Aspen Gold

by Janet Dailey

  She grinned. “He’s definitely no spring chicken, but he’s still got a few good years left in him. Don’t you, fella?” she crooned to the horse, then laughed when the gelding tossed its head as if in confirmation. “See?” She sent a twinkling look at John. “Sundance agrees.”

  “If you say so,” he replied, dubiously arching an eyebrow.

  “I do.” Smiling, she gave the horse one final pat. “I have to go, fella. Paula’s waiting and we still have to get our things unloaded.” The chestnut nickered a protest when she started to leave. “I know,” she said, “I’d like to throw a saddle on you and go for a ride, too, but that will have to wait until later.”

  John gave her an amused look and fell in step, matching her casually swinging pace. “Have you always talked to animals like that?”

  “Always,” she replied with careless ease. “When I was growing up, there weren’t any kids on the ranch for me to play with. The horses, Dad’s hunting dogs, the chickens, they all became my playmates.” She looked at the yard that had been her playground, memories stirring. “I used to people this yard with characters-from movies I’d seen or books I’d read, or simply from my own imagination-and I’d act out all the parts myself. Good training, eh?”

  “The love scenes must have been difficult.”

  “Very.” She grinned, laughter dancing in her eyes. “But considering some of the wooden actors I’ve kissed, it was good practice.”

  “You’re not putting me in that category, I hope,” he replied, and she laughed.

  “Not you, John T., never you.” Her glance rested a moment on his lips, so experienced, so expert at evoking emotion. Especially from her.

  There was so much invitation in that look John almost followed it up with action, but Paula was there. “Shall we start unloading?”

  “Might as well.” Kit nodded and fished the house key out of her purse.

  Three trips later and all the luggage and groceries were out of the Range Rover and in the house. John walked into the pine-walled kitchen and set the last sack of groceries on the Formica countertop.

  “That’s all of it,” he announced.

  “Great.” Kit stashed a gallon of skim milk in the refrigerator. “Paula’s putting some coffee on-”

  “Kit, where’s the can opener?” Paula scanned the countertop a new can of coffee in her hand.

  “The second drawer to your right.”

  She opened the drawer. “My God, a manual one.” She shoved the can opener and coffee into John’s hands. “I’ll break a nail. Now, where’s the coffeepot?”

  “On the stove.”

  “The stove.” Paula stared at the old-fashioned range-top percolator and shook her head. “I can handle a Mr. Coffee, Kit, but not that. Tomorrow we go to town and buy an electric can opener and a coffee maker. For now, we’ll forget the coffee and have tea instead.”

  “Think you can manage that?” John mocked.

  The redhead flashed him a humorless smile. “In my sleep. There’s nothing to it. Just fill the cups with water, pop them in the microwave-” She stopped and swung toward Kit. “You do have a microwave, don’t you?”

  Kit grinned at the look of dread on her friend’s face. “Rest easy. We do. It’s behind that sack of groceries next to the refrigerator. Dad bought it as a Christmas present to himself about five years ago.”

  “Thank God,” Paula declared with typical dramatics. “I wasn’t sure I could survive a month without a home-zapped meal.”

  When the can opener cut through the last centimeter of metal with a clicking finality, John pushed both away from him. “That’s it. I’ll leave you two to settle in and be on my way.”

  “You don’t have to go yet,” Kit protested and glanced at the wall clock. “It’s almost lunchtime. Stay and have something to eat with us.”

  He lifted a brow. “You’ve forgotten I saw what Paula bought at the store. Lettuce, low-fat yogurt, and melba toast is not my idea of food.”

  “What can I say?” Paula raised her shoulders in a careless shrug. “When this little month’s vacation is over, I still want to fit into my clothes. And I’d certainly never be able to do that if I continued eating the lavish meals at your house. Being a redhead is enough of a handicap in this business without being a plump one.”

  Kit cast an envisioning eye at her friend, slim-hipped and slender-curved in a cream silk blouse and khaki trousers cinched at the waist with a wide alligator belt. “I simply can’t see you ever being plump, Paula.”

  “And you never will.” She plucked a container of yogurt from one of the sacks and held it up. “My lunch.”

  When Kit started to respond to that, John interrupted. “Walk me out.”

  “Okay.” Kit moved to his side and companionably hooked an arm around his waist when he curved an arm across her shoulders. “Be back shortly,” she told Paula.

  “She’ll be back,” John qualified her statement before steering her out of the small kitchen.

  “What does that mean?” Her sideways glance was deliberately provocative.

  “It means…I haven’t been thanked properly for bringing you out here.” They passed through the living room to the front door. John opened it and Kit ducked under his arm to walk out ahead of him. Once on the porch, he reclaimed possession. “And that could take some time.”

  “I thought you were in a rush to leave,” she reminded him, a gleam of taunting humor in her eyes as they descended the steps.

  “Not that big of a rush that I’d deny myself a little pleasure before business.” When they reached the Range Rover, he pulled her around to face him, fitting her to the cradle of his hips.

  “I think I know what the pleasure is.” A small smile played across her lips as she settled comfortably against him and slipped her hands inside his light windbreaker, spreading them over the cotton knit of his polo shirt, feeling the hard, warm flesh beneath it and the even thud of his heart. “But what’s the business?”

  When she tipped her head back to look up at him, John brushed a kiss across her lips, then took advantage of the length of neck she exposed. “I have to check out some locations with Nolan and Abe this afternoon,” he said between nibbles. “In the meantime I have to get together with Chip. Lassiter’s getting impatient to see the script revisions and Chip’s fighting me on them.”

  “He believes in the script as it’s written.” She closed her eyes to better savor the delicious little shivers dancing over her skin. At the same moment she was reminded again of how extremely adept he was at eliciting a response from her. John lifted his head. “There’s such a thing as compromise.”

  “True.” Reluctantly she opened her eyes and studied the attractive cleft in his chin that seemed, somehow manly.

  “Have dinner with me tonight. No chaperones. No Paula, no Chip. Just you and me.”

  “Sounds tempting.” Aware that all his invitations sounded tempting, she idly ran a finger along the patrician fineness of his cheekbone, following its chiseled ridge to his hairline, then toyed with a few short-clipped strands of dark blond hair near his ear, “Unfortunately”-she sighed her regret-“I’d better not. I have a thousand things to do and if I keep spending most of my time with you, I’ll never get them done.”

  He didn’t like her answer and it showed in the thinning line of his mouth. “Are they so urgent they can’t be postponed?”

  “Not urgent, just endless.” She smiled at this reaction, rather liking the idea that he was irritated by her refusal, that he genuinely wanted to spend time with her. “I’ve got all my father’s things to go through,” she explained against his skin. “The papers in his desk, the clothes in his closet and drawers, his stuff in the bathroom, and-all his hunting equipment,” she remembered with a groan and bowed her head, resting it against his shoulder. “Plus all the food in the cupboards and pantry. Some of it’s probably been there since before I moved to California.” She drew back a little. “Not only do I have to go through everything, but I’ve got to figure out
what to pitch, what to keep for myself, what to sell, what to give away and to whom-”

  “I’m convinced.” He silenced her with a quick, hard kiss, then softened it into something drugging and addictive, proving again his ability to make her want him

  physically. When he finally let her surface for air, he gazed at her through half-lidded eyes.

  “Dinner, tomorrow night.” His voice had a husky rumble to it.

  “You’ve got a date,” She agreed recklessly, then kissed him again, quick and light. With John it was easy to get carried away by the feelings he aroused. Too easy. She slipped out of his arms. “Off to work with you, or I’ll never get anything done.”

  He was briefly annoyed at the way she had slipped out of his embrace. But her remark reminded him of the tasks ahead of him. “You’re right. I’ve got work to do, too” he admitted reluctantly.

  Kit moved to the porch and waved as he drove away. She lingered a moment after the sound of the engine had died away, caught by a strange need to memorize the scene-the flawless blue of the sky, the strong scent of pine and rich upland grasses in the air, and the whisper of the wind through the medallion-like leaves of the aspen. Sights, sounds, and smells to carry with her when she left. But not yet. She wasn’t leaving yet.

  She turned and walked into the house.

  Paula came from the kitchen carrying a circular metal tray. A blue-checked napkin covered the tray’s Coca-Cola design and a teapot and two cups and saucers were balanced on top of it.

  “The groceries are all put away.” She set the tray on the chunky-legged cocktail table in front of the living-room sofa. “‘The way my head’s pounding, I decided I needed a break before I faced unpacking my suitcases again. Care to join me for a cup of herbal tea?”

  “Thanks.” Kit discovered she didn’t feel like unpacking either-or doing one of the thousand things she’d just told John she needed to do. Instead she wandered the rest of the way into the living room, her glance taking in the oyster-glazed walls, the pine-planked ceiling, the rock fireplace, the rack of trophy antlers above it, and the decor she’d always labeled a cross between country and comfortable.

  Paula poured tea into both cups, handed one to Kit, then moved aside the throw pillows on the sofa and sank onto its soft cushion, gracefully curving a leg beneath her. She sipped at her tea while casually running an assessing eye around the room.

  “This is nice,” she concluded. “Spacious but cozy.” She paused and glanced dubiously at the trophy buck above the fireplace. “Although I’m not sure I like the idea of a dead animal staring down at me.”

  “Mother felt the same way,” Kit remembered. “She wouldn’t let Dad bring it in the house. He kept it in the barn for years.” She stood behind his favorite chair, a big, overstuffed armchair covered in a masculine gray plaid fabric with an equally oversized ottoman in front of it, an afghan in shades of gray and wine draped across it. “Dad loved to hunt. Deer, elk, moose, sheep, turkey-it never mattered to him. The minute hunting season opened-bow or rifle-he was gone. He guided a lot of hunting parties. He used to laugh and marvel at the idea a man could get paid for doing something he loved. For him, it was never the kill, but the hunt.”

  She ran a hand over the white linen antimacassar that protected the back of the chair. The tatting around its edges had frayed in spots from years of laundering. The antimacassar had been her mother’s doing; she’d been convinced his hair cream would leave a stain. After the divorce, his father had brought the trophy buck in from the barn, but he hadn’t thrown out the antimacassar. Kit wasn’t surprised. Both, in their own way, had been reminders of her mother.

  Giving in to the need to feel close to him, she sat down in his favorite chair and let its bigness surround her, the same way his laughter and love had once surrounded her. She took a sip of tea, and simultaneously decided she was definitely keeping the chair.

  “It’s funny,” Kit mused absently and balanced the cup and saucer on a wide, upholstered arm. “When I think of my father, I remember his laughter. With my mother, it’s her silence. She was always so quiet, rarely ever smiled or laughed. I’m not sure she knew how to express emotion or affection.”

  “Maybe she was afraid of it,” Paula suggested idly as she examined an old apothecary bottle on the wicker stand next to the sofa.

  “Maybe,” Kit lifted the cup and breathed in the tea’s aromatic steam, then blew lightly at its hotness before taking a sip.

  Paula noticed the small, gold-framed photograph next to the brown glass bottle and picked it up for a closer look. “This is a photo of your mother, isn’t it?”

  “Mmmm.” Kit nodded and lowered the cup. “Dad loved that picture of her.”

  “He kept it sitting out?” Paula frowned. “He divorced her.”

  “She divorced him,” Kit corrected. “He never stopped loving her, though.” She thought about it a moment, then added, “As hard as Mother took his death, I’m not sure she stopped loving him.”

  “Then, why-?”

  Kit shrugged with a touch of uncertainty. “In their case, I think loving each other just complicated their other problems.”

  Looking back, she suspected she’d probably always known things weren’t right between her parents, that they had problems. But it had never entered her head that they might break up. Divorce happened to other people’s parents. Not hers.

  She’d learned how wrong she was that awful Saturday morning when she’d come home after spending Friday night at Angie’s house. It had been October, too-a gray and cloudy October morning with winter’s chin in the air….

  The heavy storm door banged shut behind her as Kit swept into the house. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” she called out. The rush of outside air she’d let in turned her breath to a vapory stream. She barely glanced at either of her parents as she advanced into the living room, dropping her canvas bag on the floor, tossing her schoolbooks on the pine side table by the door, peeling off her muffler and throwing it over the back of a chair, dropping her mittens on the cushion-leaving her usual trail of clutter. “We had a riot last night. I’m not kidding. It-”

  “Kit.” Something in the tone of her father’s voice stopped her. She looked at him, sitting in his chair, all slumped forward, his elbows propped on his knees, his hands hanging limp between them. He had trouble meeting her eyes. He looked pale, ashen almost, and red-eyed. She grimaced a little in silent sympathy, certain he’d had too many Friday night beers and was paying for them this morning. “Sit down, Kit. Your mother and I have to talk to you.”

  “This sounds serious,” she mocked and glanced at her mother. She sat on the sofa, as always very stiff and straight, her face expressionless like a porcelain doll with blue eyes and rich brown hair. Her lips were pressed in that firm line Kit knew so well, a look that invariably preceded a lecture in something. “Don’t tell me.” Kit plunked herself down on the chair with her mittens. “Mrs. Westcott called to complain-“

  “This isn’t about Mrs. Westcott,” her father broke in again, that strange, terse edge in his voice startling her. This time Kit waited for him to explain what it was about. “Your mother’s leaving. She’s going to her cousin’s in California.”

  “California! Mother, that’s fabulous. When are you going? How long will you be gone? God, I’d love to go. It will be so sunny and warm there. When are you coming back?”

  “I’m not.”

  Kit opened her mouth, but she was too stunned to get anything to come out. “What do you mean you’re not?” she finally protested in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  She looked from one to the other, trying to figure out what was going on and refusing to let that little suspicion in the back of her mind take form.

  “Your mother’s…going to live there.” Her father faltered and stared at his hands, linking his fingers together and curling them tight. “There’s no easy way to say this, Kit-”

  “For God’s sake, Clint, just tell her,” her mother said and rose to her feet.


  “Tell me what?” Kit demanded, already afraid of the answer

  “Your father and I are getting a divorce,” she replied.

  “No,” Kit whispered the word, then repeated it more stridently as she jumped to her feet, fighting back tears. “No, you can’t. You can’t do this. You can’t leave!” But she saw her mother was deaf to her appeals and she swung around to her father. “Dad, talk to her. Make her change her mind. Make her stay.”

  “Kit, stop it,” her mother said harshly. “Nothing can be said that will change my mind. Not by you or your father. This was not an easy decision, but it’s made. Please try to accept it.”

  “No,” she sobbed, then turned and ran blindly from the house.

  She made it as far as the porch steps and leaned against the post, sobbing uncontrollably. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t get a divorce. They couldn’t.

  Her legs buckled and she sank to the steps, an arm wrapped around the post, her body shaking with the horrible pain of her crumbling world. She didn’t hear the front door open and close, or the footsteps crossing the porch. But she felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder and looked up at her father’s tear-streaked face, mirroring the anguish of her own.

  “I’m sorry, kitten,” he whispered and lowered himself onto the steps beside her.

  “It’s all my fault, isn’t it?” She tried to sniffle back the tears.

  “No. No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “She didn’t want me to quit dance class. The piano, I haven’t been practicing the way I should. My room’s always a mess. I’ll sell Sundance. I’ll help around the house, keep my room clean, do the dishes I won’t tie up the phone talking to Angie. I promise, I’ll-”

  “Don’t, Kit. Don’t do this to yourself.” He dragged her to him and pressed her face against the wool of his shirt, his arms hugging her tight and rocking her against him. “It’s not you. I swear this has nothing to do with you. It’s a problem between your mother and me, one that started before you were even born.”