Zak had been under a lot of pressure to join them, especially from his mother.
But he’d resisted.
“It was good. Well, decent. Curtis took a job in October as an agriculture inspector. Regular hours and good pay. I told you he has a girlfriend...?”
“Yeah...Shari?”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got engaged this Christmas. You coming home for the holidays?”
Home to him would never be his parents’ farm in South Dakota. “Maybe for a few days. It depends on my work schedule. I’m low man on the totem pole here.”
“You still haven’t made it out here, yet. We’ve been gone three years.”
His mother sounded sad, but it was difficult to figure out if the emotion was genuine. His mother was the one person in his family who puzzled Zak the most. He couldn’t understand how she put up with his father—his verbal and occasional physical abuse.
There wasn’t a person in their family who hadn’t suffered at their father’s fists.
Yet his mom acted as if this behavior was normal. And she wasn’t above behaving the same way. When provoked, she lashed out at all her sons with whatever was handy. He’d seen her toss everything from a frying pan to a steel-toed work boot at his brothers. She’d done the same to his father too.
Sometimes his dad would just laugh.
Other times he’d explode with rage.
It was the unpredictability that got to Zak the most. He went to the dinner table each night not knowing if it would be all funny stories and teasing, a major brawl, or something between the two extremes.
“It’s a long drive. And I only get two weeks holiday a year.”
“Your father is calming down as he gets older. He misses you. You were always his favorite.”
“Right.” He’d started working at the hardware store when he was fourteen. His father had always introduced him to the customers in the same way. And this small fry is Zak, the runt of the litter.
But the thing that hurt even more than his father’s insults and punches had been his mother’s refusal to stand up for him, not even against his older brothers.
It had been a double burden for Zak, being both the youngest and the smallest. As he grew up, his interest in academics rather than football, his preference for running rather than fighting, all of these had marked him as a misfit in his family. When he was born, everyone had been hoping for a girl. So he’d been a disappointment in that way, too.
His gaze swept over his tidy kitchen. Behind all those cabinet doors the contents were neatly arranged, spices in alphabetical order, plastic bowls with matching lids.
If only he could have such complete control over his feelings for his mother. The rest of the family he could do without. But he couldn’t quite say that about his mom.
Thanksgiving night, around midnight, an autumn storm swept in from the north, testing the old pine trees near the Mastersons’ two-story farmhouse. Tiff was watching the shadow of a branch rock wildly back and forth on her bedroom wall when the door to her room gave a cre-ea-ak and began to slowly open.
Terror froze her for an instant. Then sense replaced blind fear.
She bolted upright and reached for the bedside lamp. “Mom?”
The door opened further, and her mother stepped inside, her dressing gown disheveled, her hair a tangle of gray-streaked blond curls framing a too-pale and too-thin face. She crossed to the bed and put a hand on Tiff’s shoulder.
“We have to go.”
Her mother’s eyes glowed as if she’d been possessed. Tiff pushed past her childlike fear and gently touched her mother’s arm, hoping to ground her. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Your father called. Casey needs us.”
Shivers zigzagged down Tiff’s spine.
“No one needs us, Mom.” Truer words she’d never spoken. It was Marsha who ran this house, took care of Rosemary and oversaw the operations of the farm.
Marsha was the one who was needed. Not Tiff or her mother.
“You need to listen.” Her mother spoke as if Tiff was a child, not a woman of thirty. “Your father was in a car accident. He’s okay, but we have to pick Casey up at the hospital.”
“No, Mom. Please. Just lie down beside me for a minute. You’re shivering.” As was Tiff. She was used to her mother being vague and forgetful. Not delusional.
Rosemary clutched her dressing gown over her chest. “It’s so cold.”
“We turn the furnace down at night, remember?” Tiff pulled back her covers, making space in the double bed.
Gingerly Rosemary settled, still wearing her dressing gown and slippers. For a moment she lay stiff as a cadaver. Then quietly she repeated, “We have to go.”
“No, Mom. It’s okay. It’s very late. Time to sleep.” Tiff placed a hand on the side of her mother’s face, remembering the beautiful, vibrant woman she’d once been. The mother who had tucked her into bed, who had calmed her fears, who had stroked her face.
Slowly Rosemary’s eyelids fluttered closed. On her last breath before succumbing to fatigue, she whispered, “We have to...”
And then she was asleep.
Tiff watched her mother for a few minutes before turning out the light. She could hear the storm hurling wind and rain at the world outside. By morning the cottonwoods and tamaracks would be stripped of the last of their golden leaves and needles.
An overwhelming sense of loss pressed down on her. How quickly her favorite season had passed during her first autumn home in over ten years. Now she—all of them—had to find the fortitude to make it through another winter.
Tiff closed her eyes, aware of her mother’s weight next to her and the uneven sound of her shallow breathing. And yet her mother’s voice still echoed off the walls. “Your father’s been in an accident. He’s okay...”
If only.
Tiff had thought nothing could be as painful as losing her brother. No one had conveyed to her the risks of Casey’s operation. So when her parents told her he had died—it hadn’t felt real. Days went by. There was a funeral. A huge hole in her life where Casey had been. Anguish replaced the blessed numbness. At night, in bed, she’d wondered if the pain would stop her heart.
It hadn’t.
Two months later when the car accident happened, she’d learned her true capacity for grief. Her dad died at the scene. For a few days her mom was in a coma from which no one expected her to recover.
Aunt Marsha had been bruised and traumatized, but she’d fared the best because she’d been in the back seat. She’d been the one to break the news to Tiff, to hold her tight and promise, no matter what, she would always be taken care of.
Was it survivor’s guilt that had led Marsha to devote the rest of her life to looking after her sister and niece? Or was it duty? Or love? Marsha must be so tired of spending her days at work helping the sick, then coming home and doing the same for her sister.
Yet she never complained. Never made Tiff feel it was her turn to carry the load.
But it was. Past time actually. Tomorrow she would talk to her aunt. There had to be more she could do to help.
The noise of the curtains flapping in the wind woke Justin from a dark dream where he’d been lost in a strange land, without his wallet, or cell phone, or any form of ID. He got out of bed to close the window—he always slept with it open no matter the season. A light dusting of snow had sifted through the screen onto the windowsill, and he brushed the fine, white sand aside with his fingers. Outside snow seemed to be falling horizontally, the wind was so strong.
He pulled on his robe—the cashmere one that had been a gift from Paul over a decade ago. His generous gifts always made Justin uncomfortable, but Willow told him not to be a fool, so he never rejected them.
The wooden floor was cool on his bare feet as he made his way to Geneva’s room. She was still and quiet in her bed, eyes closed, one hand curled behind her neck. At her feet was the puppy, also fast asleep. Since Willow left them, Dora ha
d taken to sleeping in the little girl’s bed. Justin didn’t object.
He sat on the corner of the bed, resisting the urge to stroke the plump softness of Geneva’s cheek. From this angle he could see the photo of Willow holding a newborn Geneva in her arms. Willow was looking at her baby, not the camera, and there was a vulnerability about her face Justin had rarely seen in real life.
Did Willow think of them anymore?
Did she miss her daughter, worry if she was doing okay?
He couldn’t even guess. Willow had always been an enigma. She wasn’t someone who talked about her feelings. When she made decisions she never explained the reasoning behind them.
When they were high school friends and then sweethearts, he had loved and admired Willow’s toughness. Her self-sufficiency. It was the history between them, and the friendship, that had been the basis for their marriage.
Her reluctance to speak of Paul, or the relationship he’d had with Geneva, had tested their relationship. From little things Geneva said, misbehaviors such as harshly scolding the dog, he surmised she had suffered at least verbal abuse from her father.
And of course Paul’s willingness to rescind his legal rights as Geneva’s father so Justin could adopt his child said a lot.
No matter how you looked at it, Geneva’s early years had been tumultuous. And now he had to figure out some way to tell her about his cancer. How the hell was he going to do that?
Justin left his daughter’s room, and went to his study. From the bottom drawer he pulled out a book he’d borrowed from the library. Written by a child psychologist, it provided guidance on how to talk to children about difficult subjects like divorce and cancer. He found the chapter he’d bookmarked for himself and read it through.
When he finished, he closed the book and tucked it away. The weight of his heart pinned him to his chair. God, he was so tired of this struggle, yet it had barely begun.
Eventually he got up and poured himself a scotch. He thought longingly of his lover in Missoula. They had broken things off when he made the decision to marry Willow.
Justin missed physical intimacy. He missed sex. He missed talking to someone who didn’t need him to be strong.
The first swallow of the liquor radiated warmth through the empty cavity of his gut. It helped but was a poor substitute for human companionship. If he could find Willow, get her to give him a divorce...
Then what? His inner voice mocked him. He couldn’t go back to his old lover. Or look for somebody new.
Not with the cloud of cancer hanging over his head.
Justin lifted the glass a second time and tossed it back in one gulp.
Friday, November 24
The fresh snowfall didn’t stop the Stillman brothers from driving into town with their families for their meeting with Justin the morning of Black Friday. He hadn’t expected it would.
They arrived as a group promptly at ten. Justin had a full pot of coffee ready, plus a tray of muffins and fruit he’d ordered from the Snowdrift Café. Both the coffee and the baked goods were finished before he had a chance to hand out the summary document he’d prepared for the meeting.
“Thanks for the snacks,” Em said. “Most of us—” she shot a quick disparaging glance at Vanessa “—have been up since five-thirty and chores are never easy after a storm.”
“Hopefully this won’t take too long.” Justin repositioned his water glass so it wasn’t sitting directly on the wooden desk. Then he gestured to the summary notes. “As you know before he died in 2001 your father put all the ranch, including land, outbuildings and livestock into a corporate structure. When he died your mother inherited seventy percent of the shares, while his sons—” he glanced up to make eye contact with Eugene and then Clayton “—each inherited fifteen percent, making up the final thirty percent of the company.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s ancient history.” Eugene was leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. His right leg was jiggling, as if he was suffering from restless leg syndrome.
“In her will your mother has divided her shares in such a way that Clayton, Eugene, Em, Tom, Luke and Nikki will each own an equal percent of the ranch.”
Vanessa had been alternately surveying his office and examining her manicure since she arrived. Now her spine straightened and her eyes bore into him. “Em? Em gets an equal share in the ranch, but not me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Vanessa’s pretty mouth compressed into a line that made her look hard and mean. “I always knew that bitch didn’t like me.”
Clayton put a hand on his wife’s back. “I have to agree it’s hardly fair. When you boil it down, my family ends up with two-sixths of the ranch while Eugene’s gets four-sixths.”
“I think it’s fair,” Em said quietly. “I can count on one hand the number of times Vanessa has stepped into the cattle barn. Or ridden one of the horses.”
“Your mom didn’t want her death to divide the family. While she wanted to treat you fairly as individuals, she hoped you would continue to work as a team.”
Eugene waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s cut the complaining and get on with this. What about Mom’s investments?”
Lacy had sliced and diced the over one million dollars she held in stocks and bonds a dozen different ways over the years she’d been Justin’s client. If the family hadn’t liked the way she’d divided the land, they sure weren’t going to like what was coming next.
“Lacy left a hundred thousand dollars to each of her sons, and twenty thousand to each grandchild.” He could see the frowns emerging at the mention of such a relatively insignificant sum. “The remainder is to be donated to Ducks Unlimited to assist their work in conserving wetlands.”
“What?” Eugene exploded out of his chair.
He wasn’t the only one who looked blindsided. In fact, only Luke and Nikki didn’t seem surprised by this news. Justin didn’t want to put the young people in the spotlight, but he suspected their grandmother had warned them of her intentions. Lacy had often told him how pleased she was that both Luke and Nikki shared her concerns about land stewardship and conservation.
“We can contest this, right?” Vanessa had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of her chair.
“You can. It won’t be easy to overturn the donation to Ducks Unlimited, however, given the high value of the shares you’ve all inherited.”
“Excluding me.” Bitterness added ten years to Vanessa’s face. “But then I’m only a daughter-in-law. I don’t count.”
Justin wished his water glass was filled with scotch. He’d known this wouldn’t go well. And the worst was yet to come. He held up a hand to still the family bickering. “We have one last curious bequest to deal with.”
“We do?” Clayton turned from Justin to his brother. Eugene shrugged, as if to say he was in the dark as well.
Justin stalled for a few moments, straightening papers on his desk. “Next we need to discuss the homestead house and the land it sits on.”
“Grandma’s house?” Tom’s eyes were bright. “I was hoping—”
A sharp glance from his father shut him down.
“In his will,” Justin continued, “Jack Stillman left that house and land to Lacy for the duration of her life only. Upon her death the house and the land it sits on...” He paused. Took a sip of water.
None of them were going to understand this. He hadn’t understood it himself until Lacy explained. She’d forbidden him to do the same for her family.
“Get on with it.” Eugene spoke again, his leg jiggling double-time now.
“...the house and the land it sits upon goes to Cora Christensen.”
Chapter Six
Two inches of fresh snow had transformed the barren earth into the magical wonderland of winter. With a cup of coffee in hand, Tiffany surveyed the changes from the glass doors leading off the back of the house.
“I hate the cold, but you can’t deny fresh snow is pretty.”
Her aunt was at the table, eating a sl
ice of leftover pumpkin pie for breakfast. At some point last night Tiff’s mom had returned to her own bed, and she was there still, not ready to get up.
“Mom did this weird thing last night. She came to my room and said Casey needed us. She spoke as if he was still alive.”
“Oh, honey.” Marsha set down her fork.
“I’ve known her to be forgetful and spaced out. But last night...she was delusional.”
“She probably dreamt about your brother.”
“Maybe. But she was awake when she said my dad—who’s been dead for sixteen years!—called and asked her to come to the hospital.”
Tiff pressed her cheek against the cold window. She was getting too worked up. She could see the worry in her aunt’s face.
“That must have been upsetting for you.”
“It was.” Outside the sun shone so brightly, Tiff was beginning to get a headache. She went to the coffeepot for a refill. “Have you ever seen her like that before?”
“No.”
Tiff stopped pouring. Turned to look at her aunt. “Never?”
“Oh she’s been forgetful and anxious. But she’s never spoken as if Casey and Irving are still alive.”
So what did that mean? “Is it possible she’s over-medicating?”
“Definitely not. I control her pills very carefully.”
“What medication is she on, exactly?”
“Just a minute and I’ll show you.” She disappeared for a moment before returning with a sheet of bubble-wrapped pills, which she passed to Tiff. “After your father’s death, your mom was on medication to control her depression and medication to help her sleep at night. Over the years Clark has reduced the dosage to the absolute minimum.”
Tiff examined the bubble-wrapped pills. There was just one pill for morning and one for evening. It seemed doubtful that this could be the cause of her mother’s delusions.
She handed the pills back to her aunt, then took her coffee to the table. “I moved home to help. So far it seems I’m doing the opposite. Tell me what I can do. Should I take Mom on more outings? Does she need to see a specialist? Maybe Mom has dementia or Alzheimer’s?”
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