The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Junior colored, held his breath, then blurted out what he had to say like a trumpet blast.

  “Frank loves you and you oughta marry him but he’s afraid to ask you ’cause he thinks you love John Henry and he’s got nothin’ and thinks he’s not good enough for you but he is.” Junior stopped, breathless, with his eyes wide, staring at Katie Beth.

  Katie Beth’s mouth was hanging open and she stood quiet so long Junior began to shuffle his feet.

  Her mouth gradually closed, and Junior was relieved beyond belief to see that her lips closed in a smile. He let loose a tremendous sigh.

  “Is that so?” Katie Beth replied slowly. Her face softened. “You’re a good brother, Junior. And a good friend to me, too.”

  Junior turned redder and made a dash for the door. “I gotta go now.”

  Katie Beth put her hand on his damp coat sleeve as he reached for the door knob.

  “Tell Frank I think he’s got everything a girl like me could want.”

  For two nights, since the kiss, C.W. did not walk over to the big house for their usual seven-o’clock meeting. Instead, he stayed in the cabin poring over his files and creating a farm budget that would coerce Nora MacKenzie to reveal her financial situation. To do that, C.W. needed to keep his feelings for Nora separate from the job at hand. He needed the cold approach to carry this off.

  But at what cost? That morning, a dull ache formed in his chest as he approached the barn’s entry. Despite himself, he hoped that he’d spy her blond head bent over some lamb. Regardless of his resolve, he realized that he missed her.

  It was clear that Nora had made her own decision to back off, and he had to admit he was burned that she’d decided to ignore him completely. Although she was polite when they fed the ewes, prompt to help repair the grain feeders for winter, and agreeable to his opinions on balancing the sheep rations, no sooner was Nora done than she ducked out like a bat out of hell.

  Esther, too. Like Nora, Esther showed up for her chores, did them efficiently, then darted away with scarcely a hello. It was clear the two women wanted nothing to do with the men around here.

  C.W. spotted Nora in the barn, filling the feed box with confident ease. He stepped back in the shadows and watched. Nora was learning fast and already doing a number of chores that Esther used to do. Given the chance, she might just make it on this farm, C.W. realized with appreciation. He leaned against a timber and crossed his arms and legs, considering again how the hell he’d manage using MacKenzie’s secrets without destroying his widow’s chances.

  It had been hell watching Nora blossom from city flower to wildflower. From pale and skinny to pink and rounded. Her cautious guard had dissipated to reveal a spontaneity that lured his own wounded spirit from its shell. Her mellifluous laughter was luring out his own.

  And through her eyes, he viewed day-to-day chores with renewed awe. Each birth was a miracle, each lamb assigned a personality. Even hauling hay was done with a lighter heart.

  Nora moved away from the ewes and headed toward the creep for preweaned lambs. C.W. straightened quickly, tucked in his shirt, buttoned his sleeves, then entered the barn a man with a mission.

  C.W. approached the creep and abruptly cleared his throat. Nora looked up at him with eyes filled with an inner peace. Seeing it, his own shaky peace was rocked.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” He rested his hands on the rail and lifted a boot on the creep’s runner. “I’ve got that budget information you requested. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Willow stood up at the noise and slipped through the panel that lets lambs in but keeps ewes out. Nora walked to the lamb and plopped down cross-legged next to Willow.

  “That’s great, C.W.,” she said, looking at the lamb rather than him. The runt was growing heavy and strong between milk and high concentrate rations, and Willow had a definite preference for Nora.

  “Never saw a lamb take so to a human,” he said, moving closer to the pair. “Maybe you’re right about him being exceptional.”

  “At least he knows what a nipple’s for. Isn’t that right?” she asked the lamb, scratching behind the lamb’s ears and neck.

  When was she going to stop talking to that infernal lamb, he wondered with another scowl? He moved still closer.

  “Do you think Willow understands English?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” Nora said, finally looking up. She seemed pleased to be exchanging her first joke with C.W. in days.

  A smile escaped C.W.

  Nora smiled back, quickly, before looking back at the lamb.

  “Willow tells me you’re loafing off down here and only work this hard when I’m here watching you,” she said with a soft laugh.

  “Does he now?” he replied gently. C.W. bent down and patted Willow’s head. “Well, little fellow, did I ever tell you how much I like lamb stew?”

  Willow looked sleepily up as C.W. stroked his chin.

  “I can see you frighten him,” Nora said in a whisper.

  “Yes. It’s obvious I have this effect on people.” C.W. turned his head to face Nora. On bent knee, his face was inches from hers, and he could feel her warm breath against his cheek.

  “Do I frighten you too, Nora?”

  Her mouth opened but no response formulated. Her lips, now centimeters from his own, slowly closed. Her breath stilled. The air grew thick. Closer they drew, their lips almost touching.

  “Ahem. Am I breakin’ up something here?”

  Seth stood at the far railing, hands in his pockets, smiling a toothless grin.

  Nora jolted back while C.W. jumped up and stepped back a pace or two, shuffling his feet in the straw.

  “Nope,” C.W. replied, running his hand through his hair. “Just talking to Nora, that’s all.”

  Seth raised his brows and offered a doubtful expression.

  “Can’t say as I ever knew she was so hard of hearing.”

  C.W. grimaced and knew there was nothing he could say to change what the old coot was thinking. And hell, he was right. He was about to kiss her. He peered over his shoulder and found Nora’s eyes still on him.

  “I hear you’re ready to start work on the insulation,” Nora said shifting her gaze to Seth. “None too soon. It seems to be getting colder by the day.”

  “I thought it was getting warmer,” Seth replied.

  Nora blushed, and C.W. rocked on his heels and whistled a silent tune.

  “I got the batting and some drywall,” Seth mumbled, pulling out ragged papers from his equally frayed jacket. “Joe Cronin brung it up. You know Joe. Does construction. Lives in the gray cape by Squire’s place. Married to Fred Zwinger’s little girl, Elsa.”

  Nora couldn’t keep all the names straight but nodded anyway. She’d know Joe and Elsa, and Fred, “the pump man,” well enough by the time the house was finished.

  “Got the figures too,” Seth continued. “We’ll do the work for a good price, but it ain’t going to be cheap. There’s lots of floors and walls in that big house, and gettin’ it ready in time for winter will take full-time work.”

  Nora sighed and chewed her lip. “Everything is a lot of work and a lot of money these days,” she replied. “Still, we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do.”

  That comment played right to C.W.’s hand. “Speaking of money,” C.W. said, drawing Nora’s attention back.

  Nora set Willow down off her lap onto the hay, ignoring his bleats of protest, and proceeded to rise. She shooed away C.W.’s hand. No more nonsense, her eyes told him. C.W. felt properly chastised.

  “Well,” she said to C.W. “when can we meet? I’d like to get started as soon as possible. How about four o’clock?”

  “I’ll be tied up all afternoon. Why not the usual time. Seven o’clock?”

  “It’s a date,” she replied, then stammered. “I mean, yes. That would be fine.”

  Nora left with Seth, unaware or uncaring that C.W. followed her every step out of the barn. C.W. ground his teeth as he stared at the emptiness left
by her departure. If he wasn’t careful tonight, that emptiness would be all he’d have left.

  C.W. and Nora sat in agitated silence across the long mahogany dining table. It was seven-fifteen and they were meeting as planned to discuss the budget. It was clear that they would not discuss what had almost happened between them. Yet Nora could think of nothing else.

  C.W. was thinking only of business. He quickly glanced at his watch. There was no putting this off. He had to get his hands on her books. Time was of the essence. He covered all the angles to ensure the result would be the same. How many times had he designed an interview in his career? More than he could count. And he had always emerged the victor. Yet never before had his emotions been involved. Never before had the outcome been so important.

  “Well,” he said, sitting straight and slipping on his wire-rim glasses. “Shall we get started?”

  Nora nodded and brought her chair closer to the table.

  “This is a good lambing,” C.W. began, pointing to the column of figures. “Lots of twins. Few deaths. All together Seth expects to bring your flock up to about one hundred.”

  “That’s good,” Nora said, her enthusiasm sounding false in the tension. He was being exceptionally formal again.

  “Yes, but not good enough.”

  C.W. went on to carefully review the fixed and variable costs, the depreciation, and discussed in detail the profit-and-loss statement. The situation was bad, but C.W. had deftly maneuvered the numbers to paint the picture bleak.

  He tapped his pencil across his palm. “The bottom line is you’re facing more losses. In the past Mike covered the losses with a check. No questions asked.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, then shoved over a sheet of paper with long columns of his calculations.

  “The farm will not push into the black. You’ll need to do likewise.”

  Nora’s mouth gaped open as she read the amount. It was staggering. More than she had left in her account after the winterizing of the house and the pricey new ram. She slumped in her chair and rubbed her temples with shaky fingers.

  “I don’t have it.”

  C.W. slowly removed his glasses, folded them, and laid them parallel to his pencil before looking up again. This was it. She had finally admitted financial trouble.

  “Are you saying that your husband’s estate can’t balance this budget?”

  “What estate? I don’t have the capital. It’s gone.”

  There was a long silence. Gone? It was worse than he’d thought. Go on, he silently urged. Let’s get this out in the open and done with.

  Nora shook her head and slumped down in the chair. “When Mike died, the outstanding debts were enormous,” she replied with a voice that had lost its enthusiasm. “It’s too hard to explain. Some of it is beyond my own understanding.”

  C.W.’s fingers drummed on the table as he watched her stare in silence out the window while her chest heaved.

  Nora looked over at him, her face clouded with indecision.

  C.W. stilled his fingers.

  She wrapped her arms around her chest. She seemed to be fighting an inner battle. Then, dropping her chin to her chest, she released a ragged sigh.

  “I need your help.”

  C.W. exhaled slowly. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. Folding his hands tightly before him, he asked in a low voice, “What do you want me to do?”

  Nora looked at his face, and in that moment he saw her make a leap of faith. It made him sick with guilt. Rising with resignation, Nora walked to the maple sideboard, and from its center drawer she pulled out a long leather volume. He craned his neck for a better view.

  Nora held the book in her hands, absently rubbing the leather with her thumb, then slowly paced back to C.W.’s side, holding it out before her. It was thin, burgundy, and it was a ledger. His tension doubled.

  “After Mike’s death,” she began slowly, “his lawyers, accountants, everyone, started ripping through his things, searching for something. Mike didn’t trust them, so neither did I. I found this in his desk at home, hidden in a secret portal. It’s his private account book—a kind of cheat sheet that he used for himself only. Somehow I knew that this was my only weapon against them so I took it. Until I understood what was happening to me, I wasn’t about to lose total control.”

  Smart girl, C.W. thought to himself. He would have done the same thing.

  “I’ve read it through a number of times, trying to make sense of it, and the only connection I can make is with the Blair Bank.” She shook her head and wagged a finger. “They are somehow tied in with this mess. Mike hated Charles Blair,” she said, her fingers making deep indentations in the supple leather. “I’m sure he was responsible for Mike’s fall.”

  She gritted her teeth and said with a conviction that chilled C.W.’s blood, “I’d like to get even with him. And if I can—I will.”

  C.W. sat frozen in his chair. Any hope he’d harbored for avoiding deception withered with her words. She despised his very name.

  “This is hard for me, giving this to you.” Nora looked at the ledger, as though reconsidering. When she looked up, she appeared resolute. Without another word, she stuck out her arm and offered him the ledger.

  C.W.’s nostrils flared and he sat straighter in his chair as he looked at the book held out before him. He felt like a cad; this was stealing candy from a baby. Suddenly, he stood up, angrily, and turned his back to her.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “What the bloody hell do you expect me to do?” he returned, swinging his head around to face her. “I can’t promise to save you. I am not your knight in shining armor.” He slammed his hands behind his back and stared intently into the fire. Inside, he raged at the Fates.

  Nora saw only his stiff back and the way his hands clenched and unclenched.

  “I don’t want a knight in shining armor,” she said softly. “I only want a friend I can trust.” She paused. “I thought that was you.”

  His shoulders lowered. Slowly he turned around and stood for a moment, looking at her. There was no way she could understand why her trust had cut him so deeply. Nor was there any way he could explain it now. That ledger was the reason he was here tonight. Not her offer of friendship. Nor his feelings for her. She was Mrs. Michael MacKenzie, and that book in her hand could save the neck of her hated enemy, Charles Blair.

  In his usual understatement he said, “I’ve made you anxious, haven’t I?”

  Nora looked at the ledger in her outstretched hand, and raised it a fraction.

  C.W. took the book.

  The leather was soft and supple, from ample use, and in the firelight, its burgundy color glowed in muted reds. He knew without opening it that his instincts had been correct. His wait was justified, his quest was complete.

  C.W. lay the ledger carefully before him on the table. Once opened, the die was cast. He drew a deep breath. Would this information be akin to opening Pandora’s box? He knew evil lurked in these pages, but did he have the power to conquer it?

  With disciplined determination, C.W. drew the ledger close, opened it, and began his study.

  The minutes passed to an hour, then two, with C.W. bent over the books and Nora sitting silently beside him staring into the fire. Occasionally the papers would rustle as he sifted through them, checking a fact, noting a date. The fire popped and crackled. The wind sighed a high-pitched wail that shook the windows.

  C.W. read the tale of greed, dishonesty, and ruin. The plot was not unique; he’d read similar tales before. This one, however, was personal. He read in the erratic words, in the doctored columns, and between the lines, the desperation of a dead man. Finishing, C.W. resented MacKenzie, deeply, not only for what he had done to him, but to Nora.

  When at last he lifted his eyes, C.W. was mute with exhaustion. He slowly closed the ledger and stared at the burgundy leather under his hands. After all this time and anguish, he had his answer. C.W. knew why Michael MacKenzie had chosen to kill
himself in front of Charles Blair.

  C.W. rubbed his eyes. He felt like laughing, he felt like weeping. The whole thing was all a ruse! They had both been duped. Mike had mistakenly believed that it was Charles Blair who had deliberately destroyed him. By blowing his brains out, Mike had chosen a brutal form of revenge. Two lives senselessly destroyed.

  C.W. came close to approaching the level of anger that Mike MacKenzie had once felt against Charles Blair. C.W.’s mouth went dry. Remembering the hatred he saw in Mike’s eyes, he wondered if in fact murder had been on MacKenzie’s mind that ugly morning, not suicide.

  C.W. rested his large hands flat upon the ledger and turning his head to Nora, said quietly, “That son of a bitch.”

  Nora looked at him without expression, blinked, then returned her gaze to the fire. “Yes, I suppose he was.” Her tone was flat, void of any feeling.

  His ire rose as he did. Slamming the book on the table he shouted, “I can’t believe how high-handed he was.”

  Nora looked up, visibly shaken at C.W.’s rare show of anger.

  “MacKenzie didn’t give a damn who he hurt! Only a man without honor would gamble with stakes so high on a game so risky without first ensuring his family’s security. Wasn’t he concerned about leaving you destitute?”

  “Please. Don’t yell.”

  C.W.’s mouth tightened and his nostrils flared. Of course Mac didn’t care. Not only did Nora not have a penny—she owed one! She owed more money than most people dreamed of earning in a lifetime. Nora was in trouble. Big trouble.

  He looked over at her small frame slumped before the fire. It pained him to see it. It also pained him that it fell to him to spell out her precarious position.

  “Tell me how you kept the farm.” His voice was sharp.

  She spread out her palms. “The lawyers sat me down, explained that I had lost virtually everything, then stated that I could scrape out a small amount from what was left. I immediately thought of the farm. It was one of the few places I really loved, and I thought, Aha, land! The most tangible form of security. So, thinking that with the sheep operation I could live a simple life up here, I negotiated for the farm over cash.”