by Cindy Myers
“Oh my gosh, I hadn’t thought of that in years.” Shelly looked at Mindy in wonder, remembering. “You made me pay you five dollars.”
“And you had to let me play all your cassette tapes for a month.” Mindy grinned in triumph.
“I’ll never forget the look on Mom’s face when she found out what we had done,” Shelly said.
“I remember. You hid and she went to find you, and left the reporter in the living room. Then I walked in and introduced myself as you. By the time Mom came back—she hadn’t been able to find you—the interview was half over. Mom looked like she couldn’t decide whether to strangle me or hug me.”
“You gave a lot better an interview than I would have,” Shelly said. Mindy had been sweet and charming and happy to tell her story—Shelly’s story—about falling into the hole in the ground and eventually being rescued by an adoring public. After all, by that time ten years had passed and the legend of Baby Shelly permeated their lives. Any member of the family could have recited the details by heart.
“I don’t think the magazine ever realized what we’d done,” Mindy said. “Though I remember a few people commented that the pictures made you look a lot younger than fifteen.”
“Yes, but you always looked older than your age, and we had the same hair.” She glanced at Mindy’s platinum curls. “Back then, anyway.”
They collapsed in noisy giggles again, holding each other.
“Dad, why are Mom and Aunt Mindy laughing so much?” Cameron asked.
“It’s just something sisters do,” Charlie said.
“I’ve really missed you, Mindy,” Shelly said softly. “I’ve missed having a sister.”
“I’ll always be your sister,” Mindy said. “No take-backs.”
“Yeah. No take-backs.” Some things she’d gladly give back but maybe the people in her life—her sister for sure—shouldn’t be one of them.
Chapter 13
Maggie was surprised to find Jameso preparing to leave when she arrived at the B and B after work on Monday. “Where are you going?” she asked. “I thought it was your night off.”
“It is, but something came up.” He shoved his wallet into his pocket and grabbed his keys. “We’ve got a new couple in Room Four, from Arizona, here for four nights. The wife is gluten-free and they took the last of the extra pillows. The retirees from Alaska said they’d be in late, but they have a key. We’re out of light bulbs for the chandelier in the public dining room, but the hardware store said they’ll have some more tomorrow.”
“What came up?”
“Just something I need to take care of. Don’t worry.” He kissed her cheek. “I won’t be too late. I left dinner in the refrigerator—chef’s salad. And there’s some of that honey-mustard dressing you like.”
Then he was gone, out the door and down the stairs. A moment later, his motorcycle roared to life and he was off, taking all the relief and pleasure of coming home at the end of a long day with him.
Maggie shed her purse and tote bag in the living room, where Angela cooed at her from her playpen. “What’s your daddy up to?” she asked. She went to the kitchen and poured a glass of tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator, then sat at the table, angry and out of sorts. He’d left before she could even start an argument with him; right now yelling at him would at least have relieved some of her frustration, but he hadn’t even given her that satisfaction.
Desperate to talk to someone, she took out her phone and scrolled to Barb’s number. By the fourth ring she was ready to hang up, but Barb’s voice greeted her, sounding out of breath. “Darling, what are you doing calling at this hour? Is something wrong?”
It was the kind of question people always ask when a call is unexpected, but the concern in her best friend’s voice made Maggie tear up. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about the time difference between Colorado and Paris. What time is it?”
“It’s after two in the morning, but no worries. I’m still awake. We just got back from the opera. A really wonderful performance of The Magic Flute.”
Maggie smiled, picturing tall, slender, blond Barb in a beaded evening gown, Mozart’s music still echoing in her head. They lived such different lives, but the differences didn’t matter when it came to their friendship. “It sounds like you’re having a good time in Paris,” Maggie said.
“I am, but I’m ready to come home. You can’t get a decent margarita here, and the waiter looked aghast when I asked for iced tea. But enough about me. What’s going on with you? You sound upset.”
“I am upset—with Jameso. Since he isn’t here to yell at, I thought I’d call you.”
“What has that handsome rogue done now?” Barb asked.
Maggie had almost forgotten that Barb was head of the Jameso Clark fan club. She’d decided he was perfect for Maggie the first day they met, long before Maggie herself was willing to admit the attraction. “I’m not sure,” she said. “You know he’s still working at the Dirty Sally four nights a week. Which means four nights a week we don’t see each other. If you add in the nights I have to cover meetings, that’s even less time we have together. But lately he’s been disappearing other nights. The other night he said he’d promised to help D. J. Gruber and Josh Miller with something. Tonight when I got home, he was on his way out to take care of some mysterious ‘business,’ which he wouldn’t elaborate on. He left before I could ask any questions.”
“Business? He used that word?”
“Yes. But what kind of business could he possibly have at six in the evening?” She hugged herself, trying to squeeze out the ache around her heart. “And why won’t he tell me what it is?”
“Maybe it’s another surprise, like your ring.”
Maggie stared at the diamond-and-turquoise ring that glittered on the third finger of her left hand. Shortly before Christmas, Jameso had suddenly left Eureka on a mysterious errand. He’d refused to tell her what, and a blizzard had almost kept him from returning in time for them to celebrate the holiday together. But he had made it home, and brought with him this ring, which he’d commissioned from a jeweler in Montana, especially for her. “I wish I could believe it was something as wonderful as this ring,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s anything like that. And I hate that he’s staying away from home so much. What if he’s just avoiding me—and the baby?”
“Jameso adores you and Angela,” Barb said. “I’m sure of it. But he hasn’t exactly lived a settled life before now. It’s understandable that domestic routine is going to wear on him sometimes. I don’t think you can begrudge him a night out with the boys once in a while, as long as he doesn’t come home drunk or end up in jail.”
“If he really is out with the boys.” She pressed her lips together, but it was too late. She’d said her worst fear out loud.
“What do you mean?” Barb’s voice was wary.
“I don’t know what I mean,” Maggie said. “It’s just . . . when I go into the Dirty Sally there are always women hanging around him. Younger, beautiful women.”
“But none of those women are you,” Barb said. “Jameso loves you.”
“He flirts with them.”
“I flirt with men, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave Jimmy. It’s fun to flirt, and if you’re a bartender like Jameso, it’s practically part of the job.”
“I know! And I feel awful for even thinking it, but what if he is cheating on me? I was too dumb to recognize the signs with Carter.”
“Jameso is not Carter.”
“That’s what worries me. From everything I’ve heard, Jameso was a real player before I met him. And we married so quickly, and then the baby and this job . . . maybe he feels trapped.”
“Maybe he does. So he keeps the job at the Dirty Sally to assert his independence, and he goes out with his friends once in a while to blow off steam. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re right.” She sighed. “I just wish I could be sure.”
“Then ask him.”
&
nbsp; “Ask him?”
“Ask him if he’s cheating on you. But be prepared for the answer. And you have to trust him enough to believe him when he says no.”
“What if he says yes?” She had to force the words out; saying them left her breathless.
“He won’t. As my grandmother always said, ‘Don’t borrow trouble.’ ”
“You’re right,” Maggie said. “And I hate being like this.”
“Being like what?” Barb asked.
“Suspicious. Jealous. I want to trust him, but . . .”
“I know.” Barb stifled a yawn. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re a newlywed, too. And probably still hormonal from the baby to boot. Give yourself some time.”
Barb was right. The best approach was probably to wait this out. Give Jameso a chance to come to her, though she could think of few things more difficult. Because what if he decided never to confide in her? What if this rift between them became wider and wider? She shook her head. No sense playing that game. “I’ll let you go and get some sleep,” Maggie said. “Thanks for listening.”
“It will be all right, Maggie. Keep telling yourself that until you believe it.”
She ended the call. Talking with Barb had made her feel a little better. And Barb was right. Everything would be all right. Jameso loved her. He wouldn’t cheat on her. Never mind that every other man she’d ever loved—from her father to her first husband—had ended up betraying her. Jameso was different. And she was different now, too. She had to remember that.
“They told me I’d find you here.”
Bob looked up in time to see Daisy slide onto the barstool next to him. He looked a little worse for wear, in need of a shave, his shirttail half out, his eyes bloodshot. She’d hoped for better from him, somehow, and didn’t try to hide her annoyance. “How long have you been drinking?” she asked. The last thing she wanted was to deal with a drunk.
“Most of my life.” He drained the last of the pint glass in front of him and let out a satisfied sigh. “I hope you’re not here to lecture me on the evils of demon alcohol.”
Not drunk, she decided. Not yet, anyway. “I never had much use for a man who drank,” she said.
“You strike me as the type who doesn’t have much use for men in general.” He signaled the bartender. “So it’s about the same difference, I guess.”
The bartender, a good-looking younger man with dark brown hair and a goatee, came over to them. “What can I get you?” he asked Daisy.
“A Coke, please. Lots of ice.”
“Do you know what those sodas will do to your stomach?” Bob asked. “Not to mention your bones.”
“I suppose you think beer is good for you,” she said.
“It must be. I’ve never been sick a day in my life. That’s because alcohol kills germs.”
“You must be responsible for the death of a lot of germs,” the bartender said, as he set a glass of Coke in front of Daisy and slid another pint glass to Bob.
“Do you ever actually work at the mine?” she asked. “Or is ‘manager’ just an honorary title?”
“When you’re efficient, you don’t have to spend all day working.” He held his glass up in salute. “I’m a man who has my priorities straight.”
From what she’d learned asking around in town, holding up the bar at the Dirty Sally was one of those priorities. Daisy sipped her drink and thought about what she should do next. She needed help, and Bob had seemed the most likely person to come to her aid, but maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“You’re still here, so I guess I haven’t offended you too much,” he said. He swiveled toward her. “What did you want to see me about?”
She set down the glass, trying to control the trembling in her hand. Dammit, she thought she’d pulled herself together better before she came in here.
His hand closed over hers so quickly she didn’t have time to pull away. He had big hands, with scarred knuckles and grease tattooed into the lines crisscrossing the fingers. Workingman hands, strong and capable. He leaned close, his grizzled face filling her field of vision. “What’s got you so upset?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
She looked away. “It’s foolish.”
His fingers squeezed hers, warm and reassuring. “You never struck me as the foolish type.”
She nodded and gently pulled her hand away to lace the fingers together with the other hand in her lap. “A bear stole one of my kids today. It came right out of the woods while I was standing there, snatched it up, and carried it away. Alice tried to go after it and the bear swatted her off her feet. I had to hold her back; I was so afraid she’d be hurt, too.”
“This up at Brice Alcott’s ranch? That back pasture you’re working in?”
She nodded. “The doe has been crying for her baby something awful. But there was nothing I could do. The bear just snatched it up and . . .” She closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the memory of the bear tearing at the little kid while the mother bawled and Alice barked.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Bob said.
She’d been sure he’d make fun of her—tell her to buck up, that eat or be eaten was the way of the world. She hadn’t been prepared for his kindness, which somehow moved her closer to tears.
She took a steadying breath. “I know I should be tougher. That when you have livestock, you’re going to clash with wildlife. But I guess I’ve been lucky, so far. I haven’t had to deal with anything like this.”
“You don’t have a gun?” he asked.
“I have a twenty-two for killing snakes and scaring off coyotes,” she said. “I’m afraid if I shoot a bear with something like that, it will just make her mad.”
“So you think it was a sow?”
She nodded. “I know it was. She had two cubs with her. Which is another reason I don’t want to kill her. But I need to protect my goats. It was so easy for her to rush in and get that kid that I’m afraid the next time she’s hungry she’ll be back for more. The girls are all upset and Alice is frantic, trying to herd them up and watch the woods for the bear. I hated to even leave them to come here, but I felt I had to.”
“I’ve got a rifle that will take care of your problem, no question.”
“I told you, I don’t want to kill her. The cubs will starve to death.” She glared at him, then realized he’d only made the statement to get a rise out of her—and maybe to distract her from her grief and worry.
She swallowed her anger. “What am I going to do?” she asked.
“First, we call the wildlife officer. You’re entitled to reimbursement for the loss of the kid, so you might as well claim it. And he’ll give us some rubber bullets.”
“What will those do?”
“They’ll hurt like hell when Mama comes back for another serving of goat. They’ll make her think twice about trying again.”
“I don’t know if I’m a good enough shot to hit her.”
“Maybe not, but I am.”
“So you’ll help me?”
He swiveled to face the bar once more and picked up his glass. “As soon as I finish this beer. A little alcohol steadies my aim.”
She couldn’t decide if he was serious, or merely trying to get a rise out of her. She suspected the latter, so she played along. “I still don’t approve of drinking,” she said crisply. “But when a man is already so flawed, what is one more vice?”
“You women are never happy unless you’re righting some wrong or working on some reform,” he said. “The way I see it, I’m enough of a project to make the right woman downright delirious.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth, but not quite in time to cover a particularly unladylike snort. He winked at her. “At least you aren’t watering up on me anymore.”
Her mother had always told her to appreciate a man who could make her laugh. But her mother had probably never met anyone like Bob Prescott.
“Do you want to make cookies?’
It was Wednesday afternoon
and Mindy had been almost-napping on the sofa. For a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming. So many childhood afternoons had begun with this question from Shelly. If they were bored or lonely or upset about anything, their therapy of choice was baking cookies. It was a wonder they weren’t both three feet wide, they’d found such solace in butter and sugar.
“I’m going to make some oatmeal cookies for the boys’ lunches,” Shelly said. “Do you want to help?”
“Sure.” Still shaking off the lethargy of sleep, she followed Shelly into the kitchen. Unlike the strictly utilitarian kitchen of their youth, used primarily for brewing morning coffee and microwaving quick meals, this was clearly a room Shelly spent a lot of time in. In addition to open shelves of pottery and appliances, a large rack filled with every spice imaginable, and a cupboard devoted entirely to boxes of different kinds of teas, Shelly’s kitchen contained a big wooden table with comfortable chairs, and a bookcase filled with books—cookbooks and picture books and paperback novels. A framed cross-stitched sampler by the door read HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.
“Should we do oatmeal with raisins or oatmeal with dried cranberries?” Shelly asked. She moved to stand behind a gleaming mixer at the kitchen’s granite-topped island.
“Oatmeal with chocolate chips.” Mindy took her place opposite and surveyed the ingredients Shelly had assembled. “Where’s the butter?”
“I’m using coconut oil. Trust me, it tastes amazing with the oatmeal.” She took a bag of semisweet chips from the cabinet. “The chocolate is a good idea.”
“Of course.” Mindy grinned.
Though they hadn’t made cookies together in a dozen years or more, they fell easily into their roles: Mindy measured and handed over ingredients for Shelly to add to the mixing bowl. When the batter was ready, they took turns scooping out spoonfuls and arranging them on the cookie sheets. Shelly’s sheet was filled with uniform rounds of dough, arranged in straight lines; Mindy’s cookies meandered across her baking sheet like stepping-stones of various sizes and shapes. But Shelly didn’t comment on this. She merely slid both sheets into the preheated oven, then began gathering ingredients to put away.