by Janet Dailey
“Kira’s a therapist. She could help you, if you let her. And the horses—”
“I’ve tried therapy. Nothing works.” Jake was feeling the pressure. He needed a break. “Is there a Coke machine on this floor? I’m getting pretty dry.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dusty said. “But they could tell you at the nurses’ station.”
“I’ll ask. Want anything?”
“I could use a beer. But I know better. So, no, just get your Coke.”
Jake walked down the hall to the nurses’ station and was directed to the vending machine outside the elevators. The single five-dollar bill left in his wallet bought him a cold Coke and gave him change. He took the long way back to Dusty’s room, sipping as he walked.
The old cowboy had been good to him, bailing him out of jail and giving him a job. Jake understood his motives—or at least he could imagine he did. Dusty was getting old, and even before the heart attack, he could’ve been aware that his health was failing. Aside from Barbara, Wendy’s missionary mother in Africa, Kira and Paige were his only heirs. The ranch was Kira’s livelihood. He would want her to stay and continue her program there. But she couldn’t manage everything on her own. Who better to help her than the man who was closest to being family—Wendy’s widowed husband and Paige’s father?
For all Jake knew, the old schemer could’ve even had matchmaking in mind, bringing him back in the hope that he and Kira and Paige would make a family. But that was a joke. Jake was even less fit to be a husband than a father. As for Kira—that kiss had pushed all the right buttons. But marriage involved a lot more than chemistry. And he couldn’t imagine prickly, headstrong Kira as anybody’s wife.
He returned to Dusty’s room. The old man was sitting taller in the bed, looking as if he had more to say. Jake sat down, prepared to listen.
“I never asked how you were getting along with Kira,” he said.
Jake flinched, remembering the feel of her in his arms. “Fine. She’s pretty much all business, and very protective of Paige.”
“That’s about what I expected,” Dusty said. “But I need you to understand some things about her. Remember when I said she needed you to forgive her for the accident?”
“Yes. She told me about stopping for coffee that night. But the accident wasn’t her fault—and that’s what I told her. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“But there’s more to Kira than that. Something else you need to know.” Dusty cleared his throat. “Wendy may have told you this story. Stop me if you’ve heard it.”
Jake nodded. Wendy hadn’t talked much about her cousin in their brief time together. Back then, nothing had mattered except the two of them.
“You may have heard this much,” Dusty said. “Growing up, Kira was a gifted pianist. By the time she was in her teens, she was playing as a soloist with community orchestras. She’d even applied to Juilliard and was waiting to hear from them.”
“I had no idea,” Jake said.
“Kira’s father, a doctor, had his own private plane. He and Kira’s mother had scheduled a ski trip to Salt Lake City. They’d planned to fly north a day early to take advantage of good weather, but Kira had an important concert that night. She wanted them there, so they put off their flight until the next day.”
“Oh, Lord.” Jake could guess the rest of the story.
“That’s right. They hit a storm and crashed into a mountain.”
“And Kira?”
“She sold her piano, gave the money to charity and never played again.”
CHAPTER NINE
Two days later, Dusty came home to chocolate cake from Consuelo and cheers from the students. Paige clung to his side as if terrified of losing her beloved grandpa again. Even the dog, usually a calm animal, went wild with joy.
By the following day, the routine was in place. For the next couple of weeks, the old man was under orders not to ride, lift anything heavier than a spoon or exert himself in any way. He could walk around the house and ranch, but his lectures would be given in the living room or from a chair on the front porch.
Having Dusty available to teach freed up both Kira’s time and Jake’s. With Kira supervising the horse activities, Jake returned part-time to his original task—cleaning out the storage shed. He’d left things in a mess—items piled outside and half the shed’s contents left to sort. With a chance of rain in the forecast for next week, he needed to get the good items out of the way of the weather. After a morning with the horses, he set aside the afternoon to put things in better order. Dusty had told him where to find a low-sided open trailer behind the barn. Jake had used the Jeep to haul it to the spot where he’d piled the trash from the shed. When it was full, he would empty it at the nearest landfill and come back for more.
The work was pleasant enough. He liked being out here alone with nobody to bother him. And the task gave his thoughts freedom to wander. The only trouble was, they kept wandering to Kira.
Only now, after hearing the story about the piano and the plane crash, did he feel that he was beginning to understand her. In her own way, Kira was as guilt-driven as he was. The three people closest to her had died violent deaths because she had altered their timing. The plane crash hadn’t been her fault. It had been a tragic accident, just like the wreck that had killed Wendy. But Kira would go on blaming herself, probably for the rest of her life.
His own way of coping with pain and guilt was to run—to keep moving, with no ties to anything or anyone. Kira’s way was to hold everything in, to guard her emotions, controlling not only herself but everything around her.
He’d glimpsed a different Kira the night he’d held her in his arms—soft, vulnerable, even passionate. Part of him wanted to know that side of her better. But he’d known all along that a relationship between them wouldn’t work. Now, at least, he understood why.
Forcing the thought aside, Jake tried to focus on his work. Twenty minutes later, he was making good progress when he sensed a presence behind him. Even before he turned to look, he knew it was Paige.
“Hi, Mister Jake.” She held out a peanut butter cookie and a cold root beer. Her expression would have melted any frozen heart, but Jake, knowing what had to be done, gave her a scowl.
“What are you doing out here?” he growled. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother me?”
Tears glimmered in her big brown eyes. “I was lonesome,” she said. “I thought maybe you needed a treat.”
“Where’s Kira?” he asked.
“She’s in her office talking to a boy. Grandpa’s taking a nap, and Consuelo’s watching her TV show. Nobody’s got time for me.”
“Looks like you’ve got Tucker.” The dog had come up beside her and was eyeing the cookie in her hand.
“Tucker can’t talk. And I want to be with you. Why don’t you like me anymore, Mister Jake?”
He had to hand it to the kid. She knew how to stab him right through the heart.
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” he said. “It’s just that this isn’t a good place for a little girl, out here with all this junk and a scruffy old bum like me.”
“‘Bum’ is a naughty word, Mister Jake. That’s what Consuelo says.” Her gaze was reproachful.
“Sorry,” Jake said. “You can see that I’m not fit company for a proper young lady like you.”
The dog chose that unguarded moment to snatch the cookie out of her hand. With a snap of his jaws, the cookie was gone.
“Bad dog!” Paige scolded the creature with a wagging finger. “Sorry,” she said to Jake. “I can get you another one.”
“Tell you what,” Jake said. “I’ll take the root beer, and you go back into the house. Find yourself something to do. You mustn’t be out here.”
“But why?” She thrust the soda toward him, her eyes brimming once more.
He took the can. “Because I said you mustn’t. Now get going.”
“That’s not fair!” She wheele
d and stalked toward the house, the dog at her heels. Jake sighed as he drained the soda can. His daughter was a little spitfire, as adorably strong-willed as Wendy had been. It had damn near killed him to send her away, but it had to be done.
Steeling his resolve, he waded back into the work of clearing the shed, grabbing furniture, boxes, souvenirs and old machine parts that hadn’t seen daylight in decades. Next in front of him, standing on end, was an old mattress and box spring set. He could see holes where mice had chewed through the cover. They were probably nesting inside, raising generations of mouse families. Maybe he could drag the pieces out of the shed and onto the trailer without disturbing them too much. Then the little vermin would get a free ride to the happy kingdom of the trash dump.
The mattress was heavy and floppy. Sweating with effort, he dragged it onto the trailer. No mice. Relieved, Jake wiped his forehead with the back of his glove. At least the box spring, which had a rigid frame, should be easier to move.
Grabbing the heavy box spring, Jake shifted it to one side. He was about to lug it to the trailer, but then he saw what had been hidden behind it. His pulse lurched. Drop-jawed, he stared, feeling like some ancient knight who’d just discovered the Holy Grail.
* * *
This afternoon Kira had her one-on-one with Brandon, a slim, polite boy with dark hair and eyes. Even before he began to open up, she suspected his secret. His father, who managed a Phoenix sports team, had sent his fifteen-year-old son to Flying Cloud Ranch in the hope that learning to ride would make him more “masculine.” Brandon was doing well with the horses, but Kira knew that the change his father wanted wasn’t going to happen.
“How long have you known?” she asked him.
He sipped the bottled water she’d given him. “I’ve always known I was different. But it’s only been in the past couple of years that I’ve understood how and why.”
“And you’ve never come out to anybody? Not even your friends?”
He managed an awkward smile. “Just you, so far. I figure that when I’m grown up and on my own, it won’t be so bad. Gays are pretty much accepted these days. But right now, if I told my dad, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. And it would upset my mother, too. For now, it’ll have to wait. Meanwhile, I really am enjoying the horses.” He stood. “Thanks. It helps to talk about it with somebody.”
“Talk to me anytime. And don’t worry, nothing we say will leave this room.” Kira was impressed with the boy’s maturity, but she knew that in the years ahead, he’d have some hard decisions to make. The best she could do was to help prepare him.
* * *
After Brandon left, she updated the files, shut down her computer and walked back down the hall to the living room. She found Paige alone on the couch. Her well-worn leather baby book, always kept on a shelf within her reach, lay open on the coffee table. Paige loved looking at the photos of herself as a newborn, seeing her little pink hospital bracelet, a single curl of her baby hair and the tiny ink-prints of her hands and feet. There were pictures of her with her toys and in the bath, pictures of her with her mother and even a few with Kira. But there were no photos of her father. Jake had been overseas during that early part of her life.
“Hi, Aunt Kira,” she said. “Are you through working?”
“For now.” Kira clicked through her mental list of appointments. Faith would be coming in at two o’clock; and after that, there’d be more work with the horses and a slide lecture about tomorrow’s outing to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. But right now, she had a little time to relax and be with Paige.
“Goodness, you do love that book, don’t you?” Kira sat down next to her. “Which picture is your very favorite?”
Paige thumbed toward the end of the book. “This one,” she said, pointing to an informal color photo with herself as a toddler, on her mother’s lap. It was a spectacular shot of Wendy, in an emerald-green blouse with her Titian hair flowing over her shoulders.
“My mom was beautiful, wasn’t she, Aunt Kira?” Paige asked.
“She was.” Aching a little, Kira gave her a hug. “And she loved you very much.”
Hearing a footstep, Kira looked up. Jake had come inside from the kitchen and was standing in the open archway between the dining and living rooms. Dressed in ragged jeans and a damp T-shirt that clung to his body, he looked sweaty and hot. Mostly hot, Kira conceded. Whatever else might be going on with him, Jake was calendar-model material.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I was hoping Dusty would be here. I need to talk to him about something.”
Kira stood. “Dusty’s been napping, but I hear water running in the bathroom, so he must be up. Hang on, I’ll tell him you’re here.”
As she hurried down the hall, she could hear Paige saying, “Come here, Mister Jake. I want to show you a picture of my mom.”
Kira felt something sharp tighten inside her. Whatever was happening behind her in the living room, she feared it would not end well. But right now, there was little she could do.
* * *
Jake moved reluctantly to the end of the couch and stood looking down, past Paige’s shoulder.
“See?” Paige pointed to the color photo in the album, one Jake had never seen before. “That’s my mom and me.”
Jake gazed down at Wendy’s vibrant, laughing face. She was gorgeous. In the brief time they’d had together, he’d felt like the luckiest man in the world. Seeing her image, knowing she was gone forever, was like the twist of a cold knife in his gut. Maybe if she’d been waiting when he came home, he could have pulled himself together. But that chance was long gone.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Paige asked.
“She was beautiful—I mean in the picture,” Jake corrected himself. “And that little baby is you? Unbelievable!”
“Here’s another one.” Paige turned to a different photo. “Sit down, I’ll show you some more.”
“Thanks, but I’d better not—”
Jake broke off at the welcome sound of approaching footsteps. “Maybe another time, Paige,” he said. “Right now, I need to talk with your grandpa.”
Dusty came into the room, followed by a hovering Kira. He was looking stronger, but the heart attack had taken its toll. He appeared slower and less vigorous than before. “What’s this all about, Jake?” he asked. “Sit down. You look fit to bust.”
Jake sat, then stood again, too restless to keep still. “What do you know about that motorcycle in the shed?” he asked.
“Oh, that old machine?” Dusty laughed. “It’s been there so long, I’d plumb forgot about it. It’s a ’51 Indian Chief, but you probably know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so excited.”
“Everything on it looks original,” Jake said. “It’s got a few dings, but still, it’s pure vintage gold. Is it yours?”
“That’s a good question. Sometime back in the old days, Steve McQueen brought it here to get around on when he was shooting a movie hereabouts. The picture was about done when the bike broke down and wouldn’t start. McQueen left it here—said somebody’d come by and take it when the film crew packed up to leave. Nobody ever came. So there it sits.”
“Steve McQueen died more than thirty years ago. After all this time, that bike’s got to be worth some serious money.”
“Maybe. But I could end up bashing heads with his estate if I put it up for sale. And with these old bones, I sure as hell can’t ride it. Tell you what, I’ve got no use for the thing. Get it running, and it’s yours.”
“You’re kidding!” Jake had to sit down. “What’s wrong with it?”
Dusty shrugged. “How should I know? I’m a horseman, not a blasted mechanic. There’s no title, but after so many years, it should qualify as abandoned property. I know a fellow at the DMV who can help us with the paperwork. There’s just one thing.” Dusty’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. “If you get that contraption running, there’ll be no revving the engine and spooking the horses. Understood?”
“And there’ll be no takin
g the students for rides,” Kira added. “The liability insurance would go through the roof.”
“Understood,” Jake said. “And any time I spend on it will be off the clock. The repair job is liable to take a while—if I can even get parts.”
After thanking the old cowboy, Jake left the house and walked back toward the shed. The vintage motorcycle was a thing of pure beauty. But it was much more than that. If he could get it running and licensed, it would be his transportation out of here. It would be his ticket to freedom.
He stood in the yard a moment, gazing around him—at the horses dozing in the sunlit paddock, the weathered outbuildings, the desert hills abloom with glorious color. Two golden eagles, mates most likely, circled overhead. The fresh breeze smelled of hay and horses. Far below, on the road, a dynamite blast echoed up the canyon. The sound no longer shot panic along his nerves. It was almost as if, little by little, he was beginning to heal in this peaceful place. But he knew better than to hope. Sooner or later, some trigger or mood swing would push him over the edge. When it happened, he didn’t want to be around people he cared about.
Paige had come out onto the front porch. Glancing to one side, he could see her sitting on the top step with her arm around the dog. As he watched her, she turned and buried her face in the shaggy brown fur. Was she crying? Something in him ached to go to his little girl and cradle her in his arms. But he could only do that as her father—not as Mister Jake, the scruffy stranger who was just passing through.
Was keeping his distance the only way to keep her safe? It would have to be, Jake told himself as he turned away. Kira was right—whatever happened, Paige mustn’t be hurt. And right now, he had a job to finish—cleaning out the shed.
* * *
Faith walked into Kira’s office, her hair French-braided and her makeup flawless. Dressed in skinny jeans and a little black tee with a designer logo on the front, the tall, pretty fifteen-year-old could have stepped straight out of a teen fashion magazine. Even her nails were freshly manicured and painted in a glowing shade of blue.
