Coming Home

by Shirlee Busbee

  “You know anything about growing flowers?” His expression was dubious.

  Roxanne made a face. “Not commercially, but a green thumb does run in my family and my apartment in New York was like a jungle—I had it stuffed with plants. I even had a window box. I love growing things and there's not too many things I like better than having my hands in rich warm dirt.”

  Jeb nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like a possibility. If you're serious, I could repair some of those old plant benches, make new ones if you need them, and check out the water lines for you.” He wiggled his brows. “I'm real handy with my tools.”

  Spying what looked like flat areas of ground off to the side, they whistled for the dogs that had gone on ahead of them and climbed up the steep banks of the road. Following the gentle slope of the land, they eventually reached an area that was relatively flat. Scattered trees and brush made it hard to estimate its size, but after trampling around and pushing through stands of fir and pine, Jeb said, “I'd guess there's about two acres of fairly level ground here. Be a dandy place for a small hunting cabin or a weekend getaway if you needed one.”

  Roxanne agreed. “Hmm, yes it would. Lots of privacy. Water and power might be a problem. And access, but it could be done.” She looked around again. “I haven't explored very much of the property yet, but on our walks the dogs and I have run across a couple of areas like this—I was surprised because when you look at the property, it looks like it's just a perpendicular hillside.”

  “You may be on the side of a mountain, but on a big piece of land like this, unless it's in a canyon, you're bound to find some areas that are fairly level.” He cocked a brow. “You've got a great house, you're not really planning on building a cabin, too, are you?”

  Her conversation with Ann at the back of her mind, Roxanne said slowly, “I might be.” As she studied the area, picturing it without the brush and only the nicest trees left and trimmed up, a charming cabin nestled in the center of the trees, an idea began to take shape. “In fact,” she said, “I might be planning on having three or four built.”

  “Why?” he asked, startled.

  “Well, for one thing, just think of the fun we'd have making love in all those different cabins …”

  Chapter

  14

  The sun was beginning to slip behind the mountain above them and a chill was seeping into the air. Jeb's arm thrown over her shoulder, they slowly made their way back to the house, the dogs, tired out from futile pursuits of anything that moved, ambling at their heels, tongues hanging out.

  “You really serious about this?” he asked, after she had explained the idea that had come to her as she looked around the clearing.

  Roxanne hesitated. “Maybe. I don't know.” She looked over at him. “I need to do something and while I don't object to volunteer work and plan to do some of that, it's not how I see myself spending the rest of my life. I like to work and I'm lucky that I can choose and pick what I want to do.” She spread her arms indicating the land around them. “I've got this great piece of property that isn't really good for anything but recreation, why not turn what might be thought of as a negative into a positive?” Her face full of excitement, she looked at him. “Think about it, Jeb. I'm not just talking about my celebrity friends needing a place to get away to now and then for some serious R and R. What about a writer on a deadline? Any kind of writer—screen, song, books. Wouldn't this place inspire you?” She grinned. “And the best part—no distractions.”

  Jeb rubbed his chin, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can see for certain people that it might be an option.”

  “Certain people is right! Over half the people I know from New York would freak out at the sight of a dirt road and just the thought of being away from neon lights and pavement would send them shrieking for their shrink. I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about people who really do need some peace and quiet. The kind of jaded celebrities who'd like to spend a week or two in their own little hideaway. Even if I built half a dozen cabins, each person would have over a hundred acres to call their own—and that's if every cabin was filled.” Bubbling over with enthusiasm, she went on, “And remember, we may be remote, but we have our own airport. They could charter a plane from SFO, fly in, be met by me, or whoever, and whisked away before anyone has any idea that they're here.”

  “You gonna run this enterprise single-handedly, Princess?”

  “Nope. That's the beauty of it. If I were to do it, and if it proved successful, I'd be creating jobs for at least three or four people in the valley.” She frowned. “Honest, discreet people. And even better, I can pick and choose my clients. I could close down for the winter if I wanted or limit the business to just certain weeks out of the year. So what do you think?” She glanced in his direction, wondering when his opinion had come to matter so much to her. She'd be crushed, she admitted, if he ridiculed her idea. Her jaw tightened. His disapproval wouldn't stop her, but it might put a very big crimp in their relationship. She'd learned the hard way that some men could be controlling in not so subtle ways—constantly giving negative feedback and putting up roadblocks was one manner of keeping the little woman in her place. Time and again she'd run into men who were threatened by a successful woman and their way of dealing with it was to crack jokes about achievements or belittle the accomplishments. She didn't expect Jeb to just jump for joy with every idea she had, but she wanted him to take it seriously and if he saw problems, real, honest problems, say so. Constructive criticism she could take—provided it was constructive. It occurred to her that a great deal suddenly hung on Jeb's answer and reaction. Unaware and unexpectedly, they'd come to a very big fork in the road of their relationship.

  Jeb was silent as they walked, turning the idea over in his mind. He had to confess that on the surface it didn't sound bad. It wasn't likely to be as easy as Roxanne seemed to think, but then it was just off the cuff and for a working premise, it seemed pretty damn good to him. There'd be problems along the way, of that he had little doubt, but he was confident that Roxanne would find a way around them. She was stubborn. She was smart. And she had guts.

  He grinned at her. “Sounds like a plan to me, Princess. There'll probably be some snags, but overall, I think it could work—and if anybody can make it work—it'll be you.”

  Roxanne's heart soared and she let out the breath she hadn't even been conscious of holding. Stepping in front of him, her hands clutched the lapels of his black leather jacket, halting him in mid-stride. Her expression dead serious, she asked, “That's your honest opinion? You're not humoring me? Or petting me on the head?”

  He looked insulted. “Since when have I ever humored you? And as for petting you on the head … if I dared, I'd pull back a bloody stump.” He caught her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Come on, Roxanne, think! Why would I not be honest with you? And when have we ever pulled our punches with each other? If I thought it was a stupid idea, I'd say so. I think it's a great idea! At least,” he added cautiously, “on the surface.”

  “Really?” she couldn't help asking, her eyes glow, ing. So what if his approval pleased her? Did that make her less a modern woman? She didn't think so.

  He smiled crookedly at her and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Really. Honest. And all that crap. Now can we please go home? In case you haven't noticed the sun's gone down and it's cold and I'm freezing my ass out here.”

  When they made the last turn before the house, the dogs suddenly lifted their heads, sniffed the air, and then baying like bloodhounds took off at a dead run. Jeb's voice, a note in it they seldom heard, stopped both dogs in their tracks. Chastened, they hurried back and in spite of raised hackles, and a soft whine from Dawg and an ominous low growl from Boss, kept pace with Jeb and Roxanne.

  Jeb and Roxanne both recognized the blue pickup and the wiry man half out of the cab. Milo Scott didn't look happy; in fact, he looked as if he was of a mind to get back inside the truck. The dogs had obviously made an impression.


  “What the hell is he doing here?” Jeb demanded, his mouth setting in grim lines. “You hire him to do more work?”

  “Hey, don't get mad at me. I don't control Milo, he goes where he wants—invited and un invited.”

  “Point taken.” Jeb stared at Milo through narrowed eyes. “I wonder how long the little bastard has been here and what he's been poking his nose into.”

  Pushing past Jeb, who looked like he might grind Milo between his teeth, Roxanne walked up to the side of the truck and said, “Hi, Milo. What brings you out here?”

  Keeping a wary eye on the two dogs, who remained at Jeb's side, Milo said, “Oh, nothing much. Heard in town that you might be doing some new building. Barn. Garage. Was wondering if I could get the specifics and put in a bid on the project?”

  “Sorry,” she said in a voice that indicated just the opposite. “Don Bean and Profane are doing the entire project. Don made me an offer I couldn't refuse. You could talk to him if you want to.”

  “Nah, that's OK. Bean generally only works with Profane and a couple of other guys he knows.” He got back in the truck. “Well, I'll be going. You hear of any jobs around, you be sure and let me know.”

  “Drugs not paying these days?” Jeb drawled, strolling up to stand beside Roxanne.

  Milo gave an exaggerated sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you—I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a cement contractor, not a drug dealer.” “Yeah, right, and I'm Santy Claus.”

  Ignoring Jeb, Milo smiled at Roxanne. “I'll be off. See you around, Roxy.” “Not if I see you first,” Roxanne muttered under her breath as the blue pickup pulled away.

  Jeb surveyed the area. Nothing looked out of place. Of course, that didn't mean anything; with Milo Scott sometimes you didn't find the damage right away.

  “I wonder what he was up to?” Roxanne mused. “I made the deal with Bean weeks ago. If Milo heard about the job, he has to have known that Bean's handling the whole thing and that there wouldn't be any work for him.”

  “Used it as an excuse to drive out here. And lay money on it that if we hadn't shown up, he'd do whatever it was that brought him out here and have left without a word to you.”

  Roxanne shrugged. “Probably. Now let's get inside and see about warming up those freezing buns of yours.”

  Jeb didn't forget about Milo Scott's visit. In fact, now that he thought about it, Scott seemed to prowl around Roxanne's place more than warranted. Even taking into account that the creep might be trying to make the moves on Roxanne didn't explain his frequent appearances. It wasn't a far leap to wonder about Scott's connection to Dirk Aston, the previous owner of the property. Dirk and Scott had been friends and sort of colleagues after a manner of speaking.

  Sitting at his desk on the last Monday in January, Jeb considered the situation. Dirk Aston had been murdered in January last year. He had died suddenly and without warning. At least, it had appeared that the shooting in Oakland had been random and unexpected. It hadn't had the earmarks of a hit. Just one of those senseless killings you see on television and read about in the paper. So maybe, Dirk and Scott had had some unfinished business? Some business that was tied to Roxanne's property?

  Jeb scowled at the pile of paperwork in front of him. The only business those two butt-wipes had shared had been drugs. So that left only two things that Scott could be looking for: drugs or money. His scowl deepened. Yeah. All those break-ins and the damage done to the original A-frame began to make sense. It had been teenage vandals, but not just teenage vandals—someone had been looking for something … looking damn hard.

  His fingers steepled in front of him, Jeb leaned back in his chair. Since Milo Scott seemed to be still hanging around, it was pretty obvious that he hadn't found the object of his search. Jeb would be willing to bet that by now Scott had decided that, wherever and whatever Dirk had hidden, it wasn't in the house. Practically the whole interior of the original cabin had been gutted and Scott had been there during most of the project. As someone working out there, he'd been free to come and go and would have had plenty of time to snoop around when no else was about.

  OK, Scott hadn't found anything, but he kept coming back. So that meant whatever Dirk had hidden was still out there.

  He hadn't paid much attention to the Aston shooting at the time. The murder had happened out of his jurisdiction and the death of one more dirt bag hadn't caused him to lose a great deal of sleep. But he was curious now. He looked up and dialed the number of the Oakland Police Department. He knew a guy who worked as a detective in the Homicide Department—they weren't exactly friends, but they'd taken some advanced criminology classes together years ago and had kept in touch with each other. They'd been known to empty out a bar simply by walking inside—Gene Cartwright had a scarred and battered face that would give a mother pause—he'd paid for his way through college by being a semi-pro heavyweight boxer. When you added that he was as big as Jeb and black as the ace of spades, the reason was clear. No one wanted to tangle with someone Jeb's size, let alone two some-ones. Gene was also one of the good guys and Jeb liked and respected him.

  Jeb was lucky. Cartwright was in.

  “Hey, white boy,” Cartwright greeted Jeb. “Long time no hear. How's everything up there in the boonies?”

  Jeb laughed. They spent a few minutes catching up with each other's news and then Jeb said, “Listen, I'm curious about a murder that took place last January. Dirk Aston. Shot in a drive-by in one of your less law-abiding areas. Ring any bells?”

  “Jeb, you know how many murders we have in a year down here? Don't answer. Right off, I don't remember the case, but I'll poke around and see what I come up with. This a priority? You got a connection or something new on it?”

  Jeb grimaced. “No, not really. I'm just grasping at straws, trying to tie up some loose ends.”

  They talked a bit longer and Gene promised to call Jeb back as soon as he had the time to drag out the file and read it.

  The dry weather held and Roxanne noticed that already the days were getting longer. By the first week of February her daffodils had begun to bloom and she filled the house with small bouquets of white and yellow blossoms, their sweet scent filling the air.

  She hadn't planned anything special for Valentine's Day. In fact, to her embarrassment she'd forgotten all about it. On a whim, only a trip to Heather-Mary Marie's to check out some cute kitchen towels she'd noticed a couple weeks ago saved her from ignoring the most romantic day of the year. Reminded by all the Valentine's Day cards prominently displayed, after careful selection, she picked one out that wasn't too mushy. She'd dawdled over a couple fantastic cards declaring lasting love and reluctantly had put them back. She sighed. Maybe next year. … As for a present, Heather-Mary-Marie's had a fine selection of The Mountain T-shirts and sweatshirts and spying a T-shirt in a beautiful tie-dyed deep green with a snarling black panther on the front, she grabbed it from the rack and put it on the wooden counter with the card.

  Red hair bright enough to blind, big hoops of beaten gold dangling from her ears, Cleo glanced from the card to the T-shirt. Cleo Hale was actually Heather Mary-Marie—her grandfather, Graham Newel, had named the store for his three daughters, Heather, Mary, and Marie, around the turn of the century when he first opened a dry-goods store in the valley. At a time in life when she had long been considered on the shelf, Heather Newel had astounded everyone by marrying Sam Howard and producing a daughter whom she had named Heather-Mary-Marie. Cleo had endured being called Heather-Mary-Marie Howard until she turned eighteen and then she had decided that she was more a Cleopatra than a Heather-Mary-Marie and had run away with her first husband, Tom Haggart.

  Cleo was not a beauty; she had more of a plain face than a pretty one, had shoulders that would have done a lumberjack proud, and stood six feet tall. None of that had stopped her from marrying five times over the course of almost sixty-six years. The Hale name came from her fifth husband and since she thought it went well with Cleo, she didn't bother to ch
ange back to her maiden name when she'd kicked old Charley Hale out for fooling around with the widow Brown about fifteen years ago. She was a mainstay in the valley, both beloved and reviled--depending on which end of her tongue you got, and known for not being shy about voicing her opinion.

  A gleam entered Cleo's clear blue eyes as she looked at Roxanne's purchases. Cleo believed that a woman should make the most of what she had—no matter her age—and lowering eyes lavishly covered with lavender eye shadow, she murmured, “For anybody I know?”

  Roxanne smiled. “As if I would tell you. It would be all over town within five minutes.”

  Not offended, Cleo grinned. “Hmm, make that three.” She winked. “Got my reputation to think of, girl. Sure you can't give me a hint? Something for me to throw to the piranhas?”

  Roxanne looked thoughtful. “Well, it's a man. A handsome man. He fills out his pants and shirts very nicely. And he's older than I am. Oh, and taller.” Her eyes laughing she asked, “How's that?”

  “Cute, very cute,” Cleo said, ringing up the two items. “Want me to wrap them for you?”

  “Sure.”

  While Roxanne waited, Cleo set about quickly wrapping the T-shirt, they talked idly and eventually the subject of Nick and Maria came up. Her scarlet lips tight with disapproval, Cleo muttered, “Some folks ought to be horsewhipped. Reba Stanton and Babs Jepson were in a few minutes ago … so was Maria Rios.” She shook her head. “Those two harpies stared her up and down, stepped back ten paces, and then began to whisper.” Cleo snorted. “Didn't take a fool to know they were gossiping about Maria and not making any attempt to hide it. Maria looked stricken, put down the card she was going to buy, and scuttled out of here like she'd been beat. I'd have liked to have given those fat cows a talkin’ to, but I had a lot of customers and by the time the place was clear, they'd sashayed out and gone across the street to The Blue Goose for lunch.”