MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA

by Eileen Wilks

  "Maybe just a tiny bit, until you got there," she admitted. He didn't reply. Somehow his silence felt lighter now, though. Hannah didn't mind letting the conversation lag. She had some thinking to do.

  Nate said he'd stayed away because that's the way Mark wanted it, but he was wrong. Every morning, Mark watched for Nate, as if those few minutes were the most important part of his day. Oh, he wasn't obvious about it. He didn't stare or fidget or anything. He just glanced at the empty doorway every now and then before breakfast … during breakfast … after breakfast. Until Nate came. Then he stopped watching.

  As for Nate—well, Hannah hadn't been sure about him. Not until today. Nate was concerned about Mark's health, but Hannah had been forced to assume that either he wasn't aware of his brother's loneliness and boredom, or he didn't care. Then this morning, Nate had asked his usual question about whether there was anything Mark needed.

  This time, Mark had said yes.

  Nate had nearly turned the house upside down looking for the painkiller, and when he couldn't find it, he'd been impatient for her to finish getting ready so he had an excuse to go into town and get the one thing his brother had asked him for. He was so eager to do something for Mark that it made Hannah's heart hurt. For some reason Nate wasn't comfortable giving Mark his company, and for some reason Mark wasn't willing to ask for it. Or for anything else. Until today.

  Men, she thought. They could be such idiots.

  The song on the radio switched to a sixties' group singing about stopping in a church on a winter's day. She smiled at the coincidence. "I would have pegged you for a country music man.

  He didn't look away from the road and the miles of rough land that surrounded it. "Too many songs about prison and cheating women."

  Cheating women? Did that have something to do with what had happened six years ago? Hannah fiddled with the zipper on her jacket. How many questions could she get away with asking? "I can see where you might not like songs about prison. Did you … serve much time?"

  "What the hell business is it of yours?"

  Apparently one question was too many. "Never mind," she said stiffly.

  He was silent for the next couple of miles, then said abruptly, "My sentence was probated. I spent some time in the county jail before my trial, but I never did any hard time."

  "I see." She nodded, then sighed. "Oh, shoot. No, I don't see. I don't exactly know what it means that you got your sentence probated. I … didn't finish high school. Dropped out in my junior year. Maybe they talked about it during senior year." Hannah smiled. "It wasn't on the GED exam, either. And the only other person I've ever known who was in prison was Three-Toed Walt. He served twenty years for killing someone in a fight in a bar."

  He gave her an odd look. "Three-Toed Walt?"

  "He only had three toes on one foot. Frostbite, I think."

  "How in the world did you meet him?"

  "He lived in a tiny shack on the Bartles' ranch up in Wyoming. He'd worked there all his life, except for the time he was in prison, so the family let him stay on when he couldn't work anymore. He was eighty-two and I was twelve when my dad worked there, and he'd been out of prison for years, so I never thought to ask him anything about probation." She paused. "I'm not sure I would have asked him, anyway. Walt was a mean old cuss."

  "Your father let you be around an old man who'd been convicted of murder?"

  She shrugged. "I'm a McBride. Dad raised us to take care of ourselves." She looked down and plucked a bit of fuzz from her skirt, nervous but determined. "So, what does it mean, being on probation?"

  He shook his head. "You don't know when to quit, do you?

  She couldn't. Not when she had this ache inside to know about him. "You don't learn things if you don't ask."

  His voice was harsh when he answered. "Sometimes a judge decides that a convicted felon isn't likely to be a danger to society because of youth, the nature of the crime or the lack of a previous criminal record. Then the judge probates the sentence, the felon doesn't go to prison as long as he abides by the terms of his probation, and people write letters to the editor about how our justice system lets killers go free."

  Hannah asked softly, "Did people write letters about you?"

  He didn't reply.

  It would be a mistake to feel sorry for a man like this, Hannah told herself. Except what she was feeling wasn't pity, or even sympathy. That funny feeling was back in the pit of her stomach, but this time it wasn't warm. It hurt.

  The song on the radio changed from "California Dreaming" to "Tears of a Clown." Bitter Creek lay directly ahead, between them and the horizon. Somewhere off to the left, on the edge of the little town, lay the canyon Nate had called an arroyo. Hannah had looked both words up. An arroyo was a steep-sided channel dug by flowing water; a canyon was a steep-sided valley. From what she could figure out, the main difference was how deeply the water had cut into the earth.

  How deeply had Nate's conviction and probation cut into him? "You said the other night that you weren't allowed to have a gun. That's still true, even though your sentence is over?"

  "Convicted felons aren't allowed to possess firearms. Or serve in the military. Or vote, in most states."

  The first few houses of the little town appeared, followed by a bar called the Lucky Chance on the right. They drove slowly now.

  Hannah's thoughts, like their truck, had slowed. But the obstacles blocking her view weren't as concrete and friendly as the houses they passed.

  Nate had been convicted of murder, but it had been an accident. Hannah wasn't sure why she believed him so completely. Maybe it was because he'd tried at first to scare her away. Or maybe it was the look she'd seen in his eyes when he told her that it was an accident. Not hopeless, no—what she'd seen on his face that night hadn't been flat and barren, but charged with emotion. But there had been no hope there, either. Nate hadn't held any hope that he would be believed, yet he'd told her.

  It wasn't right. He wasn't a criminal, not really, yet he couldn't vote. He couldn't own a gun, and a rancher needed a gun. He might have to shoot a snake or put down an injured cow. What if he ran across a rabid skunk? It wasn't right at all. Her hands clasped each other in her lap, tense with her interior struggle. Dammit, Nate did not want her sympathy. He didn't need her to fight his monsters, and life was not a fairy tale where right and wrong were clear and simple choices. And it wasn't up to her to fix things for everyone.

  She forced her hands to relax. "What will you do while I'm in church, if everything's closed?"

  "Dixie's Café is always open. I'll have some of the radiator sludge he passes off as coffee."

  "He?"

  For the first time since she got in the truck, his mouth turned up in a real smile. "Dixie Bogerty. How in the hell he ended up being called Dixie, no one knows. I don't think anyone ever dared ask."

  They turned off onto a side street, and she knew they were almost there. She could see the steeple rising above the houses around them, glowing white and pure in the late morning sunshine.

  Bitter Creek had four churches. Hannah had decided to visit St. Luke's because she thought she'd know the songs there. She did love some of those old hymns. "Amazing Grace" always made her feel close to her mother again. Her mother used to sing it to her daughters at bedtime, or hum it when she was worried or sad. It was one of Hannah's clearest memories of her early childhood.

  Hannah wasn't worried. Not exactly. But there was something unsettling about the way she reacted to her enigmatic employer. She couldn't help wishing they would sing "Amazing Grace" in church today.

  He pulled the truck up in front of the church. In the parking lot people were getting out of their cars, the women in hose and heels and winter coats, some of the men looking chilly in suits, some looking warmer in windbreakers and heavy jackets. Hannah saw kids in all sizes and shapes and a scattering of teenagers, and a lot of Stetsons and Resistols.

  It all looked pretty familiar. She took a deep breath and told hersel
f to relax.

  "Hannah."

  She turned her head to find him looking at her, his eyes intent.

  "You said you liked horses, that you've missed riding." He reached across the bench seat and took her hand. His finger stroked her palm slowly. "The weather is supposed to warm up by afternoon. I'd like to take you riding."

  Her heart made a nuisance of itself by beating too hard. As if this was a terribly important conversation. As if the mere touch of his hand was enough to start a ribbon of heat snaking up from her belly. "I don't think that's a good idea. You're my boss, and—"

  "Not today. Today's your day off."

  "It doesn't work that way," she said, exasperated.

  "Think about it."

  He let go of her hand. Her fingers automatically curled into her palm, holding on to the sensations his touch had evoked.

  "Some of the people here are going to tell you things about me. After you've heard what they have to say, you may not want to go anywhere with me, anyway."

  "I don't listen to gossip."

  His eyes were serious and dark. "Is it gossip if it's true? Some of what you hear will be." He put the truck in gear. "Think about it," he repeated. "I'll be back to pick you up at twelve-thirty. That will give you a chance to get acquainted. Ask some questions. And make your decision."

  * * *

  Dixie's wasn't crowded on a Sunday morning, but a few of the usual crowd hung around, nursing a second or third cup of coffee. Most of them were male. Most of them were people Nate didn't want to talk to, or who wouldn't want to talk to him.

  But Earl Navarrete's big white Cadillac was parked out front, and Nate saw Earl in a booth at the back. Earl was thirty years older than Nate and thirty pounds heavier. His hair was black on top, gray on the sides and stuck out around the ears in tufts that matched his salty mustache. His clothes, from the worn jeans to the battered Stetson, were several years older than his car.

  All in all, he didn't look like the richest man in the county.

  Nate made his way between the oilcloth-covered tables. "Hey, Earl. You dropped Susie at St. Mark's this morning?"

  "That woman is mad for church." Earl shook his head sadly, as if he considered this a flaw. Since everyone knew Earl worshiped the ground his wife walked on, the pose was unconvincing. He bought a new Cadillac every year because his Susie liked them. "Sit down. You gonna let me buy you some breakfast this morning?"

  "Not today." Nate slid into the booth opposite one of the few people he still considered a friend. "I might let you spring for some of that poison Dixie brews, though."

  The man who waddled up to the table was a foot shorter than Nate and more than a foot wider. His white, short-sleeved T-shirt displayed an intricate tattoo of a sinking ship on one arm. The other arm ended in a hook—which carried the coffeepot. His round face was sweaty and scowling when he spoke to Nate. "You ain't been in lately. You too good to eat here anymore?"

  "I've been busy, Dixie, with Mark being laid up."

  "So, you gonna eat now and pay for your seat?"

  "Just coffee this time." Nate didn't mind Dixie's attitude. Dixie was rude to everyone.

  Dixie poured the coffee and left, muttering about freeloaders.

  "So what are you doing in town?" Earl asked.

  "I dropped Mark's new nurse at church so I could pick up some medicine." He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. "Damn, this hasn't gotten any better since the last time I was here."

  Earl grinned. "Some things never change. Listen, Susie has got one of her ideas in her head. She wants me to—"

  "I saw your truck out front, Jones," another voice broke in.

  Nate turned his head slowly. "Hell." The man who stood near their booth wore a belligerent expression on his narrow face, an embroidered western-style shirt over his narrow chest and an expensive Stetson on his thinning brown hair. Nate looked away. He was not in the mood for a confrontation with his former brother-in-law. "Go away, Rydell."

  "You may have fooled Royce and some of the others in this town, but you haven't fooled me. I know who's been shooting my cattle."

  Nate shook his head. "You've got an exaggerated idea about how important you are to me. You sure as hell don't matter enough for me to risk owning a firearm."

  Rydell narrowed his eyes. "That's what you'd like everyone to believe."

  "I don't give a damn what everyone believes. Especially you."

  "No, you think you're above the law, don't you? You and your good buddy here think that because you own half the county between you, you can order everyone else around. But some of us aren't going to knuckle under."

  Nate set down his coffee cup. "I should mention that I'm not in a good mood."

  "Your kind thinks you can buy off judges, or the sheriff, or whoever else you have to. But I'm not backing down. And if your fat friend here—"

  Nate's hand shot out. He grabbed a fistful of Rydell's shirt. "Didn't I say I was not in a good mood? Go away."

  "Temper, temper," Earl murmured, spreading grape jelly on his last piece of toast without looking up.

  Nate let go of the man's shirt. Rydell stepped back a pace, sneering. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

  "Maybe you should be—since, according to you, I can buy my way out of anything. So what's to stop me right now from pounding your face until you bleed all over your pretty shirt?"

  "Now, Nate." Earl put down his knife and smiled, friendly as any aging wolf. "You know you're not going to do that. Wouldn't be a fair fight. Why, you could pick up Rydell here with one hand and slap him around with the other one, and there wouldn't be a thing the poor s.o.b. could do about it."

  For a minute, Nate thought Earl had pushed Rydell right over the edge, and Nate himself into a fight he needed to avoid. The smaller man's fists clenched. "I'll show you what I can do about it. You want to step outside, Jones?"

  Fortunately, Dixie waddled up just then. "Shaddup, sid down and order somethin', Rydell. You're taking up floor space."

  "Outside," Rydell said to Nate.

  Nate thought about it. He thought about punching Rydell right in his long, narrow nose. But Ben Rydell, for all his other faults, didn't lack guts. He was like one of those yappy little dogs that take on pit bulls. He wouldn't quit. He'd just keep coming, forcing Nate to do too much damage in order to stop him. And even one fight was one too many, he reminded himself, for a man with his record. "Can't oblige you. I never did develop a taste for jail."

  Rydell sneered. "I'm not going to press charges if you bloody my lip."

  "Dixie will, if I do it in his place."

  For a minute, Nate thought Rydell was going to jump him anyway. But Dixie growled, "Either siddown and order or pay rent."

  Rydell turned his sneer on Dixie. "I guess you like his money, too."

  "I like everybody's money. You want to stay, you got to spend some of yours."

  "I'm going." He turned. "I don't like the way it smells in here."

  "You know, Dixie," Earl said thoughtfully as the door closed behind Rydell, "I think he's right. There is a certain lingering stink. You had this place sprayed for pests lately?"

  The noise Dixie made might have been a laugh or the result of his two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. He looked at Nate. "You want some more coffee?"

  Coming from Dixie, the offer was a gesture of rare support and approval. "Sure. I've got two kidneys. I don't need both of them."

  Dixie sniggered and went to get the pot.

  Earl shook his head. "Thought the man was going to get all mushy on us for a minute, offering you a free refill like that."

  "Yeah." Earl grinned. "You're right, he didn't. Now, where was I when that idiot interrupted us?"

  "Something about Susie having an idea."

  "Oh, yeah. She's wants to give a party next Saturday. A barbecue."

  "In the winter?"

  "That part's my idea. I like barbecue, and we need to do something with that steer of mine some jerk shot a couple weeks ago. I had it dressed out." />
  "I'd heard they shot one of yours, but I thought it was wounded, not killed."

  "Gut shot. Had to put it down. Mark still stuck in a bed?"

  "He is right now, but if everything's mending okay, he can start spending some time in a wheelchair after the doctor checks him on Thursday."

  "Good. Bring him, then. Hell, bring everyone—the hands and Abe and that pretty nurse you've hired. She can fuss over Mark and make all the boys threaten to run out and break a bone or two so they can get her attention."

  A couple of them might consider it, too, once they got a look at Hannah. "I'll pass the word. Thanks."

  "You'll come, too."

  "I haven't got much time for socializing right now."

  "You haven't had much time for socializing for six years, but you'll come next Saturday."

  "Earl—"

  "Susie wants you there."

  And that was that, as far as Earl was concerned. What Susie wanted, she should get. Nate didn't really disagree. Susie Navarette was special. "Earl, I don't have to go looking for trouble these days. It follows me, like Rydell did just now. I don't want to bring those kind of problems to your party."

  "I'm not inviting Rydell, and no one else will say a word. Not in my home. Besides—" Earl leaned forward confidentially "—the party's to cheer Susie up. She's feeling kind of down about her birthday. Mind, she doesn't want me saying which birthday it is, so pretend you don't know." Earl paused. "She wants you there."

  Nate grimaced. Sixteen years ago, Susan Navarette had taken two bewildered and grieving boys home with her from their mother's funeral because their father was too distracted by grief to care for them. Nate and Mark had stayed with her and Earl for three weeks. "That's blackmail."

  Earl grinned. "The party starts at six."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  Nate couldn't pull up directly in front of the church. Too many other cars and trucks were parked along the street. But that was just as well. He didn't much want to meet the people he'd see there—people who had once taught him in school, or in Sunday school. People whose daughters he'd dated, or who had cheered for him at high school football games. People who, these days, avoided his eyes when they saw him, or smiled too much. Or didn't smile at all.