Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  Hanging up the phone, Shelly made a face. Her recent output had been damn little, but she still had two canvases that she had brought with her from New Orleans and she had just about completed another painting. Going up the stairs toward her studio, she scolded herself. You're going to have to concentrate, my girl, get your mind off of Josh, cattle, Nick…and Sloan.

  Nick's situation troubled her. He needed closure. He needed proof, and she just didn't see how they were ever going to be able to prove that Josh had been his father. Her doubts about his parentage had been settled long ago, and she knew in her heart her DNA would show they were indeed relatives. She believed that he was her brother's son, and if right now she was relying on little more than intuition, so what? She believed. Maria was no help. Whenever the subject was broached, and Shelly had tried her hand at it a time or two, Maria's friendly face closed up, her lips flattened, and she'd turn away. Maria simply would not discuss it. Ashamed? Shelly wondered. Didn't she realize what her silence was doing to her son? And yet, even if Maria said, yes, yes, it's true, Josh is Nick's father, it wouldn't solve the problem. It would help. But Josh's DNA, she thought bitterly, would have given them a concrete answer—and they had cremated Josh, cremating his precious DNA with him.

  She struggled with all sorts of schemes and scenarios but couldn't see a solution. At least not today, she told herself, and tomorrow was another day. One thing was clear though—she'd have to talk to someone knowledgeable about DNA testing. Maybe they could point her in a different direction.

  That afternoon she drove into town and picked up her mail. There was a letter from Mike Sawyer in the box, and she read it before she even pulled away from the post office. Sawyer was following her instructions and attempting to break the lease with Milo Scott. He'd had, he informed her in his letter, a recent meeting with Mr. Scott, but he could not say that there had been much progress. Mr. Scott's position was that he had signed a valid lease, and that he did not want to break it. Mr. Scott had, however, indicated that for a price, he might consider giving up the lease. Mr. Sawyer feared that the price Mr. Scott would demand to break the lease would be high. It might be better if she allowed the lease to stand.

  Shelly snorted. Better for whom? Folding the letter, she put it back in the envelope and returned home. It was just after 2:00 P.M., and she took a chance and called the lawyer's office. Sawyer was in.

  After some polite chitchat, Shelly said bluntly, “I want that lease broken—and if we have to go to court to do it, then we will. I'd be willing to pay him a nominal sum—something in the range of what he paid for the lease in the first place, but I'm not going to be held up.”

  “Well, I can't tell you what to do, but I would advise you to just let sleeping dogs lie and leave the lease alone. Mr. Scott doesn't want to give it up, and I can't see him doing so without ample compensation—and a fight.”

  “It's just not that simple,” Shelly said, “Mr. Scott is a reputed drug dealer in this area. I can't prove it, but I'm fairly certain that he intends to, or may have already, planted marijuana on that acreage. I don't want to run the risk of running afoul of the forfeiture laws should he do so. Besides,” she added, inspired, “I intend to run several head of cattle on that land this summer, and if Mr. Scott did plant an illegal crop, my cows would probably eat it or trample it—he runs the risk of having his crop destroyed. He'd lose money. Look…tell him I'll pay him double the pittance he paid Josh for the lease in the first place—but not one penny more. Talk to him.”

  Grumbling and not holding out hope for any success, Mike Sawyer agreed.

  Friday morning, she woke with a curious mixture of excitement and unease curling in her belly. Tonight was her date with Sloan, and she couldn't decide whether she was acting like a fool or a woman in love. Her mouth twisted. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

  The day passed. At times it dragged, other times the hours flashed by. She'd tried to paint, but thoughts of Sloan kept breaking her concentration, and by early afternoon, she gave up.

  She wasted more time than the situation warranted trying to decide what to wear. Dinner in Ukiah. Nothing too dressy, yet she didn't want to wear jeans and a blouse. After agonizing over her closet for far longer than she should have, she finally decided on a simple sheath sewn out of a silky copper-and-bronze-colored fabric. The scoop neck and fitted three-quarter sleeves made the garment look almost medieval, but the flirty flip of the hem just at her knees was pure twenty-first century. A pair of stylish mid-heeled shoes in rusty suede, a short bolero-style jacket that nearly matched the bronze color in her dress, pearls around her neck and at her ears, and a small green fabric purse completed her attire.

  Uncertainly she eyed herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She'd washed her hair earlier, and it waved around her shoulders like a tawny cloud of spun gold. A coppery red lipstick was on her mouth and the bronze-and-green eye shadow she wore made her eyes look big and mysterious. Was she overdressed? Underdressed? She bit her lip. Maybe she should dump the pearls? She touched the single strand of pearls. No. They were all right. She was fussing too much.

  A touch of White Diamonds cologne, and she was ready. She took a deep breath, ran a nervous hand over her hair, and went downstairs. She paced the big living room, reminding herself over and over again, that hey! It was only a date…with the only man she had ever loved—the man who had broken her heart and played her for a fool.

  When Sloan drove up five minutes later, a ball of butterflies seemed to have lodged in her stomach. The sight of him bounding up the steps looking unbelievably handsome in dark slacks, a long-sleeved mauve-and-burgundy-patterned shirt, and a close-fitting black leather vest made her forget about the butterflies and concentrate on making her heart behave. It was leaping in her chest like a frog on a hot rock.

  She opened the door and smiled at him. He stopped as if he had run into a brick wall, his expression stunned. He swallowed. Stared. Stared some more. “Do you realize,” he finally said in a husky, almost reverent tone, “that this is the first time I've ever seen you in anything other than jeans of some sort? You look gorgeous!” He patted the region of his heart, a killer smile on his lips. “You should warn a guy—my heart's beating so fast and hard, I'm afraid I'm gonna have a heart attack.”

  Shelly laughed, delighted. She ran a teasing finger over the knot of the black-and-burgundy-striped tie he was wearing. “That makes two of us. You look quite, quite handsome, Mr. Ballinger.”

  His eyes darkened, his gaze fixed on her mouth. “I think you'd better hold the compliments—without much encouragement, I'll have you on the floor and that lovely dress of yours up around your waist.”

  Shelly's heart leaped, and a flash of pure carnal longing streaked through her. Uh-oh, she was in trouble. Maybe going out with him tonight wasn't such a good idea, after all. Well, she'd known that from the git-go, she reminded herself grimly, and despite appearances to the contrary, where he was concerned she did not have ball-bearing heels. She just had to prove it to herself.

  Her chin went up. “I believe that I would have something to say about that. Now are you going to feed me or just keep me here making indecent proposals?”

  Sloan laughed. “I'll feed you. And as for the other…” He grinned as he took her arm. “Let's just see how the evening goes, shall we?”

  The drive to Ukiah took about an hour and a half, Sloan taking the curves with the ease and speed of someone familiar with every crook and angle of the road. Shelly had been worried more about the long drive to and from than the actual date, but Sloan put her at ease, introducing relatively safe topics—her plans for the cattle operation, his paint horse program, and even the saga of the rogue buffalo. By the time he pulled into the parking space in front of the Café on State Street, she was relaxed and looking forward to dinner.

  The Café had not been in existence when she had left for New Orleans, and she was pleasantly surprised at the welcoming ambience of the place. The dining area was a big room w
ith old-fashioned high ceilings and a soft blue-green plush carpet. Antique wooden cabinets scattered discreetly around the room displayed a colorful collection of old china, pottery, and crystal. Green linen napkins, a slender vase of fresh flowers, delicate columbine and ferns, and a white votive candle adorned each of the tables. A dark green tablecloth added a touch of elegance, and the soft lighting was inviting.

  Once they were seated, a basket of warm yeast rolls and a glass dish of butter were placed before them. The menu was limited, but Shelly had no trouble deciding on the spicy chicken and cajun sausage in cream sauce over pasta. Sloan ordered something with shrimp that sounded almost as good. They both opted for the spring greens salad with the house honey-mustard vinaigrette—delicious. After checking with Shelly, Sloan selected a nice white Zinfandel from the Napa Valley to drink with their meal.

  Ordering and eating filled in any awkward moments that may have arisen, but in fact, Shelly found Sloan's company easy to take—too easy. She shrugged that thought aside, unwilling to let suspicion and mistrust ruin what might be a new beginning. She hadn't forgotten the past, but enough doubts had been raised in her mind about Josh's character that she wasn't willing just to dismiss Sloan's implications about Josh's fine hand in what had happened that final night. But neither could she pretend that she wasn't suffering some guilt, feeling that she was being disloyal to Josh—and all the Grangers who had come before her. But was she? She didn't know the answer, and she settled back in her chair prepared to enjoy herself…for tonight.

  To her surprise, conversation flowed effortlessly between them, but then it shouldn't have surprised her—they shared a common background and knew many of the same people, places. Sloan kept it light, and they spent most the meal catching up on each other's past. Shelly told him about her life in New Orleans, more of her hopes and dreams for the Granger Cattle Company, and Sloan spoke of his decision to leave the family development business and concentrate on raising champion reining-and-cutting paint horses. Whether by accident or design, they both skirted any mention of topics that might cause a rift in their evening.

  They finished their meal, both passing reluctantly on the chocolate mousse torte offered for dessert.

  “Too rich for me,” Shelly said with a laugh. “But I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee.”

  “I'll have the same,” Sloan said.

  Their coffee had just been served when Sloan, who was seated facing the doorway, said, “Uh-oh. We've been spot-ted—and by one of the worst gossips in St. Galen's. Brace yourself.”

  Shelly shot him a curious glance, tensing a second later, when Reba Stanton's tinkling voice came to her ear. Damn. A little bit of Reba went a long way, and Wednesday hadn't been that long ago. Not nearly that long ago.

  “Why, isn't this the most amazing sight I've ever seen,” exclaimed Reba as she swam up to their table, her pale blue eyes full of speculation. “A Granger and a Ballinger breaking bread together and not over each other's heads.”

  Attractive in a slim-fitting black dress, her silvery blond hair swept up, and rhinestone earrings dangling from her ears, Reba smiled at them like the cat that ate the canary. “Oh, my, never say that I am interrupting a secret rendezvous?”

  Innately polite, Sloan had stood up as she approached, and a second later found Reba in his arms as she greeted him effusively. Only by a quick turn of his head was he able to escape her kiss landing on his lips. Wiping away the smear of red lipstick he knew was at the corner of his mouth, he said, “Hello, to you, too, Reba. And as for the other, if we had wanted it to be secret, it certainly won't be for long, now will it?” He took a step backward, putting some distance between them.

  Reba shook a finger at him and laughed. “Naughty, naughty.”

  Reba had always rubbed Shelly the wrong way, but she had been genuinely startled at the surge of green-eyed jealousy that had flowed through her at the sight of the other woman in Sloan's arms. That Sloan looked like he wished to be anywhere else but in Reba's arms was the only thing that made her remember that she had been born a lady and that ladies did not leap up and scratch out the eyes of other women…at least not in public. Maybe she was imagining things? She didn't think so—there was something about the way Reba looked at Sloan—very much like a rattlesnake spying a plump rabbit—that made her uncomfortable. Had Reba grown tired of her perfectly nice husband and was now on the lookout for Number 2? Or was she just looking for a little action on the side and had decided that Sloan would suit her needs? If that was Reba's plan, it looked like the other woman was in for a fight. From what she could see, it appeared that Reba was the one sending the signals and that Sloan was desperately trying to duck the broadcast. She grinned. Poor Sloan. The price he paid for being irresistible.

  Reba's husband walked up to his wife's side just then. Grinning down at Shelly, Bob Stanton said, “Hi kid. You're looking good. New Orleans must have agreed with you.”

  “Bob!” Shelly cried, springing to her feet. She hugged him and said, “How great to see you. I'd heard you married Reba—congratulations.”

  Bob Stanton had always been one of Shelly's favorite people. He was one of the good guys—always ready to lend a hand or a sympathetic ear to anybody; he was highly regarded in the community and very well liked by everyone, young and old alike. If she had her facts right, he was probably pushing fifty, and these days he was a successful cattleman, but Shelly remembered him as a sandy-haired stripling working for her father, and then later for Josh. He had shared many an orange Popsicle with her on hot summer days and hadn't been above squirting her unmercifully with the hose when she got pesky on those same hot afternoons. Bob wasn't exactly handsome, but his features were even and pleasant, laugh lines crinkling attractively at the corners of his hazel eyes, a ready smile on his wide mouth. The years had added a few pounds to his sturdy build, but he still looked fit and active.

  “Well, now,” Bob drawled as he put Shelly from him and glanced her up and down. “If I'd a known that the snaggle-toothed kid who followed me around all those years ago was going to grow up into such a beautiful young lady, I might have been a bit nicer to her.”

  They all laughed, and if Reba's laugh was a bit forced, no one paid any attention to it.

  Sloan reached across, and he and Bob shook hands. “Nice to see you,” Sloan said. “Heard you got some good prices for your bulls at the Turlock sale last month.”

  Bob nodded. “Sure did. Was a nice surprise after the way the cattle market has been the last few years. How's your folks doing?”

  They spent an enjoyable time talking about cattle, Shelly's Angus venture, Sloan's luck with his horses, the lack of rain, and generally catching up with each other's news. Reba's expression became more and more bored and irritated with every passing moment. “Oh, that's enough!” she finally said. “I thought we came down here to get away from St. Galen's—and cattle and hay and horses.”

  Bob grinned ruefully. “Guess we did, sweetheart. Sorry. Sloan's and my path hasn't crossed too much lately, and I haven't seen Shelly since she came back.” Putting his arm around Reba, he kissed her on the cheek. Looking back at the others, he said, “Since I was lucky enough to marry the prettiest girl in the valley, have to keep her happy.” He waved a hand at them. “Talk to you all again. Maybe we can meet for lunch or something?”

  Shelly and Sloan both nodded and made affirmative noises.

  “Call me a cat if you want, but he's much too nice for her,” Shelly muttered as soon as Bob and Reba were out of earshot.

  “Won't get an argument out of me. No one, except maybe Reba and her family, was thrilled when she nabbed him. I thought Cleo was going to have a fit when she heard the news—she always had a soft spot for Bob and never cared much for Reba—which about sums up the general opinion in the valley.” Sloan grinned at her. “There's just no accounting for taste when it comes to love.”

  Their check arrived just then, and, a few minutes later, they were walking out of the restaurant to Sloan's vehicle. A momen
t after that they were on their way back to St. Galen's.

  Shelly had enjoyed herself—more than she had thought she would. She had worried unnecessarily, she thought dryly. So far they'd avoided controversial topics, and sex hadn't raised its disturbing head—yet. Sloan had been a perfect gentleman…of course, he would be when they were out in public, but what would happen when they reached her house and it was time to say good night? If Sloan took her in his arms and kissed her…Shelly swallowed, sudden heat swirling insidiously through her lower body. Desperately, she wrenched her thoughts away from thoughts of Sloan's hot mouth on hers, his hands striking fire wherever they touched her body. They'd had a pleasant evening, she reminded herself, and she didn't want to ruin it. As long as they both stayed on their best behavior everything would be fine. Yeah, right.

  It had still been daylight when they had left the valley, but night had fallen while they were eating, and everything looked different as the Suburban sped through the darkness, the headlights spearing through the blackness—trees and brush took on fantastic shapes as the road rushed up to meet them.

  There was less conversation on the way home than there had been on the drive out, but the silences that fell were comfortable. The sight of a deer caught in the beam of the lights would occasion a comment and once as they rounded a curve a fat black-and-white skunk waddled off to the side of the road, and they both laughed.

  “So when are you going to meet Lowenthall?” Sloan asked a few minutes later.

  “I don't know—probably not for a couple of weeks. I need to gather up a bunch of stuff first, and I'd like to finish the painting I'm on now before I see him.” She sighed. “Since I've been home, work has been the last thing on my mind.”

  “You've had a lot to deal with—settling an estate, even a small one, is time-consuming—and then there's the sense of loss you feel.” He slanted her a glance. “I might not have the fondest memories of your brother, but I know that he meant the world to you.”