Authors: Earlene Fowler
I pulled up directly behind Clay’s white rental car and stared up at Mr. O’Hara’s house. A Victorian architectural masterpiece, it stood three stories high, with two turrets, a front porch bigger than my living room and enough windows to make you want to buy stock in the company that manufactures Windex. Painted three shades of green ranging from an olive-drab for the basic structure to shades of pine and apple green for the gaudy gingerbread trim, I sympathized with whoever had to maintain all that glossy wood. It was hard to believe that one man had lived alone in this monstrosity. From my years of working on county history with Dove, I knew it was once the mansion of Ryder Kauffman, one of the original land barons of San Celina County back when Constance Sinclair’s relatives actually lived at the hacienda that was now the folk art museum.
I walked across the wide front porch up to the gargoyle-carved front door and reached for the brass door knocker. Before I could let it drop, the door opened and Clay stood before me in a tight black tee shirt, faded Wranglers and freshly shined boots.
“Wondered if you’d chickened out.” He gave a mocking half-smile and held the door open. I stepped inside the entry hall and looked through the double doors to my left into the vast—and bare—oak-trimmed living room.
“What happened to all the furniture?” I’d seen this house furnished once, four or five years ago when the Historical Society had convinced Mr. O’Hara to open it for one of the holiday home tours of famous San Celina residences. He’d owned an amazing amount of authentic and very expensive Victorian furnishings. I remember thinking then that it felt like he’d bought and furnished the house for someone who had never lived in it. After hearing about him and Oralee, I wondered if it had been intended for her, though I could no more imagine her living here than I could picture Dove minding her own business.
“The people who bought the house didn’t want the furniture. Before Brady moved to that retirement place a month ago, he arranged to have an antique dealer take the whole shebang. Probably got ripped off, but he said he just wanted to get rid of it.” He touched my elbow and pointed across the living room to double swinging doors I remembered led to the kitchen. “Got some coffee and doughnuts in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“Coffee sounds good,” I admitted. Our boots made a lonely, hollow sound on the shiny living room floor.
In the dark wood kitchen, three old black leather trunks were set out on the parquet floor. On the tile counter there was an obviously new thermos, a box of chocolate glazed doughnuts, some cubed sugar and a quart of milk. Clay poured some milk into one of the two thick blue mugs sitting next to the thermos, added two lumps of sugar and filled the remainder with hot coffee. “Sorry there’s no microwave to heat the milk,” he said, handing the mug to me. “But it wouldn’t help anyway, ’cause there’s also no electricity.”
I laid my purse on the counter and took the mug with a smile. “I can’t believe after all these years you remember how I take my coffee.”
“I have a good memory for things that are important to me.” He hopped up on the counter. “Besides”—he gave a big grin—“you had coffee at the restaurant the other night.”
“That’s right,” I said, laughing. “I did. Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Trustworthy too.” His voice was ironic. “A regular Rocky Mountain Roy Rogers. Just ask anyone. Except my ex-wife, that is.”
We looked at each other for a minute; then I turned to look at the trunks, embarrassed by my obvious suspicion. “Have you gone through these yet?”
“Just enough to see that it’s nothing but a bunch of junk about his store and some old cards and letters and crap. Like I said, he wasn’t that close to our family, so none of it means much to us.”
I opened one of the trunks and poked through the top layer of accumulated papers and mementos. A sweet, mysterious smell, redolent of old perfume, hardly worn fancy clothes and dried flowers wafted up and enticed me.
“There’s a lot of stuff in here,” I said, after looking quickly through all the trunks. “Can we load them in the back of my truck?”
“At your service, ma’am,” he said, jumping down off the counter and reaching for the thick leather handles of one trunk.
“Here, let me get one side,” I said. “These are pretty heavy.”
“Now, Widow Harper,” he said. “You get on back and just let me impress you with how macho I am. I’ve bucked bales twice as heavy as these puny little things.”
“It’s your chiropractic bill.”
After all three trunks were loaded into my truck, I went back into the kitchen to get my purse, Clay following close behind me.
“Going already?” he said. “You didn’t even have a doughnut.” He held the box out to me. “And I promised you dinner. Where do you want to go?”
“Thanks, but I have a dinner date,” I lied.
“You mean the cop is actually taking some time off from trying to scrounge up evidence against me?” He raised his thick blond eyebrows and tossed the box of doughnuts on the counter.
I shrugged, not willing to lie that much. “I almost forgot,” I said, remembering the Irish Chain quilt. “Your uncle ordered a quilt from the co-op and it’s going to be done soon. Who owns it now?” I avoided his eyes and picked up a chocolate doughnut, tearing pieces off it and popping them in my mouth. When, after a minute or so, he didn’t answer, I looked up.
He leaned against the counter, his jean-clad legs crossed, smiling with amusement.
“What’s so funny?” I said, laying the doughnut down.
“Benni, I’m one of the primary heirs in Brady’s will. If you wanted to know that, all you had to do was ask.”
“All I wanted to know was who to give the quilt to,” I said stiffly. “It is my job.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “And yes, we can use the money. Name me a ranch today that can’t. Does me telling you this make you trust me just a little or has Señor Ortiz totally poisoned your mind about me?”
“I have to go,” I said, feeling that this whole exchange was rapidly getting into areas best left alone. He laid a hand on my arm. His hard calluses caught on my thin cotton sleeve.
“Before you go, I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?”
“Trust me, you’ll like her.”
“Her?”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the glassed-in back porch, down the steps, into the sprawling back yard. The half-acre garden was slightly overgrown after a month’s neglect, and the native flowers—long pale green horsetail rushes, baby blue-eyes and daisylike mule ears—were starting to take over what was once one of the most envied English flower gardens in the county.
“Where are we going?” I asked, knowing he was probably up to no good, but intrigued as a teenage girl by his enthusiasm. We picked our way through the tangled garden toward a green wooden gate. About two hundred feet beyond the gate lay the long white fences of the Wheeler Ranch. In the distance, about a half mile to the west, their sprawling ranch house and outbuildings nestled beneath a grove of dusky green oak trees. A windbreak of fifty-year-old blue gum eucalyptus lined both sides of the house. The Wheeler family bred a superior line of polled Herefords and, on a smaller scale, barrel-racing horses—in their case, a swift and agile cross between a quarter horse and a Thoroughbred.
He released my hand when we reached the fence, hopped over, giving out a sharp whistle as he cleared the top. About a hundred yards away, in the middle of a small herd of horses, a slender blood bay mare lifted her head from a watering trough. Her mane was black, with matching legs, and her coat a deep glossy red that flashed almost carmine in spots in the pale sunlight. She stood about seventeen hands high, with a lean head and a thick-muscled chest. I pulled myself up to the top of the fence and watched Clay walk lightly toward the herd.
“C’mon, you sweet thing,” he cajoled in a low voice, pulling lumps of sugar from his pocket. “Look what I got for you here. Come here, sugarbaby.” The mare and I both quivered at the soft sound of his voice. The cool late-afternoon breeze blew the gathering clouds closer. I hugged myself in my thin cotton shirt and relaxed, letting myself enjoy the gentle tone of his horse-breaking patter. It had been a long time since I’d watched a man seduce a nervous animal.
He pulled a large blue bandanna out of his pocket and walked toward her. Ridges of muscles in his back flexed under his tee shirt as he twirled the bandanna into a long rope. Clay and the mare had obviously shared this dance before, because although she was restless, her hooves pawing the ground with nervous energy, she didn’t bolt when he approached her. He crooned in his tantalizing baritone, feeding her sugar, his right hand stroking her long, elegant neck. Before she realized what was happening, he’d slipped the bandanna rope under her neck, grabbed a handful of her mane and pulled himself up. She blew angry breaths, hating that she’d been tricked, but after a bit of wrangling for control, he managed to walk her over to where I was perched.
“Very impressive work, cowboy,” I said. “The Wheelers will hang you by your ears if they see you, though.”
“Have to catch me first,” he said, reaching up to straighten his hat. A brisk gust of wind whipped through and snatched it from his hand, sending it flying into a muddy patch of pasture.
“Shoot, that’s my good 20x,” he said.
I laughed. “That’s what you get for buying such a fancy hat. Better stick to K-Mart straw the next time.” I jumped down off the fence and picked it up, brushing a smudge of mud off the velvety crown. He took it from me solemnly, then held out his hand. “Ride?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, looking with apprehension at the fidgety mare.
“C’mon, sugar, when was the last time you rode bare-back with a cowboy?” He stroked the mare’s neck to calm her, stuck his booted foot out and stiffened it to make a human stirrup. “Live a little.”
Temptation overtook sense and I grabbed his hand, used his foot and pulled myself up behind him. The mare started and dropped her back legs slightly, not happy with the extra weight. I grabbed Clay’s waist and pulled myself close against him.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
“Just ride,” I said, loosening my grip, though not much. He clicked softly and the horse started walking. So familiar was the leathery, animal scent of his skin and the faint smell of detergent on his shirt, that I wanted to rub my face slowly across his broad back, recapturing a lost time, if only for a counterfeit minute. But I held myself away from the tempting scents, and concentrated on the warm strength of the mare’s muscles rolling under my legs.
In the middle of the field, something—a sharp change of wind, a movement on the ground, or just the decision she’d had enough—caused the mare to startle, give a sharp twist and a small crowhop. Clay and I found ourselves, in the blink of an eye, lying on the ground. The mare shook her head in triumph and trotted back toward the water trough.
I rolled over and lay flat on my back trying not to groan out loud. The storm clouds rolling across the sky were darker now, steel-gray warrior clouds readying for battle. Maybe, I thought, feeling a small twinge in my back, I’ll just lie here a while and watch them. Lifting my head, I tentatively moved each leg. A few feet away, Clay pulled himself up and scrambled over to where I was lying.
“Honey, are you okay?” He ran his hands over the length of me, searching for injuries as he would an animal, his hands lingering on certain areas longer than necessary.
“I’m fine,” I said, pushing his hands away and sitting up. “Calm down, Clay. It’s not the first time I’ve kissed grass.”
He pulled his knees up and rested his arms on them. “I should have known better than to trust that old buzzard head. Sorry.”
“No one held a gun on me.” Behind us, a cold gust of wind threw the mare’s nicker our way, making me shiver. “She’s laughing at us.”
“Yeah, well, I guess we deserve it.” He licked his finger, reached over and scrubbed at a spot on my cheek. “Got some mud there.”
“I’ve got some mud everywhere,” I said, ducking my head and brushing at a stain on my knee. The feel of his saliva was cool on my cheek and seemed so intimate a gesture, I felt my heart tangle in my rib cage. I picked at a dandelion, embarrassed to look up. “Is it just me or is the ground harder than the last time I was thrown off a horse?”
He laughed and slapped at some mud on his boots. “I do believe it’s a scientific fact that the earth is definitely getting harder. Has something to do with the greenhouse effect. Saw it on one of those magazine shows.”
“Sounds more like the bullshit effect to me,” I said, looking up and smiling.
“Can’t fool you, Albenia Harper. Never could.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
He reached over and rubbed his thumb on my cheek. “Got another smudge.” The next thing I knew, tricked as surely as the mare a few minutes ago, he’d pushed me down and captured my lips with his. But then again, maybe not tricked. Maybe, unlike the mare, I’d wanted to be captured all along. Giving in, I savored the taste of him this time, like a glass of iced sun tea, spicy and sharp, the smell of the land clung to him, the warm, shadowy aroma of horse and earth. At this moment I didn’t care whether it was real or not, I only wanted to taste him, hear the deep male sounds of his harsh breathing, feel the strength of familiar callused hands holding me. I wanted to forget all the hard, sad things that had happened this last horrible year. I wanted to be seventeen again.
He rolled over on top of me, kissing me deeply, his solid weight pinning me to the damp pasture. He slowly eased a rough hand under my shirt. When he touched lace, I stiffened, suddenly frightened by my vulnerability.
“I have to go,” I said, squirming out from under him. I jumped up and started walking toward the fence, tucking in my shirt, blood rushing through my veins at such a speed, I thought I would die if it didn’t slow down. In seconds he was next to me, one long easy stride to two of mine. I shook off his hand when he tried to help me over the fence.
“Honey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t answer, but kept walking toward the house. What did he expect me to say? I certainly wasn’t going to tell him the truth, that his kiss caused the same yearning in me that Gabe’s did, or how much that feeling confused me. How could I feel the same with both of them? Having been with Jack from such a young age, I’d never separated sex from love; it had never even been a consideration. While everyone else our age was out learning how to play these games, Jack and I were carrying full loads in college after sitting up half the night calving heifers. Or spending frustrating afternoons rounding up stubborn yearlings and late nights at the computer trying to figure out how to stretch the credits to cover the debits or in the barn trying to patch together old machinery so it would last one more year. Seventeen years ago, Clay and I were closer to being equal in experience, but since then, the gulf between us in terms of relationships yawned wider than the Grand Canyon. So I just didn’t answer.