Peace in the Valley

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “No. I’m fine. She took the brunt of it.” Trey nodded to where the woman named Lucy stood near the ambulance. “I cruised right on through and didn’t even notice her coming until we were both in the intersection.”

  “I’m calling Harv Bedlow to get over here with a chainsaw and clippers and clean this up.” Brian indicated the full summer foliage. “I don’t know how we missed this, Trey. The growth here impedes the visual of the sign on this side of the road and the oncoming traffic on that side.”

  Brian was cutting him slack. He didn’t deserve it, but for one reason or another, the good people of Gray’s Glen had always cut him a leniency they denied to the rest of the family. He wasn’t born to be one of Sam Stafford’s boys, and that earned him extra points in a community that had borne the brunt of his father’s heavy-handedness for too many years. Sometimes it felt good to be favored. Other times? Not so much, and his older brothers never hesitated to keep him from getting a big head.

  “I’m fine, Brian, go check her out. Please,” he added, swiping at a persistent deerfly that seemed suddenly attracted to his left ear. “And we need a tow truck to haul the van out of the water.”

  “We have to have a tow truck?” Two blue eyes pinned him, the kind of blue that made the summer sky pale by comparison and a Central Washington summer sky was a mighty pretty thing. She took a step forward, clearly worried. “Can’t we just tip it up and drag it out?”

  Trey opened his mouth to say something, then stopped.

  Money. The wrecked, scarred van, the mess of plants, the tow truck…Lack of money put that fear in her eyes. Not him. Well, not just him, so that was good. “This is my bad,” he told her as he crossed the quiet road once more. “I’ll make restitution on everything. And I’m sorry, real sorry.” He scrubbed a hand to the back of his neck and shot a quick glance to the stop sign. “I missed it completely.”

  —

  So Trey Stafford was sorry.

  Big deal.

  Staffords had a lot to be sorry for in Gray’s Glen, and even more when it came to the little farm she owned in the shadow of their wealthy land-baron-type holdings, so Lucy Carlton could just add her total ruination to the lengthy list. The thought of two months’ work washed away by five seconds of inattention…And he’d walked away unscathed, his big, shiny SUV sparkling in the summer sun, the wide-wall tires thick and new. Typical Stafford good fortune.

  Her van.

  She stared at the narrow strip of blue peeking above the embankment, then gave herself a firm shake. Two seconds later and her van might have hit the bridge abutment instead of the hill, and her outcome could have been much worse. She wasn’t injured, and her three kids still had a mother. Reason enough to thank God right there.

  But the square-jawed handsome Stafford in front of her was another matter entirely. She faced him coolly, at least as cool as she could be with her skirt dripping midsummer creek water along the road’s narrow shoulder. “I need your insurance information.”

  He shook his head, and when she opened her mouth to protest, his words made her pause. “I’ll take care of it personally.”

  Lucy had learned the hard way not to be anyone’s fool. She’d trusted too young and too soon. Now she meted trust out in minute doses, and this guy wasn’t about to get even that much leverage. She lifted her chin and refused his offer. “That’s not an option. There’s protocol involved with things like this. We report the accident.”

  Angelina raised her hand from where she was filling out the report. “Got that covered.”

  “And then we exchange insurance information, except that you don’t need mine because this was all your fault.”

  He knew that but still had the nerve to challenge her. “I didn’t see the sign, true. But how fast were you going, ma’am? Because you barreled through this intersection in a way that would have taken notice at Talladega. We might have to warn Danica she’s got some tried-and-true competition headed her way.”

  The validity of his question made her scowl. “I had the right-of-way.”

  He nodded, cowboy style, nice and easy, as if they were comfortable old friends, chatting on the roadside. They weren’t, and she’d be darned if she was going to let one more self-absorbed Stafford monkey up her life. This guy’s father had managed to do that for years. No more. She folded her arms, stubborn.

  He held his ground and didn’t look perturbed or particularly guilty. He looked plain good, and she was mad at herself for even realizing that. “You were in a hurry.”

  “Lucy, were you speeding?” Angelina asked the question gently. She pointed west of the intersection. “There are no skid marks indicating you tried to stop.”

  “I didn’t have a reason to stop until he shot out in front of me,” she protested. “How can this possibly be my fault?” She stared at Angelina—her neighbor and only real friend—then turned her attention back to the water-logged van. “I was heading to market and I got a late start.”

  Angelina looked at her, then the van. “Oh, no. Lucy, was the van full of your flowers?”

  She would not cry. Not again. Not in front of a rich, stuck-on-himself Stafford. “Yes.”

  “Oh, honey.” Angelina hugged her, and while the hug felt good, Lucy couldn’t afford to get bogged down in sentiment. She’d be bogged down enough in the reality of no money, no van, and the massive cleanup in the back of her vehicle.

  The tow truck rumbled up the road. Sal Smith from Sal’s Auto climbed out, saw the van, and whistled lightly. “It’s been one of those mornings already, and I could’ve gone for an easy tow, but there ain’t a thing easy about pulling that van out of that water. You okay, Luce?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Sympathy marked the auto mechanic’s face. Then he spotted Trey standing with Brian. “That you, Trey?” He strode forward, stuck out his hand, and gave Sam Stafford’s youngest son the biggest smile Lucy had ever seen. “You’re here? That’s a wonderful thing. I can’t wait to tell Gracie. You doin’ a concert hereabouts? Or are you here because your dad’s ailing?”

  “My dad.”

  “You’re a good man, Trey.” The older man clapped him on the shoulder, and Lucy expected to see the youngest Stafford soak up the kind words like a sponge on water.

  He didn’t. A flash of something—indecision? No, maybe doubt? Yes, that was it—made his hazel eyes wince slightly. “Can you handle this, Sal? I’ll help. I’m wet already. No sense having you go down in the water to hook the rig.”

  “You’re wet, sure enough, and if you managed to help Lucy get out of that thing, you did good, Trey. That’s a bear of an angle, all straight up and perpendicular-like.”

  A small SUV pulled up, off the road, a blue flasher marking the volunteer firefighter status. A man climbed out with a small chainsaw, powered it up, and started clearing the brush and branches around the stop sign.

  Sal got in his truck, backed it up the hill on a sharp angle, then he and his coworker climbed back out. “Did you mean that about getting wet?” he asked Trey, and Lucy was surprised when Trey nodded.

  “I’m in too.” Brian moved up the small embankment. “I’ve got a change of clothes at the firehouse. If we can winch and jerk it upright, then you can pull it up out of there, can’t you, Sal?”

  “That’s the plan, but I don’t want one of you hero-types to end up under the thing if she falls.”

  “Trey, you wanna rethink this?” Brian surveyed the tipped van. “We can call reinforcements.”

  “No need.” He pulled off his outer shirt and tossed it to Angelina, leaving just a plain white cotton knit tee in place. “Let’s hook her up.” He climbed over the embankment, then into the water. He and Brian followed Sal’s instructions and hooked the van. They each fell once, and when they climbed up the slippery slope of the inner bank, they laughed and high-fived one another.

  Lucy didn’t see a thing to laugh about. This wasn’t high school hijinks on a crazy Saturday night. This was her bread and butter. Her pa
ycheck for the month. Her—

  She swallowed hard when Angelina slipped an arm around her shoulders. Anger and frustration laid claim to her. Sal fired up the winch, and the whining sound grabbed hold of her just like the hooked assembly clutched her rusty, dented, untrustworthy van. The van jerked, shimmied, then jerked again.

  Something broke free and the hook rebounded, then bounced, barely missing Brian and Trey as it ricocheted.

  “Rusted out.” Brian headed back into the water. So did Trey. They reexamined the area, then Trey went down, under the water, and popped back up, soaking wet. “I’ve got it. Give me the hook.”

  Brian handed it over, and when Trey came back up, he gave Sal a thumbs-up. “I think we’re good this time.”

  “All right.” Sal started the winch again, and this time the cable held when the van lurched free from the creek bed.

  Slow and steady, the truck-mounted motor drew the van out of the water, then up the bank. A stream of muddy water poured out the open doors, along with mangled plants and flowers. And when they had the van up the embankment, at least a thousand dollars of Lucy’s hard work and investment floated downstream in a surprisingly pretty burst of color, almost like it was meant to be. But it wasn’t meant to be and her heart pinched tight to see it.

  Gone.

  Washed away, much like the hopes and dreams she’d had years ago.

  The enormity of it all made her want to sit down and hold her head in her hands.

  She wouldn’t give Trey Stafford the satisfaction, so she stayed focused on business. “I think we’re back to insurance information now.”

  “You live nearby?”

  The question irked her because she owned the small farm adjacent to his father’s mega-ranch, but then she got a better grip on rampant emotion. The singing Stafford brother hadn’t been back for any length of time over the past several years. “Next door to the Double S.”

  “Let me go get cleaned up, and I’ll come right by,” he told her. He indicated his soaking wet clothes. “I’m kind of a mess.”

  He was.

  But he was also a raging hot, wet-T-shirt-wearing mess, with one of the kindest smiles she’d ever seen. She’d learned to mistrust smiles, and most everything else, once she married Chase Carlton. “If you give me your info, we can call this matter done. I think that’s best.”

  “Naw.”

  She wasn’t too sure how he could make this decision unilaterally, and yet, he did. “I’ve always thought if a man makes a mistake, he needs to fix it, best he’s able. I’ll be at your place within the hour. Ange?” He turned toward her friend. “See you at the ranch.”

  “I’m done at three, and Mami’s running the kitchen.”

  “And the men, most likely.”

  Angelina acknowledged that with a smile. “Part of the job.”

  “That it is. Miss Lucy?” He turned her way. “Can I give you a lift back to your place?”

  She’d rather crunch cold snails in her salad than ride with him. She might not know him personally, but she knew Staffords, and musicians, which gave him two strikes. In her experience, Staffords looked out for their own and had done so for decades.

  And this one, the country music sensation whose magazine coverage had women of all ages sighing in the checkout lanes? If the tabloids were to be trusted, Trey Walker Stafford liked life on the wild side, and Lucy Carlton had done the wild side once.

  With her hand laid flat atop the Good Book, she’d sworn never to do it again.

  Trey angled his SUV into a parking spot alongside the near barn, then hopped out of the driver’s seat before he got the car any wetter or smellier than he already had. He lifted the small duffel, paused, and looked around, drinking in the sights and sounds of the Double S.

  Rangeland. Cattle. Two banks up, someone was working two dogs and a herd, heading up to cooler pastureland, verdant and lush. That meant they’d had a few solid rains, always a variable once you got to this side of the Cascades.

  Home.

  And yet…not home.

  “Trey, is that you?”

  Trey turned toward the sound of his father’s voice and couldn’t hide the full shock of seeing Sam’s decline. He wiped it from his face, but not before his father recognized the reaction. Would they be in time? Could the transplant really solve Sam’s major health problems? And if giving up a chunk of himself did turn out to be the best-case scenario, could Trey willingly walk into that hospital and let them excise a sizable lobe of his liver?

  He couldn’t think of that now. Facts first. Panic later. Sam had taught him well. He moved forward and opened his arms. “Hey, Dad.”

  He hugged him gently before he indicated the SUV. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff in there.”

  “Bring it in, Son.”

  “I figured I’d stay in the cabin, remember? More quiet time to write songs.”

  A blend of embarrassment and frustration crossed Sam’s face. “You did say that. I forgot.”

  “It happens.”

  “Stupid meds, they fog me sometimes. Some of this, some of that.” Sam waved his arm as if he could shrug off the doctor’s orders.

  “They’re necessary, right?” Trey said as they entered the house.

  Sam moved toward the good-smelling kitchen and made a face. “These days, who knows? You’re soaking wet. What happened?”

  “I was wondering if you noticed.”

  “You smell ripe too.”

  “Yup.” Trey winced in regret. “Creek water. I had a little scrape with a minivan where Buell Road crosses East Chelan. Didn’t know there was a stop sign there. I almost clipped your neighbor, and she went into the water.”

  “The Carlton woman?”

  “Lucy?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s her.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Trey followed Sam into the kitchen. “She is. The van isn’t.”

  Sam settled into a chair. Trey had no idea how hungry he was until he was surrounded by the scents of Isabo’s cooking. “Isabo, if heaven has a smell, this would be it. Is that a pot of pulled beef ?”

  Angelina’s mother crossed the kitchen quickly. She grabbed him in a hug, then stopped and pointed. “Go clean up, you smell like old moss and decaying matter. And worse.”

  He laughed and picked up his small duffel. “I will, and I’ll throw these right in the wash when I’m done. But I’ll tell you what, the smell of that meat and those pies about did me in, walking through. Reason enough to wash up quick.”

  “Oh, he is your sweet talker, Sam.” Isabo bustled back to the counter opposite the black and silver stove. She shifted a simmering kettle to a back burner as she spoke. “Colton got your tough-guy attitude. No one in their right mind wants to mess with that, except my daughter, it seems, and since she is made in similar fashion, it’s a good match.”

  Sam nodded agreement.

  “And Nick’s about as boneheaded as they come sometimes,” she went on, as if dissecting Sam’s sons was something she did on a regular basis. In the past no one would have dared say such things to Sam Stafford, even if they were true, but Isabo’s open honesty freshened the Double S like new sheets on a firm mattress. “But under all his bluster, Nicholas has a kind heart and now a good woman of such knowledge and warmth, perfection. But this one.” She tapped her chin and scrutinized Trey.

  And then she stopped tapping her chin, as if she saw too much, and Trey never let anyone see too much. If they did, they’d understand what a phony he was.

  “And this one walks in the light,” she said softly.

  She smiled, but he wasn’t sure why, because he hadn’t seen the light for quite a while. She studied him gently, and it took a minute for him to break the connection. When he did, he swallowed a lump in his throat and edged toward the stairs. “I’ll be back when I’m clean.”

  “And we’ll talk,” Sam told him.

  His father wanted to talk about the surgery, about the transplant, but Trey wasn’t sure how to
handle that conversation just yet. Could he admit he was scared spitless by the idea? And yet, still willing to do it?

  But what if fear won the day and he backed out? He’d be signing his father’s death sentence.

  “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” The proverb meant well, but the lines had grown indistinct somewhere in the last decade. He loved God, he believed with all his heart, but he’d witnessed a lot over the years, good and bad. He understood the thinness of faith through his own facade. If he was faithful in name only, was everyone?

  The inconsistency of man bogged down his spirit. He yearned for hope and longed for peace, and that was ridiculous because God had given him a talent that reaped him riches beyond belief…

  And yet, the craving continued, unabated.

  Trey took a long, warm shower, got dressed, and chucked his soaking wet clothes into the newfangled washing machine. He stared at the buttons, mystified, and when Isabo heard his call for help, she came around the corner and put her hands on her broad hips. “Stymied?”

  “Totally.”

  “I will take over,” she decided, and moved closer.

  “Can you show me?”

  Again she met his gaze, and this time he saw a note of concern in her expression. Not much, a mere flash, but enough. More than enough. “Gladly.” She didn’t go further, didn’t delve, but Trey got the idea that Isabo Castiglione’s instincts served her well. Maybe too well. She showed him the buttons to push as he selected the options, then waited, watching. “Bien!”

  “Gracias, Isabo.”

  Approval shone in her eyes. For his meager attempt at Spanish or his button-pushing prowess? Maybe both, but it felt good, which was downright silly, wasn’t it?

  “It is nothing, of course, but I do like to see a man have a clue about the work entailed in a house, a home. Although with amazing machines like this, it is barely to be called work, no?”

  “We’ll call it work because while you’re running around, managing the house and the kitchen and the men and the kids, the occasional easy machine should be a given.” They walked back into the expansive kitchen together. One side of the room was the cook’s domain, sacrosanct on a big ranch, and this one was a cook’s dream. Cupboards and shelves lined the back wall. Mega-sized stainless steel appliances mixed with rich, honey-toned cabinetry. Broad granite countertops allowed for generous workspace, and the old coffeepot of his youth had been replaced by two coffee systems, a one-cup brewer and a pricey espresso and latte maker. Different, but welcome because he could go for a hot cup of coffee right now, despite the summer heat.