Homecoming (Sweet Hearts of Sweet Creek Book 1)

by Carolyne Aarsen

  Sheryl closed the book. Now, looking at it from an adult’s perspective, the incident seemed even more harsh and cruel than it had as a young child, when she’d been called irresponsible and careless. She put it away, determined to close the box and push it back under the bed, but another book caught her eye. A coiled scribbler. She’d started keeping her diary in leftover scribblers from school, because Ed had found her first diary and had punished her for the sins she had confessed to in it.

  Jason smiled at me today. He’s so cute, and Lainie thinks so, too. Nate, the daddy’s boy, says he’s trouble. I hate the way Nate is so mad at me lately.

  As Sheryl read, she remembered how deep their antagonism had run. At first it had been fun having an older brother. But as they got older, Sheryl’s battles with Ed escalated, and as a consequence, so did Nate’s anger with her.

  Sheryl turned over another page.

  Jason wants me to go out with him on Friday. I shouldn’t go, but I know Jason will talk me into it.

  Nate still won’t talk much to me at the supper table. Just sits there and frowns.

  Sheryl frowned at the last sentences and closed the book. Old, unwanted memories drifted back into her mind. It had been so hard to find her way around Nate and Ed.

  “Auntie Sheryl.” Marla’s panicked voice shrilled, breaking the silence. “Auntie Sheryl, you have to help.” The voice came closer and as Sheryl got up she saw Marla coming at a dead run up the path.

  She made it up the steps and sagged against the door frame.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Sheryl ran to the door and fell on her knees before the panting little girl.

  “Mommy wants to know if you know first aid?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “My daddy.. .fell.. .down the stairs.. .in the house.”

  Sheryl jumped up and took off down the path.

  “Wait for me.. .Auntie Sheryl?” Marla shouted, trying desperately to keep up.

  Sheryl grabbed Marla’s hand, almost dragging her around the front of the house and through the door.

  Nate lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. His face was pale, his teeth clenched. Elise was crouched on her knees beside him, and, Sheryl guessed, her twin sister Elaine, hovering behind her.

  “Just lie still and tell me where it hurts,” Elise cried, her hands fluttering over his chest.

  “My leg.” Nate sucked in a painful breath. “Maybe a broken rib or two.”

  Marla dropped down in a nearby chair and began to cry.

  Elise glanced up at Sheryl, eyes wide, scared. “What do I do?”

  “Call the ambulance.”

  “Too long. Take too long,” Nate gasped. “Drive me to meet them.”

  Sherry glanced at Elaine who nodded. Sherry knew Nate was right. It would take an ambulance over half an hour to get here. If they started driving Nate wouldn’t have to wait as long.

  So she knelt down beside Nate and carefully felt down his leg. Nate winced when she reached his lower leg, and she stopped.

  “Do you have anything long and flat that we can tie his leg to?” Sheryl asked. “We’ll have to immobilize it for the trip.”

  Elise covered her mouth with one hand, Marla’s sobs increased.

  “There’s some one-inch boards in the garage,” Nate ground out through clenched teeth.

  “Elise, get some pieces of cloth we can rip up. Elaine, you help Marla.” Sheryl snapped out her orders, turned and ran out to the shed.

  When she returned with a suitable length of board, Elise was ripping material into strips, and Elaine was comforting Marla, who stared at her father, eyes wide, mouth still trembling.

  With quick but careful movements, Sheryl tied his leg to the board, ordering Elaine to bring the van to the front door so they could load him inside.

  “Sheryl,” Nate caught her hand.

  Sheryl paused, surprised at his acknowledgment of her.

  “I’m supposed to drive my tractor to Mark. Can you do that for me?”

  Sheryl turned her attention back to the knot she was tying and nodded.

  Nate grimaced in pain. “Just go up the road to the old Simpson place. He’ll be in the lower fields, along the creek.”

  “Sure” was all she could say. Nate hadn’t spoken more than ten words to her since she had come, and now, even though he was in pain, all he could talk about was the ranch. It shouldn’t hurt, but it did.

  “I’ll need you to help me put the seats down,” Elaine called out after she parked the van.

  Sheryl left to help, and following her instructions they managed to get the seats laying flat, creating a makeshift bed. Elise immediately showed up with a sleeping bag to lay down on the floor.

  It took the three of them to move him, ignoring his shouts of pain and Marla’s increasing tears.

  “When are you going on that diet, Nate?” Elise groaned as they finally got him settled.

  He smiled wanly at her, his face pale. She leaned over, kissed him lightly and climbed into the driver’s seat. Elaine and Sheryl closed the door, and with a rumble of gravel, reminiscent of her brother’s driving, Elise tore out of the yard.

  The dust from her retreating van still hung in the valley when Sheryl felt reaction set in.

  Too vividly she remembered a body at the foot of another set of stairs, a shadowy, menacing figure at the top. After that time Jason had given her a dozen roses. The next time, carnations.

  She clutched her stomach as if to hold the memories in and turned to Elaine, pulling in a shaky breath. She was needed and had no time for histrionics.

  “Can you stay here with Marla and Benjamin? I should take that tractor to Mark.”

  “Just give me a minute to check on Benjamin.” Elaine ran up the stairs, pausing to pick up the toy truck Nate had slipped on.

  Sheryl knelt down in front of Marla, stroking a lock of hair away from her damp cheeks.

  “When your daddy comes back he’ll have a hard white cast on his leg and a smile on his face.” She had an inspiration. “You should make a card for him and when Crystal comes home from school, you could pick some flowers, like you did for me.”

  “My daddy won’t die will he?” Marla sniffed, her eyes shiny with tears.

  Sheryl frowned. “Of course not. It’s just a broken leg.”

  “Daddy said Grandpa will probably die in the hospital.”

  Sheryl caught Marla in a quick hug. “Your daddy is big and strong,” she reassured her. “I remember when he fell off the machine shed. He broke his arm, and it got fixed really good.”

  “Did you and Grandpa pray about it, is that why it got fixed?” Marla wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, leaving brown smudges on her cheeks.

  “I’m sure we did.” It was all she could say. She remembered many prayers, but not one for mended arms.

  “Well then. Auntie Elaine and I will pray that Daddy’s leg gets better, too.”

  Sheryl smiled at her innocence and stood up. “I better go tell your uncle Mark your daddy won’t be coming to help.”

  “He won’t be happy. Uncle Mark said they had to finish this week.”

  Elaine came back down the stairs. “Benny’s still sleeping. Thanks so much for helping,” she said to Sheryl. “I don’t know what Elise and I would have done without you.”

  “Managed, I guess.” Sheryl shrugged, stroked Marla’s cheek once more, then left.

  “Conrad, toss me that can of lubricant,” Mark strained at a nut under the tractor. The wrench slipped, and his knuckles scraped painfully across a metal bar. He sucked in his breath, and the heavy tool fell out of his hands onto his forehead. Shards of pain shot through his skull.

  Conrad hunkered down beside him, holding out the spray can. “It’s your p.t.o. clutch, man. That’s why the baler don’t work.”

  Mark closed his eyes, rubbing his sore head, stifling the urge to scream. Could the day get any worse? It had taken him and Nate almost an hour to get the baler they’d rented from Jacksons’ to work. Rob had t
aken his sweet time coming this morning, and now this tractor had broken down after they’d done one whole bale.

  He grabbed the tractor tire with one hand, picked up the wrench with the other and dragged himself out from underneath, the hay stubble scratching his back as his shirt pulled up.

  “At least we can still drive this piece of junk to the edge of the field. We’ll need to pull out the clutch and take it in to get fixed, if Nate doesn’t get here pretty quick with the other tractor.”

  “So what do you figure, Mark?” Conrad hovered beside him, his face expectant. “Do you want me and Rob to head into town?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, buster. You guys can start with my tractor. I’ll wait for Nate to come.”

  Conrad sighed and returned to Mark’s tractor. He started it and, putting it into gear, roared off toward the other baler.

  Mark bent over, snatched his hat off the ground and flipped it on his head. He yanked on his gloves and blew out his breath. A baler that wasn’t working properly, one bum tractor and rain in the forecast. And where was Nate? How long did it take to run home and get a tractor, anyhow?

  He vaulted up onto the crippled tractor, shoved it into gear and moved it slowly into the shade of the fir trees on the field’s edge.

  Mark turned around as a tractor roared into the field. That took him long enough, he thought, anxious to get going.

  The tractor came closer and Mark leaned forward as if to see better. Since when did Nate have a pink T-shirt and long blond hair?

  It was Sheryl.

  She rolled noisily past Mark and stopped beside the baler. Shoving the gearshift into neutral she pushed the throttle down. She waited a moment to make sure the tractor had come to a complete halt and then climbed out.

  “I brought the tractor over.” Sheryl raised her voice above the roar of the engine, looking up at him as he came closer. She wore the same faded pink T-shirt and blue jeans she’d had on the day they’d driven here. Her hair hung in a braid over one shoulder, but a few wisps had worked loose to blow around her face. Her cheeks had a glow to them, her mouth a soft smile. Mark felt mesmerized, then shook his head, belatedly yanking his hat off his head.

  “I’m glad to see you and the tractor, but what happened to Nate?” he asked.

  Her smile disappeared. “He broke his leg.”

  Mark stared her and as her words registered he closed his eyes, wondering what he had done the past few days to deserve this.

  “Elise is bringing him into town, and Elaine is staying with Benjamin and Marla,” she continued. “I don’t know when they’ll be back, but I don’t suppose he’ll be in any condition to drive a tractor for a while.”

  “That’s obvious,” Mark said, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Well, thanks for bringing it here in one piece.”

  Not that it did much good now. Making square bales required two people per tractor, one driving, the other striking the bales. They didn’t have an automatic bale stacker, at least not this year. If they could make enough money on the bales they could look at a more efficient system for next year.

  But if they didn’t get these fields baled by the end of the week, they might lose the contract entirely. What a time for Nate to break his leg!

  Sheryl pointed her chin in the direction of an old, rusted truck parked in the shade beside the broken-down tractor. “Mind if I take that back with me?”

  “Go ahead,” Mark answered, absently. “Rob can drive the tractor back tonight.”

  She nodded and turned to leave. Mark watched her go, a sudden inspiration hitting him.

  “Hey, Sheryl,” he called, running to catch up with her.

  She stopped and glanced over at him, lifting one delicately arched eyebrow.

  “Nate said you used to help on the farm...” He hesitated in the face of her cool, ever-present self-control.

  “Of course. Everyone pitched in when there was hay to be baled.” She smiled to take the sting off her words.

  “Why?”

  Mark was hesitant to ask for her help, but the impending rain pushed aside his indecision.

  “I don’t imagine you would be willing to give me a hand?”

  Sheryl tilted her head to one side, as if studying him, then she smiled a soft smile. “I probably could,” she said.

  Mark pushed his hat back on his head with a surge of relief.

  “That’s great” he said with a grin. “That’s just great. If you just hitch Nate’s tractor up to this baler we can get going.”

  The sun hung directly above them, beating down relentlessly. Sheryl’s T-shirt stuck to her back and her head ached in spite of wearing Mark’s hat. He’d given it to her when he’d seen her constantly shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. It was too big, but it gave her tired eyes and hot head some measure of relief.

  She still didn’t know what had come over her when she’d accepted Mark’s offer of work. Part of it was his hesitant request. He’d seemed unsure of her response, which seemed a surprisingly unmasculine position.

  As well, driving the tractor down the road this morning brought back good memories. These were the kind she cherished and hung on to, to keep the bad ones at bay.

  Her eyes swept the golden field ahead. Dust from the baler hung in a soft haze. In the distance Rob drove the tractor and Conrad stuked, making their own circles. She had lost track of how many times she and Mark had gone around.

  They followed the cool shade of the trees edging the creek, turned and headed toward the farmyard and corrals. The next turn followed the fence line and Sheryl caught periodic glimpses of the old Simpson house, now Mark’s, that she had always admired as a girl. Then they headed back toward the creek, finishing the circle. And hovering over them as they worked, always within view—the mountains.

  They were directly ahead of her now. Sheryl followed with her eyes the contours of the land, along the field ahead and up the dark green of the timber that broke here and there, and finally up to the gray unyielding rock swept by white snow, crisp against an achingly blue sky.

  She drank it in, a feeling of belonging surging through her as she remembered stolen horseback rides up into their beguiling beauty. As a young girl she often lasted only one day of haying before the mountains called and she stole a quick ride on her horse up them the next morning, promising herself she would be back before Ed and Nate got started the next day.

  She never made it.

  Sheryl turned away from the view and rubbed her neck. It was sore from turning back and forth, first watching the swath, then the baler and always, in spite of herself, Mark.

  The baler spat out another bale, and Mark grabbed it with gloved hands. He flexed his well-muscled shoulders, swinging the bale onto the stuker behind him. His motions were easy, fluid and as often as Sheryl looked away, her eyes kept returning to him. His T-shirt clung to his chest and his back in wet triangles. A red sweat-stained bandana held his long dark hair down.

  Mark glanced up at her then, flashed her a smile, a white slash against his dark skin, and Sheryl’s heart skipped a beat.

  Flustered she looked ahead. He disturbed her even as he attracted her. It was disconcerting.

  “Hey, Sheryl. Stop,” Mark yelled. Sheryl jumped and instinctively stepped on the brakes. She slapped the throttle down with one hand and the p.t.o. drive with the other, then turned around. Mark was already at the front of the baler, yanking the cover off.

  “It’s jammed. Grab the toolbox, will you?" Mark didn’t even look at her as he pulled hay out of the baler. “Probably busted a shear pin, too,” he said with disgust.

  The baler must have hit a thick patch in the swath. Angry at her own inattentiveness, Sheryl grabbed the toolbox and got off the tractor. She set it beside Mark, annoyed at her pounding heart and yet unable to quell the coil of fear that began at the sound of his irate voice.

  “Hand me the pliers, would you,” Mark said looking up at her. He straightened, his outstretched hand falling to his side. “W
hat’s the matter?”

  He had seen her fear. Sheryl thought all the years of living with Jason had schooled her into keeping her emotions hidden, concealed. Weakness gave the other person power. Angry at her lack of self-control, she turned to the toolbox and found the pliers.

  “It’s no big deal, Sheryl,” Mark said, his voice reassuring as he took the pliers. “Balers jam up all the time.”

  “I know that,” she snapped, stepping back as he turned to the baler.

  It was more than the baler, and she knew that, too. It was this place, so rife with memories that created this vulnerability. The mountains, the rivers, the trees. It tricked her into lowering her guard, into hoping that somewhere, somehow she could recapture the brief, happy moments she had once enjoyed.

  Mark slammed the lid shut and turned to hand Sheryl the toolbox. “Are you okay, Sheryl?” he asked, his expression puzzled.

  “I’m fine.” She grabbed the toolbox and set it in the tractor cab, wishing her hands would stop trembling. Adrenaline, that’s all it was.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” His voice was soft, his expression observant.

  Sheryl took a deep breath. “I know,” she said with a careless shrug. “We’d better get back to work.” She climbed back onto the sun-warmed seat and glanced back at Mark.

  He stood on the stuker, gloved hands on his hips, frowning. But when he caught her glance he quirked a grin at her. Sheryl blinked then started the tractor up, feeling oddly reassured.

  Two hot, dusty hours later Mark signaled to her to stop. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder when she frowned, puzzled as to why they stopped.

  A truck waited in the shade of the trees alongside the corrals, and Rob and Conrad were already walking toward it.

  “Lunchtime, Sheryl,” Mark called.

  She turned off the tractor and paused a moment, letting her eyes drift over the field and all the triangular stacks of hay bales at regular intervals. It had been a satisfying morning.