous eight years?

  Sheryl had only glanced once at him as she’d gotten in beside Jason, then turned her head resolutely ahead as they’d driven away. Nothing held her in Sweet Creek anymore. Her mother lay in a grave. The prospect of living with Ed and his constant judgment had sent her on a oneway trip with the only person brave enough to stand up to Ed—Jason Kyle, the valley’s wild child.

  And now his partner said Ed had been asking for her. She had thought she’d been cut out of the Krickson family, possibly even erased out of the family Bible.

  “Kyle,” Dave’s nasal voice pierced her memories. “Time’s up.”

  Sheryl pulled her thoughts to the present. “Look, I’m really touched he still remembers who I am.” Sheryl stood, taking her tray with her. “But somehow between then and now, I don’t really care what Ed Krickson needs or wants anymore.”

  “I said time’s up, missy.” Dave stood beside her, his narrow eyes almost impaling her.

  “I’m coming already,” she snapped.

  “Ed is dying, Sheryl.” Mark’s deep voice didn’t go up a single decibel, but as his words registered they fairly roared in Sheryl’s ears.

  She turned to face this long, tall, stranger, her tray hanging at her side, questions tumbling through her mind.

  “Kyle, if you don’t get a move on, you’ve had it.”

  She whirled on Dave, her voice tight with mixed emotions and confusion. “Just lay off for a bit.”

  “I wouldn’t use that tone with me, missy.” Dave leaned closer pressing a nicotine-stained finger against her forehead.

  Sheryl slapped his hand away. Dave’s face registered shock, his hand flew back, and instinctively Sheryl flinched, her tray clattering to the floor, her arm raised.

  As soon as she did, she felt foolish. Dave wouldn’t dare hit her in front of his customers.

  She dropped her arm in time to see Mark put his hand on Dave’s shoulder. “Leave her alone,” he said quietly. Dave spun around, his face twisted with anger.

  “Get out, jerk.” Dave pushed Mark away.

  Sheryl didn’t know what happened next. She saw Dave stumble, take a step back, then fall heavily to the floor.

  Fight she thought, seeing anger on Mark’s face.

  Sheryl straightened, self-preservation kicking in. At the rear of the building an exit sign’s red glow caught her eye. Sheryl ran, reached the door, whacked her hands against the metal bar and slipped out into the cool night air. She fell against the brick wall, eyes closed, adrenaline still coursing through her. Her breath came in quick gasps as her anger grew.

  It was a sure bet she would be hitting the unemployment office again, she thought, clenc
hing her fists, banging them once against the hard edges of the brick wall. She wished she could use them on any guy that happened within five feet of her right.

  The door opened again, the uproar of voices inside the bar pouring out, getting cut off as the metal door slammed shut.

  She got her wish. It was Mark Andrews.

  “You okay?” His voice registered concern.

  “What do you care?” She glared at him. “Thanks to you I just lost the last job in Edmonton. You’re such a guy.” She shoved her hands in her pocket. She still had the crumpled bills and odd change from her last three orders. Her purse inside held slightly more.

  Mark stood in front of her, his stance easy but wary. The light from the street lamp cast his angular features into shadow. “He was going to hit you.”

  “Are you kidding? Dave prefers more serious threats, like firing me.” Sheryl shivered, her satin shirt offering scant warmth in the cool of the evening.

  Sheryl pushed herself away from the wall. “Thanks to you I don’t even dare go back inside to get my purse and coat.”

  “I’ll get them for you.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. The lion’s den would be tame compared to what Dave will be like if he sees you again. You embarrassed him.” Sheryl dragged a hand over her face. She didn’t want to think about the implications of losing her job and her purse with her last few dollars still inside.

  The door opened again and Sheryl jumped. Mark, she noticed lifted his hands slightly, as if ready.

  Tory slipped through the narrow opening, carrying a coat.

  “I heard Dave muttering as he walked over that this was it, he was canning you. I thought I would cover for you and grabbed your things.” Tory handed Sheryl her coat, purse and running shoes, glancing over her shoulder as the door closed behind her. “He’s pretty ticked. I wouldn’t go back in there if I were you.” She turned to Mark and winked at him. “Why didn’t you deck him?”