Nick's touch on her arm made her jump. “Raquel's right—I am such a jerk sometimes.” he said disgustedly. “Look, I came up here to apologize. That's all, honest. I really didn't mean to dump this ancient history on you right now.” He smiled bitterly. “I just can't seem to help myself. It eats at me, you know. Not the land. The hell with the land! It's the fact that he could never bring himself to acknowledge me as his child. I don't even want the Granger name. I've been called Rios for as long as I can remember. Why would I want to change that? But I deserved his acknowledgment.” His lips twisted bitterly. “He lived with me underfoot all those years, and he never once stepped down from his goddamn pedestal and acknowledged me. He should have given me that—even just privately. I want that, I need the recognition that I am his son—and to hell with everything else.” He waited a second, then took a deep breath, and asked, “So do you believe me?”
Shelly's heart ached at the naked yearning in Nick's face, wanting desperately to tell him that she believed him. Instinct told her he was telling the truth…but instinct had played her false before. Sawyer's cautionary words drifted through her mind, and her lips tightened. Jesus! She hated this. Why couldn't things be straightforward? No doubts. No questions. Did she trust Nick?
Her gaze dropped to the demolished plate of cookies. A memory suddenly popped into her mind. She'd have been thirteen and Nick about nine. It had been June, and her mother was having her annual tea party. It was probably the only time of the year that most women of St. Galen's actually put on a dress. The tea party had been instituted decades ago by her great-grandmother. Shelly's nose wrinkled. Something, if she remembered right, to shove up the noses of the Ballingers. The Ballingers and their friends obviously were not invited. The annual Granger tea party had become a valley tradition and was one of the high points of the St. Galen's “season.”
It was always held the first Saturday in June, and Shelly recalled the long tables covered with dainty sandwiches and delicate pastries that were set up outside underneath the oaks. Tables and chairs shaded by colorful umbrellas were scattered across the expanse of lawn. The ladies of St. Galen's, probably wearing dresses and nylons for the first time since last year's tea party, gossiped and laughed and enjoyed the elegant surroundings. For a while, the weather, the hay crop, the price of cattle or sheep, the setbacks and triumphs of the calving or lambing season, the timber harvest, fire season, the everyday worries that went with ranching and timbering, were put in abeyance.
That particular year, being a boy and nine and living in the country, Nick had started a collection of milk snakes. He'd caught two so far and kept the small white-banded black snakes in a huge old aquarium that Josh had found somewhere for him and had helped him set up in the barn. Nearly every Saturday morning Nick set out with a gallon pickle jar looking for snakes—and most of the time he came home empty-handed.
The adults had been busy with preparations, and Shelly remembered that she and Nick both had been told to behave and to stay out of the way. Nick had happily gone off looking for snakes and she, being above such childish sport since she had become a teenager, had been lazing in the hammock at the rear of the house, her nose buried in a Seventeen magazine.
The tea party was in full swing when Nick came up to her and shoved the pickle jar containing three writhing snakes in her face. She screamed, threw her magazine into the air, and fell out of the hammock.
Chortling, Nick had shoved the jar at her again, and the chase was on. Shrieking and running as if she had never seen a milk snake before, she had bolted for the front of the house, Nick hot on her heels. It was a game, and they both knew it. It was merely an excuse to run and scream and let loose some of that youthful exuberance.
Having forgotten the tea party, long coltish legs flashing in the sunlight, she ran smack into the middle of her mother's annual grand affair. Before she was spotted, she veered away and quickly skirted the crowd. Half-hidden behind one of the big oak trees, she waited, keeping an eye out for Nick and for the chase to continue. It never occurred to her that Nick wouldn't take the same evasive action.
Intent upon the game, he burst onto the scene and practically crashed into Mrs. Matthews, the grammar school librarian. Mrs. Matthews, a big, heavyset, brassy woman, was not a favorite of Nick's—he'd been sent to the principal's office by her more than once during the school year. Appalled to find himself in the middle of Señora Granger's party, he immediately tried to sidle away, but Mrs. Matthews stopped him.
“Ah, good afternoon, Nick,” Mrs. Matthews said in her booming voice. “It's good to see you helping your mother this way.” Smiling condescendingly down at him, she asked, “And what is this you are bringing to the table?”
He shouldn't have done it. Even he knew it. But the devil just took over, and he thrust the jar of snakes right up in her face. “Snakes!” he said with relish. Her reaction was everything he could have wished for.
Mrs. Matthews's heavy features contorted; she let loose a bellow that shook the ground and staggered backward wildly, bumping hard into the edge of one of the punch- and pastry-laden tables. Thrown off-balance, arms flailing, she scrambled clumsily to keep on her feet. It was no use: the table, the pastry, and Mrs. Matthews all went down in one loud thundering crash. Conversation ceased. Silence fell.
Horrified, Nick stood there, the jar of snakes clutched to his skinny chest, and stared at the scene of carnage before him. He was dead meat.
The expression on Señora Granger's face when she stalked up to him confirmed that thought. Her face stony, although he thought her lips twitched, she ordered him to his room. He was banished. Sent to bed without dinner. Worse, his collection of snakes was taken away from him. He was in complete disgrace. And not once, Shelly thought, as she studied the features of the man across from her, did he mention her part in the disaster—or for that matter ever blame her. And she'd been too much of a coward to come forth and share the blame. She grimaced. Cowardice seemed to be a trait of hers. But not, she reminded herself, anymore.
She glanced at the empty plate. That night, after everyone had gone to bed, she'd crept into his room at the rear of the house with a plate of Oreos and a half gallon of milk. They'd eaten the cookies in silence, drinking from the carton of milk. There were no words between them. He accepted her peace offering.
He hadn't betrayed her then, Shelly thought, and he could have. Most kids would have. And while the actions of a nine-year-old weren't a true test of the character of the adult, she decided it was good enough for her. Slowly, she nodded. “Yeah, I believe you.” Nick let out his breath in a whoosh. “Thanks. I needed that.”
They smiled at each other. “So,” Nick asked, picking up the last cookie and taking a bite, “what do we do now?”
Chapter Four
It wasn't an easy question to answer, and Maria's stubborn silence only complicated the situation. Though she was determined to tackle Maria, Shelly didn't honestly believe that she'd have better luck than Nick had had getting the truth out of her. All she was likely to get from Maria was a better feel for the situation. They both agreed that since his ashes had just been scattered, obtaining a sample of Josh's DNA was impossible.
Tentatively, she offered, “We could use mine—the results would at least show that we're related.”
“Yeah, that might be better than nothing.” He grimaced. “But that wouldn't prove that Josh is dear old dad.” He smiled wryly. “Thanks for the offer—I may get desperate enough to take you up on it—and while it would help, what I really want is something more tangible. Wish he'd conveniently left a blood sample lying around for us to find.”
Shelly nodded. “I agree that's what we need for real, legal proof of parentage,” Shelly said with a sigh. “Otherwise, we're just whistling ‘Dixie.’”
His long legs stretched out in front of him, Nick nodded. “That part of it doesn't bother me.” he murmured. “Right now, it's enough that you accept me.” Huskily he added, “It's a good feeling to be able to talk to yo
u about it; to have someone listen to me and believe me.” His eyes hardened.
“And that you're not listening to that hypocritical bastard Sawyer.”
“Yeah, well, that hypocritical bastard is just the sort of person we're going to have to convince if you want public recognition that Josh is your father,” Shelly muttered. “It isn't going to be enough for me simply to say, ‘Hey, everybody, I believe him!’ And speaking of that, how are we going to handle that aspect of it? Take out an ad in the local newspaper?”
Nick laughed. “Nah. I won't put you through that. For the time being, let's just go with the flow.”
Shelly simply looked at him, and he laughed again. “I know. I know. I want the recognition, but I feel like I've just jumped the biggest hurdle—you. Having done that, all of the other stuff suddenly doesn't seem important, or rather, not so urgent.” He made a face. “Mom and Raquel are right—you really don't need to be burdened with ancient history at this point. You, we all need to deal with Josh's death right now, and you're going to have your hands full the next few months settling the estate. Once the estate is out of the way, then maybe we can put our heads together and come up with a way to expose the truth.” He grinned. “Without, of course, causing a lot of talk.”
Shelly snorted. “In this valley?” They exchanged wry glances, knowing the impossibility of such a thing. “I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Shelly said, suppressing a yawn.
Nick took the hint and, grabbing the tray, headed for the door. His hand on the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Nitey nite, auntie.”
Shelly made a face at him. “Good night, nevvy.”
Long after Nick had departed, she lay awake, thinking over the events of the day. In a way, she was almost grateful to Nick for springing the news of Josh's fatherhood on her: it prevented her from brooding over Josh's sudden death and gave her thoughts a different direction. It didn't lessen her feeling of grief and loss, but it provided a distraction, and for the first time since she had learned of his suicide, that awful weight in her chest, that heaviness of spirit and the prickle of tears at the corner of her eyes was gone. Nick was right about something else, too: Until Josh's estate was settled she would have to put the question of his parentage on the back burner, and she was grateful that he was willing to do so.
Shelly woke the next morning to rain. Not the fierce pounding of a major storm, but a heavy mist that blanketed the area and made it unpleasant to be outside. It was just as well; she spent the day going through Josh's office, trying to get a handle on his affairs.
The rain continued off and on for several days, never quite stopping long enough to make going outside for any length of time feasible or desirable. Shelly couldn't bring herself to drive into town; she wasn't ready to face the curiosity and the questions and exclamations her return was going to cause. She knew that the news of her return was already circulating; she'd made no attempt to hide it, but so far, beyond a few phone calls from the friends she'd kept in touch with over the years, no one intruded upon her privacy. And the weather gave her an excuse not to venture too far from the house. Maria took care of all the shopping and meals and housework, so there was no real reason to venture forth. She saw Nick nearly every day—he usually strolled in about dinnertime and allowed himself to be persuaded to stay and join her for a meal. By tacit agreement they didn't discuss Josh. Mostly, they were busy learning about each other and quietly reestablishing the childhood link between them. Raquel was back in Santa Rosa, and Maria seemed determined to pretend that nothing had changed: she was the family housekeeper. Period. Shelly and Nick made faces at each other when Maria stiffly refused the invitations to join them, and the looks she sent her son as he sprawled at the oak table in the kitchen alcove were full of disapproval. Maria wasn't pleased with Shelly either; it offended Maria's sense of what was proper to have Shelly eating meals in the alcove rather than in the dining room, as Josh had always done. And Maria was tight-lipped about any relationship she might have shared with Josh. Shelly tried to introduce the topic once or twice when she and Maria were alone, but Maria's mouth remained firmly shut, and the resentment in her dark eyes made Shelly decide not to push the issue…at the moment. There would be time enough to breach those walls in the future. She spent the majority of her time in Josh's office and on the phone to Mike Sawyer. Her manner was polite and professional with him, and he responded in kind.
A couple of times, Nick had dragged her out into the misty rain and they had hiked along the shaley mountainous roads, the rainfall not heavy enough to make them muddy and impassable. She enjoyed those walks. The cool, soft mist on her face, the stretching of her muscles, the fast pumping of her blood as they climbed a steep, twisting track, and the wet scent of pine and fir in her nostrils, after too many hours of sitting behind Josh's desk, were powerfully invigorating.
April arrived and with it a glimmer of sunshine, and Shelly knew she could not put off the short drive into St. Galen's any longer. It was time. She'd been home now for over two weeks and had grown comfortable in Josh's house. Comfortable with her decision to remain in Oak Valley. A lot of the initial work on the settling of the estate had been done, and while there was still much to do, she could take a break from the paperwork with a clear conscience. She frowned. Going over the books, a troubling pattern of overspending and dipping into capital was beginning to make itself apparent, and she suspected that she was going to have to dig deeper and demand some detailed answers from Sawyer. Worse, it appeared that Josh had turned his back on the Granger Cattle Company—the family's sole source of income. Unlike the Ballingers, the Grangers weren't wealthy in money; their wealth lay in the thousands of acres of land that they owned—and the fat cattle that roamed it. These days, the herd of registered Angus was decimated, the cattle either sold off or too old to breed. All that remained of a once huge and profitable herd was a twelve-year-old bull, Granger's Ideal Beau. It was depressing.
After lunch that day, Shelly stood up from the oak table, and, putting her plate on the counter, said casually, “I thought I'd drive into town today. Is there anything you need?”
Maria stopped her industrious scrubbing of the sparkling sink and looked at her. The expression in her brown eyes troubled, she asked, “Are you ready for all the questions? Everyone is going to want to talk to you about Josh's suicide. And your return. And your plans.”
Shelly grimaced. “I know. I'm ready. I think.”
It had been dark when she had first arrived, and she took her time driving down the steep crooked road that led to the valley floor, glancing around, trying to reacquaint herself with her surroundings. The shale-based road had been widened over the years and some of the worst curves taken out. Thickets of brush, manzanita, scrubby madrone, buck-brush, red-bud, already gowned in magenta blossoms, and wild white and purple lilac pressed close to the edges of the road, brushing the sides of the Bronco in some of the narrowest places. Seeing those impenetrable patches of tangled limbs and twisted trunks, she automatically thought of the fire danger they represented. Not even the wildlife could use some areas, they were so choked with brush, and if a fire ever started…. She shuddered. Everyone who lived in the country feared fire—especially in the summer months, when the entire area was nothing more than mountain after mountain, hill after hill of flourishing tinder just waiting for flame to strike.
When she hit the valley floor, she was pleased to see that there were few changes. The airport still looked the same; maybe a few more airplane hangars were there these days, but it still more resembled an open field with a strip of pavement running through it than an airport. It looked beautiful today, the golden poppies and blue lupine blooming their hearts out at this time of year. The grammar school, she noticed as she turned onto Soward Street, now had an attractive black iron fence around it—though there was no denying that the fence gave the appearance of a fortress. The high school was no longer painted a putrid green and the mural of a primitively
drawn pinto mustang no longer hung over the entrance of the gym that she remembered from her youth. As she drove down the street toward the state highway, she realized that most of the houses had been painted or fixed up. There were still some weedy overgrown lots, and very few of the ramshackle places that had been around seventeen years ago remained, but she noted that there was still nothing ritzy or cottage-perfect about the street, and she was grateful for it. She would have hated to find herself driving down a street that looked Carmel-cute. None of the houses were alike, and since all had been built at different times, each was its own unique style, from the few small Victorian-style homes, to the more modern ranch-style and everything in between. The area looked like what it was, a street where average, hardworking families lived. Families who made every penny count—and then some. Some people might even find it a bit shabby, but to Shelly it was home, and it looked beautiful.
Return to Oak Valley Page 6
