by Lisa Jackson
“I don’t know. A ranch hand maybe.”
“Don’t have one.”
“What about that guy, Jack?”
“He only works here part-time. The tire needs to be fixed now.”
“Well, your husband or boyfriend should do it,” he said, squinting a little and watching her intently.
“Out of those, as well.” She straightened and rubbed her back. Sweat collected around her forehead and drizzled down her spine. The day was hot, the work dirty, and she felt grimy and gritty far beneath her skin. At times like these, she almost envied women who relied on some big strong man to do their dirty work. Almost—but not quite. She’d rather be independent, even if it did make things a little tougher.
Swiping the sweat from her forehead, she reached for the spare and lined it up.
Chris hopped from the tractor seat and was right beside her, peering over her shoulder. “Brandon could help you.”
“He’s got enough to do, don’t you think?” she said.
“But—”
“It’s all right, really. I can manage.”
“Maybe I could help out around here,” he offered earnestly. He reached into the hubcap and picked up a lug nut, then flipped it into the air and caught it deftly.
“Don’t lose those.”
“I won’t.” He flipped it again like a coin and it turned end over end before landing back in his palm. “You were married.”
She felt her chest constrict. “That’s right.”
“But you got a divorce.”
“Mmmm—hand me that nut here, would you?” She took it from his outstretched palm and spun it onto the lug.
“You got any kids?”
The ground seemed to shift beneath her feet. “Kids? Well, you don’t see any, do you?”
“Thought maybe they live with their dad.”
She shook her head and hardly dared breathe. “Nope.”
“You should. You like ’em.”
“That’s true enough,” she admitted. Rocking back on her heels, she looked into his earnest hazel green eyes and didn’t have the heart to tell him that she loved her independence and guarded it fiercely. She turned the subject back to his wanting to work. “Look, if you want to help out around here, you can, but only under the condition that I pay you.”
“But I thought you didn’t have any money. That’s what Brandon says. That’s why he’s living in the big house and you’re in the apartment.”
Humiliation singed through her veins. The last thing she ever wanted anyone to think was that she was some kind of charity case. She twirled a lug nut into place, then reached for another. “It’s true,” she said slowly, wishing she could give Brandon a piece of her mind. “I don’t have a lot of money right now. I’m hoping to buy this ranch and I’ve got to save everything I can. Besides, now that I’m living alone, I don’t really need all the space of the house—the apartment will suit me just fine.”
“Brandon lives alone.”
“Unless you come to visit.” She reached for her wrench and Chris slapped it into her open palm like a nurse handing a surgeon his scalpel in the operating room. “Which I suppose will be fairly often.” She tightened one nut, then worked on the one on the opposite side of the wheel.
“Depends.”
“On what?” She glanced up at him and noticed that his lips had formed a hard, unhappy line.
“Ma, I guess. Brandon’s worried about her.”
“Oh?” When he didn’t elaborate, Dani let the subject drop. “Well, anyway, I’m going to pay you for helping out, either in dollars and cents or a trade for riding lessons. Whichever you want.”
“Really?” He seemed to consider.
“Your choice.”
“Okay, I’ll take the cash.”
“Smart boy.” He stuck out his hand and Dani shook it firmly.
From that moment on, he was her shadow, following her around the ranch, learning the ropes, catching on quickly as Dani sorted calves, repaired fences and vaccinated some of the horses. Eventually, when Dani began cleaning out the stables, he tired of the work, and she gave him hammer, nails, saw and plywood so that he could construct a jump for his skateboarding. He was a good kid, she thought as he walked back toward the house, even though he had a restlessness about him that reminded her of Brandon. His hands and feet were too big for the rest of his body, his arms and legs lanky, his shoulders just beginning to broaden. An early bloomer. No wonder the girls were calling and chasing after him. She leaned on the end of her shovel, her hands burrowed inside rawhide work gloves, and stared after him.
Her son would be about the same age, she thought, aching inside. Would he be so big, so close to being a man? She’d already missed so much of his life. A huge, dark hand reached around her heart and squeezed hard. She had to fight off an onslaught of tears. She wasn’t going to cry; she’d shed all her tears in a previous lifetime and now she was going to be strong and in control of her life—no longer would she be the victim.
All she had to do to end this pain was find her son.
* * *
A backhoe lifted its giant jaw of a shovel and dug deep into the dry earth, chewing at rocks and dirt, spewing black smoke into the cloudless sky.
Brandon, eyes protected from the bright sunlight by dark glasses, watched as the ground was broken for his resort. Though now it was just a gaping hole a quarter of a mile away from the shores of the lake, soon a concrete crew would come in to pour the foundation, and a week or so later the framers would follow. Elkhorn Lodge would become more than an idea drawn on blueprints.
He imagined the swimming pool, tennis courts and weight room. Farther away there would be stables, an eighteen-hole golf course flanking the river, private airstrip and acres upon acres of biking and hiking trails. The park by the lake would have a private moorage for sailboats and speed craft, even a dock for the houseboats that lumbered through the water. A vacation paradise, all near his own hometown. He thought that his mother could move here, have her own quarters with maid and room service along with a separate minisuite for Chris. But first he had to get her to the doctor and into some kind of treatment program.
Squinting as the first truckload of dirt rolled away on the crushed-rock road, he picked up a handful of soil and let the dry earth drift through his fingers. This project felt good—better than any he’d done before. Because he was home. Because he was close to his family. Because of Dani.
Yep, he could see the building already taking shape before his eyes, even though nothing yet existed. He was getting away from himself. It would take over a year to construct the lodge, longer yet for the rest of the project. He planned to finish it in three stages and he’d be around a long time.
Close to Dani.
After the lodge was finished, he had planned to move into his own suite and leave Dani’s ranch to her. Strangely, he experienced a tug on his heart and told himself he was being a nostalgic fool.
“Brand!” His foreman, Syd Crane, a bowlegged man of fifty, sauntered up. He was looking at a map and scowling.
“What’s up?”
“Nothin’ good, let me tell you.” Syd shot a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “We got ourselves some problems.”
“Don’t we always?”
Syd snorted, unamused.
“Okay, let’s hear it.” Brand straightened and dusted his hands on his jeans. He wasn’t worried by Syd’s concerns; his entire life consisted of solving problems that Syd, worrier that he was, despaired of fixing. Syd was a good man, an industrious man, the hardest worker Brand had ever met, but he wasn’t long on imagination.
Syd chewed on a lower lip flecked with pieces of tobacco. “Looks like the northwest corner of the property has some significance to a local tribe of Indians.”
“The northwest? We bought that from Gib Wilkins, right?” Brandon asked, trying to remember all the details. “Wilkins sold us his farm . . . been in the family since the first Wilkins pioneer came over on the wagon train into Baker City, right?”
“Yeah, but apparently a few acres of the land were part of an Indian burial ground and there was some agreement between the original Wilkins—Ezra, I think his name was—and the chief. This part of the land wasn’t to be disturbed. Gib claims he doesn’t know anything about it, but the attorney for the tribe, a woman named Janice something-or-other, has the original deed or whatever it is and it looks valid.” He rubbed the back of his weathered neck furiously. “So now we’re thinking about putting a par five on this strip of holy land or some damned thing and the Native Americans aren’t too happy. I took the call in the trailer from your lawyer, who’s been in contact with some legal representative of the tribe.”
“I’ll handle it,” Brand said, willing to make concessions. As a bastard who had no roots of his own, he respected the ancestors of others. “Anything else?”
“Well, there’s a threat of a strike involving the drivers of the dump trucks.”
“Great.”
“Also, a fella called about waste management. With the Department of Environmental Quality.” Once Syd got started with his complaints and worries, he didn’t give up.
Brand offered Syd a grin. “Been a full morning, hasn’t it?”
“I guess. Then there’s the problem with the plumbing company we hired. They can’t get some of the pipe, trouble with the IRS or something, and Ed Banks, the engineer in charge of the sewage system, broke his leg in two places last night playing soccer like he was some young kid or something. Had to have surgery and pins and plates and all sorts of things, so he’ll be out of the Portland office of his firm for a couple of weeks. If we have any problems we’re supposed to talk to his assistant, a junior engineer.” Disgusted, Syd spit another stream of tobacco juice onto the dust, startling a lizard that darted quickly away. “Other than that, everything’s right on schedule.”
Brandon winked as he clapped Syd on the shoulder. “That’s what I like about this job,” he said. “Everything is always so easy.” They walked back to the office—a trailer parked on the site—that was divided into two rooms with a small kitchen and bathroom separating them. Syd shared his office with a secretary, Rinda Todd. Brandon’s desk was in the back and included a small closet and sofa bed that he could use if he had to work late. Though they were located in a remote part of Oregon, they were linked by phone and computers to Portland and Bend. “At least we’ve broken ground,” he told the worried foreman. “These other things’ll work out. I’ll talk to the law firm about the Native Americans and the union and I’ll put in a call to the engineers. Relax, Syd, we’re still ahead of schedule.”
“Yeah, but winter will be here before you know it and it’s damn cold over here. Not like California.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?” Brandon asked, with a knowing smile.
“Nope,” Syd deadpanned. “Everyone thinks I’m a regular optimist.”
Brandon laughed as he climbed the two steps into the trailer and settled into his chair. A stack of messages littered one corner of his desk, a computer monitor glowed on the other and he realized that he’d been away from the job longer than he’d planned. For the first time in years, he’d taken the weekend off and spent it with his brother and Dani. A smile played upon his lips and he looked forward to going home, not because he was a homebody at heart, but because he knew that he’d probably see her. And damn it, much as he didn’t want to, he liked knowing that Dani, with her wide gold eyes, mutinous little chin and hot-tempered determination, was nearby. Just a stone’s throw away.
* * *
Dani’s fingers tightened over the receiver and her heart nearly stopped for a second.
“I’ve got a line on a nurse at the hospital,” Sloan admitted, though there was a trace of reluctance in his voice, as if he was afraid of raising her hopes just to dash them.
“Who is she?” Dani, seated at her small table, was in the middle of paying bills. Now, all her pressing debts were forgotten. Her throat was dry with anticipation and she tapped her pen nervously on the table’s edge.
“Her name is Bobbi Ragsdale and she was an R.N. who worked in the delivery room when you were admitted.” He hesitated for a second and Dani’s teeth sank into her lower lip. “Look, Dani, this may not pan out. I wouldn’t have even mentioned it, but I wanted you to know that I’m still working on it. This nurse is the first person associated with that private hospital who might remember seeing McKee at that time. Everyone else seems to think he was on the board of directors but never showed his face at the hospital. Nurse Ragsdale was on duty the night you delivered, though she doesn’t remember your name, just that an unwed mother was giving birth.”
“No?”
“Could you have been admitted under an alias?”
“I don’t think so—”
“You weren’t eighteen, right?”
“No, not quite.”
“And your mother was with you?”
“Yes, she filled out all the forms because of the insurance and all and Estelle was there.”
“The woman you were staying with, Estelle Getwright.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Too bad she’s gone,” Sloan said.
Dani leaned back in her chair. Estelle, who ran a small home for unwed mothers, had been good to her, taking her in, helping her through those last final weeks when she’d felt so alone in the world. Prematurely gray, with a nervous smile and a heart of gold, Estelle had been a godsend. A lump came to Dani’s throat as she remembered the kindly middle-aged woman with her sharp birdlike eyes and brittle chortle whenever she laughed.
“Your mother was working for Jonah McKee at the time, right? The insurance payment would have been from the policy for his company.”
“I—I think so, but I don’t know. No, wait, there was something about my medical expenses being paid by the couple who adopted the baby. I don’t think an insurance company was involved. I’m sorry, that part’s pretty hazy. I was just a kid and didn’t think about the cost of things. I guess I thought that Mom or maybe Jonah McKee had taken care of the bills.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. “Why would he care?”
Dani tossed her hair over her shoulder and stretched the phone line tight. She clicked her pen nervously. “I’ve asked myself that same question about a million times. The only thing I can figure is that he somehow felt obligated to my mom. Dad was killed while working for him when I was just a little kid and ever since then Jonah seemed to step in whenever there was a family problem. My pregnancy was just one more.”
“You think?”
“I’ve always wondered why. I just don’t know,” she admitted, wishing now that she’d approached the old man while he was alive, that she’d demanded answers, that she’d found out what had happened to her baby and the couple who’d adopted him, that she’d stared into Jonah McKee’s eyes and asked him why he’d cared what had happened to her child.
“Okay, look, I’ll talk to this Ragsdale woman and let you know if it comes to anything.”
“Thanks,” she said, hanging up and ignoring the bills on the table in front of her. Leaning her head in her hands, she closed her eyes. That night was a blur. She’d woken up because of the labor. Pain so intense she could barely breathe shot through her abdomen. When it passed and she tried to roll out of bed, her water broke, gushing all over the sheets and floor.
Another girl ran for Estelle who, in pin curls and flannel nightgown, hurried to her bedside. In complete control, Estelle helped her get dressed, telling her not to worry about the mess, all that mattered was that the baby was healthy. Estelle threw on a robe, made a couple of hasty phone calls to the hospital and to Dani’s mother—or had one been to Jonah McKee?—and Dani was bundled into Estelle’s old sedan that coughed and sputtered as she backed out of the driveway of the old house that was home to several mothers to be. The pains came quickly and Estelle kept talking to Dani while pushing the speed limit, driving through the stree
ts of The Dalles to the hospital, located about ten miles past the city limits.
“Breathe shallow and fast,” Estelle kept telling her as they drove through the night. “You’re doing fine.”
With each stabbing pain, Dani felt as if her entire insides were shredding, tearing apart. She held her arms around the bulge that was her middle, fought back tears of fear and reminded herself that this was what she wanted. When she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d told her mother, and Irene hadn’t wasted any time in finding a solution to her daughter’s “situation.” Dani had been firm on the abortion issue; she wasn’t going to get rid of Brand’s baby. She desperately wanted to keep and raise the child, but her mother—probably following Jonah’s advice—was convinced that she was doing the baby, herself and Brand a favor by giving the infant to a loving couple.
It had been the hardest decision of her life and, she was certain, the best. Jonah McKee was integral. He’d found Estelle, a kind woman who, Dani was told, had herself been a child given up for adoption years before. Once Estelle’s husband had died and her own children were grown, she boarded girls in trouble, helping them through the last stage of their pregnancy, providing moral support and a place to live in relative anonymity.
Then Dani was in the hospital, to spend hours in labor before being wheeled to a delivery room. Wearing masks and matching green hospital scrubs, the doctor and two nurses were in the room. They lifted her from the gurney and onto the delivery table, talking rapidly, telling her the baby was prone and would have to be turned, probably with forceps.
Frightened, she’d agreed to anything, assured that they knew far more than she when it came to delivering babies into the world. She was told to push, had no choice because her baby was coming, and suddenly under the blinding lights, her son had been born. She’d seen him only briefly before he’d been whisked away, presumably to meet his new parents.
Now, Dani blinked hard and stared at the telephone.
Even then, she hadn’t completely trusted Jonah McKee and had blamed him for forcing her into a situation she wasn’t comfortable with. All her mother’s counseling had been at the suggestion of Jonah once Irene had confided in him. And the convenient way of dealing with the problem—of sending Dani to another town, finding a woman who would look after her, provide for the bills that were racking up—was Jonah’s doing, as well.