by Beverly Long
He inclined his head toward the bed. “You going to hang that photograph?” he asked.
“Yes. If you don’t mind,” she added. “I mean, it’s your room, too.” Brother. Could she be any more awkward at this?
He didn’t say anything for a minute. Finally, he looked at her and gave her one of his gentle smiles. “I think I’d enjoy seeing it,” he said. “Reminds me of home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time they got halfway to the large red shed, George could feel his lungs start to work again. For a minute, when he’d seen Melody holding that photograph up against the wall, he’d thought all the air had been sucked right out of him.
He’d taken the photograph of John Beckett and Sarah Tremont the night before he had gotten into a stage with them headed for Cheyenne. The plan had been for Sarah to get on a train there and return to California, to her own place, hopefully to her own time. John Beckett was to have returned home to his ranch in Cedarbrook, Wyoming, and George was to have gone back to his position as sheriff of Bluemont, North Dakota.
But instead, they’d gotten halfway to Cheyenne before the storm had started. Before he’d seen the next dawn, he’d placed his feet in the footprints and traveled more than a hundred years forward, to Sarah’s place, to Sarah’s time. And the photograph, made from the glass plate he’d put in his bag with the intention of giving it to John once Sarah had left, had been waiting for him.
How did things like that happen?
“Let’s find Bernard,” Melody said, breaking into his memories. “You can learn more about winemaking from him in ten minutes than you could from most people in ten days.”
“He and Pearl seem fond of each other.”
“I think it’s a lot of mutual respect. Grandmother knows that Bernard works like crazy and that Sweet Song of Summer wines wouldn’t be half as successful without him. Bernard knows that Grandmother trusts him implicitly—she never second-guesses his decisions.”
Maybe it was the photograph or maybe it was hearing her describe the relationship between Bernard and her grandmother so simply that suddenly made him homesick. He’d had that kind of relationship once. With a whole town. He’d liked the people of Bluemont, North Dakota, and he’d worked hard to earn their respect as sheriff. In return, they’d trusted him. At least until he’d left, a mere day after he’d buried his wife.
He taken their trust, their respect, and set it aside because the fire, the pure need for revenge, had burned hot in his belly. Probably some of the good townspeople had disapproved, him being a lawman. But most knew, most understood, that a man couldn’t go on when his soul was gone.
He’d left them and spent six months chasing the three men responsible for murdering his wife. Two were now dead. The third was still out there somewhere.
And that had the power to haunt him.
Melody stopped walking and grabbed his arm. Her skin was warm and her touch gentle. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” she said. “Do you want to do this later?”
“No. Now is fine.” They’d reached the building and entered through the open, ten-foot-wide door. Barrels, each three feet in diameter, stacked twelve feet high, flanked them on either side. A young man, no more than sixteen, he guessed, sat eight feet off the ground, on top of a big yellow machine that made more noise than the car. Wide silver forks extended from the front of it and a barrel rested on them. George watched the young man pull a lever on the machine and the fork raised higher still. In less than a minute, he’d moved the barrel up to the top of the stack.
Melody waved at the young man. “How goes it, Montai?”
He gave her a big grin. “I get to run the forklift this year,” he yelled.
She smiled at him. “Excellent. I’ll see you later.”
They walked another ten feet. “Montai’s father has been working here for over twenty years. Montai and his sister were both born here. His mother helps Bessie in the kitchen.”
When they were three-quarters through the shed, they saw Bernard. He was talking with a man who looked to be about his age, maybe a few years younger.
“Gino,” Melody said.
The man looked up and a smile crossed his weathered face. “Well, if it ain’t Sweet Pea,” he said. He held a clipboard in one hand, and with the other, he patted her head and ruffled her hair, like one might a small child. “Good to have you home.”
“It’s good to be home, Gino. How are the grapes?”
He smiled. “It could be one of our best years yet. But the season is young.”
“I know, I know. Don’t count your wine until it’s bottled and corked.”
The older man laughed and turned toward George. “Welcome,” he said, holding out his hand. “Know much about grapes?”
“No, sir,” George said. No sense trying to kid this man. He had a look in his eye that told George he didn’t suffer fools lightly.
“Good. Then I can train you right.” He put down the clipboard. When he looked at Melody, his eyes were serious. “So, you’ve seen your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
Bernard and Gino exchanged a glance before Gino again turned to Melody and said, “Your grandmother is sick. Really sick. She won’t complain and she sure as hell won’t tell you the truth about being scared or being so weak that she can’t walk out to get her own mail.”
Melody’s pretty eyes, which had been so bright just minutes before, filled with tears. “How much time?” she asked, her voice husky.
Bernard shook his head. “We don’t know,” he said. “But she told me that she doesn’t expect to see the fall harvest.”
Melody’s body swayed and George moved fast. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight up against his body. “Steady,” he said, his voice low. This couldn’t possibly be good for her child.
“I’m all right,” she protested and moved out of his reach. He let her go but stayed close enough that he could easily catch her if she fell again. Her face was pale and she was blinking her eyes furiously.
She looked first at Bernard, then at Gino. “Thank you both for being here for her, for taking care of things the way you always have. I know that must be a comfort to her.”
Gino shrugged. “Having you here is what’s a comfort. Especially you being married and pregnant. When she told Bernard and me about it, her face just lit up.”
Pearl hadn’t told Tilly, her daughter, yet she’d told her hired help. Very interesting.
“Maybe the thought of having a great-grandchild will give her something to live for,” Gino said. “Sort of romantic how the two of you got together again after having been apart for a couple years.”
George stood close enough to Melody to sense her body stiffening. A couple years. Try a hundred and eighteen.
But it was the story she’d told. Given that, he’d have thought she might be a little more adept at keeping false about it. She wasn’t too skilled at this kind of thing.
Like a calf facing a branding iron, she looked like she might bolt if given the chance. He put an arm around her shoulder. “I’m grateful she waited for me,” he said, smiling at her.
Melody’s upper lip twitched nervously in response.
“Maybe we should check on your grandmother,” he suggested.
She gave him a grateful nod. “I’ll see you later,” she said to Gino and Bernard. “You’ll both be at dinner, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss your first dinner home, Sweet Pea,” Gino said. “I imagine Bessie’s going all out, probably fixing every one of your favorites.”
Melody’s eyes filled with tears again and George tightened his grip. “Come on,” he urged. With his arm still around her, he turned her body toward the door. Sensing that she might want a minute to compose herself, George kept the pace slow.
They were close to the door when Bernard called after them. “Hey Melody, when can I show you the data entry that needs to be done?”
They both turned. Bernard stood in the same spot where he’d
been. There was no sign of Gino.
“I can come tomorrow,” Melody said. “How about at—”
Bernard held a hand up to his ear, telling her that he couldn’t hear. Melody slipped away from George and took several steps back toward her old friend.
And what happened next, happened so fast, that George didn’t have time to think, barely had time to react. He heard the sharp whoosh of air moving and looked up to see a heavy barrel rolling from the top of the stack. It was gathering speed, headed straight for Melody.
George sprang forward, wrapped his arms around Melody, and hauled her back. He hit his shoulder on the oak barrels directly to his left and the pain shot down his arm. He saw the now-airborne barrel fly across the center aisle.
It hit less than a foot in front of them. There was a sharp crack of oak against oak, then a dull thud as it dropped to the cement floor. George stared at it and knew that if it had hit Melody, it would have killed her.
If he’d have been a fraction of a second slower, he would have been too late. The realization made him swallow hard, twice.
Then, the realization that she had her back to his front and he had one arm wrapped just under her breasts and one around her middle, made him afraid to breathe. It was wrong to hold her so, to be so forward. To hold her in the way that a man holds a woman when that woman is his. To hold her in such a way that all he had to do was arch his hips and he’d be pressed in behind her, her curves suddenly a part of him. To hold her in the way a man holds a woman when he wakes up in the middle of the night and his need is great and her body is warm and welcoming.
“George,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.
He kept his hips right where they were supposed to be. “Yes,” he said. He was afraid to breathe, afraid to jar their careful balance.
He could hear her take a deep breath and he felt her chest expand. She turned her head, and her lips were just inches away from his. And for the briefest moment he thought that she was going to kiss him, like he had kissed her before lunch, and his whole body started to shake.
He let his hands drop back to his own sides. What the hell was he thinking? He took a step back, giving them both space.
She smiled at him. “It seems a bit inadequate, but thank you.”
He wanted to come up with something witty or smart to say but it had been too close a call. He managed a nod and was grateful when Bernard ran toward them and Melody’s attention was diverted to the older man. His face was pale and his hand shook when he held it out to touch her face.
“Are you all right?” Bernard asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Bernard whirled around. Montai was off his machine and standing thirty feet away, his face much paler than his bare arms.
“Damn it, Montai. What the hell happened?” Bernard demanded.
The boy shook his head. George could see he was scared to death. “I don’t know. I wasn’t anywhere near that barrel. I put my load at the end, just like you showed me how to do.”
Bernard walked to where the barrel had rolled from and looked up. Then he looked over his shoulder, back at George and Melody. “Somebody forgot to set the chock. Who the hell could have done something so damn stupid?”
Montai shook his head. “I never touched them,” he said, his voice quivering.
George looked across the aisle. Sure enough, in front of every remaining barrel, there was a small angular piece of wood, propped just so, to keep the barrels in place. It was pretty easy to see what had happened. Montai had dropped his load on the opposite end and there’d been just enough vibration to start a chain reaction.
Bernard walked over and kicked the oak barrel. It didn’t even roll an inch. The metal banding around the two ends and in the middle was bent but the lid had stayed on. “I’ve been doing this for forty years and I’ve never see anything like that,” he said. “If it would have been full, it would have never budged, but these barrels are empty. We’ll use them this fall.”
Montai wiped a hand across his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Melody. I would never want to see you hurt.”
“I know that, Montai,” she said. “It was a crazy accident. It’s not your fault.” Her voice sounded surprisingly strong.
George was grateful for that because his knees felt pretty damn weak. When Melody turned to look at him, he wondered if she somehow knew.
Her eyes looked concerned. “Was that your head that made that thump?”
“My shoulder,” he said, relieved that she was focused on something else entirely. “It’s fine,” he lied. He was going to have a hell of a bruise. It would match the bruises on his ribs that he’d seen in the mirror when he’d changed clothes at the store.
“Empty, those barrels weigh almost a hundred and fifty pounds,” Bernard said.
“Well, it didn’t hit me so there’s no sense worrying about how much it weighs. Whatever you do, don’t tell Grandmother,” Melody said.
She’d no sooner finished speaking before the dogs, followed by Tilly and Louis, bounded into the shed. They ran up and sniffed the barrel, then ran circles around it, like nobody needed to tell them that something was wrong. George noticed that Montai had slipped into the shadows of the wine barrels.
“What’s going on?” Tilly asked.
“Barrel slipped off the stack,” Melody said, her voice very matter-of-fact. George didn’t miss the warning look she sent Bernard’s way.
Louis propped a foot on the barrel. “Thank goodness it wasn’t a full one. Could have been a waste of a promising Cabernet.”
“You stupid idiot,” Bernard said, evidently deciding to ignore Melody’s warning look. “That barrel almost hit your niece. And would have, too, if George here hadn’t pulled her out of the way.”
Louis had the decency to look shocked. “I had no idea,” he said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Melody.”
Tilly took a step closer, her eyes bright with speculation. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Melody said. “Nothing happened. It was a stupid accident and we all need to forget about it.”
No one said a word. Finally, Louis smiled, showing all his teeth. “Fine. I got an e-mail from Marty. Orders are pouring in for the 2004 Chardonnay. He wants another forty cases.”
Bernard ran a hand over his face. “The next time that damn woman writes a cookbook, I hope she’ll let us know in advance that she plans to put our bottle on the cover.”
“What woman?” Melody asked.
“Rebecca Fields,” Louis answered. “She has the hottest cooking show on cable right now and her book is flying off the shelves.”
Show on cable? George tried to remember if Sarah had mentioned anything about cables.
“And she likes our wine?” Melody asked. Her eyes, bright with excitement, looked more purple than before. “That’s wonderful.”
“I was already busier than a one-armed paper hanger,” Bernard complained. “Now I got every Rebecca Fields wanna-be calling me at all hours of the day.”
George saw past the man’s words, straight into his proud soul. This woman, this Rebecca Fields who had written a cookbook, had somehow given him recognition that he publicly disdained but there was little doubt that he privately enjoyed.
“All I know is the price of that wine just went up 20 percent,” Uncle Louis said. “Oh, by the way, she’s coming to dinner tonight.”
“Who?” Melody asked.
“Rebecca Fields. Your grandmother has been wanting to meet her and she was free tonight.”
Tilly rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”
George saw the quick flare of anger in Louis’s eyes. But when he spoke, the man’s voice was calm enough. “The big deal is that she’s helping to put Sweet Song of Summer wines on the map. We need that, Tilly.”
She stared coldly at her husband. “I know what we need.” She turned and walked out the door. Louis hesitated for just a second before he followed her out.
They were barely out of the doo
r before Bernard took off his straw hat and swatted it across his pant leg. “I’m sorry, Melody. But I just can’t stand that son-of-a-bitch.”
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it. Look, I’m going to go check on Grandmother.”
George walked by her side, keeping a watchful eye on the barrels. When they reached the door, Melody was silent for another hundred yards as they crossed what looked to be a freshly mowed yard.
There was just enough wind that wisps of her hair blew gently around her face. In the wine shed, he’d held her close enough that he knew that her hair smelled like strawberries. It was the smell of his boyhood, a smell of pleasure. Strawberries had grown in the patch behind his mother’s house. They’d been sweet and pure and damn tempting.
Just like she was.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, looking at him.
There were times when the truth just wasn’t the right thing. “That you were lucky,” he said.
She put a hand on his arm and it was crazy, but he could feel the heat all the way to his toes. “That’s the second time you’ve saved my life,” she said.
She made him feel big and powerful and because he was afraid that he might have a stupid look on his face, he looked toward the house. “I imagine your grandmother is up from her nap.”
“I imagine,” she said, her voice soft. “You know, I’m not sure I can hide it from her.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “I don’t know your aunt and uncle very well but I suspect expecting either one of them to keep a confidence is a little like a man in a clean shirt spitting in the wind. Just foolhardy.”
She laughed, like he’d hoped she would. It made his heart beat a little easier. “I think you’re right,” she said, “but that’s not what I meant. I’m worried that I can’t hide that I know she doesn’t expect to see the fall harvest.”
They were less than fifty feet from the front door. “Maybe she wants to talk about it,” he said.
She stopped. “I know that people are supposed to be able to rise to the occasion but I’m not sure I’ve got it in me. I don’t want to make it worse for her because I can’t handle it well. I don’t want her worrying about me and what’s going to happen to me when she’s gone.”