Easter in Dry Creek

by Janet Tronstad

  Mr. Nelson cleared his throat, eyeing his daughter. “Don’t look at me that way. We’re not sending him away.”

  “Why not?” Clay asked softly. Father and daughter both turned to him in concern. He had to admit he was a little taken aback himself, but nothing was ever gained by dodging the truth. He spoke to Mr. Nelson. “When I saw you last, you were determined to make me suffer for what happened. I remember what you said. ‘Let him rot in that black hole of a place. We don’t want him back here.’ So I’m asking straight out, what’s changed?”

  The rancher paled at Clay’s words. “I suppose you want an apology from me, too, now?”

  Clay shook his head impatiently. “I just want a plainspoken answer. Why am I here?”

  Mr. Nelson stood there thinking for a minute.

  “For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” the older man finally said. “I said awful things to you and about you. No Christian should say such things.”

  “People say a lot of things they shouldn’t,” Clay said. “Christian or not.”

  Allie started to say something, but her father held up a hand to stop her. “He has a right to ask what’s going on.”

  Everyone was silent. Clay watched as the older man debated something.

  “I’m doing this for Mark,” Mr. Nelson finally admitted, his voice thick with emotion. The rancher continued speaking, his eyes on Clay. “I didn’t want to ask you, but I finally realized we need you. There’s no one else.”

  Clay saw defeat in the other man’s eyes. Clay had been in prison long enough to recognize the look on a man’s face when he had no choice except the bitter one in front of him. The man was finally being honest.

  “But you still blame me?” Clay asked. He wanted things to be clear.

  The older man didn’t answer.

  “Will you help us anyway?” Mr. Nelson finally asked.

  “I don’t see how I—” Clay began to politely refuse the request. There were worse things than being locked up in a cell. Being around people who didn’t trust him was one of them. He’d be free on his own terms in two years. He could wait.

  Allie had been silent, but now she sputtered indignantly a moment until she found words. “Mark would be the last person to want him here to help.”

  Anger scorched the air.

  Clay tried not to wince. “I should leave.”

  He decided he’d call Sheriff Wall himself if he had to. If it warmed up outside, he could hitchhike back to prison. He had more sketches to do there anyway.

  Clay waited for Allie to turn around, but she kept facing her father with her back stiff enough to make her displeasure clear.

  “Please don’t look at me that way,” Mr. Nelson said to her. “We have no choice. Mark wants to see Clay. Mark has always looked on him as a brother.”

  * * *

  Allie jerked sideways. She could barely believe her ears. “What?”

  Allie turned to look, and Clay seemed as stunned as she was. His eyes were wide and his jaw slack.

  “They’re not brothers,” Allie swiveled and told her father crisply, ignoring Clay’s question. She needed to put a stop to this nonsense. She hadn’t been to see Mark for several months, but she hadn’t heard him mention Clay before that. Of course, it was only recently that her brother was able to speak very complicated thoughts. And her father said Mark had improved since she’d seen him last.

  Finally, she turned back to Clay. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know what went on between the two of you, but a brother doesn’t do their brother harm.”

  Clay smiled grimly. “Believe me, I wish I’d tried to stop things. But I didn’t know what he was planning to do that night. I certainly never meant for him to end up like he did. I worry about him just like you do.”

  Allie had watched Clay as he spoke. He wasn’t lying. It didn’t mean he was telling the complete truth, though. Maybe that was the way he thought it had happened, she told herself. He could have set everything in motion and then wished later that he had pulled back.

  “I know you didn’t mean for Mark to end up in a coma.” Allie could give him that much. And she knew Mark liked Clay; her brother had spent many of his evenings out in the bunkhouse since that was where Clay slept. They’d sit at one of the tables and play checkers. Their father hadn’t liked it, but no one had stopped it.

  Allie supposed it was money that had prompted Clay to plan that robbery. She had always thought that when he turned eighteen, he’d just stay on as a regular ranch hand. But maybe he was worried about his future. Then again maybe all he wanted was more beer to drink and he hadn’t known how else to get it.

  Clay hadn’t responded to her, and she looked up at him. Lord, what do I do? she prayed.

  Her father was right. She needed to be kinder to Clay. She wished she had known he needed more money; she could have turned over her allowance. After all, he hadn’t had the advantage of having parents to raise him as she had. If the parole board was sending him back to where the crime had been committed, they must have their reasons.

  Clay met her eyes, but his expression didn’t soften. He certainly didn’t act like someone who needed her charity.

  “I still don’t see what I can do for Mark, though,” Clay finally said. She could hear the skepticism in his voice as he eyed her father. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what to do about a coma. I don’t believe in miracles, and I don’t pray. God would never grant a request from me. I’m not a faith healer. There’s not one thing I can do but say I am sorry that Mark is hurting.”

  Allie couldn’t believe he was not going to at least pretend to help them. Not when it meant he’d be out of prison. She remembered now how stubborn he’d always been.

  In the silence, her father spoke to her. “Mark told me a few weeks ago that he asked Clay to help him with the Easter sunrise processional.”

  She heard Clay gasp, but she focused on her father. He spoke slowly and deliberately, like he wanted a certain response from her. “You remember how Mark had been talking to everyone about that processional before the accident?”

  “I do,” Allie acknowledged as she reached over and put a hand on her father’s arm. The poor man had aged two decades in the last four years. She was concerned about him. He carried a burden that never seemed to leave him. At least she was distracted from their family problems by working long shifts at her job.

  “I doubt Mark means for you to worry,” she said to her father.

  “That’s what he says,” her father agreed. “And I know he doesn’t know so much time has passed.”

  “I can’t believe Mark is communicating,” Clay said.

  Allie suddenly realized that Clay still had that sheepskin coat wrapped around him. It had been cold outside, and she wasn’t sure the heater in that old pickup worked very well. He must have been frozen when he stepped inside the kitchen.

  When her father didn’t answer, Clay turned toward her.

  Allie nodded. Clay’s eyes widened.

  “So what, does he blink his eyes at you?” Clay asked her. “You know, the old ‘once for yes and twice for no’ kind of a thing?” He kept looking at her, but she gestured to her father, suggesting he was the one to answer. Clay turned to him. “I’ve heard of things like that—people pointing to letters in the alphabet. Is that the kind of thing Mark is doing?”

  “Oh, no,” her father said as he shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

  Allie could see the excitement leave Clay’s face again. He was disappointed.

  “Then what is it?” Clay asked.

  No one answered. Allie wasn’t sure what kind of a deal the prison officials had made with her father, but it would have to be canceled. They didn’t need someone around asking probing questions about Mark. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay a ranch hand. And, there was no
need for one anyway. The corrals and barn were empty. There were enough repairs to keep a man busy for months, but that work would have to wait.

  “We don’t talk much about Mark,” her father finally said. “The doctors say to keep it quiet.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me,” Clay said then, his voice insistent. “You brought me all the way over here. And I’m not going anywhere until I understand what’s going on with Mark.”

  Allie could have told her father that this would happen. But they couldn’t protect Mark if they told everyone all there was to know about his condition.

  Clay looked at her.

  “My father knows more about it than I do,” Allie said. She’d leave it up to him to walk through this minefield.

  “But you can tell him better than me,” her father protested, looking over at her in alarm.

  She shook her head. She wasn’t the one who had invited Clay here; it was her father. She was tired of being the one who handled the problems in the family, especially when they were not of her making. She should go check on Jeremy anyway. She had heard the closet door open in the far bedroom some time ago. The boy was likely back there playing with those plastic horses of his. It wouldn’t hurt if she stayed out here a bit, though, and saw how much her father was willing to share with Clay.

  “One of you better tell me,” Clay said.

  He looked at her, pale blue eyes searching hers for answers. He wasn’t afraid to push for what he wanted to know. A muscle along his jaw tightened, and she knew he’d not be discouraged.

  “It’s not my place to say,” she finally managed to tell him.

  She wondered if Clay had any idea how complicated life had become in the Nelson family since the day of that attempted robbery. There were many times since then when she wished Clay was still around so she could talk to him about the problems she had. He’d always seemed so steady in his advice. The truth was that she had relied on him more than Mark and certainly more than her father. Her brother had refused to acknowledge any issues in their family. Her father, when he was drinking, had been no help as he had often been the source of her concern.

  After her mother died, Allie felt like she was the one in charge of keeping the family together. So far, she hadn’t done very well.

  Allie didn’t like being on the spot again, because one look at Clay’s eyes and she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with some half-truth that she would tell him, hoping to satisfy his questions.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Clay said to her softly then. “Your father will tell me.”

  Allie could only hope that would be true.

  Chapter Three

  The kitchen was gaining light, Clay noticed as he stood there in the silent room. The clock read seven o’clock. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched since he left here four years ago. The same beige paint was on the walls, and the windowsills were a chipped white. He had noticed a nail by the refrigerator. It held last year’s calendar, and it didn’t appear like the months on it had even been changed.

  “Tell me about Mark,” Clay finally asked again as he turned his attention to the older man. “If he doesn’t make some hand motions, how does it work?”

  Clay figured the rancher must be imagining some kind of response from his son. The signs of depression were all over this kitchen. Even in prison, the officials became concerned when something as simple as a calendar wasn’t kept updated. Clay guessed Mr. Nelson was telling himself he knew what Mark thought. It was like people who decided their cat was an opera fan because the animal sat there and purred when a song was being sung. He supposed it was very human to imagine that one could know the thoughts of a being who couldn’t communicate.

  Mr. Nelson didn’t say anything. Allie, on the other hand, was standing there with a blank look on her face that was so uncharacteristic of her that Clay suspected she was unwilling to tip anyone off to her father’s strange beliefs. Maybe she was embarrassed.

  “I know it’s been hard,” Clay said, trying not to let his disappointment show. He might be having those flights of fancy, too, if he was father to someone in a coma. But desperate hope could mess with a man’s mind; no one knew that better than men who had spent time behind bars.

  “Oh, no, Mark is talking,” Mr. Nelson said with strength in his voice. He seemed to have understood what Clay was thinking. “It’s not easy. He has to come up with the words, and it’s slow. But he’s talking.”

  “He says actual words?”

  Mr. Nelson nodded. “More now than when he started.”

  Clay looked at the man for a long moment. Then he turned to Allie. She nodded, as well. It was a wooden nod, like something was holding her back, but she did confirm the words.

  “He used to just make sounds and we had to guess at the words,” Allie offered.

  Clay felt joy start to blossom inside him. “Well, what do you know?” Clay said as he lifted his fist in a gesture of triumph. Mark—his friend, his buddy—was free from the blackness of being in a coma. He’d heard enough stories from men who had spent the night in solitary confinement to have some sense of what that release must feel like to Mark. Not to mention the hope it would bring to his family.

  Clay had a sudden impulse to wrap his arms around Allie and coax her into dancing an Irish jig with him. They’d done that once in the rain when they’d clocked a good time racing some of the horses. He, Mark and Allie, all dancing in a circle in the barn and laughing like fools. He needed to do something to celebrate. But he said nothing because he saw Allie was blinking back tears.

  “What’s wrong?” Clay asked anxiously. “Am I missing something?”

  He supposed Mark could be talking and dying at the same time. That would explain the pinched look on Allie’s face.

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. These are happy tears.”

  Clay never had understood those kinds of tears. But he was glad Mark was apparently all right.

  Suddenly Clay could feel the cat stirring. He put his hand over the place where the feline struggled against the coat, hoping to calm her until he could get her out from inside it.

  Then he heard a sound and glanced down in time to see a movement out of the corner of one eye. A young boy was sneaking into the kitchen from the hallway. His flannel pajamas had pictures of galloping horses on them. His dark hair had a cowlick on the left side and was not combed.

  The cat seemed to be calm now. Clay relaxed.

  The boy slid forward and stood beside Allie. She put her hand on his head without even seeming to realize he was there. Then she stroked his hair in absentminded affection.

  “I couldn’t find my clothes.” The boy looked up. “I want the blue shirt.”

  “So you’ve been playing instead of getting dressed like Grandpa asked,” Allie said with strong affection in her voice as she leaned down to kiss the top of the boy’s head. The boy nodded sheepishly. Then Allie straightened up.

  Clay had never imagined that Allie would have a son. But just because time had stood still for him during the past several years, it didn’t mean it had slowed for anyone else.

  He knew Allie well enough to realize that if she had a son it also meant she likely had a husband. He supposed he’d never had a real chance with her, but it still left him empty. He’d pictured her so many times when he was in prison; there was something about her that reminded him of fireflies. Delicate yet bright, flitting from place to place. She always lifted his spirits. He would have given anything to be able to date her. Maybe give her a first kiss.

  Clay must have shifted his shoulders as he stood there staring because the cat twisted inside his coat again. He saw that she’d pulled at one of the buttons until it was open. Before Clay could reach down and grab the animal, she flew through the air, landing on her feet atop the worn beige linoleum floor.

  “What’s t
hat?” Mr. Nelson demanded to know. He looked around like more cats might be flying toward him from everywhere.

  The tabby, its rust-colored fur bristling, stood there in the middle of the kitchen arching her back and looking pleased with her flight. Then she hissed. Clay had no doubt the cat was ready to defend herself from any scolding. But the young boy slid down until he was sitting in front of her.

  “Don’t touch her,” Clay cautioned as he bent down and put his hands out to protect the child. “She’s partly wild.”

  The cat had likely been tame at some point, but Clay figured she’d forgotten any softness she’d ever known. It had been a long time since she’d had an owner, and he knew how quickly home manners could be forgotten. The boy was already pulling the cat toward him, though. Once he had her in his arms, he rubbed his face against her matted fur.

  The feline looked up suspiciously, but she didn’t fight.

  “I always wanted a kitty,” the boy said and gave a satisfied sigh. “And this one has orange stripes. That’s my favorite color. Does that mean she’s for me?”

  He patted the tabby gently, as though he’d already claimed her.

  Clay was glad the boy had never seen a tiger.

  “Orange is a good color,” Clay agreed, noticing that the cat had relaxed in the boy’s care. Maybe she remembered more than he thought. “It’s the color for caution, though, so be careful.”

  Clay braced himself to make a grab if the cat started to claw her way out of the boy’s embrace, but she stayed where she was. “I expect you’ll want to ask your father if you can keep her.”

  Clay knew he shouldn’t have asked it that way. But he wanted to know. He tried to keep his expression neutral. Allie looked like someone’s wife, with her hair pulled back in a barrette and a faded apron covering her jeans. He hoped that whoever the man was he was decent toward her and the boy.

  “We don’t talk about his father,” Allie told Clay and gave him a warning look. Her eyes darkened to steel as she stood her ground. She continued, speaking to the boy. “You’ll have to ask your mother, though.”