by Janet Dailey
“It’s the old story,” his father grunted. “The strong think they’re strong and the weak think they’re weak. They beat themselves by thinking so.”
“I guess.”
“I figure Silverwood will be the next to change hands.” Old Tom scraped at the black char in his pipe with the wooden end of a match. “Be sad to see that.”
Laura piped up. “I think it’s horrible.”
“Makes you mad, does it?” Old Tom eyed the girl seated at the small pine desk he’d built three decades ago for his son to use.
“Yes.”
“Don’t see the mountains getting mad, do you?”
“Of course not. Mountains don’t get angry, Gramps,” she said with a trace of disgust at such a foolish question.
“That’s right. The mountains don’t get angry or struggle or cry. If man does, it’s of his own making and his own foolishness. This land knows that nothing man destroys will remain destroyed. Beside every fallen tree that man cuts, you’ll find seedlings to replace it. Walk down any street and you’ll find grass growing in the cracks. Man builds his houses, his towns, and his roads over it, and the land lets him, but the fertility is still there, underneath it all. When man steps aside, the land will reclaim what he left and erase all marks of it. Look at that old mine shaft and the brush taking over its tailings, covering up the tracks the miners left. That’s the power of the land. Remember that.”
“Gramps, you don’t know a lot about pollution, do you?” She gave him a pitying look. “Acid rain has killed whole forests. Our entire environment is threatened by toxic wastes.”
He stopped her. “But the land will come back. Maybe not in your lifetime or even your grandchildren’s, but the day will come. Man can destroy man, but he can’t kill the land. When the last human has disappeared from the face of it, the land will still be here. The power of the land is endless, its fertility indestructible.” He paused to suck on his empty pipe, testing its draw. “All this talk about ozone layers, polluting the water and the air, it isn’t about man’s fear of what he’s doing to the land, but what he’s doing to himself. Man doesn’t want to protect the land; he wants to protect his own existence. Man knows, somewhere deep down inside, that the land will take care of itself just fine.”
Bannon studied the thoughtful frown Laura wore, wondering how much she had absorbed of that. Abruptly she shrugged and turned back to her homework. “Just the same, I think it’s awful Silverwood is being sold. Aunt Sondra says someone will probably build a resort on it with ski runs and shops and restaurants and big homes.” She wagged her pen, tapping the end of it against a cheek. “Buffy thinks that will be great. Maybe she’s right. It would be close enough I could ride over on the weekends and Buffy and I could go skiing. She wants me to get a hot pink ski suit like hers so we’d match. She’s got boots and everything to go with it. It’s really sharp.”
The wistfulness, the hint of envy in her voice had Bannon turning back to the fire. Things. Clothes. Boots. Skis. Weekends spent playing. How could he tell her not to want the things her friends had? How could he make her understand that possessions weren’t important, that they couldn’t take the place of the things that made life worth while like the bone-deep satisfaction of a day’s work done well, the pleasure of shared laughter, and the enveloping warmth of love. They were needs of the spirit money could never fulfill. Without that fulfillment there was only loneliness. He knew that.
“I think I’ll call it a night.” The pipe clattered to its resting place in the rack. A second later, Old Tom heaved himself out of the chair. “This old body of mine seems to need more rest than it used to.”
Laura glanced up, sending him a quick smile. “Good night, Gramps.”
“Good night, chickapea.” He called her by the nickname he always used in moments of deep fondness. His route to the stairs took him by the fireplace. He paused next to Bannon and lay a big, mottled hand on his shoulder, drawing his side glance. “You can’t fool me, boy,” he said quietly. “It ain’t the Gregory’s selling out that’s got your head down. It’s knowing that when Silverwood’s sold, the last tie is cut.”
His eyes, soft and sad with understanding, held Bannon’s gaze for an instant longer, then Old Tom drew his hand back and continued to the stairs.
Kit’s name hadn’t been spoken, but it hadn’t needed to be. Bannon listened to his father’s footsteps on the stairs and gazed at the flickering yellow flames.
For a moment he remembered the scene on the ridge and a little of that tumult came back to him. Her features and her mannerisms were clearly before him-the infectious warmth of her smile, the vivid blue color of her eyes in anger, the pride that strengthened her voice. She had an outward beauty and an outward grace, but more than that, Kit was rich in the way a woman should be rich, at times laughing and reckless, at times showing him the dark mysterious glow of a softer mood.
Remembering these things, Bannon felt an old rankling hunger that he knew would never grow less and never be satisfied. He stared at the fire, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the past, so vivid yet so everlastingly over.
From the second floor came the faint creak of bedsprings, then the dull thud of boots landing on the wood floor. After more vague stirrings, there was only the soft hiss of the fire and the occasional rustling of notebook paper from the desk area. Bannon never changed his stance or broke his absorption in the flames. The clump of footsteps on the porch came to him distantly. A hand pounded three times on the front door before he roused himself and left the fireside.
He opened the door to a blast of cold night air. Kit stood poised on the threshold, a striped stocking cap pulled down around her ears, her hands clasped high on her chest as if she’d been blowing on them for warmth.
“Hi.” A vapory cloud of breath escaped with the word. “Would you share your fire with a cold traveler?” Her lips were almost too stiff with cold to form the words. She huddled deep in her jacket, shuddering.
“You little fool.” Bannon pulled her inside and shut the door. “Do you realize how cold it is out there?”
“Do I ever,” she murmured, then shivered uncontrollably. “But it was just nicely nippy when I left the ranch. I forgot how fast temperatures can drop in the mountains.”
“It’s supposed to get below freezing tonight.” He wanted to shake her but she was already doing that without his help.
“I think it’s already there.” Her nose was runny from the cold. She sniffed. “Dance threw a shoe. I had to walk him the last two miles. I unsaddled him and put him in the corral with your horses. Is that all right?”
“Fine.” Belatedly he noticed the rifle case she hugged in front of her. “What’s that for?”
“You.” Her teeth were threatening to chatter now that the room’s warmth had started to seep in. “It’s Dad’s favorite rifle. He’d want you to have it.” She held it out to him. “He got his trophy buck with this. He always called the Remington his lucky rifle.”
“I remember.” Bannon ran a stroking hand over the length of the case, then met her eyes with a soft look. “I’ll take care Of it.”
“I know.” She smiled, a little more naturally this time, and automatically rubbed at her arms to stimulate circulation.
“Get out of that jacket and over by the fire,” he said. “I’ll see if we still have some coffee hot in the kitchen.”
“Sounds good.”
Her glance lingered on the view of his tapering back when he moved away from her. Turning into the room, she pulled off her stocking cap and shook her hair loose. The cheery fire beckoned and she headed for it, tugging off her cold leather gloves. She faltered in mid-stride when she saw the young girl at the desk coolly watching her. A young girl with Diana’s eyes and Diana’s hair and Diana’s face. Kit told herself this was Bannon’s daughter but it didn’t seem to help.
“Hello, Laura.” The small movement of her mouth barely passed for a smile.
“Hello.” The response was slow and cool.
Kit searched for something else to say, but the girl eliminated the need by turning her back to Kit and bending over the schoolbooks on the desk. Her action unleashed a tide of relief so intense Kit was almost ashamed. She crossed quickly to the fireplace, putting more distance between herself and the girl. She stood facing the gently blazing logs, burying her cap and gloves in a pocket and shrugging out of the fringed jacket that had done so little to protect her from the mountain’s plummeting temperatures.
When Bannon returned with the coffee, Laura got up from her chair. “I’m going to my room,” she informed him and gathered up her school things.
“Have you finished your homework?” He felt the tension and recalled the silence that had greeted him when he first returned to the room.
“I have a history chapter to read. I’ll do it upstairs,” she replied in a precise voice, her hands locked across her books.
“All right.” The instant he nodded, Laura started for the stairs. “Laura.” Bannon frowned. “Tell Miss Masters good night.”
Turning, she looked at Kit. “Good night, Miss Masters.”
“Good night, Laura.”
Bannon had learned the shaded meanings in Laura’s various degrees of silence and politeness. He recognized the odd restraint in his daughter, a veiled resentment toward Kit. Had he inadvertently transmitted it to her with his talk about the sale of Silverwood? Or was the cause rooted in something more feminine-like the presence of a strange woman in her home? He couldn’t be sure.
He watched Laura climb the steps to her room before he went on to the stone fireplace. “Sorry.” He flicked a glance at the stairs. “Laura isn’t normally that unfriendly.”
“It’s all right.” Kit wrapped both hands around the mug and raised it to her lips.
“I laced it with Jack Daniels,” he warned an instant before the whiskey burn choked her throat.
She coughed to clear it, then said a little hoarsely, “Just what I needed-some antifreeze in the carburetor.”
“That’s what I thought.” He returned her quick smile and lifted his mug to take a cautious drink of his own doctored coffee.
When she took another hasty sip, he noticed her hands clenched around the cup, the knuckles white from the pressure of her grip. Tension? It wasn’t a word he normally associated with Kit.
“Where’s Old Tom?”
“He’s called it a night.”
“Have you told him about my decision?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I’m in his black book.” There was a rueful pull on her mouth.
“When I first told him, he may have written your name down. I think he’s erased it since then.” He studied her a moment, perceptive enough to see that behind that brightness and light voice, something was troubling her. And he didn’t think it was his father’s reaction.
“Old Tom’s always been remarkably patient.”
“The land taught him that. It slows us all down. We can’t go faster than it goes.”
“True.” She took the poker and stabbed at the logs, sending up a shower of sparks. “What about you? Are you still angry with me?” Her quick smiling glance indicated she wasn’t too concerned about his answer either.
Still he gave it to her. “I was never angry with you, Kit. Only with your decision.”
“Right.” She put the poker back and wandered over to the floor lamp next to his father’s chair. He wanted to tell her to come back by the fire and keep warm, but in this mood, Bannon knew she could never stand still.
“What’s bothering you, Kit?”
“Is it so obvious?” A wryness tugged at her mouth as she trailed a finger over the lamp’s brass stand, then lightly touched its shade before moving on.
“In you-yes.”
She paused beside a Remington bronze. “When you come to a blind jump and you don’t know what lies beyond it, what do you do, Bannon?”
He frowned at her question. “Jump it.”
“As easy as that?”
“If you have to make the jump, why stop and think about it?”
“What if you can jump or stay behind?” She continued her circle of the room.
His eyes narrowed on her. “You’re not the kind to refuse a jump, Kit.”
She stopped, cocking her head to the side. “Are you so sure of that, Bannon?”
“You’re a strong-willed woman, Kit.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” She wandered over to the spinet and plunked an ivory key.
“It’s the truth.” Bannon sipped his coffee and continued to watch her over the mug’s rim, letting the silence between them build for a time. When she didn’t break it, he finally asked, “What’s this jump you have to take and can’t see beyond?”
She briefly met his glance, then shrugged. “Fame-of a sort.”
“Is it what you want?”
“Maybe.” She sat down on the end of the piano bench.
Bannon stared grimly into his cup, a muscle flexing along his jaw. “Then jump.” He bolted down a hefty swallow.
“That’s a bit brutal,” she replied with more energy than she’d used previously.
“Probably. But I think you made this decision years ago when you went to Hollywood.” It was just as well that he remembered that. Kit had now joined the crowd that came to Aspen to party and play. Her decision to sell Silverwood proved that.
“If I did, I seem to be having second thoughts.” She sighed and swiveled on the bench seat to face the keyboard.
“Second thoughts or stage fright? You always had a bad case of nerves before you went on,” Bannon reminded her.
“Always,” Kit admitted with a quick smile and began picking at the keys with one finger, plinking out the tune to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” “That’s the first song your mother taught me to play. I used to enjoy coming over here for my piano lessons three times a week. Of course, it wasn’t the piano lessons I liked-it was coming over here.”
When she opened a music book and began to struggle through the song, Bannon drifted over to the piano, drawn by the familiar sight of her slim form bent over the keys, the light sliding across the honey gold surface of her hair, and the look of intense concentration on her face. She stumbled through the piece, wincing in amusement at her mistakes. Bannon smiled along with her.
Finished, she dropped her hands to her lap, her shoulders sagging. “I haven’t touched a piano in years.”
“It shows.” Bannon rested an arm atop the piano, facing her.
“Thanks a lot.” Kit reached up and sifted through the music books until she found one for beginners. “This is more my speed.” When she flubbed the third note, she threw up her hands. “That’s it. I quit.”
“You did that a lot, too,” he said with a faint grin.
“And I did it for good when I discovered practice does not make perfect, it makes tedium.” She closed the beginners book, then paused and smoothed a hand over the cover, her expression sobering a little. “Does Laura take lessons?”
He nodded. “She started this year. Her teacher thinks she has some real talent.”
“That’s more than I had. But I was always a better listener than a pianist.” She looked up at him. “Do you still play?”
“When I have time.”
“You have time now,” she challenged and scooted to the far end of the piano bench, taking her coffee with her. “Come on. Play something for me.”
Bannon hesitated a moment, then set his cup on top of the piano and slid onto the bench beside her. Strong, blunt-tipped fingers ran over the keys in an exploring riff. “Any requests?”
“Something soft. Something soothing.”
Nodding, he thought a moment, then started to play. Kit listened, trying to recognize the selection. Beethoven. An adagio movement from one of his piano sonatas. She couldn’t remember which one.
She detected a minor mistake and ignored it. What Bannon lacked in technique, he made up for in feeling. The single notes the fingers on
his right hand picked out had a lost and lonely sound without any music from his left to fill them. Yet the notes kept vying to build hope, searching, rising, and falling back with a touch of despair only to rise again. A sound so lost, yet so determined. So in tune with her own feelings.
How well he knew her. How very, very well. Yet without really knowing her at all. She lifted her gaze from the work-roughened fingers moving so sensitively over the keys, and let it travel over his irregular features. Emotions she’d tried so hard to bury came filtering back.
He glanced at her, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, a half smile on his lips. Kit felt the quick lift of her heart and looked away, afraid it would show, afraid nothing had changed.
She covered her averted glance with a quick sip of whiskey-laced coffee. “Don’t stop,” she whispered and slid off the bench, not stopping until she had some distance from him.
Back by the fireplace, Kit settled into a brick red armchair, hooked the toe of her boot under its padded footstool to draw it closer, then propped her feet on it, knees bent. Thus relaxed, she let the music flow over and through her.
Darkness closed tight around the windows, but all was cozy and warm in the lodge-like living room. Rustic and solid, its log walls gleamed softly in the fire’s mellow glow. The Indian rugs on the floor fit the room as comfortably as the spinet piano where Bannon played. Mostly classical pieces, mostly Beethoven.
Kit drank the last of the coffee and held the mug against her legs, her muscles loosening, her tension fading, her body warmed by the whiskey and the fire. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and simply listened.
With hardly a break to mark the transition, the music changed as Bannon switched from Beethoven to Bacharach and an airy, spritely tune filled the room. Kit laughed softly when she recognized the song “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” A choice that somehow seemed singularly appropriate as well. Crying wasn’t for her, either.
“Checking to see if you were awake over there.” His voice held an undertone of amusement.
“I’m awake,” she assured.
