by Erica Abbott
Jean smiled, hoping she hadn’t offended her new client. “As a new citizen of San Carlos County,” she said easily, “I thank you. And now, I think I’d like to visit the nearest bathroom.”
“Second door on your right in the hallway. I need to make a brief phone call and then we can talk about a very late lunch.”
“Sounds great.”
As Jean washed her hands, she glanced around the bathroom. Black iron horseshoes screwed into the wall held the guest towels and an attractive turquoise wall highlighted the room. But like all rooms designed for guests, it was impersonal and told her nothing about the owner.
Jean was the first to admit that she had a serious problem with, well, snooping. She could call it curiosity and it was in a way, but it was mostly just nosiness. She had often pried into her mother’s dresser drawers when she was young and she still had a strong urge to check out other people’s kitchen cabinets. She tried to convince herself that it was this quality that made her a good legal researcher.
She stepped into the hallway and heard Lea still talking on the telephone in the kitchen, so she wandered down the hall. The room next door was actually a gym, weight bench and free weights neatly aligned. A treadmill was set up to take advantage of the eastern view at the back of the house. Nice for morning runs, Jean thought. She went across the hall, still reassured by Lea’s voice in the kitchen and peeked into the master bedroom.
Like the living room, the room was tidy without being perfect. A couple of books were stacked on the nearest nightstand next to what looked like a good reading lamp. The alarm clock, with its iPhone jack empty, was on the same side. A padded rocking chair took up one corner and a sweatshirt was draped over one arm.
Lea’s voice rose with the sounds of saying goodbye, so Jean retreated down the hall and arrived in the kitchen as Lea said, “Okay. Call me if you need anything before Dad gets home. Love you.”
She punched the phone off. Jean asked, “Everything all right?”
Lea looked at her with a moment of evaluation before answering, “Yes. My father is gone for the day delivering a horse to a customer and my mother is home alone with my brother. I needed to be here in case they needed anything.”
Jean’s first thought was, wonder what’s wrong with the brother? As if Lea had read her thought, she continued, “My brother is in a wheelchair. He’s pretty independent, but my mother can’t lift him if there’s a problem so I wanted to be close by.”
She moved to the counter and got out flour tortillas, reaching into the refrigerator for shredded cheese and salsa. “I thought quesadillas, will that work?”
“Sounds fine. May I help?”
“Nope, it’ll just take a couple of minutes. Why don’t you just sit at the counter and we’ll eat in here.”
Lea assembled the meal. Jean watched her hands, graceful despite their strength. After a minute Jean asked, “Your father raises horses?”
“Yes. After my parents decided running cattle didn’t make economic sense, he decided to breed paint horses. He always liked horses better than cows anyway.” She gave the half smile that Jean was beginning to realize was characteristic. “He always says that cows are the dumbest creatures God ever made, other than men.”
Jean expected her to use the microwave but Lea plucked an iron skillet from the rack above her head and griddled the quesadillas until the cheese was hot and gooey.
Jean ate with her usual enthusiasm and Lea seemed to regard her with amusement.
“This salsa is great,” Jean muttered through her tortilla. “Did you make it yourself?”
“Well, it’s my mother’s recipe but I did chop the onions,” Lea responded. “She always makes sure she has assistants around when it’s time to chop something.”
Jean smiled. “Can’t have too many sous-chefs.”
“Excuse me?”
Jean winced. “Sorry. That’s fancy French for assistant cook in charge of chopping.” She changed the subject. “So your mother is the family chef?”
“Yep. She has mastered the art of traditional Mexican dishes, New Mexican, Tex-Mex and cooking any cut of beef you can name. She also makes a mean hollandaise sauce.”
“Hollandaise? Hardly a traditional south-of-the-border sauce.”
“It’s for a southwestern eggs benedict my mother makes that you’ll have to try sometime. Better than huevos rancheros by a long shot.”
“Sounds great,” Jean said, finishing her quesadilla. Was she being invited to a future brunch at the Hawkins’s ranch? She found she liked the idea.
“You’re close to your family,” she said as Lea began to collect the empty dishes.
“Old-fashioned though it may sound,” Lea said, “I believe in family and home and community. It’s easy for me because I have a great family and a wonderful place to live.” She looked out the window over the sink a moment and added, “I truly can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
Jean interjected, “Not even New York?”
Lea turned toward her, shaking her head. “Spending four years in New York was very important. How can you know where you should be if you’ve never tried anywhere else? New York City is a giant of a place, the greatest big city in the world. But it’s still a city and I knew I wouldn’t be happy there. As soon as I got back here, I could breathe again. I knew where I belonged. I’ve never regretted it.”
What would that feel like to know where your home really is? Jean sat quietly and wondered. Texas was where she was from, but neither her mother’s houses nor her boarding school had ever felt like home. She’d chosen southern California herself and after she met Charlotte, Palm Springs had been home—hadn’t it? Not really, she acknowledged. Palm Springs was lovely in the winter, but Charlotte had been home for her. She would have gone anywhere with Char, at least in the beginning of the relationship. Then later there was nowhere to go, nowhere that mattered.
They were finished by five o’clock, faster than Jean could have hoped for. It had taken them a long time to go over the coroner’s report. Jean reminded Lea more than once not to guess or speculate on facts she couldn’t know. Once Lea got the concept she was rock solid and Jean felt satisfied that she’d covered everything she needed.
She was packing up when Lea’s cell phone rang. “Go ahead,” she reassured Lea.
“Hi, Mom, how’s it going?” After a moment, Lea said sharply, “What happened? Is he all right?”
Jean felt herself tense up. What was worse, bad news by telephone or in person? She’d had plenty of experience with both and could never decide.
After Lea listened intently for a moment, she said, “Okay. I’m on my way. No, it’s fine, we’re done here.”
She punched the phone off. She asked, “Can you get back out to the highway? I need to go to the house.”
“Of course. Is everything okay?”
“I think so. My dad had a flat tire so he’ll be late getting back and my brother fell in the barn. He says he’s okay, but I need to go make sure.”
Jean, her arms full of briefcase and file folders, hesitated for a moment, then said, “Do you want me to go with you? Maybe I can help.”
Lea gave her an appraising look. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I’m sure you can handle it,” Jean added hastily, “but you might need another pair of hands.”
Lea seemed to be evaluating her, as if trying to decide whether the offer was perfunctory or sincere. “All right,” she said at last. “If you’re sure, follow me over and then you can leave in your own car whenever you want.”
Jean wasn’t sure why she offered to go. Despite how tired she was after the day of work, for some reason going back to her condo alone had suddenly lost its appeal.
Chapter Four
The Hawkins family house was a couple of miles away, a beautiful hacienda-style home with whitewashed walls. In front of the long one-story building, native flowers and grasses had been carefully planted and maintained to create a high desert garden: purple salvia, red,
orange and yellow Indian paintbrush and many others Jean didn’t know. White columns supported a saltillo tile roof, which provided shade for a porch that ran the length of the entire front of the house. The red-orange roof tiles made it seem to Jean as if the sun would appear to be always setting over the rooftop. Benches and rocking chairs along the covered porch, many with horse blanket-style cushions, were proof that the porch was well used by family members.
As Jean got out of her car, a pair of big dogs rounded the house in a headlong rush straight for Lea. Jean stood still, wary but not afraid, as the two circled Lea. Both dogs were madly barking and romping happily.
Lea looked over at Jean and grinned. “The family guard dogs. They’re very fierce, as you can see.”
A moment later the dogs were attacking Lea with wagging tails and frantic demands for petting. Jean laughed and asked, “Safe to approach?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind being licked half to death.”
Jean came forward and gave each dog a good sniff of her hand. Tail wagging resumed, but before they could exercise bad manners and jump on her, Lea said sternly, “Wyatt, Doc. Sit. Stay.”
Both dogs obediently if reluctantly went down on their haunches and Jean leaned over to reward them with ear-rubbing.
“Which is which?” she asked.
“Wyatt is the black and white, a mix of our neighbor’s border collie and we think a wandering black lab. Doc Holliday, who despite the name is female, is a German shepherd mix we got from the shelter. They’re both mongrels but good dogs.”
“We’re all mongrels, aren’t we?” Jean said absently.
Lea smiled crookedly. “Yep, we are at that. Come on, the barn’s this way.”
They went around the house with the dogs trailing happily behind them, bouncing like canine rubber balls. The barn was huge. It was another classic building, painted red and immaculate. The crisp scent of fresh hay and the warm smell of horse filled her nostrils as Jean entered. Halfway down the center aisle a man in a wheelchair sat talking with a woman. He looked up and she heard him say, “Cavalry’s here, Ma.”
The woman turned and came toward them. She had a face that hinted of her Mexican heritage. Her dark brown hair was almost black except where it was threaded with gray. Her smooth olive skin betrayed only a few lines around her mouth and eyes. Jean could see Lea’s cheekbones and jaw in her face. Jean tried to guess her age, which could have been anywhere north of sixty based on her appearance.
The woman said briskly, “I swear he’s more stubborn than your father and that’s saying a lot.”
“What’s going on?” Lea asked calmly.
“He fell and he won’t let me check him for injuries, the bull-headed—”
The man interrupted her by calling out, “I can hear you, Ma, and I’m way past the age where I need my mother to pull my jeans down!”
“I see he got back up into the chair all right,” Lea said.
“Oh yes, he’s strong enough, he just makes your average mule look tractable.” She turned to Jean. “I’m sorry to meet you in the midst of a minor family crisis. I’m Linda Hawkins. Welcome to the Painted Horse Ranch.” Jean could hear the pride in her voice.
Jean offered her hand. “Jean McAllister. I’m the deputy county attorney.”
Lea added, “She’s my new lawyer.”
“Well, thank heavens for that.” Linda gave Jean a friendly chuckle. “I never met a woman who needed a lawyer more.” Linda turned to Lea and said, “Will you go talk some reason to your brother before I go out back and cut a switch to paddle him with?”
The man called again, “That threat won’t work. I can’t feel it!”
Linda Hawkins rolled her eyes as Lea went over to him. Jean tried hard not to laugh aloud.
“That stubborn excuse for a cowboy is my son Loren,” Linda said. “He apparently takes being in a wheelchair as a challenge to see just how banged up he can get. Lea’s the only one who can talk any sense to him. He and his father just end up shouting, though I suspect it’s therapeutic for both of them.”
Over by her brother, Lea burst out laughing and gestured for Jean and her mother to join them. When they arrived, Jean looked down to see a handsome man, perhaps in his late thirties, wearing a plaid western shirt, well-worn jeans and cowboy boots. He looked up with bright button brown eyes. “Very pleased to meet you. Lea says you’re dynamite.”
Does she? Jean thought. When did she have a chance to do that? “I’m happy to meet you too. Your mother says you give mules a run for their money in the stubbornness department.”
“I’ve just thought of a compromise,” Loren said with a wicked grin directed to Jean. “How about I let you conduct the examination? All you have to do is carefully inspect my naked behind to make sure I didn’t bruise my delicate babylike bottom.”
“Loren!” Linda chastised him.
Lea began laughing again. Jean considered her response for a moment. Lea had told her she was out to her family and they all seemed to be on good terms. Would they still react positively to Jean? “I would volunteer to check you out,” Jean said as she made her decision, “but looking at a man’s backside just wouldn’t do a thing for me. Sorry.”
Loren blinked in comprehension, then said, “Oh, crap. I finally meet a gorgeous new woman and she’s on the other side of the fence. Lea, that’s just cruel. So is she, at long last, the new girlfriend?”
It was Jean’s turn to blink but Linda said, “This is Jean, Lea’s new lawyer, so I expect you to behave yourself. She’s not an option for the inspection so it’s either your sister or me. Which will it be?”
He gave her a mock pout. “Sure I can’t talk Jean into it? It may not be her idea of a rodeo, but I’d still prefer it. Or we could just wait till Dad gets home.”
Linda was already shaking her head. “He won’t be home for two or three hours yet and you know it’s not safe to wait that long. You could be hurt and not know it.”
Lea said pleasantly, “Come on, cowboy, let’s get it over with.” She glanced at Jean and added, “You’re off duty. Thanks for the help and for harassing my brother. We get so few chances for it.”
“Very funny,” Loren said. “Give up being the sheriff and try for a career as a rodeo clown, why don’t you?”
Linda said, “Don’t be silly, Lea. Jean drove all the way out here, the least we can do is give her dinner.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Jean demurred. “Lea fed me lunch.”
“Lunch!” Linda huffed. “Let me guess. You got a quesadilla, right? That’s not lunch, that’s an appetizer. I insist that you stay for dinner. Lou won’t be home until late and I have enough food for a roundup.”
Jean found herself hustled into the house by Linda who led the way and the dogs who herded her from behind. Once inside the giant kitchen, complete with six-burner gas stove, double ovens and a huge island, Linda put her to work, chopping onions and peppers.
The two dogs circled the women in the kitchen trolling for tidbits. When none appeared, they meandered to a pair of dog beds in a corner of the living room. They lay down but remained alert for any food that might hit the floor.
Jean looked down at the neat piles of vegetables she’d created and wondered how long it had been since she’d plied a knife for mise en place.
At least one year, eight months and nine days.
Linda said approvingly, “You’ve done that before.”
“I lived with a chef for thirteen years,” Jean admitted. “She taught me a few things.” She still felt tentative talking about her personal life with the sheriff’s mother.
Linda scooped up the onions and chiles to dump them into a frying pan. With her back turned to Jean, she said casually, “So, a long-term relationship. Lea managed almost ten years. I’m so sick to death of people telling me about homosexuals and ‘family values.’ Harlan, who owns the nursery I use, has been with the same man for thirty years, give or take. Every gay person I know is or has been with the same partner for a long
time, which is far from what I can say about many heterosexuals I know. Our neighbor but one to the south is married to his third wife, for heaven’s sake.”
Jean cleared her throat. “My mother is on husband number four.”
“Oh, dear,” Linda said sympathetically. “That must have been hard on you.”
“It got easier when she sent me to boarding school when I was nine.”
“So young! I couldn’t imagine sending my children away.”
“I was fine, actually. My mother was miserable when she was between men, which wasn’t often and she drank too much when she was married. She still does.”
“You’re in touch with her?”
“Sort of. Not much,” Jean admitted. “When I told her I was gay, she stopped talking to me. No scene, no screaming, just—nothing. I call on her birthday and at Christmas and we exchange about ten words. I do speak to my stepfather about once a month to check up on her. He’s a nice guy, he’s just co-dependent about her drinking.”
“No siblings?” Linda asked.
“A younger brother. His preacher has informed him that I’m headed straight for hell so he stays far, far away from me to avoid any possible contamination.”
Linda snorted in disapproval. Jean heard the bitterness in her own voice and became aware, as she often did these days, of how cold she was, even in the warm kitchen. Her hands felt icy and she suppressed a shiver.
Why was she telling Linda Hawkins her life story? It’s been too long, she thought, since I talked to anyone about anything other than work. Moving from Southern California had been a good idea, but she had to find a gym or a book club or something, or she’d start collecting cats to have someone to have a conversation with, or begin chatting randomly to people on the street.
But Linda was easy to talk to and they spoke about recipes until Lea came in and went to the sink to wash her hands.
“How’s Loren?” Linda asked.
“Fine. No injuries I can see. Dad should probably check him again tonight before bed to make sure there aren’t bruises I didn’t see yet. Loren said he just leaned out too far and fell on his butt. He’s been hurt worse.”