by Carol Grace
Damn, he’d forgotten to give her the photograph they’d left. Though it was facedown on the mantel, he could see it in his mind’s eye. The picture didn’t do her justice. Her hair had a bounce to it that wasn’t apparent in the picture. She had a certain spirit that was only hinted at in a photograph. Standing there under the tree, he’d had an irrational desire to touch her hair to see if it would spring back. To see if it felt as silky as it looked.
Her eyes shot sparks in real life, especially when she was angry. Seeing her picture, no one would guess she could exude so much passion—about her son, about her ranch, about everything she cared about. He wondered if she’d cared that much about her husband. The rotten, no-account bastard the Realtor had referred to.
Though he tried not to think about her and her family, it was useless. He couldn’t ignore the faint aromas of wood smoke and furniture polish and the roses that climbed the trellis outside the window. In the darkness, those smells became more intense, assaulted his senses and filled him with regret—for what might have been, for himself and for the woman who’d given it all up. He felt sorry for himself and he felt just as sorry for her. He still didn’t understand why she’d had to mortgage the place to the hilt, and what went wrong with her marriage. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.
Chapter Four
When Laura got back to the bed-and-breakfast, she found the dirty dinner dishes stacked in the sink and her aunt nowhere to be seen. When she investigated, she found her aunt propped up in bed with the night-light on, but still awake.
“That dinner just did me in,” Emily explained with an apologetic smile.
“I should have been here to help you,” Laura said. Instead of chasing after her unruly son.
“Nonsense,” her aunt murmured. “I managed just fine and everyone loved my stuffed cornish game hens. There’s one for you and Dylan in the fridge.”
“That sounds wonderful. I’m starving, but Dylan just ate three peanut-butter sandwiches, so I imagine he’ll pass.”
Her aunt smiled understandingly.
Laura got her a drink of water and her pills, and hovered over her aunt’s bed, watching her take her medicine. Emily then sent Laura out of the room, saying she was going to sleep. As Laura washed the dishes, though her aunt instructed her sternly to leave them until morning, Dylan drank a tall glass of milk and went to take a shower, another of his most unfavorite things to do.
Laura went upstairs to the charming bedroom she was sharing with her son, the one her aunt had furnished with a hand-painted armoire and original prints of Western scenes done in ochre and tans and browns. She stood at the side of Dylan’s bed, studied his flushed face, his damp hair on the pillow, and her heart swelled with love. He was all she had in the world. From now on it was the two of them against the world. If he was being stubborn and troublesome, it was her fault. She was responsible for taking away the underpinnings of his life—his father and his home. What did she expect from him? He was only eight years old, for heaven’s sake.
The tree house was a symbol. A symbol of everything he’d lost. She had to find a way to preserve it, to move it to town once she had the housing questions settled. Or build him a new one. She sighed. As if she had the skill or the materials to do that. And even if she did, would Dylan object, saying his dad wouldn’t find him there? Whatever kind of a deal Brandon Marsh had made with her son, the bottom line was he eventually wanted the tree house off of his property. And Dylan would never agree to that.
She sighed and bent over to kiss him, a luxury he rarely permitted her, saying he wasn’t a baby anymore. She got a whiff of peanut butter on his lips.
Lying in the bed across the room, Laura tossed and turned under the smooth Egyptian cotton sheets her aunt insisted on. She thought about her truck. She wondered if one day she’d be stuck on the highway with a broken water pump. Alone and helpless without a cell phone. She thought about the ranch, not just about the tree house, but about her herb garden, and the main house, wondering where he slept, what he ate, and why he, a city man with no apparent family, wanted a ranch in the middle of nowhere anyway. Maybe that’s what her aunt had learned today, what she’d referred to on the phone.
She shifted from one side to the other. Somewhere a cat yowled and a car horn beeped. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. She wasn’t in the city, but she sure wasn’t in the country anymore. Her thoughts wandered back to the man in her house. If he was a professional negotiator, what was he doing here? Surely his talents were wasted on negotiating a settlement over a tree house.
The next morning she had a chance to talk to Aunt Emily. She deliberately didn’t mention Brandon Marsh or the ranch. But her aunt did. A good night’s rest seemed to have restored Aunt Emily’s strength, and it certainly hadn’t dampened her curiosity about the man who’d taken over the McIntyre ranch. As she skillfully rolled out dough for breakfast biscuits for her guests who were still asleep, she eyed Laura who was drinking coffee at the refinished kitchen table and peppered her with questions. Most of them began with why or how.
“As you’ve noticed, I have a problem with Dylan, Aunt Em,” Laura began, glad that Dylan had already bolted down a bowl of cereal and was out on his bike with strict instructions to stay within the city limits, which in the case of Silverado, was about a two-mile square area. “He thinks his father’s coming back and that he has to be at the ranch in his tree house to meet up with him. Which is why he went there yesterday. Which is why I called you from the ranch. I was trying to get him to come down out of the tree house.”
“How did you manage that?” Aunt Emily asked.
“I—uh—I didn’t. He did it. Brandon, the man who owns the ranch now. He coaxed him down with a peanut-butter sandwich. Three of them to be exact. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. Brandon doesn’t even like kids. He doesn’t want Dylan there. Or me. Or anybody. But somehow he knew what to do.” She shook her head, still amazed at what had happened.
“Hmmm. Interesting,” her aunt said.
Laura glanced at her watch. She knew she ought to leave for work. If she got there early she could sort the mail. But her aunt hadn’t told her what she’d heard yesterday from Buzz. Laura didn’t ask because she didn’t want to appear too interested, but after all, the man was living on her ranch.
“You say you ran into Buzz yesterday?” Laura asked finally, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
“Yes. Everything he told me is confidential, but seeing as the man is living in your house, I think you have a right to know why he’s looking for solitude, why he wants his space.”
“Don’t tell me it’s true he’s going to build a theme park or that he’s wanted in forty-eight states for bigamy?”
“Or that he’s hoping to reopen the silver mine and work it like your great-grandfather did? No, nothing like that. Oh, there’s my phone. Let’s hope it’s a reservation.”
Laura didn’t hesitate. That was her cue to leave. No more excuses. She picked up her government issue blue jacket, waved goodbye to her aunt, who was talking and writing on her calendar, and walked down the street to the post office. She really didn’t want to hear Brandon Marsh’s story. She wanted to put him out of her mind. Which wasn’t easy. She kept picturing him standing in her herb garden soaking wet, his shirt stuck to his chest, his pants stuck to his muscular legs. She kept remembering how it felt to fall into his arms. Twice. No, three times.
What a picture he’d made, this macho man standing there with three peanut-butter sandwiches in his hand, which he’d made himself, coaxing Dylan out of the tree. She reminded herself that his motive was not to help her, but to get rid of them. To do so, he’d had to resort to bribery. And it had worked. What he’d actually do about the tree house remained to be seen.
How could an ordinary woman and an eight-year-old win any concessions from a professional negotiator who held all the cards? Now that he’d gotten Dylan off his land, he’d certainly do everything he could to keep him away. All he’d agreed
to was to hold off on the demolition as long as Dylan stayed away. And if he did, she might never hear from him again, and that was for the best. In the cold light of morning, Laura knew that if Brandon really wanted to tear the tree house down, he had every right to. But somehow she knew he’d keep his word with her son. There was something about the look in his eye, the tone of his voice that told her he meant what he said. That he’d make a deal with them. That he was a man of his word. But if he wasn’t, she was helpless. All she could do was keep Dylan away from the ranch.
Some days she loved her job. Other days she wondered if this was really where she wanted to spend the next thirty years as the postmistress. That was one of the questions the official from the post office in Reno asked when he’d interviewed her yesterday.
“How long do you plan to stay with the Post Office? We’re looking for stability,” the man had said. “Your predecessor has provided the community with continuous service.”
“I know. Willa Mae is my role model. I only hope I can live up to her reputation,” Laura had replied sincerely. “My only desire is to serve the community.” Well, that wasn’t her only desire. She also desired to make enough money to support herself and her son, and to look forward to a government pension in thirty years so she could retire. No, she didn’t plan to move to Reno and kick up her heels the way Willa Mae did.
Laura pictured herself in a small house in town where she’d sit in her rocker and watch the action from her front porch in her twilight years. If she was lucky enough to get this job. If she was lucky enough to have twilight years. “Is anyone else applying for the job?” she’d asked. Even if she didn’t have the highest grade on the qualifying exam, she might get the job by default.
“I can’t tell you that,” he’d said stiffly and wound up the interview by saying she’d know in two weeks if she had the job.
What would she do if she didn’t get the job? Silverado was not exactly a hotbed of activity and employment opportunities. Where would they live if she didn’t get Willa Mae’s apartment over the post office? They couldn’t stay at the bed-and-breakfast forever. The minute Aunt Emily had to turn down a paying guest because she and Dylan were occupying a room, Laura would feel so guilty she’d have to leave. No matter how kind her aunt was, she had a business to run, not a shelter for poor relatives.
BRANDON PACED back and forth on the deck of the ranch house waiting for a call from a client. It was quiet out there. Too quiet. Yes, that was what he wanted. Yes, that was the reason he’d moved there. But for the past week he’d been restless. He told himself it was just a matter of adjusting to his new life. It would take a while. He’d expected the boy to come back to the tree house. But he hadn’t. He wasn’t disappointed. He was relieved.
He’d gone to town yesterday to pick up a week’s worth of mail, but it was lunchtime and a different young woman was behind the counter. He was relieved to see Laura wasn’t there. He wouldn’t have known what to say to her if he had seen her. He was just relieved that Dylan hadn’t returned to the ranch. A deal is only a good deal if both parties feel satisfied. In this case, Brandon did, but he was sure the boy didn’t. Not if it kept him away from his beloved tree house.
In many circles Brandon was known for his skill in doing just that—making everybody involved in a negotiation somewhat happy, with both parties feeling like they’d come out on top. But he’d never been personally involved before. After picking up his mail he drove back toward the ranch, feeling oddly let down. And spent the rest of the day sitting on the wide veranda staring off at the hills in the distance.
He’d once thought that doing his work on the ranch would be no problem. Thanks to his computer, his modem and his fax machine, most of his work these days could be done anywhere. So he’d thought. But he was having trouble concentrating these days. His mind still drifted back to the past and to the tragedy that had changed his life forever. But sometimes, without his knowing how or why, he thought about the family who lived in this house, imagining how life was for them before events had forced them to move away. From his perspective, that hardly counted as a tragedy, but for them, he imagined it did.
Some days like today, he found himself in a kind of limbo, not living in the past, but not really connected to the present, either. He thought of himself as straddling a rough-hewn wooden fence like the one that bordered the ranch, where one good push could land him squarely in the past or in the future. So after checking his messages and sending a couple of faxes and finally getting a call from the client, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He decided to take his car out for a test run. He’d told Dylan his car could go one hundred and twenty—that’s what it said in a popular car magazine—but he hadn’t actually tested it.
One thing about Nevada—there was little traffic on the long stretch of black macadam, and few speed limits were observed. For someone with a high-performance car, these roads were a definite draw. For someone who’d loved cars since he was a kid, who’d read car magazines as a teenager and dreamed of owning a car like this, Nevada was a driver’s paradise. Yes, it was a definite temptation to let the car go.
He put the top down and felt the hot wind sting his face. He watched the speedometer needle climb and his spirits rose along with it. One hundred, one-ten…But the steering was heavy, not the response he expected from his car at this speed. He slowed down, and the steering got worse. There was a growling sound when he turned the steering wheel. What the hell was going on here?
He pulled off the road onto a soft shoulder and checked under the hood. The power steering reservoir was bone-dry! Thank God he caught it. If he’d driven any farther he might have ruined the power steering pump. But now what? Who did he call? Did they even have a tow truck in Silverado?
He had his cell phone but he didn’t know who to call.
What was the name of the garage Laura had mentioned? Scotty’s—yes that was it. He called Information, got the number and Scotty promised to send a tow truck for him. The kid who came said he was Scotty’s son. He didn’t look a day over sixteen. He took a moment to stand on the side of the road and admire the sleek lines, the smooth finish and the hood ornament of Brandon’s car.
“Nice car,” he said respectfully.
“Thanks.”
“How fast can she do?”
“One hundred twenty.”
Impressed, he whistled. Then he got down to business and looked under the hood. “Looks like you need a new power steering hose.”
Brandon nodded. “I don’t suppose you have one in stock.”
The kid shrugged. “You’ll have to ask my dad.”
Brandon rode in the cab of the truck with his eye on his car in the rearview mirror.
“This is the first time my dad’s let me drive the tow truck,” the boy said proudly.
“Really?” Brandon kept his eyes glued to his car behind them, his confidence only slightly shaken by this statement.
“Yep. The garage is so busy today my dad couldn’t spare anyone else. Anyone with experience,” the boy confessed cheerfully.
“He must have confidence in you,” Brandon noted.
“Guess so. He’s taught me everything he knows. I’ve been working for him after school and during vacations since I could reach the steering wheel of a car. After high school my dad’s gonna make me an apprentice and pay me union wage.”
“Then you’re going to stay right here in Silverado?” Brandon asked. He would have thought most high school kids would be on the first bus out of town after graduation, looking for jobs and excitement. But this kid said he had no desire to leave Silverado. Why should he? He thought it was the best place for a kid to grow up. Brandon knew it was rare for a teenager to respect his father the way this kid obviously did, and he wondered how it happened. Maybe it was easier in a small town. He didn’t know. Even more important was that the father obviously respected the kid, or he wouldn’t let him drive the tow truck, would he?
Scotty’s was located just off Main Street.
The lot was full of cars with two or three mechanics working on them. Scotty himself was tall and solid and seemed to be everywhere at once. Brandon had to wait a half hour before Scotty wiped his hands on a clean rag and inspected Brandon’s car.
“Your son tells me I’m going to need a new power steering hose,” Brandon said.
Scotty smiled proudly. “Smart boy. He’s right. Yes, this one’s sprung a leak. Never know when that’s going to happen or where. I don’t have any in stock. We don’t get many of these cars. But I can order you one from Reno.”
“How long will that take?” Brandon asked.
“If they have it in stock, I might have it for you tomorrow,” Scotty said.
“Tomorrow?” Might have it for you tomorrow? How was he going to get back to the ranch? How was he going to get back here tomorrow? How was he going to get along without his car?
“Give me a call first, before you come in,” Scotty said.
“You the guy who bought the McIntyre place?”
“Yes.”
“Nice piece of land. Last of the big spreads. What are you going to do with it?” Scotty asked.
“Live there,” Brandon said.
Scotty gave him a swift appraisal. “By yourself?” he asked.
Brandon was tempted to tell him he was going to turn it into a Wild West brothel. Why not start another rumor in a town that fed on them like cattle fed on hay? But he just nodded and asked Scotty to remove the scratch in the fender while he was at it.
“By the way, you reline brakes, right?” Brandon asked.
