Clay remembered some good times, sitting around that fireplace in the evenings with the other ranch hands. Sometimes the cook would make them all cocoa when a blizzard was howling outside.
He continued gazing around and saw the door to the left that opened up into what everyone had called the new kitchen when he’d been here. It had been added to the bunkhouse a few months before he got there. A new large bathroom had been added, as well. He walked over and looked into the kitchen. Black-and-white linoleum covered the floor. A long counter lined the wall across from the door, its length interrupted by the double sink in the middle. The dark green countertop was tile. The cabinets had been painted white. Two regular-sized refrigerators sat to the left of the door, and a double-oven gas stove was on the wall opposite.
Large square windows dominated the far white corner of the kitchen, and that’s where the rectangular oak table sat, three chairs to each side and one on each end. In the winter, when the shades were rolled up, that was the warmest corner in the bunkhouse, including the sofas by the fireplace. A bookcase stood under the left window, not that there were many books. The ranch hands joked that the bookcase was nothing but a fancy display for the cook’s philodendron plants. Clay and Mark used to sit in that corner, playing chess at the table and discussing the problems of the world.
Clay looked closer and remembered the Bible that stood in the bookcase. He and Mark had been doing something called the Easter Challenge that year. The church had invited everyone to read the Gospel of Luke.
Clay went over and slipped the Bible off the shelf. Mark had his own Bible in the main house; this one had been left behind by some ranch hand Clay never knew. The gum wrapper he’d used to keep his place in the Bible was still there. As he recalled, neither he nor Mark had gotten very far in the story before that night interrupted both their lives.
Clay set the Bible back where it had been, noting for the first time that the shelf had rust rings where metal planters had sat for years. Someone must have eventually thrown the planters away.
He heard the door open in the other room, and he turned slightly.
Before long, Allie stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She had a loose knit scarf around her neck, the red of the scarf making her cheeks look even pinker than they did from the cold. Allie always had liked color.
She looked around and shook her head. “I thought we at least had some pictures on the walls out here. It’s pretty dreary. We’ll fix it up for you.”
Clay shrugged. “I’ve lived with worse. It’s okay.”
He knew he’d said the wrong thing when he saw Allie’s face crumple a little.
“We’re not going to let you live in a place that’s as bad as prison,” Allie said, her voice firm. “You can stay in the house.” She paused and added softly, “In Mark’s old room.”
Clay looked at her. He’d seen less resolute faces on men headed to solitary confinement. “There’s no need for that. You’ve no reason to feel guilty.”
Her eyes flashed at that. “The least we can do is see that you have a nice room. I figure other parolees get paid for the time that they work for someone.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Clay said shortly.
“You might have ended up with a regular parole if it wasn’t for my father,” Allie said in a rush.
Clay was silent.
“It’s the truth then?” Allie said as her shoulders slumped and she stared at the floor.
Clay hated seeing her look miserable. And it certainly wasn’t justified. “I never qualified for parole.”
Allie looked up at that.
“Before you can be considered for parole, you have to say you are sorry for what you did,” Clay continued quietly. “I never did what they said I had so—”
Clay couldn’t take his gaze off Allie. As he watched, her eyes grew round.
“You wouldn’t admit it,” she finally said. “Not even to get out of prison.”
* * *
The silence between them stretched long.
Finally, Allie shifted her stance. More light was coming in the windows, and it sounded like the wind had died down outside. She had known Clay was proud and stubborn, but she almost couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“When would you have gotten out on parole?” she asked then. “If you had done what they asked?”
“Last year about this time,” he said.
Allie nodded for lack of anything else to do. “Please, do take Mark’s bedroom if you’d like. It’s much warmer in the house.”
Clay shrugged. “I’m guessing Mark’s room has been kept for him, just the way he left it.”
Allie nodded. Her father had insisted on that, and she had half agreed with him so neither one of them had disturbed it much. They even left his comb on his dresser and the books he was reading on his nightstand. She had changed the linens before Jeremy came, but no one else had stayed in the room in the past four years.
“Jeremy can sleep on the airbed in my dad’s room,” Allie continued. “He spends half of the night there anyway. He likes to sleep with his grandpa.”
She could see Clay considering her words.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “But I’d do better out here. I’m sure there’s firewood out by the back door, and we’ll be able to turn the water on today. Randy might want to stay in the bunkhouse, too. It’ll be like old times.”
He was trying too hard to convince her, Allie thought, but she wouldn’t argue. “I’ll take the bedding in and let that go through the washing machine while we’re working in the barn. You’ll have your meals with us no matter what.”
Clay looked relieved when she accepted his decision. She supposed he might like the solitude of the bunkhouse after being in prison.
“I suppose we should see to the animals first,” she finally said. “Once we have some hot water to work with, I’ll run the mop over these floors, as well.”
Clay nodded. “Let’s go to the barn then.”
Allie followed him as he walked out the door.
The number of things she was responsible for was growing, she told herself. She missed her mother. She had spent her childhood trying to control more than she could with her father and brother. She wasn’t about to become involved with a man she could not trust.
Which reminded her of something.
“My father has a note for you,” she said to Clay as they approached the barn. “He wanted me to be sure and take you back to the house before Randy got back. He thought the note might be private.”
“Private?” Clay stopped and turned around. “For me?”
Allie nodded. “I didn’t ask from whom.”
Her father liked to be secretive, but she wished he had given her some clue. She could tell Clay looked worried. She wondered if there was any way the parole board had sent him a message telling him to come back. She knew she should want something like that to happen, but she didn’t.
Clay was here, and he seemed to want to stay. At least, she thought so.
“We should get things set up in the barn first,” Clay said. “Let’s check on the pump. And we should turn the propane heater on here in the bunkhouse and in the tack room off the barn.”
“I’d like to take another look at the Appaloosa horses, too,” Allie said.
“I knew you couldn’t resist those horses,” Clay said, grinning. “They’ll eat you out of house and home, but you’re going to like having them here.”
Allie didn’t even bother to reply. She’d forgotten how well he’d known her when he lived on the ranch. It would be easy to step back into their old friendly ways. But that robbery had changed everything. She didn’t know if she could ever trust him again.
Chapter Seven
Allie stepped into the barn before Clay. Sunshine streamed in through the wi
ndows and the air vents until there were rectangular blocks of light throughout the barn. The smell of sweet hay mingled with that of horse. None of the Appaloosas turned to look at Allie and Clay when they walked farther into the barn, but Allie noticed the goat, Billy Boy, stood next to the stallion and gave them a warning bleat.
“We’re harmless,” Allie said to the goat.
Billy Boy dipped his head, but didn’t make another sound.
Allie let the silence surround her as she watched Clay walk toward the animals. When he came to one of the mares, he held his hand out.
“Easy now,” he whispered as he ran his hand along the mare’s spotted flank.
Allie could sense how much Clay liked being with the horse. Chocolate-brown splotches mixed with the light cream of the animal’s coat.
Clay looked over the horses back to the water trough and turned to Allie. “Looks like the pump is working.”
Allie nodded. She felt like she had come home in a way that she hadn’t felt in years. The Nelson ranch had always had horses. Even though she didn’t like the way her father had done things, she couldn’t be sorry that these horses were here.
She walked over to a different mare from the one Clay had claimed. She made sure she was on the right side of the mare so the animal could see her out of the one eye that seemed to be working.
Allie ran her fingers across the sway in the back of the young mare. The horse backed away and nickered a little. Allie took her hands off the animal and waited until the mare came close again. Allie rested her hand on the mare’s back this time without moving it. She could feel the nervous tension in the horse.
“Easy,” she murmured as she started to stroke the horse again. A riot of gray spots covered the white coat of this one. She had always liked Appaloosas; they were like some impressionistic painting hanging in a museum. They used to be the horse favored by the Plains Native Americans, too, so they were in their share of famous artwork.
“Those spots on her look like smoke going up a chimney,” Clay commented to Allie as he studied the horse she was working with. “Wonder what her name is.”
“The only information in the paperwork about the horses are numbers,” Allie answered. “The horses were stock, not pets. I doubt they have names.”
“Even the goat has a name,” Clay said. “I can’t see calling the horses by numbers.”
“They were part of a larger herd,” Allie said. “No one names a hundred horses. But for these, it’s going to change.” Allie stroked the mare’s neck. “Isn’t that right, Zee Zee?”
Clay looked over at Allie in surprise. “I figured you’d go with something like Spot. You know, an animal’s name. Zee Zee sounds like a rock star.”
Allie pointed to the mare’s neck. “Doesn’t that cluster of spots form a Z?”
Clay nodded. “Close enough.”
“Besides, she’s a classy lady,” Allie added as the mare finally turned to her and nuzzled her hand. “One who expects a little sugar now and then.”
Clay was silent as Allie kept petting the mare’s neck. Finally, she looked over at him. He was staring at her like he was puzzling over something.
“What?” she said.
“I always wondered what a classy lady would want,” Clay said with a wry twist to his mouth. He had walked closer and no longer stood by the mare he’d singled out earlier.
Allie felt her mouth go dry. She worked so many hours in Jackson Hole that she didn’t date. She was, however, used to men flirting with her. That seemed a perennial problem for any woman who worked in the ski resorts. She’d handle this the same way she would if she were on the job.
“What do ladies want?” Allie stopped stroking the horse. More sunshine was coming into the barn, but it was still dim enough for the barn to feel intimate. She waited an extra moment to be sure she had his attention. “Most of the ones I know want someone to clean up around the house.”
Clay grinned. “I thought it was diamonds.”
“That, too,” Allie said, flashing him a cocky look. She was relieved he had been teasing.
“Well, that leaves me out,” Clay said then as he started walking to the barn’s door. The wood floor echoed with each step of his boots.
Allie fell into step with him as he passed. She wore tennis shoes and she made no sound.
She told herself she had handled that well. She supposed it was only natural that she and Clay would flirt with each other a little until they found their rhythm again. They had both grown up since they had been friends before. Their lives had changed. Yet some of their teasing still seemed to be in place.
As Clay reached for the barn door handle, Allie decided she might as well ask the question she wanted answered.
“But how about you?” she said. “What is it that you want? I mean, with your girlfriend.”
He hadn’t mentioned any woman, but Mark always said Clay had women coming on to him all the time. She’d spent her sixteenth year jealous of phantom girls who she never knew even existed. It wasn’t wrong, she told herself, to want to know if her old friend had a connection with someone.
Clay stopped and considered a moment. Then he turned and looked directly at her. The dim light in the barn darkened the blue in his eyes. His lips quirked slightly, and he reached out to gently touch her cheek. She parted her lips as he trailed his finger down her cheek until it rested near her lips. He leaned downward in slow motion, and she arched up on her tiptoes.
He kissed her, and Allie felt the warmth of it curl inside her. It was the gentlest kiss she’d ever had, scarcely more than a brush of his lips, but she didn’t want it to end.
Clay rested his forehead against hers for a few moments before eventually pulling away.
“All I want is for someone to trust me,” he whispered. “To believe me and know what I say is true.”
“Oh.” Allie knew then that this had also been the saddest kiss she’d ever had.
“I’m not sure if I’ve met her yet or not,” he whispered.
“I can’t choose you over Mark.” She felt a moment’s anger that he would ask that of her, and then she remembered she had been the one to bring up the question.
“I’m sorry,” she added.
“So am I,” he answered.
He pulled away then, and they stood there looking at each other.
She knew without asking that he would not compromise on this point. They were on opposite sides here.
Clay finally moved to open the door, and they walked out of the barn. The midmorning sun had warmed everything outside. The snow was melting, and that made it even harder to put one foot in front of the other.
Sometimes, Allie told herself, a woman had to stick with her family even if her heart wished she could believe something improbable. That was part of being a grown-up. Things did not always go the way one wanted. That night could not have happened the way Clay remembered. But he’d been tried and convicted of armed robbery. The court might have some doubt that Clay was the one who planned the holdup, but for the past four years, Allie had refused to believe her brother had been the one to do so. Clay had to be the one most at fault. If only Clay would admit it, she could forgive him.
Chapter Eight
The gray clouds were leaving and the sky was turning blue. Clay noticed the change as he walked toward the house. The morning was quiet. Allie stayed a few yards away from him. He didn’t think it was deliberate, but it was there nonetheless. Each step he took was more difficult. The snow was turning to slush, and his feet were tired. In fact, everything about him felt a little worn down.
Clay wondered suddenly if his father had ever lied and confessed to something he hadn’t done. Maybe to keep his mother happy. Living by the truth sometimes didn’t seem worth what it cost a man. He and Allie had no chance. That moment in the barn had just prov
ed it. How could he love a woman who thought he would lie about something important enough that her brother had almost been killed? And how could she love him when she thought he had done it?
Allie had been walking a little faster than he had, and he saw her take the few steps onto the porch leading to the door by herself. Clay hadn’t seen the front of the house clearly earlier. Now, he noticed the beige siding needed a coat of paint. These harsh winters were to blame, he knew. But when he’d lived on the ranch, everything was kept in perfect condition. It was like the Nelsons had just given up.
All of those years when he had been serving his time, Clay had known that things would change on the ranch after the night of the robbery. He’d expected Mr. Nelson would be testier than usual. And that Allie would be sad. But he’d never expected the neglect that he’d seen since he’d been back.
Allie stood in the doorway, holding the door open for him, and he stepped through it into the warmth of the kitchen. The rug was there and Clay stood on it, bending to scrape the snow off his boots. Allie did the same.
The smell of bacon still scented the air, but the table had been cleared. The dishes had been washed and were drying on a rack by the sink.
Mr. Nelson walked out of the hallway into the kitchen.
“Good, you’re back.” He reached for the pocket in his coveralls and pulled out a crumpled piece of gray paper. “I keep forgetting. Mark wrote this. Gave it to me a couple of weeks ago when I saw him.”
The rancher held it out to Clay. “It’s got your name on it. It’s not private or anything. Mark said I could read it.”
“Let me get my boots off first,” Clay said as he sat down on the bench by the door and took them off. There was no other way to keep from trailing wet snow around the house. Only then did he stand back up.
“Thanks,” Clay said as he walked across the floor in his stocking feet and took the paper.
“Jeremy is in the back bedroom talking with that cat of his,” Mr. Nelson announced. “Never knew he could jabber so much.”
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