Indirectly, John Carmody had, at long last, acknowledged his existence. He needed to be with that knowledge for a while, work out what it meant, if anything.
“I’ll get back to you,” Slade finally reiterated, climbing up behind the wheel of his truck and putting on his hat. “In the meantime, I’ve got a county to look after.”
With that, he shut the truck door.
Hutch thumped the metal hard with the heel of one palm, then turned and stormed away, rounded the hood of the Whisper Creek pickup, yanked open the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.
Slade watched as the other man ground the engine to life, shoved it into Reverse and threw some gravel in the process. He was all sound and fury, though. Half again too smart to actually break the speed limit with the sheriff looking on.
With a wry twist to his mouth, Slade waited a few moments, started his own rig and pulled onto the narrow side street. He was supposed to be in his office over at the courthouse, assigning his day-shift deputies to patrol various parts of the county, but he headed for the highway instead. Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of his mother’s place, an old trailer with rust-speckled aluminum skirting and a plywood addition that served as living quarters.
As a kid, Slade had been about half-ashamed of that jumble of metal and wood, jerry-rigged together the way it was, lacking only waist-high weeds, a few rattletrap cars up on blocks and household appliances on the porch to qualify as out-and-out redneck. Callie nagged him into power-washing the two-toned walls of the trailer—the part that housed the shop—at least twice a year, and he painted the rest of it regularly, too.
This week, all the words on the dusty reader-board at the edge of the gravel parking lot were even spelled correctly. Acrylic nails, half price. Highlights/perms, ten percent off.
Slade smiled as he shut off the truck and got out.
The shop didn’t open for business until ten o’clock, but Callie already had the lights on, and, most likely, the big coffeepot was chugging away, too. As Slade approached, the door opened, and Callie, broom in hand, beamed a greeting.
“Hey,” she called.
“Hey,” Slade replied gruffly.
Callie Barlow was a small woman, big-busted, with an abundance of auburn hair held to the top of her head by a plastic clasp roughly the size of the jaws-of-life, and she wore turquoise jeans, pink Western boots and a bright yellow T-shirt studded with little sparkly things.
“Well, this is a surprise,” she said, setting aside the broom and dusting her hands together. Her expression was warm, as always, but her gray eyes showed puzzlement bordering on concern. She knew Slade took his job seriously, and it wasn’t like him to drop in during working hours. “Is the county running itself these days?”
“My deputies are holding down the fort,” Slade answered. “Is the coffee on?”
He knew it was; he could smell the rich aroma wafting through the open doorway, along with tinges of industrial-strength shampoo and a variety of mysterious hair-bending chemicals.
“Sure,” Callie responded, stepping back so he could come inside the shop. “That’s about the first thing I do every morning—plug in the coffeepot.” The faintest ghost of a frown lingered in her eyes, and then her natural bluntness broke through. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Slade sighed, took off his hat and set it aside on the counter next to Callie’s cash register. “I don’t know if wrong is the word for it,” he said. “I just came from Maggie Landers’s office. It seems John Carmody remembered me in his will.”
Callie’s eyes widened at that, then narrowed in swift suspicion. “What?” she asked and had to clear her throat afterward.
He hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and tilted his head to one side, watching her. If Callie had known about the bequest ahead of time, she was doing a damn good job of hiding the fact.
“Half,” he said. “He left me half of everything he had.”
Callie sank into one of the dryer chairs, nearly bumping her head on the plastic dome. She blinked a couple of times, and one of her false lashes popped loose at the outside corner of her eye. She pressed it back down with a fingertip.
“I don’t believe it,” she murmured.
Slade raised the dome above the chair next to his mother’s and sat down beside her. Took her hand just long enough to give it a slight squeeze.
“Believe it,” he said, not knowing where to go from there. He loved Callie and they were close, but she hadn’t raised him to come running home to her with this or any other kind of news.
“What happens now?” she asked in a small voice. Her lower lip wobbled a little, and her eyes, usually bright and mischievous, looked dull, almost haunted.
“I have no idea,” Slade answered quietly. “Not surprisingly, Hutch didn’t take it real well. He’s already offered to buy out my share of the ranch.”
Callie closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, the shine was back. She was tough—she’d had to be, orphaned young and later giving birth to a child out of wedlock in a town where such things mattered, and mattered a lot—but her problems hadn’t hardened her the way they would’ve some women. She’d taken things as they’d come, made the best of them and raised Slade to respect her—and himself. She was one of the most emotionally balanced people he’d ever known, but he wondered sometimes how much of that was an act.
“Once or twice, when you were growing up,” she recalled now, her tone musing and a little distant, “John slipped me a few dollars for groceries or light bills or something you needed for school—things like that—but I never thought he’d do this. Not for one moment.”
“He was full of surprises, I guess,” Slade said with a touch of irony.
“He was full of himself,” Callie said. “He was so afraid I’d up and name you after him and make the scandal worse than it already was, but when I called you ‘Slade,’ he said I’d been watching too many TV Westerns. I never bothered to tell him that I got your name from a story I read in Ranch Romances.”
Slade smiled. She’d told him about the magazines she’d loved to lose herself in back in the day, and how she’d named him after one of her favorite heroes.
She hadn’t gone to Carmody’s funeral, hadn’t even mentioned the man’s name in recent memory, and only then did it occur to Slade that she might be grieving his loss just the same. She must have loved John Carmody once.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded. Swallowed. “Are you going to take Hutch up on his offer?” she finally inquired.
He sighed again. “Damned if I know,” he said. “On the one hand, I could see myself accepting, buying that land I’ve had my eye on all this time—building a house and putting up a barn. But on the other...well, there’s a part of me that wants to claim my birthright and have the whole world know it.”
Callie patted his hand, rose from the dryer chair and crossed to the coffeepot, a gleaming metal monstrosity that sounded like an old-fashioned steam boiler when it was plugged in.
“I guess that’s understandable,” she said, keeping her back to him as she filled a good-sized foam cup and popped a lid onto the top. “Wanting folks to know the truth, I mean.”
Slade was on his feet, retrieving his hat from the counter, turning the brim slowly in his hands. “I don’t reckon it will surprise anybody,” he reminded her, recalling the gossip that had started so many schoolyard brawls while he was growing up.
Callie had been barely twenty years old when she’d taken up with Carmody; naive and alone in the world, and fresh out of some fly-by-night beauty school in Missoula with nothing but her license to cut hair, the old trailer she’d grown up in and the two hardscrabble acres sloping down to Buffalo Creek behind it. Her beloved “granddad” had been dead two years by then.
“I’m sorry, Slade,” she said now. “For all you had to go through on my account, I mean. Practically everybody I knew said I ought to put you up for adoption, once I knew Joh
n had intended to marry someone else all along, but I just couldn’t do it. I guess it was selfish of me, but you were my boy and I wanted to see you grow up.”
“I know,” Slade said as he stooped to kiss her forehead. He’d heard all of it before, after all, and while he understood Callie’s personal regrets, the fact of the matter was, he was glad she’d kept him. She’d sacrificed a lot, working long hours to build the business that had supported them both, though just barely sometimes, passing up more than one chance to get married, move away from Parable and finally enjoy a degree of respectability.
Instead, she’d stuck it out, right there in the old hometown, where she believed she had every right to be, as did her son, whether John Carmody, his high-society bride or the snootier locals had liked it or not.
Slade had tried to put it into words how grateful he was for the rock-solid courage she’d always shown, for the example she’d set by working hard, standing her ground and just plain showing up for life and doing what she could with what she had. Because of her, he’d grown up strong, sound-minded and at home in his body, with a quiet confidence in himself and in his own judgment that had never failed him, even during a tour of duty in Iraq and the rough patch when his marriage ended.
He paused in the doorway, hat in hand, looking back at her. “You can retire now,” he said. “Maybe go on a trip or something.”
Callie laughed, the sound almost musical. “That’ll be the day, Slade Barlow,” she replied. “If you think I’m going to accept a big check from you and spend the rest of my life eating bonbons and taking tours of other people’s gardens, you’d better think again. Why, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t have this place—and what would all my clients do without me?”
Slade shook his head, a grin quirking up one corner of his mouth. “Just give it some thought,” he said, full of a strange, sweet sadness. “There’s a whole world beyond the borders of this town, Mom.”
Callie waved a dismissive hand and reached for the broom again. “Maybe so,” she said, “but I’m staying right here.”
“You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”
“Where do you think you got it?” she countered.
Like his looks and the framework of his bones, he’d always figured most of his pigheadedness had come down from John Carmody, but now he recognized the quality as the downside of his mother’s fierce persistence.
He waved once, crossed to his truck, got in and drove away.
He should have been at work half an hour ago.
By this time, he reckoned, all his deputies and Becky, the longtime receptionist, were probably fixing to send out a search party, complete with cadaver dogs and a plan drawn out on a grid.
The idea made him smile as he headed back toward the courthouse.
* * *
JOSLYN KIRK OVERSLEPT that morning, and when she opened her eyes, it took her a few seconds to recognize her surroundings and realize she was right back in the one place she’d sworn never to set foot in again—Parable, Montana.
Joslyn sat up in her sleeping bag—she’d arrived late the night before and hadn’t bothered to put sheets on the antique brass bed—and looked around, taking in the cabbage-rose wallpaper, the worn planks in the floor and ornate woodwork, the heavy wardrobe that served as a closet.
She was in the guesthouse behind the mansion that had been her home for most of her childhood. Memories swamped her—on the other side of the broad green lawn, her mother would have been sitting on the screened-in sunporch on a bright morning like this one, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. The housekeeper, Opal, would have been busy in the huge kitchen, preparing breakfast.
Now, her mom was in Santa Fe, living with husband number three, a successful artist. Husband number two, Elliott Rossiter, had died in prison of an embolism, and heaven only knew where Opal was by now. She and Joslyn had parted tearfully, with promises to stay in touch, but they’d lost each other’s trails years ago.
Joslyn sighed, pushed back her long brown hair and wriggled out of the sleeping bag. There was no sense in moping about the past—she’d come back to Parable for a reason, and she needed to get on with the plan.
So she could leave again.
After a brief stop in the bathroom and a quick splash at the sink, she padded barefoot into the tiny kitchen and groped through various plastic shopping bags until she unearthed the cheap coffeepot she’d purchased the day before, along with a few other essentials, at the big discount store out on the highway.
She fumbled with the pot, then the small can of ground coffee beans, then the old-fashioned water spigot.
A rap at the door interrupted the process, but only briefly. She’d be useless without coffee, and, besides, she knew who the visitor was.
“Come in!” she called.
There was a metallic jiggle at the front door, and a moment or two later, Kendra Shepherd, Joslyn’s best friend since forever, stepped into the kitchen.
Blonde and elegant like a ballet dancer, Kendra looked ready to take on a new day in her crisp green suit and high heels. She ran Shepherd Real Estate, and she was clearly making a success of the enterprise.
“You really should lock the door at night,” Kendra said, right off. “Parable has its share of petty crime, you know.”
“As long as it’s petty, why worry?” Joslyn said offhandedly with a little shrug, leaning to peer at the buttons on the coffeepot, looking for one labeled On. Finding it, she jabbed at it with the tip of one index finger. She straightened, smiled at her friend, feeling not the least bit self-conscious in her flannel pajama bottoms and oversize T-shirt.
“I’m serious,” Kendra fretted. “Coming from Phoenix like you do, I’d think you would be more careful about your personal safety.”
Joslyn plundered the shopping bags again, this time looking for cups and artificial sweetener. “Okay,” she said, distracted by the desperate need for a caffeine fix. “Point taken. I’ll lock every door and window from now on, and maybe adopt a rottweiler with overt killer instincts.”
Kendra smiled and drew back a chair at the compact kitchen table, which seated two. “Still a smart-ass after all these years,” she remarked, sounding almost wistful.
“It’s a coping mechanism,” Joslyn said, only half kidding. She pushed her hair back again and regarded her friend with affection. “Thanks for doing this, Kendra—giving me a job and letting me rent the guesthouse, I mean.”
Kendra straightened her elegant spine. She’d pinned her pale, silky hair up in a loose knot at her nape, and her simple jewelry—gold posts in her earlobes and one bangle bracelet gracing her right wrist—looked quietly classy. Her eyes were a pale, luminous green.
“I’ve missed you, Joss,” Kendra said as Joslyn pulled back the other chair and sank into it. “It’s great to have you back in town...” She paused then, lowered her eyes.
“But?” Joslyn prompted gently.
“I can’t quite figure out why you’d want to be here, after what happened.” Color rose in Kendra’s cheeks, but she met Joslyn’s gaze again. “Not that any of it was your fault, of course, but—”
The coffeepot began to make sizzling noises, and a tantalizing aroma filled the air. “I have my reasons,” Joslyn said. “I’m counting on you to trust me, Kendra—at least for the next few months. When I can explain, I will.”
“People have been getting mysterious checks in the mail lately,” Kendra said speculatively, “from some big law firm in Denver. And I know you sold your software company....”
Joslyn bolted to her feet, hurried over to the square foot of counter space where the coffee machine stood, turned on the water in the sink and hurriedly rinsed the two plain mugs she’d purchased the day before. “I sold the company,” she admitted, feeling a wrench of loss as she said the words, even though it had been a done deal for weeks now. “But I don’t see what that has to do with people getting unexpected checks.”
“The recipients of the checks have one thin
g in common,” Kendra persisted. She hadn’t gotten where she was by being slow on the uptake. “They’d all invested in your stepfather’s—business.”
A knot clenched Joslyn’s stomach and moved up her windpipe and into her throat. “Coincidence,” she murmured, when she could manage to speak.
Her hands trembled a little as she pulled the carafe out from under the trickling stream of coffee and sloshed some into each of the mugs.
“If you say so,” Kendra said mildly.
As Joslyn turned, a cup in each hand, Kendra pushed back her chair and stood. “I’d better run,” she added. “I have a closing this morning, and then I’m showing a chicken farm for the seventeenth time to the same potential buyer.” She looked down at her shoes. “Do you think I should wear boots instead of these heels?”
Joslyn was so relieved by the change of subject that she didn’t protest. “Probably,” she agreed, imagining Kendra high-heeling it around a chicken farm.
“Would you mind stopping by the office once or twice, just in case someone drops in wanting to look at a property? Slade Barlow has a habit of coming over to ask if the Kingman place has sold.”
The name registered in an instant, like a sharp dart to the esophagus, and Joslyn had to swallow before she could nod. As kids, she and Slade had lived in different worlds, hers rich, his poor. Back then, she’d been his brother Hutch’s girl, which hadn’t helped, either. Although Slade had never actually come out and said as much—he’d barely spoken to her at all, in fact—she’d known what he thought of her: that she was spoiled, self-centered and shallow.
Worse, he’d been right.
When the financial roof had caved in and all those honest, hardworking people realized they’d been cheated out of their savings by the town’s onetime favorite son—Joslyn’s stepfather Elliott—her charmed life was over. Once popular, Joslyn had found out who her real friends were, and fast. Only Kendra and Hutch had stuck by her. Soon after Rossiter’s arrest, she and her mother had packed what they could into Opal’s old station wagon and left town in the dark of night.
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