“Lucky you,” M.J muttered sotto voice, hearing Reba's words.
“Barbara?” Shelly mouthed, leaning across the table.
“Jepson—used to be Babs Denman,” M.J. hissed. “Remember?”
Shelly crossed her eyes. Indeed she did. Nancy Black-stone, Reba Collier, and Babs Denman, as they had been known in those days, had comprised the trio from hell. Older by six or seven years, they had lorded it over the younger women and perfected to an art the ability to make them feel like gauche, feeble-minded, mud-spitting children. At seventeen, eighteen, no matter how great they felt about themselves or how proud they were of some accomplishment, all it had taken was a look, an arched brow, or a drawled comment from one of the terrible trio to send their self-esteem crashing to the ground.
Shelly's lips tightened, remembering the year Sally had been crowned Field Day Sweetheart. They'd been seventeen that year, and she and M.J. had been home from boarding school for the Field Day festivities. Sally had been an intrepid horsewoman, able to rope and ride rings around anyone in their crowd—even the boys. Sally's incredible riding abilities had been one of the reasons she had won the title of Sweetheart—that and the fact that she was a pretty, always smiling, eager-to-please young woman. Sally had glowed at having won the title over the other three contestants. Shelly recalled how proud she and M.J. had been of her and how thrilled they had been to bask in Sally's reflected glory. She and M.J. had been helping Sally get ready for her grand entrance into the rodeo arena, giving Sally's palomino mare a final brush and checking that Sally's crown was pinned on securely, when the trio had strolled up and stopped to watch.
Six feet away, hand on her hip, looking gorgeous in form-fitting black Sassoon jeans, high-heeled boots, and a clinging scarlet sweater, Nancy had murmured in that condescending tone of hers, “Oh, my, the little Sweetheart and her cortege—aren't they just too cute? Do you remember when we used to think that being the Field Day Sweetheart was such an honor? Hard to believe, isn't it?”
“I know what you mean,” Reba had answered. “It seems so ridiculous now, doesn't it? I mean St. Galen's Field Day Sweetheart…who cares beyond the valley?”
“Oh, well,” Nancy had drawled, “let the girls enjoy themselves. They'll find out soon enough that what seems important in St. Galen's doesn't mean squat anywhere else.”
“Now, now Nancy,” Babs had scolded, “remember this will probably be the highlight of their lives.” The three had snickered, and Babs had exclaimed, “Ugh! I'd hate to think that Field Day Sweetheart was my crowning moment.”
Having delivered their poison, they had wandered away. The glow on Sally's face had dimmed, and, as she shook with rage, Shelly's hands had curled into fists. Under her breath, M.J. had snarled, “Bitches!”
Putting aside the memory, Shelly couldn't help wondering if Reba and Babs would be any less bitchy today than they had been in the past.
“Shelly!” cried Reba as she came up to the table, “how wonderful to see you again.”
A polite smile on her face, Shelly glanced up. “Reba. How nice…it's been a long time, hasn't it?”
“Don't remind me,” Reba replied, her gaze running as-sessingly over Shelly's slim shape in her simple pink pullover and neatly pressed blue jeans. “Time has just flown by, hasn't it?”
“Well you know what they say—when you're having fun….”
“Oh, I envy you—New Orleans…” Babs breathed, avid brown eyes pricing to the penny the cost of Shelly's clothes. “Doesn't the valley seem boring and too, too country after New Orleans?”
“No, not at all,” Shelly replied. “After the noise, congestion, and crowding there, the slow pace of life in the valley is great. I feel lucky to be back.”
Babs stared at her. “Really? Why, I would have thought…”
Reba laughed, but there was an edge to it. “Oh come on, Shelly—you're just teasing, aren't you? We've imagined for years that you've been living this really wild and decadent life, while we've been stuck raising babies and listening to conversations that revolve around nothing more exciting than electing the next school board—or the hay crop. Don't disillusion us.”
Babs and Reba were both just over forty, and they reminded Shelly of a pair of sleek Angora cats—smug and superior. The years had not treated them unkindly, but despite the careful makeup, hair, and clothes, they both looked, well, matronly. Attractive, undeniably, but definitely matronly. Very well fed matrons, Shelly decided, tongue in cheek.
Replying to Reba, Shelly said, “New Orleans is exciting. Every day there's something new going on, but it can't hold a candle to the things that make Oak Valley such a great place to live: space, tranquillity and…I don't know…a feeling of having stepped back in time, I guess. The valley has its share of problems—problems with drugs, teenage pregnancies, and husbands who still beat their wives; but there's also a sensation of having escaped to a place where life is easier, simpler. Things that are scoffed at now still mean something in the valley—loyalty, reputation, honor, a man's word, family—all those old-fashioned qualities. And there's not so much pressure and need to rush, rush here and there.” She grinned. “I mean, let's face it—there's no place to rush to. Life moves at a slower pace, and while it does revolve mostly around cattle, hay, and timber, there's something terrific about that. If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's hard to explain.” She glanced at M.J. “You've lived out of the valley, don't you feel the same?”
M.J. nodded. “You couldn't pay me to live anywhere else—even if we don't have a Round Table Pizza or a mall just down the road. Nope, I like Oak Valley just fine.”
Reba looked down her nose at them, and murmured, “Well, you both were always a little strange. I guess there is just no telling about taste, is there?”
“Yeah, I guess you're right,” said M.J., a gleam in her eyes. “Bob married you.”
Shelly choked and glanced hastily down at her salad.
“Jealous?” Reba purred, brushing back a lock of silvery blond hair, a hard gleam in her sapphire blue eyes.
“Excuse me, ladies,” said Hank, walking up to the table with two plates. Ignoring the frosty silence, he slipped a plate in front of M.J. and Shelly. “Sally got to visiting with you and forgot to ask what kind of dipping sauce you wanted, so I brought out both honey mustard and ranch. If you want something else—like blue cheese, let me know, and I'll go get it.”
“Er, no, this is fine,” said Shelly, eyeing with anticipation her half of the rolled flour tortilla stuffed with thinly sliced ham, turkey, lettuce, and tomato that spilled out onto her plate.
“Well, you need anything,” Hank said, “you just give me a holler.” With a nod at Reba and Babs, he strolled away, whistling.
“We'll leave you to eat your lunch,” Reba said. “We just wanted to welcome you back to the valley and say hello. I'll call you next week, and maybe we can arrange to have lunch together.” She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. “We can discuss old times and all that.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, that'll be fine,” Shelly said, thinking that she'd have to have ready a half dozen or so excuses to decline when Reba called—if she called.
The door shut behind Reba and Babs, and Sally popped out from wherever she had been in the back room. She made a face.
“Sorry I deserted you, but I just didn't want to get into it with Babs. Her oldest boy, Gary, he's about eleven, was giving some of the younger kids a bad time at the rodeo Saturday afternoon—he was making fun of them, so Jane and Jean, my girls, roped him, tied him, and dropped him off in the center of the arena. Babs was not pleased.”
M.J. chuckled. “I heard about that. Served the little jerk right—Todd was one of the kids he was picking on. Good thing Jane and Jean got to Gary before I did—I'd have probably done a lot worse and gotten into a fistfight with Babs.”
“You?” Shelly asked, her eyes dancing. “Nah, never happen, not sweet, shy, ladylike you.”
The three of them laughed.
“
I'm so glad you're back,” Sally said to Shelly. “Seems almost like old times. Only thing different is that it's the terrible twosome now, instead of the terrible trio.” Sally clapped her hand over her mouth. “Ah jeez, I didn't mean to speak ill of the dead. I never would have wanted anything bad to happen to Nancy.”
“You know what?” M.J. said, looking up at Sally. “You're too nice. You always were. You need some meanness, girl.”
“Don't listen to her,” Shelly said. “She's got enough meanness for all of us. You stay just as you are—let M.J. be the bad girl.”
“And what are you? Miss Prim? The voice of reason?” M.J. asked dryly, taking a bite of her wrap.
“Well, I do try,” murmured Shelly. She grinned at M.J. “Except when I lose my temper. Remember that time I blacked Danny's eye because he'd brought me that box of chocolates? Only it wasn't chocolates?”
“Oh, God, I'd forgotten that,” M.J. said, her mouth puckering. “I can't remember, did you actually eat one?”
“No, at first I just thought they were funny-looking chocolates. He'd done a good job of picking up the right-shaped ones and putting them neatly in that Sees candy box, but when I got close enough to smell I recognized what they were right off.”
In unison, all three said, “Chicken shit.”
“Must have taken him weeks to find just the right, er, droppings, in the chicken pen to fill that box,” Sally commented. “What a little devil he was.” They all glanced over at the table where Danny sat with the others drinking coffee. “And to think,” she marveled, “he's now one of our resident deputies. Scares you when you think about it.”
In between other tasks, Sally continued to stop by their table, the three of them reminiscing and recalling happy times from their childhood. Shelly had just finished the last bite of her wrap when Hank reappeared, this time with small, blond-haired Megan.
Megan looked much younger than Hank—over twenty years, Shelly guessed. Hank had to be in his sixties, which meant that Megan must be somewhere in her early forties. Seeing the speculation in Shelly's gaze, Hank said, “Megan's my little sister—not only in size, but age, too.”
Shyly, Megan said, “Hank's mother died when he was fifteen. It was five years later that his dad met my mum and they got married. Hank was twenty-one when I was born.” She smiled. “He acts more like a father than an older brother—I can't seem to convince him that I'm all grownup and don't need a keeper anymore.” She indicated her petite frame. “Being small doesn't help.”
“I know what you mean,” M.J. commiserated. “Everyone thinks that because you're small you don't have a brain in your head.” She looked at Shelly. “You don't know how lucky you are to be tall—people take you seriously. When I say something, even now, they're more inclined to pat me on the head, and say, ‘There, there, little girl, don't worry about it.’ Drives me nuts.”
“You're wrong,” Shelly argued. “Believe me, cute-and-small wins every time. I remember thinking once that it just wasn't fair—when we were twelve you still got chucked under the chin, but everyone expected me to act wise and mature.”
M.J. grinned. “Yeah, there was that.”
Their meal finished, after complimenting Hank and Megan on the food and a few more minutes of conversation, they got up and paid at the cash register. They were exchanging a last word with Sally after she'd given them their change when the door to the restaurant flew open.
A man in his fifties stood in the doorway breathing hard. He wore stained jeans and a faded blue T-shirt with the words “Eat shit and die” written in white letters across the front; there was a dirty gray baseball cap on his head, and his weathered face bristled with a salt-and-pepper beard. His gaze swiftly scanned the inside of the room.
“Holy shit, Danny,” he roared when he found the deputy, “where the hell have you been? I've been lookin' all over the damn town for you. You gotta get over to Mary Wagner's place right away. That goddamn Buffalo of the Indians is tearing up the whole north end of the valley. The son of a bitch tore down old Mrs. Finch's fence, ripped Nora Allen's wash off the line, and shit in the church driveway. You get your ass out there now and shoot the motherfucker!”
Shelly looked at M.J. “Does memory fail me, or is that ‘Profane’ Deegan?”
M.J. grinned. “You got it. Wanna go watch the show?”
Chapter Sixteen
Like floodwater shooting through a glory hole, they exploded from the restaurant, Danny and Jeb leading the pack, Shelly and M.J. following behind. There was a mad scramble into the various vehicles, then, with siren shrieking, Danny headed the procession out of town.
“Does this happen often?” Shelly asked, as they tore down the state highway in swift pursuit.
M.J. nodded. “A lot lately. Most of the time everyone forgets about the buffalo herd the Indians own, but recently there's a young bull that's been walking through fences like they're made of butter. And when he gets out, he goes where he wants. He isn't vicious or anything like that, he just wanders around walking under, over, and through anything in his path.” She grimaced. “He's caused considerable damage to property, and folks are getting tired of it—especially the whites. Tempers are short and bad feelings between whites and Indians are rising. A half dozen men have threatened to shoot the bull, which only enrages the Indians.”
Shelly shook her head. “It seems so weird to hear those words ‘whites’ and ‘Indians.’ Makes me feel like I've stepped back in time 150 years.”
“Well, yeah, I know what you mean, but I suspect that it's used commonly anywhere within twenty miles of any reservation—here or in Texas, New Mexico—you name it. It just seems weird to you because you've been gone for so long.”
Even without Danny's screaming siren to guide them, it wasn't hard to find the site of the bull's latest infractions. Five miles and a couple of turns later Shelly pulled the Bronco to a stop and parked on the grassy side of the road. The narrow road was clogged with haphazardly parked vehicles and men, women, children, and dogs were roaming in and out: the air was punctuated with the sound of laughter and the murmur of voices. No one seemed worried or afraid; there was almost a carnival air about the scene.
“Looks like half the valley is here,” Shelly commented as she climbed from the Bronco.
“Well, you know St. Galen's,” M.J. said with a grin. “It takes so little to amuse us.”
Shelly laughed.
As they walked down the road, they saw signs of recent carnage. A white picket fence looked like a pile of kindling, and a rope clothesline, still bravely waving the wash that had been hung on it, was draped over bushes and sagging barbed-wire fences. As they approached the crowd, they could hear the sound of whistles and the snap of a whip and a moment later caught sight of several people on horseback. Shelly recognized Acey, Nick, Tom Smith, Vivian Adams—Sally's mother—and Rob Fenwick, another cattle rancher in the area. Through breaks in the crowd, she saw the darting forms of a pair of black-and-white cow dogs that were helping the horseback riders herd the recalcitrant bull toward his pasture. Nick spotted her and flashed a smile.
The whole affair became anticlimactic. Surrounded by horsemen, harassed by the nipping dogs, the bull trotted down the road and almost meekly went into the pasture he had left such a short time ago to wreak havoc. A cheer went up from the watching spectators as the massive bull, his short black horns gleaming in the sunlight, ambled through the gate. Excitement over, the crowd began to disperse.
Their task done, Nick and Acey and the others were busy loading up their horses in the various trailers—it wasn't a time to stand around and talk. Shelly waved a good-bye when Acey looked up, and she and M.J. strolled toward the Bronco.
At the side of the road, Danny and Jeb were in conversation with three or four Indians. It was obvious the Indians did not like what they were being told. Their expressions were angry, voices were raised, and there was some wild gesticulating. Time and again, Danny and Jeb appeared to calm them down, only for the temperature to rise
once more.
“Come on,” M.J. said, “I've got to get back to the store, and the excitement is over anyway.”
Jerking her head in the direction of the Indians, Shelly said, “I don't know. Looks to me like those guys would like to punch out somebody.”
“Yeah, well, I don't want it to be me. Besides, Danny and Jeb know how to calm down tempers—they've had a lot of experience in that department. And they have plenty of backup—look over there, Mingo and Rick are waiting by the trucks.”
Reluctantly Shelly agreed, and a few minutes later was turning the Bronco around and heading back to town. After dropping M.J. off at the store and making plans to meet for lunch again soon, she drove home.
When she arrived home Maria was just leaving.
“Did you have a nice lunch?” Maria asked, standing by the side of her red compact truck.
“Yes, indeed,” Shelly replied, smiling. “Had some excitement, too—a buffalo bull got out and was terrorizing the neighborhood at the north end of the valley. Nick and Acey and some others showed up and got him safely back in his field.”
“That bull was loose again?” At Shelly's nod, she added, “If they'd fix the fences, they wouldn't have this problem, but you can't tell them anything. I know one thing, though, something's going to have to be done because if it isn't, somebody is going to get hurt or some hothead is going to stop making threats and shoot that animal—and then we'll really be in the soup.”
Shelly nodded again and made a face. If the bull was shot, the Indians would be furious and the whites would be righteous—not a good situation.
On Thursday, Shelly finally contacted the art gallery in San Francisco that had been recommended to her. It was a pleasant conversation; the owner, Samuel Lowenthall, had seen and knew of her work. He was eager to hang some of her landscapes in his gallery. They discussed the possibility of a show in the future. Shelly was flattered. She made arrangements to UPS overnight the letter of introduction from the gallery owner she had worked with in New Orleans, and they set a date to meet for lunch and for her to bring in her portfolio of recent work.
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