At last, his lips twitched with the shadow of a smile. "But, you know, my old dad, Judd, used to say, it came to pass, it didn't come to stay. And it did pass somehow. Me and Gramma still had each other. We still had Roy. All that snow filled up the lakes. We got a little rain the next summer, too, put up a lot of hay. I went to work on a road crew buildin' roads for the Forest Service. Somehow made enough money to hang on, keep the banker off me for another year." The lines on his face slowly softened. "Missy held me up through all that, even while she was sufferin'. She could've carried on like Job's wife, wantin' me to cuss God and die, but she didn't."
The old man raised his gaze. "Your gramma was a fine, fine woman, and I haven't seen her in eleven years—" his voice thickened and his eyes filled with tears—"four months and a day. I know where you're at, Son. When Gramma died, she took springtime with her. I thought springtime wasn't never gonna come again—" his chin trembled—"but then…you came."
A lump swelled his throat. He stepped toward the old man. "Gramps—"
"No." His grandfather held up a hand, stopping him. "I didn't aim to start bawlin' like a baby." He reached for his handkerchief on top of the nightstand and loudly blew his nose then he grinned a little. "But don't let me bein' all cut up about you leavin' influence your decision none."
He chuckled in spite of himself, relaxing his shoulder against the doorframe. His grin slowly faded. "How'd you get your faith back?"
The old man blew his nose again. "Kept prayin' even when I didn't feel like it was gettin' over my head. Kept tryin' to do the right things even when I couldn't see no point in it." His grandfather met his gaze. "God honors that, Son. It keeps a person from makin' a bunch of dumb mistakes when they're hurtin'. Mistakes that sometimes can't be un-done."
Recalling his father's bewildered eyes in the wedding photograph, he nodded.
"The bottom line is…the Lord keeps his promises. He never left me," his grandfather said. "Don't know when it happened, but one day I realized I wasn't just goin' through the motions anymore. Biggest relief of my life."
Outside, near the hen house, Chief's barking developed a frenzied tone. A moment later, he gave a startled yelp then fell silent. The powerful odor of skunk drifted into the room.
He grinned wryly at his grandfather, picturing the old dog rushing around, plowing up the ground with his nose as he tried to rid himself of the caustic vapors.
His grandfather shook his head, grinning. "Poor ol' Chief ain't what you'd call a ball of brains."
"Maybe he's senile."
"Nope. He's always been that-a-way." The old man sobered. "You gonna help me finish brandin' them calves tomorrow?"
His heart swelled painfully at the uncertain question in his grandfather's eyes. He didn't want to leave him. What would've happened to him without the old man?
His grandfather had stayed in the saddle through a lot of heartache and came through it with his faith and integrity intact. Maybe he could learn to do it, too. He wanted to.
He didn't want to be a cardboard man.
***
The following Sunday after church, Rachel stumbled on the wire haired mutt following her around the kitchen, whining and licking his chops. Tantalizing whiffs of frying chicken and cinnamon scented peaches reached Gil in the living room where he sat with Dan. His mouth watered. If Rachel hadn't already chased him out of the kitchen twice, he'd follow her around licking his chops, too.
Later at the table, he leaned back in his chair, his hunger satisfied. "That was so good, Aunt Rachel. I think you saved my life."
She smiled, quietly pleased. "My goodness. You and Gene rattlin' around over there eatin' green bologna and crackers. It's a wonder you two don't starve to death or die of food poisonin'."
"Speakin' of green meat, that reminds me." Dan reached for the golden-crusted peach pie with its dusting of sugar crystals. He forked a generous slice onto his plate then slid the pie tin across the table. "I took a load of hay out to that old Basque over there on Sunnyside yesterday."
"Juan Bolibar?" He took a slice of pie.
Rachel handed him an enamel pitcher. Fresh cream from Katie's cow flowed over his pie in a rich, ivory velvet stream, pooling on his plate.
"Yeah. Don't know how that old man stays alive. He'd butchered a ewe and hung the carcass in a tree. Hacks off a piece when he needs it." Dan shook his head, chewing. "But you know how warm it was yesterday. That mutton was startin' to stink. He can't figure out why his stomach hurts him."
"Hm…" Eyes closed, he savored the creamy sweetness of cinnamon hinted peaches and crisp, flaking crust, still warm. Pure deliciousness.
"He's sellin' out," Dan said. "Goin' to Arizona with his daughter. Said he'd make somebody a heck of a deal to take his whole outfit…sheep, land, trailers, dogs, everything."
"How much land's he got?"
"Four hundred acres or so, but it ain't good for nothin' but sheep. Just rocks, sagebrush and cedars."
"Grazin' permits come with it?"
"I think so." Dan eyed him. "Why? You interested?"
He scooped the last of the cinnamon flecked puddle from his plate. Was that what he'd prayed for after the conversation with his grandfather a few nights before? Some direction? Something to do with his life on his own? Something that had nothing to do with Katie?
He licked his fork. "Maybe."
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, sunlight from the cloudless sky slanted across a rocky, four-wheel-drive track winding along the south-facing slope of the valley. Gil gunned the motor of his truck up a steep incline, jolting and scraping through sage and rabbit brush and around an occasional twisted cedar tree. He topped a last rise then stopped the pickup on a huge slab of exposed stone at Juan Bolibar's sheep camp, Sunnyside. A wall of tan colored sandstone towered over a ramshackle collection of sheep pens and sheds, and the shepherd's living quarters—a small, four wheeled trailer with green paint peeling off wooden sides and a hooped canvas top.
Sure not much to look at.
He got out of his truck, breathing deeply of the acrid odor of sheep and fragrant cedar smoke trickling from the stovepipe out the back of the trailer.
"Anybody home?" he yelled.
Juan didn't answer, but faint bleating and the tinkle of bells sounded from the northeast.
He climbed a boulder strewn hill dotted with cedars and sagebrush, then descended a deep ravine in a grey cloud of dust, his boots sliding through loose shale and stones. Stepping over a thread of water in the bottom, he labored up the other side. Winded, he squatted in the shade of a cedar, his denim shirt wet with sweat.
Across the valley, spring fields patch-worked across the lap of pine and aspen forested high country. A thin line of pale, new green wound along the creek at the bottom of the Campbell place—the creek near the old barn and Katie's hiding place. The ranch's miniature barn roof sparked metal in the sun, the house's white shingled roof just above it.
A heavy pang of regret thudded through him. Everything he'd ever cared enough to dream about was in that house.
"Katie, I can't do this," he said into the panorama of sky, mountain and field between them.
Suddenly, he sensed her listening presence tuned to him like a frightened, wide-eyed doe frozen in place.
"I thought I could, but I can't," he said silently. "I can't stay and watch while you have a life without me."
"You promised me you weren't going anywhere," she whispered. "No matter what."
"But, I can see your house from here. What am I supposed to do? Wait until you live there with Lance someday? Watch your kids play in the yard through my binoculars? I can't stand it."
"Gil, please don't leave me…"
He stared across the valley, motionless.
Was it possible…?
Shifting restlessly, he removed his hat, letting the breeze ruffle his hair. He shook his head. What nonsense. She wasn't sending him messages via ESP, or whatever. He was about as sensitive as a box of rocks—or so he
'd been told—so how likely was it he'd pick up on it even if she did? She was probably taking care of the kid, or doing breakfast dishes while she talked to Lance on the phone.
A hawk called out above him. He raised his gaze, following the bird's lazy circles against the sky. The smell of sun-warmed earth and cedar slowly brought a sense of peace into his uncertainty. He knelt on one knee and bowed his head. When he rose from his prayer, he had a plan.
If he and Juan made a deal today, he'd stay in the valley. If they couldn't strike a deal, in spite of his grandfather—and Katie—he'd take it as a sign from God he should start over somewhere else.
***
Juan Bolibar—shrunken and wrinkled like a dried apple and brown as oiled saddle leather from a lifetime in the elements—perched on a rock surveying his flock through narrowed eyes. The old shepherd listened carefully while Gil made his offer of a down payment with the rest of the purchase price in installments. Then with a wide, toothless grin Juan extended his sinewy arm to shake on the deal.
Stunned by the quick answer to his prayer—and deeply relieved he didn't have to go away from Katie—he spent the rest of the day learning the details of the sheep operation in Juan's broken mix of English, Basque, and Spanish.
That evening, he left Sunnyside as the new owner of an ancient, swaybacked horse of uncertain ancestry, a band of two-thousand ewes, five border collie dogs, and four-hundred acres of rocky ground. Dazed, he drove to the Campbell place with a confused need for Katie's assurance he'd done the right thing.
He found Dave limping across the ranch yard toward the pig pens carrying a full bucket of slops, the muscles in his thin, pale forearm corded with effort. He slid from his truck and followed, waiting while Dave poured the contents of the pail into the trough, abruptly silencing the pigs' squealing uproar.
Red faced and breathless, Dave eyed him with a grin. "You look like you peed yourself and your mama's gonna find out."
"That's kinda how I feel." He chuckled weakly, the enormity of the step he'd taken sinking in more with each passing moment. "I think I've jumped into somethin' over my head. You know anything about sheep?"
"No." Dave removed his dark glasses to wipe his sweating face on his tee shirt sleeve.
"Neither do I, and I just bought out Juan Bolibar."
"Dude." Dave laughed, replacing his glasses. "Quit kiddin' around."
He eyed Dave with sudden, desperate inspiration. "Hey. You wanna partner with me on this deal?"
Dave stared at him. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack."
Dave turned to the pigs grunting and smacking at the slops, his expression thoughtful. The last morsels in the trough vanished then Dave looked at him with a wry grin.
"Sounds perfect for a crippled guy with one eye. I can't get on the Olympic ski team, now, anyway." He limped toward the barn. "What's the deal?"
He followed. "Juan's sick. He's movin' to Arizona. He said his nephew can help out until we—"
Katie stepped out of the barn right in front of him. She stopped abruptly, her gaze widening with something like shock. Milk slopped from the full pail she carried onto her baggy jeans and bare feet.
He acknowledged her with a stiff nod, his heart pounding like a hammer. Her face flushed the same color as the red handkerchief over her hair. She tipped her head in reply then quickly crossed the yard to the porch steps, the hems of her jeans dragging in the dirt. An instant later the screen door slammed behind her.
"Dude," Dave said impatiently. "Hey."
"Huh?"
"You were sayin'?"
"Er…"
"Nephew?"
"Oh. Yeah. Manuel's supposed to help until we get goin'…"
While they talked, the sun set at the end of the valley. Jon and Tim drove up in a pickup and disappeared into the house.
"Come inside," Dave said. "We'll talk to Dad about it."
In the kitchen, Katie stood at the old range with her back to the door. She still wore a ragged flannel shirt and the sloppy jeans—they looked like some Tim had outgrown—but she had removed the handkerchief over her hair. The smell of frying beef filled the room. His stomach growled.
Dave scooted out a chair at the table with the toe of his boot. "Stay for supper."
He glanced at Katie's suddenly rigid back. "Naw. Gramps'll be—"
"Give him a call. We need to talk to Dad about me sellin' my cows to finance my half of this deal."
He jerked his chin toward Katie with silent meaning.
"She don't care if you stay." Dave cast a careless glance toward her. "Do you, Katie?"
"He can suit himself."
At her short tone, he eyed her stiff shoulders and disheveled ponytail. All right, then. He would suit himself.
During the meal, she fed the kid mashed potatoes while her own food grew cold, her face pale and tight with strain.
Because of his presence, or the sheep scheme? He couldn't guess.
She finally ate a few bites then rose to clear the table. Reaching over his shoulder for his plate, she took care not to touch him, but the clean scent of soap on her warm skin instantly recalled her body in his arms, her soft lips—
"Thank you," he said stiffly.
She didn't answer.
"Hey, Katie," Tim said as she crossed to the sink. "How about stirrin' up a pan of brownies?"
"Stir 'em up yourself, Tim," she snapped. "All you guys seem to think I live just to be the cook and the maid around here."
His ears burned at the emphasis pointed at him.
"Remember the mess I made last time?" Tim said, unfazed by her irritation.
"How could I forget something like that?"
Jon frowned absently. "Tim—"
"Never mind, Dad." Katie's tone gentled abruptly, but her expression remained tight. "I don't want him in here messing around anyway."
She ran the sink full of steaming dish water and washed a few plates, but the baby began to cry in Dave's arms. Drying her hands on a towel, she reached for a bottle she'd prepared then removed the kid from Dave and headed for the living room. The cries quieted.
He finalized plans with Dave for a trip to the bank the next day then he stepped to the living room doorway, intending to thank her for the meal. Faint light from a lamp outlined her rocking slowly in her mother's chair, the kid asleep in her arms. With her eyes closed, she rested her head wearily against the backrest.
Getting back with Lance sure hadn't done much for her looks. Her skin and hair appeared washed out and lifeless, like a photograph left in the sun too long. And did she not have any clothes of her own anymore? Or, was she just so bony—
"What do you want?" She didn't open her eyes.
"Are you sick? You're too skinny."
"Nobody asked you to look at me."
A loose joint in the old rocker creaked with every slow, back and forth movement.
"Were you washin' dishes about ten o'clock this mornin'?" he asked abruptly.
The rocking paused. "What else would I be doing?" Bitterness tinged her quiet voice.
"Were you talkin' on the phone?"
She stopped rocking. "Why are you in here?"
"Were you?"
"No."
The chair creaked again, loud in the silent room.
"You think this sheep deal's stupid, don't you?" he asked.
Her lips tightened. She opened her eyes enough to roll them.
A knot clenched his stomach. Had he really expected anything else? And why had he needed her approval, anyway?
And most of all, why had he been stupid enough to expect some trace of a silent message to show in her eyes?
"Okay. I'll get out of your don't-come-near-me-creep zone." He turned to go, but then stopped. "Thanks for supper. I love chicken fried steak like that, but…I think my mama's is better."
Her eyes popped open in surprise.
He gave her a hard grin then turned away. Maybe the knife could cut both ways.
***
On Thu
rsday, the Roman-nosed black put up a long struggle, refusing to load into the trailer with a half-dozen cull cows. The struggle ended with Gil forcibly pulling the horse into the trailer with a rope around its haunches, but the gelding's stubbornness made him and his grandfather late to the livestock auction. He let the old man out of the truck at the auction barn's café then pulled around to wait in a haze of dust at the end of a long line of pickups and stock trailers at the unloading chutes.
Later, he drove his truck around to the parking area where he pulled into the empty slot beside Jon Campbell's truck and trailer. Dave must have brought his cows to sell, too.
He opened the side door of the auction barn, stepping into a wall of dust, cigarette smoke, and noise. The auctioneer's amplified, rapid-fire chant echoed from the tall metal ceiling, ricocheting off the walls like a stone clanging around in a tin can. Outside, cattle bawled, dogs barked, and mounted men shouted and whistled as they moved cattle and horses from pen to pen, adding to the racket. A bony sorrel mare circled the cushioning sand of the auction ring floor, a young foal mirroring her movements.
He scanned the stadium-like room looking for Dave. All the theater-style seats in the room had filled, leaving only the bleacher seats of the bottom rows in front of the ring—nobody sat there unless they wanted to get splattered with manure.
The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough) Page 24