Blackest Heart [Wayback Texas]

by Amber Leigh Williams

  He'd never said a word to her ... or most anybody else except Jim and Stella's second brother Casey. They'd bonded from the beginning. Must've been their quiet natures. Keefe had marked him as enemy as soon as he'd stepped foot in the Ridges’ house. Tensions had always been high between them with Keefe spouting off dirty remarks every time Judd was near and Judd tossing him cutting looks as retaliation.

  The summer he'd been found was the same summer her mother had left her father.

  Stella rubbed her chest. She hadn't felt that dull ache in a long time. The bitterness, grief, and love she held for the woman who'd abandoned three children and fourteen years of marriage for Apache Jim and life in the little cabin in the woods had once raged a heavy battle. It was one of the reasons she'd left so early for acting school. To get away from the scandal her mother had stirred up and the constant reminder on her father's pained face.

  She almost missed the turn to Ridge Range. They'd finally paved it. It'd been a dusty, orange dirt track with ruts deep enough to hide in. She remembered the late-night drag races Keefe and his friends had had up and down the dirt road. Her father had been hellfire mad when Keefe had been dragged home by the sheriff, drunk off his ass after totaling his truck. Miraculously, he and his buddies had been unharmed.

  A few miles down the road, Stella's headlights caught the sign for Ridge Range with the logo her mother had drawn when she'd married Stella's father and they'd bought the fifty-five thousand acres for their future business in cattle.

  Stella pulled into the drive marked by a large oak tree. The wooden swing still hung from the lowest branch. The motion lights spilled over her car as she pulled in behind several trucks. Turning off the car, she waited for the motion lights to go off then pulled off the cap and ran her fingers through her straight, shoulder-length hair. She switched the dash light on to check her bangs, making sure the scar by her left eye was hidden. Breathing carefully, she stared at her face for a long moment. “Okay,” she said with a short smile. “You're ready for this."

  Her eyes wandered over the scar by her mouth. She could've hidden it with makeup. The surgeons had done a great job putting her face back together. They'd saved it, but after the trauma of that fateful night she wasn't sure she wanted to use her face anymore. For days, she'd searched desperately for an excuse to walk away from the Hollywood spotlight.

  Switching off the light, she shouldered her purse then stepped out of the car. The crickets were all she heard except for the breeze whispering through the oak leaves. She smiled at the sound like it was greeting her after all these years. Rolling her suitcase behind her, she headed up to the house.

  Stella knocked on the door and waited. It didn't open. She tried the knob. It wasn't locked. People who lived in the middle of nowhere were that trusting. The door creaked open as she stepped into the foyer.

  "Hello?” The word echoed off the high, raftered ceiling without an answer. Shutting the door behind her, she looked around. Same smell—leather and spice and just a hint of horsehair. She glanced up the stairs. Same big, wide banister. It gleamed under the dim lights. To the left in the den, the couch and heavy armchairs were empty. So was the dining room's long, scarred family table and the dark, Spartan kitchen to the right.

  She left her suitcase by the door, set her purse on the built-in bench lining the hall to the office at the back of the house. The door was cracked. Light leaked from the room into the hall. She walked across the red runner to the door and peered through it. The wing-backed chair behind the desk was turned away from the door, facing the long line of dark windows.

  She pushed the door open and stepped into the room. “Daddy?"

  A pause followed her voice. Then the chair spun around. Tears rushed to her eyes, stunning her. She faced her father for the first time in over a decade, lifting her hands. “I'm home."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  Stella sucked in a sharp breath when her father stood, using the desk for support. He looked so old ... and frail, something she'd never thought she'd associate with Leland Ridge. His face was lined heavily, showing the wear from a life outdoors, hard work and crippling grief. His gray eyes were bloodshot and though they sparked with warmth at the sight of her, she felt a barb in her heart.

  She'd waited too long—far too long—to come back to him. She raced across the room to throw her arms around him, press her nose to his shirt and breathe him in. He still smelled like hay and the spicy musk of his cologne. She sighed. At least that hadn't changed.

  His wide, calloused hands cupped her face. “Is it really my Stella?” he asked in his gruff voice.

  "It's really me.” She kissed his cheek and embraced him again. “Oh, Daddy, I'm so sorry I stayed away so long. It won't happen again. I missed you so much."

  "We missed you around here,” he told her. He stepped back to look at her and spotted the scar by her mouth. “I wanted to come. Damned boys wouldn't let me out of bed."

  "Casey came,” she reminded him. “I was on my way to see you, a block away from LAX. I'm so sorry, Daddy."

  "It wasn't your fault,” he assured her, squeezing her shoulder. “You're safe and healthy. That's all that matters. Have a seat. You've come a long way."

  As he settled back in his chair, she walked around the desk and sank into one of the empty armchairs. She looked around, knuckling tears away and laughing. “Nothing ever changes around here. The house is exactly the same."

  Leland's eyes scanned the room, roaming over the shelves of books, the ornate pool table off to the side, and the stuffed bucks and hunting trophies on the walls. “Not much cause for change around here, I'm afraid.” His gaze landed on her. A smile tugged at his lips. “This ain't Hollywood, Stella."

  "Thank God,” she sighed and laughed with him.

  "That doesn't mean I'm not proud of you, darlin',” he told her, his smile deepening those lines on his worn face. “Hell, this whole town's proud of you. They all flock to the theater whenever you've got a new movie playing. We all watched the Oscars last year. Proudest moment of my life."

  "I didn't win,” she reminded him.

  "You were there,” he told her. “One in a million gets that chance. And odds are even tougher for anyone born in a hole in the wall place like this. Only a few from here end up leaving town and doing something big with their lives like you."

  "I'm an actress, not a missionary."

  "Still America's sweetheart,” he pointed out. “And mine first and foremost."

  She paused, biting the inside of her lip, looking around at the signs of her old life. “Daddy, I want to come back. For good."

  He raised a brow. “No more Hollywood or movies?"

  She shook her head, eyes filling again. She leaned back in her chair, sniffling. “There's no life for me there anymore."

  He hesitated then asked, “Is it because of the accident?"

  "Partly,” she admitted, absently rubbing her lip. “I could still work. Stage makeup and film editing can work wonders these days. But while I was in the hospital and doing physical therapy, these past fifteen years caught up with me. I could hardly get out of bed. It wasn't just physical fatigue. I felt emotionally encumbered, weighed down by the baggage I've been dancing around all these years. Then I ran into Sherrie Serrano. She was in LA with her husband visiting some of his family, I think. She told me how she'd moved back here, how it was the best thing that ever happened to her."

  Her father nodded, silently encouraging her to go on.

  "After seeing her and hearing that, all I wanted was to come home. It was my only wish in the world. I just wanted to come home and see you and Keefe and Casey. I wanted to walk down Main Street and see all the old faces, stop and talk about nothing. I just needed to be ... I don't know. Normal."

  He nodded. “Well, you came to the right place."

  "How can you not resent me for abandoning you?” she asked with an unbelieving shake of her head.

  He stood, walked around the de
sk and held out his hand. When she placed her palm in his, he pulled her to her feet. Face to face, he gave her a fond tap on her nose as he had when she was a girl. “Because I always knew you'd come back, baby girl. Back where you belong."

  * * * *

  Nuala, the small, stout Mexican woman her father relied on to keep the house in order, helped take her things upstairs. Her old bedroom walls were still the lavender color she'd left them. The same lacy curtains hung over the window with its built-in seat. The white, girly furniture was still in place, dusted and all but grinning at her. Another warm welcome. As soon as Nuala helped transfer all her clothes into the drawers, Stella fell facedown onto the frilly sheets on the double bed with its creaky, iron frame and sheer canopy drape.

  The dream didn't wake her. She slept like the dead and woke with the sun in her heavy eyes. Rubbing them, she felt relieved and curious that she hadn't woken in the middle of the night screaming and trembling as she had every night since the accident.

  Going straight from bed into the adjacent bathroom, she took her time washing off the travel grime. She put on a pair of faded jeans and a navy tank then headed down the stairs to the kitchen. A run into town would soon be necessary for some new gear: boots, shirts, more jeans, and hats. She'd put on the battered Stetson she found at the top of her closet. The Texas sun could be brutal even this early in the spring season, especially on pale skin.

  She peered into her father's office. Though he was on the phone, he lifted a hand and smiled in greeting. She smiled softly before heading for the kitchen where Nuala was waiting. “Morning."

  "Morning, Stella,” Nuala said, standing from her spot at the nook table where she'd been reading The Wayback Journal. She wore a red apron over her wide waist and bosom. “You look well rested."

  "That was the best night of sleep I've had in months.” Stella's eyes fell on the cheery rays of light spilling through the bay windows of the nook. She could hear the birds chirping. “God, I forgot how beautiful it is here."

  Nuala bustled back to the stove. Soon the smell of old-fashioned French toast permeated the air. “Healing weather,” she commented.

  Stella hummed, sinking onto a barstool at the counter and cupping her chin in her hands, her elbows on the counter. “Just what I need."

  They heard the backdoor slam and the clap of boots on hardwood. A moment later, two men walked into the kitchen. The taller, Keefe, called out, “What's for breakfast, Nuala? Is my lazy sister up yet?"

  Stella's heart spread wings and soared at the sight of her brothers. She hopped off the barstool and ran. Keefe caught her with a whooping holler. He spun her in a quick circle before setting her on her feet and bracing his hands on her shoulders to get a good look at her. “What the hell is that?” he asked, flicking the brim of her hat.

  She pulled it down over her forehead again. “If I remember correctly, it got bent out of shape when you pushed me down the stairs. It's too small. I'm going to have to go into town for a new one. God, I missed you guys.” She swerved around Keefe to embrace Casey who stood by with his hat in his hands. Closing her eyes, she held him a little longer. “Did you miss me?"

  "Like crazy,” Casey replied, pulling back with a warm grin. “This place hasn't been the same without our Stella running around, making trouble."

  "I thought you guys were tall when I left,” she gushed after Nuala shooed them to the table and out of her way. Casey made them all a cup of coffee and brought the mugs to the table. “I thought I'd caught up at least until Casey came to see me."

  "Casey here just stopped growing,” Keefe explained. “Still couldn't top me, though."

  Casey made a swipe for his brother's Stetson. Keefe dodged, cackling. Nuala brought three plates to the table and they all dove into the food.

  "Mm,” Stella moaned around a mouthful. “You're amazing, Nuala."

  Nuala chuckled, giving her a doting pat on the head. “Clean your plates.” She slapped Keefe on the shoulder. “Hat off."

  He took it off without argument and hooked it over his knee. “So, Hollywood, Dad says you're back for good."

  She nodded, chewing fast, swallowed, and looked toward the door. Seeing Nuala had disappeared for a moment, she lowered her voice. “Is he okay?"

  Casey's face turned grim. “He was bad off for a while there. We really thought he'd seen his last days on the Range. Keefe here was prepared to take his place. Then the news came in about you.” He looked at her scars then quickly away, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

  Keefe picked up where he'd left off. “When we told him, the life came back into him. We almost had to rope him to the bed to keep him in it. The only way we could keep him calm was to send Casey out there right away. I gotta admit, Stella, we were all glued to the television and the phone for those first few weeks."

  Though he was looking at her pointedly, she avoided the subject of the accident. She hated to think about it much less discuss it. Dropping her gaze to her plate, she pushed the remains of the syrupy toast around with the tines of her fork. “I'm glad he's back on his feet."

  Nuala swooped back in a moment later to refill the boys’ plates and mugs. Stella sat back and watched in amazement as they both shuffled down the second helping.

  When he was done, Keefe got to his feet, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Thanks, Nuala,” he said, kissing her plump cheek. “Delicious, as always.” He put his hat on his head and winked at Stella. “I'd stick around but I gotta go check the fences on the northwest outskirts. We're moving the herd up that way tomorrow. I'll see you later?"

  "Count on it.” She watched him lope out with a shake of her head. “Is he still a great, big ball of trouble?"

  Casey took a long sip of coffee and swallowed. “No doubt about it. Still chases skirts like a randy teenager. He doesn't drag race anymore. It's not so much fun on asphalt. But he still walks around with his big foot in his big mouth and a silver spoon up his ass."

  She smiled because that was Keefe. “No girl ever tried to tame him?"

  "Oh, they've attempted it,” he told her with a wry expression. “Didn't take. Don't think it ever will. He'll be Dad's age and still a happy bachelor."

  "And you? I was stunned you didn't bring a wife out to see me when you first came a few years ago. I find it hard to believe none of the girls in this town ever tried roping you."

  "Aw,” he groaned, looking away. A timid smile twitched the corners of his lips. “Not me."

  "If any of us was likely to settle down and have a bumper crop of kids, it was you."

  He shrugged, embarrassed. “You leave anyone waiting back in Hollywood?"

  She rolled her eyes and laughed shortly. “No one worth bringing home to the family. In that lifestyle, it's pretty much impossible to find a decent companion."

  "Figured."

  "You're working here?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise. “We didn't get a chance to really talk in LA. What happened to school?"

  "I went,” he told her. “Dad paid my way through medical. Then he got sick for the first time and Keefe couldn't hold the Range up alone..."

  She nodded off the rest of his sentence. “And you never went back."

  "It's not that I didn't want to,” he explained. “Dad needed us both. Especially with you so far away."

  Guilt flared. She let it filter through her, figuring she deserved it. After a long pause, she voiced her next question. “I was thinking about going to Mama's grave. I want to lay some flowers since I didn't get to be here ... when it happened. Is she buried in town?"

  He winced, pain spilling into his eyes. Clearing his throat, he avoided her gaze. “We can't exactly go to see her, Stell."

  "What?” she asked, alarmed. “Why?"

  He took a long moment to answer. Finally, he swallowed and said, “I lied to you.” When he saw the shock and hurt in her eyes, he explained, “It was the way Dad wanted it. He thought it was best that you didn't know ... the details. So when I came to LA to tell you she was gone ... I
lied and said it was just an accident."

  "It wasn't,” she muttered, insides going cold. She leaned back in her chair, stricken. “Are you going to tell me what really happened now?"

  "There was a fire at Jim's cabin."

  She pressed a hand to her face but couldn't say a word.

  He was silent again. Seeing his jaw clench hard, she dropped her hand. She knew he was holding something back. Waiting, she leaned forward to show she was listening. When he said nothing, she asked, “I assume if there was no accident, Abigail was killed in the fire, too?” She'd been told her six-year-old half sister had died in the same wreck.

  He cleared his throat, struggling to get the words out, expression pained. “Stella, she was just a little girl."

  "Jim, too?"

  He shook his head. “He was at work."

  Her stomach turned and for a moment she thought she would be sick. “This was six years ago, Casey. None of you have found it in you to tell me the truth all this time?"

  Casey stared hard at his coffee. “I'm sorry. We thought it best under the circumstances."

  "Damn circumstances! She was my mother!"

  Casey slammed his mug on the table. “It was for the best. Dad thought it would bring too much attention."

  Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. “No one told me because y'all thought I'd turn around and tell the press?"

  "That's not what I said!” he shouted, growing more and more agitated.

  "Son of a bitch.” She got to her feet and marched out of the kitchen, desperate to get away from him.

  "Stella,” he called wearily after her.

  She pushed the backdoor open, stepped out onto the porch and slammed it behind her. Bending at the waist, she braced her hands on her knees, dragging in fresh air like an elixir. The ache she'd felt the night before in her chest had turned to a deep, agonizing burn. She squeezed her eyes shut, hissing against the need for tears.

  When she'd composed herself, she straightened and looked around. The cool breeze stung her eyes. Her gaze wandered over the long, wooden building that housed all the family and hands’ horses, the trailers parked nearby for horses and cattle labeled with the family logo her mother had drawn so long ago when they'd been a normal family. Wincing, she looked out over the long fields that went on and on for miles around. She saw the woods in the far distance, the evergreen tree line barely visible. In those woods was the cabin her mother had run off to, where she'd lived with Jim Black, where they'd raised their daughter, Stella's half-sister, Abigail.