Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  Shelly didn't look at him. She was afraid if she did, he would see the desire and longing in her eyes. She had to get away from him.

  “Uh, if you want to drop me off at the house, that'd be all right,” she muttered. “It, um, isn't that far out of your way.”

  Sloan's mouth tightened and his fingers dug into her arm. “Do you have to fight me every step of the way? You enjoyed the parade, didn't you? Even if you have to put up with me, you'll enjoy the rodeo—if you'll let yourself.”

  She tried to jerk her arm away from him, but it was no use, and, swearing under his breath, he frog-marched her over to where he had parked the Suburban.

  “Damn you, Sloan! Let me go. I want to go home. Now.”

  He glared at her, threw up his hands, and muttered, “Fine! I'll take you home. You can sit there by yourself and sulk all day while everyone else is out enjoying themselves.”

  He flung open the door and roughly bundled her into the vehicle, frustration and anger in every movement. He was on the point of slamming the door behind her, when a voice called out, causing him to spin around.

  “Sloan! Wait! I need a ride to the house.”

  Shelly bent her head around Sloan's big frame and watched as one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen in her life came rushing up to him. The newcomer was breathtaking, model-slender in a pair of form-fitting blue jeans, chiseled cheekbones to die for, shoulder-length curly black hair that gleamed like polished ebony, and a pair of the laughingest golden eyes she'd ever seen. Her bright red mouth was generous, softly curved, a mouth that automatically made 90 percent of the male population think of hot, steamy sex. She looked familiar, but Shelly couldn't place her.

  The enchanting creature threw her arms around his neck and brushed a kiss against his jaw. “Hank said you were somewhere in town. I'm glad I caught you before you left.”

  Sloan smiled, his affection obvious as he returned the hug. “Hi, sweetheart, when did you get in town? Couldn't have been too long ago—I haven't heard of any insurrections, stampedes, earthquakes, or tornadoes…yet.”

  The other woman made a face. “Come on, that's not fair. Can I help it if things just sort of seem to happen when I'm around?”

  “Probably not. And yeah, hop in, I'll run you out to the house.” He opened the back door of the vehicle, and asked, “What happened to your ride? You had to get into town some way.” He glanced down at the impractical high-heeled boots she wore. “I know for damn sure that you didn't walk into town wearing those ankle breakers.”

  She wrinkled her charming nose. “God no! Roxanne actually walk instead of taking a limousine? I'd never live it down. Darling, you know I'm far too indolent to do anything remotely strenuous. I drove my car in today, but the battery in the damn thing died. It's at Western Auto now, but they won't have the right-size battery for it until tomorrow.” She grinned. “That simply divine Mr. Harris who owns the glass place is bringing one in from Ukiah for me tonight. Such a darling man.”

  Shelly started at the name Roxanne. Of course. Sloan's sister. No wonder she had looked familiar: Roxanne was one of the most famous models in the United States. Her face regularly appeared on the covers of Vogue, Mademoiselle, and the like, although not as often the past two years. The list of her lovers and would-be lovers was made up of the A-list celebrities and some of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the country. A Victoria's Secret model also, she was the fantasy of half the world's males.

  Sloan laughed. “Have you ever met a man who wasn't a darling?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “As a matter of fact, yes. And the jerk is walking toward us at this very minute. Punch him in the nose for me, won't you, Sloan dear?”

  Shelly tore her gaze off Roxanne's fascinating face and followed the direction of the other woman's eyes. To her astonishment, she saw Jeb strolling toward them. Jeb a jerk? Well, yeah, maybe.

  “ 'Morning, Sloan,” Jeb said as he stopped by the vehicle. Spotting Shelly in the front seat, he grinned. “My God. I need to mark this day down in history. A Granger accepting a ride from a Ballinger? Or is he holding you at gunpoint?”

  Shelly shrugged. “Acey abandoned me, and Sloan offered to give me a ride home. Don't make too much of it, OK? I don't intend to make it a habit.”

  Roxanne seemed to notice Shelly for the first time. She frowned. “Aren't you Josh's little sister? Sheila or Sharon or something?”

  “Shelly is her name,” said Sloan quietly. He bent a look at his sister. “Be nice. I don't think I could handle a catfight this morning, and I should warn you that Shelly is a worthy opponent. She draws blood. I should know—she's done it often enough to me.”

  The look in Roxanne's eyes was speculative as she studied Shelly's face. “Is that so?” she drawled, one elegant brow rose haughtily, then she ruined the effect by grinning at Shelly. “Good for you, girl! My sisters and I have been trying for years to do that very thing, and so far he's escaped our claws. Glad to know someone can get the better of him. He can be such an arrogant prick.” Her gaze slid to Jeb. “Speaking of arrogant pricks, don't you have somewhere else you have to be? Catching lawbreakers or something? Shouldn't you be browbeating criminals or whatever it is you do?”

  Jeb took a long, lazy appraisal of Roxanne's slender form. “Nasty, nasty, princess. At least I wear clothes when I do my job.” Ignoring her gasp of rage, he glanced at Sloan. “I'll leave you to it. Looks like you have your hands full.” He looked once more at Roxanne, and something flickered briefly in those black eyes of his. “Don't envy you a bit.”

  Sloan slammed the back door before his sister could reply and just as hastily shut Shelly's door. “Thanks a lot. Now she's going to be in a snit all day,” he said to Jeb.

  Jeb shrugged, the expression on his face unreadable. “Not my problem. See you.”

  Sloan watched him walk away. Both his sister and Jeb were effortless charmers. They both could charm the socks off a mannequin, and yet when you put the two of them together, they were like a pair of cats with their tails twisted and tied together…Sloan smiled. It was downright…interesting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shelly had expected the drive to the Ballinger mansion to be silent, stiff, and uncomfortable. To the contrary, Roxanne proved to be not only charming, but voluble as well. Learning that Shelly had been living in New Orleans, she immediately started extolling the wonderful food for which the city was famous.

  “Oh, man, I just love jambalaya, gumbo, and pralines!” Roxanne laughed, and added, “But after two weeks of that kind of food, it's back to celery and tuna and carrots—that's the downside of your body being your fortune. Of course, one of the good things about being a model is that you get sent to marvelous locations—Hawaii, Mexico, the Caribbean and, last but not least, New Orleans. Never tell my agent, but I'd go there on a shoot for half my fee. How could you bear to leave it?”

  “It was easier than I thought it would be,” Shelly answered. “And I guess it was just a case of missing home.”

  Sloan slanted her a look. “Yeah, right. You missed home so much you stayed away for seventeen years.”

  Shelly glanced sideways at him. “I didn't,” she said coolly, “realize that you were counting.”

  The Ballinger mansion was situated on Adobe Road, as the crow flies not more than three or four miles from the center of town, but by vehicle it was almost double that distance. In the winter when the north end of the road was flooded, from town it took even longer to reach the mansion because of the almost circular pattern that had to be driven.

  As they turned onto Adobe Road and headed south toward the mansion, Shelly wondered, as she often had, why it hadn't been renamed “Ballinger Road” a long time ago. The narrow, almost one-lane road ran parallel to and about four miles east of the state highway, and there were thousands of acres of flat, fertile, oak-dotted land that lay between the two roads—land mostly owned by Ballingers.

  In view of the situation between the Grangers and Ballingers, Shelly had never been t
o the Ballinger mansion. And since it sat about a mile off Adobe Road, half-hidden by the huge sprawling valley oaks that were sprinkled across the landscape, she was curious to see for herself the fabled house. Anticipation built as Sloan drove down a gently winding gravel road lined by magnificent redwood trees that were nearly 150 years old. In places the limbs of the huge trees touched overhead, dappling the road here and there.

  Sloan guided the vehicle around a curve, and Shelly's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the Ballinger mansion. It really was a mansion, she decided, as she took in the three stories of the house and the sheer breadth of it. It had been built at York Ballinger's direction in the 1870s and looked like it belonged somewhere near New Orleans. The half dozen or so native, massive oaks that guarded it increased that sensation, but it was the style of the house itself and the ten huge Doric columns across the front of it that shouted Deep South. It was certainly, Shelly mused, no Victorian, which is what one would have expected. Trust a Ballinger to do the unexpected.

  The house was at once bold and charming. Two more columns had been used for the portico in the middle of the house; a pair of circular freestanding staircases seemed to float downward from the second story to the ground and gave the structure a fairy-tale air. The two upper stories had iron-railed galleries that ran the length of the house, those galleries continuing partway back along each side of the house. The slate roof was gently hipped, the expanse broken by four tall brick chimneys, jutting skyward. The building was painted a soft green, and the iron banisters were just a few shades darker. It was, Shelly thought, a gorgeous place.

  Sloan pulled the Suburban to a stop at the front of the house. “Don't say I never did anything for you,” he tossed over his shoulder to Roxanne.

  Pushing open the door, she grinned back at him. “You can be a prince sometimes…when you're not being a bastard. See you.”

  The stiff, uncomfortable silence she had expected earlier filled the vehicle as Sloan sped away from the house. She endured it for half a mile, then, clearing her throat, she said, “Your sister is very nice.”

  “When she's not being a royal pain in the ass—which is most of the time.” The underlying affection in his voice took the sting out of his words.

  Silence fell again. Shelly shifted in her seat, too aware of Sloan's nearness for her own liking…too aware of the confines of the vehicle, the intimacy that was inescapable. At least, she thought wryly, they weren't in some little stick-shift two-seat sports car where every time he shifted, his hand would brush her leg. A shiver went through her at the idea of Sloan's hand on her body.

  She bit her lip. And that was precisely why she didn't want to spend one minute longer than she had to in his presence. Keeping her face averted and forcing herself to concentrate on the passing countryside, Shelly stared out of the window.

  Sloan cast her a glance or two, but all he saw for his efforts was the back of her head. And you should be damned glad, too, he berated himself. You don't need the kind of trouble Shelly Granger represents, but even as he thought that, his eyes slid over the thrust of her breasts beneath the green shirt and the long, sleek length of her legs. His body reacted instantly, the aching need to touch her flooding through him, his penis standing up boldly beneath the zipper in his jeans.

  His lips thinned, and he stepped on the gas. The sooner he got rid of her the better off he'd be. Mindful of that fact, he kept the Suburban at a good clip even when the pavement ended and they hit the shaley road that curved up into the foothills. With his foot steady on the gas, like a bad-tempered cat the vehicle shot up the twisting road, rounding the curves with a speed and a snarl that sent gravel flying. It was only when they reached the turnoff that led to Josh's house that Sloan's speed slackened. The narrow drive leading to the Grangers' place was one stretch of road he'd never traveled before and not even to rid himself of Shelly Granger would he speed down an unfamiliar road.

  The silence between them hung thick and heavy and Shelly sighed with relief when the driveway widened and Sloan pulled to a stop in front of the house. He shut off the vehicle and sat there staring at the log-timbered house.

  “Nice place,” he said. “I wasn't home when the original house burned. When I returned, it sure seemed strange to look up here and not see that big white Victorian looking down at the valley. It was quite a landmark. I was sorry when it burned down.”

  Shelly nodded. The original Jeb Granger had chosen this large fir-covered knoll as the site for his home, and once the area had been cleared around it, the house had been visible from just about anywhere in the northern end of the valley. The valley had never been wealthy, and most homes had been smaller and more utilitarian; consequently, the grand house, at a distance looking almost like a castle, had been pointed out with pride to visitors.

  “It was a shock,” she said as she pushed open her door and stepped outside. “When Josh called me with the news, it took him several minutes to get me to believe that it was gone. I'm used to the new house now, but when I first—” She stopped, the noise of another vehicle coming from the back of the house catching her attention.

  The driveway split in two directions, one part angled off to the front of the house becoming part of the circular drive where she and Sloan were parked, while the other continued on around to the back of the house, ending at the barn. Visitors to the house used the circular driveway, stock and barn visitors continued on along the side of the house to the outbuildings at the rear.

  A second later a dark blue pickup slowly nosed out from beside the house. At the sight of the Suburban, the driver braked, seemed to hesitate and then turned into the circular drive and brought the pickup alongside Sloan's vehicle.

  Sloan recognized both the truck and the driver. Now this was damned interesting. What the hell was Milo Scott doing creeping around the Granger place when no one was home?

  Deciding he wasn't in such a hurry to abandon Shelly after all, Sloan stepped out of the vehicle and nodded to Scott, as the other man exited the truck.

  “Afternoon, Scott. What brings you here?” Sloan asked.

  “I think that's my line,” Shelly muttered under her breath as she walked around the vehicle and came to stand beside Sloan. She didn't think Sloan had heard her, but he obviously had; he grinned and gestured for her to take over.

  Having only gotten a glimpse of him once that day with Jeb, she wouldn't have recognized Milo Scott if Sloan hadn't given her a clue. And she didn't know that she was exactly thrilled to find the local drug dealer on her doorstep. And yet supposedly, he'd been a friend of her brother's and, if Jeb was correct, might even have had something to do with Josh's death…. It gave her a shock and a small thrill of horror to know she might be facing a murderer. Her brother's murderer. Her throat closed up, and for a second her mind went blank. With an effort she focused on Milo Scott, wondering if he had indeed played a part in Josh's death. She could hardly ask him about it, and even Jeb admitted that the evidence surrounding Josh's death was consistent with suicide. She pushed further speculation away and since she'd never been officially introduced to him she stepped forward, and, extending her hand, said, “Hello. I don't believe that we've met. I'm Shelly Granger, Josh's sister. And you are?”

  “Milo Scott,” he said easily, smiling at her as he took her hand and shook it. “Sorry if I intruded, but I, er, wanted to, um, have a word with…ah, Acey.”

  Ignoring the soft snort Sloan gave behind her, she said, “Oh, I'm sorry but you've missed him. He rode in the parade this morning and isn't home yet.” Deliberately she'd left out that he'd be gone all afternoon helping at the rodeo. She'd just as soon that Mr. Scott didn't know she'd be here alone. “If you leave a message, I'll see that he gets it. Unless there's something I can do for you?”

  “No. I appreciate it, but this is something I need to talk to Acey about. Guess I'll catch up with him at the rodeo.” He hesitated. “Sorry about Josh. He was a friend of mine. A lot of people will miss him.”

  Shelly ma
de a polite reply, wondering what Milo Scott needed to talk to Acey about—if that had been his real reason for being here. She doubted it and even if she hadn't known about his drug connection or the possibility that he'd had something to do with Josh's suicide—if it had been suicide—she wouldn't have liked him. There was something furtive and sinister about him, something that made her happy she was confronting him in daylight and not alone—maybe Sloan did have his uses. Milo Scott wasn't a big man. He was slim and not much taller than she; with his even features and a mop of sandy blond hair, he could be called handsome. Certainly there was nothing overtly intimidating about him, and many people would have found him attractive. She did not. She was wary and mistrustful of him. Jeb's influence, she thought wryly. Whatever the reason, there was no denying that there was something about the man, something in his flat blue eyes that made her increasingly thankful that Sloan was very big, very tough, and standing right behind her.

  “Uh, guess I'll be on my way,” Scott said awkwardly. “It was nice meeting you. See you around, Sloan.”

  He turned and walked back to his truck. His hand on the roof of the cab, he paused and looked across at her. His fingers tapping on the cab, he said, “Don't know if anybody has mentioned it or not, but Josh and I did business together. We, um, had some agricultural ventures we were partners in—when you have time, I'd like to discuss them with you.”

  “Now I find that very interesting, Mr. Scott,” Shelly murmured, Jeb's suspicions and those large deposits uppermost in her mind. “In going through Josh's papers, business or otherwise, I've seen no reference to you or any, ah, agricultural ventures that Josh was involved in. Perhaps you're mistaken?”

  Scott's mouth thinned. “No mistake. Josh and I were good friends, very good friends. Buddies you could say. Mostly we did business the old-fashioned way: We decided on the terms and sealed it with a handshake.”

  Sloan stepped closer to Shelly, his hands falling onto her shoulders. There was possessiveness and something distinctively territorial about his stance. His eyes on Scott's, he said, “That's really too bad, Scott. Verbal agreements are really a bitch to prove in court. Of course, if you feel strongly about it, I suggest you see a lawyer about your chances of making any, ah, agricultural agreements with Josh stick.”