by Carol Grace
“Sure.”
“And replace water pumps?”
“Of course.”
“Just wondered,” Brandon said.
He walked away from the garage feeling what might be called separation anxiety in some circles. To be without his car was unthinkable. If this was San Francisco, it wouldn’t take that long to get a part. If this was San Francisco, he’d rent a car. If this was San Francisco…But it wasn’t. This was Silverado. If he didn’t know it before, he knew it now. So much for isolation and small-town charm.
He was stuck in the middle of town with nothing to do but walk aimlessly down Main Street and think about Laura driving a beat-up old truck. She didn’t believe him when he told her how dangerous it was. She thought he was some kind of obsessive nut. Maybe he was, but if he could prevent another accident, it was worth it.
This was not the kind of town where you called a cab. This was the kind of town where you called a relative or a friend. He only had one friend and he wasn’t sure she’d consider herself one. And if he did call her, what would she say? Would she feel obliged to point out the irony of his worries about her old truck when it was his expensive new car that had failed on the highway?
He walked by the hardware store with its display of tools and heavy equipment, the drugstore and the feed-and-fuel store, and he realized there were no boutiques, no souvenir shops or galleries. Everything for sale was something needed for everyday life. Every building was utilitarian except for the beautiful large restored Victorian house on the corner with the sign on a plaque that announced it was the Silverado Historical Society.
Brandon stood for a moment studying the gingerbread trim and the stained-glass window above the door, thinking about the gold and silver rush that made it all possible. Picturing Laura’s great-grandfather turning over a greenish mass and finding silver. Then he turned around and cut through the grassy town square with its turreted bandstand that looked as if it had been there for at least one hundred years and headed for the post office. Through the window he saw Laura behind the counter. She was leaning forward, talking earnestly to a customer.
He thought she was probably good at her job; she seemed to like helping people. He remembered how she’d offered to show him around on the first day he’d arrived. How he’d brusquely turned her down. He tried to imagine why Dylan’s father had left them. A woman like that, with her looks, and intelligence, her drive and determination, the way she stood up for her son. The guy had to be crazy. She’d find someone else. But who?
Suddenly she looked up and he caught her eye. Laura’s face paled, then her cheeks turned red. She hadn’t expected to see Brandon Marsh, though it shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise since he had to come in to pick up his mail if he wanted it. But he hadn’t been in all week, at least not when she was there. In any case, there was no reason to react this way. With alternating chills and fever as if she had the flu. She’d been trying to help Madge Silverstone find her daughter’s zip code, but now the numbers swam in front of her eyes.
Finally Madge turned around to follow Laura’s gaze, to see what the distraction was. “Who’s that?” she asked, peering over her bifocals.
“Brandon Marsh, the man who bought my ranch,” Laura said.
“Good looking son of a gun,” the old lady said with a chuckle. “What’s he staring at you for?”
“I…ah…” Laura wanted to deny he was staring at her, but she couldn’t. He was staring. And his penetrating gaze made it impossible for her to look away. With his tall, rangy frame, broad shoulders and rugged features, he was without a doubt the best-looking man to set foot in Silverado for a long time. Maybe ever. Which was no excuse to stare back at him.
“Probably waiting for me to clear out so he can pick up his mail,” Madge said, turning back to the zip code directory. “I hear he’s quite a loner.”
“Really. Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, I forget. Somebody who heard it from Buzz.”
Buzz the Realtor. She should have known. And Brandon should have known better than to tell Buzz anything. But he didn’t. He knew nothing about small towns and the way gossip spread. Well, he’d learn.
As if he’d heard them discussing him, Brandon was gone when she looked up. She wanted to run out on the street and ask him where he was going. To tell him to come back and get his mail. But of course she didn’t. That would be highly unprofessional. And unnecessary. If he didn’t want his mail, he could leave it in his box. It was no business of hers. After Madge left, Laura refused to stand staring out the window waiting and watching. Instead she sorted outgoing boxes for the late afternoon pickup.
A while later he was back. Without a greeting, as if she was no more than a government employee there to serve him and the rest of the public he asked for his mail. When she handed him a packet of magazines and envelopes, her hand brushed his. His gaze met hers. Did he feel something? Anything? Did he feel the same electric shock she did? Was his skin covered with goose bumps like hers was? Of course not. If it was, he’d never let on.
There was no one else in the post office. The mail lay forgotten on the counter. The silence stretched between them. She looked at the clock and watched the seconds tick by as she tried to think of something to say. She wanted to ask where he’d been all week, she wanted to hear how pleased he was that Dylan hadn’t violated their agreement, but he didn’t speak.
Finally he broke the silence. “I have a problem,” he said. “With my car. I don’t want to bother you, but I don’t know anyone else and I need help.”
“Help with your car?” She gasped in surprise. So that’s why he stood there without speaking. He was reluctant to ask her for help. “I’m not the one to ask. I don’t know anything about cars, as you well know.”
“You don’t have to. All I need is a ride home. My car’s at Scotty’s Garage. My power steering hose sprung a leak and they have to order a new one. It won’t be ready for at least another day,” he said.
She stifled a smile.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Go ahead and gloat. Because your beat-up truck is still running, while my new car, for all the work and money I’ve put into it, is in the garage.”
“I didn’t say a word,” she protested.
“But you’re thinking it. You’re thinking how ironic it is.”
Yes, that was exactly what she was thinking. Not that she’d ever admit it. Because he didn’t look like he was in the mood for irony. He looked annoyed that anything could go wrong with his car. Not only that, he looked like she was the last person he wanted to ask for help. But he had no choice.
“I’m not thinking anything of the sort,” she protested. “You don’t know what I’m thinking unless you’re telepathic. And if you were, you’d know that’s not what I’m thinking. And I don’t gloat. Now what can I do for you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her waist.
“You could give me a ride home, if you don’t mind. I’d call a taxi, but…”
“There are no taxis in Silverado,” she said. “I’d be glad to give you a ride. But as you can see, I’m all alone here, so you’ll have to wait until five when I get off. Another thing. You’ll have to ride in my truck. The brakes could go out or the water pump could fail anytime.” She was aware that if she wasn’t gloating, she was being sarcastic. It did give her some satisfaction to stick it to him, however gently, after the way he’d come down on her for failing to maintain her truck. “We’d be stuck,” she added. “Because I don’t have a cell phone.”
He pulled his phone from his shirt pocket. “But I do.” He looked at his watch. What did he think, that she’d drop everything and drive him home now?
“There’s the coffee shop,” she suggested.
“Don’t worry about me. I have plenty to do.”
“Then you can meet me at my aunt’s a little after five. It’s the big lavender Victorian on Spring Street just off the town square.”
“Thank you. I appreciate this.”
<
br /> “Don’t mention it,” she said.
Brandon went to the coffee shop. When he said he had plenty to do, he was lying. He had nothing to do but wait for her. It was only three-thirty. She may have had plans for after work, but she’d graciously said yes anyway. What if she had a date? After all, she was divorced or separated, wasn’t she? She’d told him that Dylan’s father was not coming back. She was free to go out. He wondered for the second time that day whom she’d date in this town.
Sitting at the counter in the café he observed the other customers. Most were men who looked like ranchers. If she was in the market for another rancher, this was the place to look. If she was in the market…And she should be. How was she going to support herself on the salary of a postmistress? Living in town in a rented house after having a ranch would be quite a comedown. Not that she’d ever admit it. She was too proud. He was surprised she’d admitted she didn’t have enough money for car repairs.
“You the new fella out at the McIntyre ranch?” the waitress asked, handing him a menu.
“How did you know?” he asked. Would he ever get used to small-town curiosity? Or the fact that everyone knew everything about everybody else? Or wouldn’t rest until they did? He was just grateful no one knew all about him. Or did they? No, if they did, they’d get that familiar pitying look in their eyes, and they’d tiptoe around him, afraid to talk about death or accidents or children. At least Laura McIntyre didn’t know. She was as transparent as the glass window with U.S. Post Office written in gold-edged letters across it. If she did know, he’d see it in her eyes, hear it in the tone of her voice. Her anguish over her son, her regret at leaving the ranch, her shame at not having enough money to pay for car repairs were all blatantly evident by the expressions on her face. She’d make a terrible poker player.
“We don’t get that many strangers,” the waitress said. “How do you like it out there?”
“Fine,” he said.
“Too bad about Laura. Never thought she’d ever sell the ranch.”
“You’re a friend of hers?” he asked.
“We were in high school together,” she said. “She was prom queen, class president, honor society. Could have been anything. But all she wanted was to stay here, get married and have kids. But then…”
“How’s the pie?” Brandon asked. He was sure Laura would not want her friend to be recounting her life story to a stranger in the café. He certainly didn’t want to hear her story from anyone, least of all the waitress.
“Just come out of the oven,” she said. “Can I get you a piece with some coffee?”
He nodded, and when she returned with his order she tilted her head to one side to observe him more closely. “What’s your deal?” she asked. “You gonna run cattle?”
“No, no cattle.”
“Raise horses?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Grow wheat, oats, barley?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I’m just going to enjoy the view.” And the solitude. He was beginning to regret ever coming into the café. He had no idea that he as a stranger was fair game.
“By yourself?” she asked incredulously.
“That’s right,” he said firmly and poured cream into his coffee.
“Gonna join the Grange?”
“I’m not sure.” He didn’t know what the Grange was, but didn’t want to join it or anything else, whatever it was.
“All the ranchers belong. Laura’s great-grandfather started it. She belongs. Everyone does.”
“Oh,” he said, picked up his fork and took a bite of warm cherry pie. “Then I guess I’ll have to join,” he said. Anything to get her off his case.
“What about the historical society?”
“I just got here,” Brandon said. “I don’t know anything about the history.”
“Good way to learn. They’ve got lectures and pamphlets, meetings every month,” she said.
“Uh-huh. I’ll think about it.”
“Well,” the waitress said apologetically, “I gotta go now. Enjoy.”
He did enjoy the pie. Then somehow he managed to kill enough time by walking aimlessly from one end of town to the other, then buying the local newspaper and reading it on a bench in the town square. Just when he hoped he’d blended into the scenery behind his newspaper, someone stopped, sat down and advised him to subscribe to the Silverado Bulletin.
“It’s cheaper that way,” the man said. “And you get it delivered to your door.”
“Not my door. Nothing gets delivered to my door,” Brandon said, lowering his paper to regard the older man with the mustache sitting next to him. “Not yet, anyway. But I’m working on it. Are you in charge of circulation?”
“David Ray, editor-in-chief,” he said, and shook Brandon’s hand. “You must be the man—”
“Who bought the McIntyre ranch. Brandon Marsh.”
They shook hands and talked about the town, the McIntyres and the newspaper, or rather, David talked and Brandon listened. David asked Brandon what kind of business he was in. He told Brandon he’d like to do a feature story on him, and Brandon told David he’d rather he didn’t. He preferred anonymity. David told Brandon he shouldn’t miss the Fourth of July parade and picnic sponsored by the newspaper. Just to be polite, Brandon said he’d be there. But he wouldn’t.
It was on the Fourth of July two years ago when his wife and child were killed. Even if it was an ordinary day, those kind of holidays were for families, and Brandon had no desire to watch kids eating hot dogs and fathers playing baseball. He asked directions to the bed-and-breakfast.
“If you get an invitation to dinner there, don’t turn it down,” David advised. “She’s the best cook in town. Not bad to look at, either.” A wistful note crept into the man’s voice. Brandon made a hasty departure before David got started on another story about the McIntyres or the town. Not that they weren’t interesting; they were. But he didn’t want to get involved. He just wanted to get his car fixed and retire to the ranch once and for all. Except for his trips to the post office, he didn’t want to meet any more townsfolk.
He didn’t want to make new friends and he didn’t want to see his old friends. And he didn’t want to have to come to town to get his mail. He reminded himself to make a call to somebody he knew in Washington who knew someone at the central post office. Having no delivery service was something for the historical society, not present-day Silverado.
“Yes?” The woman who opened the door to the large, frame house with the turrets and gables and spacious front porch, eyed him with undisguised curiosity. Which he’d come to expect from the inhabitants of Silverado. Might as well be up-front. It would save a lot of questions in the long run.
“I’m Brandon Marsh, the man who bought the Silver Springs Ranch and I’m looking for Laura.” He had half a mind to add, just in case she was as interested as other people he’d met, that he was single, living there alone and he liked it that way. That he had no intention of doing anything with the ranch but live there and that he didn’t want to hear anything about Laura or her ex-husband. But he didn’t say that. This, after all, might very well be the aunt he’d heard about. The one who was such a great cook and “not bad to look at, either.” Yes, the description fit. She was at least fifty, but her face was unlined and her figure trim. So all he said was “She told me to meet her here.”
The woman smiled. “I’m Emily Eckhart, Laura’s aunt. She isn’t back from work yet. Come in and wait inside. You must be Laura’s date.”
He frowned. “No. I didn’t know she had a date. In that case, I won’t impose on her. Thanks anyway.” Laura could have told him she had a date. He turned to go, but she stopped him.
“Wait,” she said. Now it was her turn to return his puzzled frown. “What I meant was…I thought you were…Silly me, I thought you were her date. Oh, never mind. Won’t you have a glass of sherry?” She led him into the formal living room and poured him a glass of amber li
quid from a decanter on the coffee table, though he’d never said he wanted a drink. When she handed it to him, she looked him up and down. He wondered if her niece had mentioned him to her. He wondered if she might have said that he was a loner and a fanatic about car safety.
Before Laura’s aunt could barrage him with the usual questions, he took the opportunity to comment on the charming decor and the wonderful smell coming from the kitchen. And it worked.
She beamed. “It’s veal chops in wild mushroom sauce. Do you object to eating meat? No? Well, then I hope you’ll join us tonight. I know it’s not fashionable to serve veal these days or rich sauces, but what can I say, I’m an old-fashioned girl. And my guests don’t complain.”
“I would think not. I understand you’re an outstanding cook,” Brandon said.
“Now where did you hear that?” Emily asked with a coy smile.
“Just now, out on the street. A man named David mentioned it.”
“David, David Ray?” He might have been mistaken, but he could have sworn the woman blushed. “That devil. What else did he say?”
“He advised me not to miss the Fourth of July celebration,” Brandon said.
“Quite right. If you’ve never been to a small town on the Fourth—”
Brandon admitted he hadn’t.
“Then you’re in for a treat. Some might call it corny, but to me it’s the essence of what America stands for. Well, Laura should be along any minute now. She’s a wonderful cook herself. Just the other day she made a berry cobbler for me. Delicious, just delicious.”
The bell on the oven timer rang, and before Brandon could tell her he couldn’t possibly stay for dinner, no matter how many townfolk raved about her cooking, Aunt Emily excused herself to go to the kitchen. “That will be my chocolate cake,” she explained. “Just make yourself at home.”
Brandon walked around the room, sipping the excellent Spanish sherry and looking at pictures on the wall. And wondering where Laura was. In his experience, post offices opened and closed promptly. But this was not San Francisco, as Laura had so succinctly pointed out. This was Silverado. He’d better get used to it.
