He made a beeline for the coffee. Taking one of the massive stoneware mugs their father favored down from the cupboard, he filled it with the practically nuclear-powered brew their father insisted on. Growing up on coffee this strong, Heath thought the shit they sold at the fancy coffee shops in Boise tasted like cheap candy.
Normally, he added a splash of cream, just to level off the first kick going down, but this morning, he needed every kick, so he took it black.
His internal organs had had a meeting and decided that food would not be on the agenda, so he sat down with his coffee and scanned the front page of the Statesman, held up before him as his father read something inside.
After a minute, his father dropped the paper and gave Heath a long look over it. His expression was kind. Anything that touched on the matter of Sybil and Ruthie, his father had seemingly infinite patience and compassion for. His own loss, while perhaps not so horrific, gave him empathy.
“You doin’ okay, son?”
“Yeah, Dad. Sorry about…” Not sure how he’d gotten up to the guest room, he wasn’t sure if he knew everything he had to apologize for.
“No matter. No harm done where it oughtn’t be done.”
That was one of their father’s favorite sayings, meaning that whatever had happened had been just deserts. Heath had to disagree. Just deserts for Brandon Black would involve fire.
He forced his hand to straighten out flat and then coiled it into a fist again, trying to determine whether he’d fucked it up or just banged it up. After a few careful flexes, he decided it was just banged up. He’d need to get his knuckles clean pretty soon, though—the edges of broken skin looked angry and scalloped.
Logan looked up from whatever he was reading on his tablet. “We need to talk about Denny.”
As the memory of the last substantive conversation he’d had shouldered its way to the front of his brain, Heath took a cleansing breath and a big swallow of killer coffee. “Yeah, yeah. Victor said he’s buying up small parcels from Granville. He said Frank was over here last night to talk about it.”
Their father folded up his paper and drank from his own big mug. “He was. We got more questions than answers, though.”
“What d’you mean?”
His brother answered. “Frank brought a topo map. It makes no sense. Denny took random parcels.”
“He’s taking random parcels,” their father corrected.
“You don’t think he’s done?” Heath’s head thumped as he tried to pull clear thoughts through the muck of his hangover.
Their father shook his head. “Can’t be. Whitt’s a jackass, but he’s a smart jackass. There’s something more to see.” He stood up. “I’ll talk to Charlie tomorrow. Today, Logan and I are riding out to take a look. You up to it, Heath?”
Riding out along their border with Charlie Granville meant a long trek on horseback. That side of the ranch wasn’t passable by truck, and out and back would take the better part of the day. After the night he’d had, spending the day in sweats, lying on the sofa with a book, was more his speed for the day.
But there was nothing in the world he enjoyed more than a long ride on a good day. He flexed his sore hand. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
*****
“It’s the creek.” Heath pushed his hat back and stared down at the water.
Heath, Logan, and their father sat astride their horses atop a bluff near the boundary of their land. Below them to the north ran Cahill Creek, which was more like a river. Swollen to its spring depth, it rushed noisily through their land and was their primary source of water.
On Charlie Granville’s property, most of the length of the creek truly was no more than a creek. The two families had a generations-long agreement that gave Granville access on Cahill land.
One of the parcels Whitt had purchased—the smallest—bounded the creek. The other two were farther up the Cahill property line and separated from each other by about a hundred acres and nearly a linear mile.
At Heath’s statement, his father turned. “What’re you thinking?”
Looping the reins over the horn of his saddle, Heath dismounted and gave Maggie a pat. “Let’s see the topo.”
Logan slid the rolled map from the saddle ties and handed it over, then dismounted himself. As their father followed suit, Heath pulled it from its tube and opened it over a nearby rock.
“Look.” Fighting a breeze that wanted to send the map aloft, he drew a circle with his finger around each of the three parcels Whitt had bought.
Logan leaned over his shoulder. “What do you see?”
“They’re flat—or close enough to it.” Their father had stepped up, casting his shadow over the map.
“Exactly,” Heath agreed. “Most of the line on this side is cliff and rock. Those sections are grassy valley. He’s got Granville’s best access to the creek and his only level acreage on our border. That adds up to something.”
“But what?” Logan asked. “I think you’re right, but don’t see any kind of sense in it. Besides, why would Granville give up his creek access? He’s got five thousand head to water.”
“Could he be trying to reroute in some way?” Heath offered. “Move the water into those valleys?” If that was the case, and if he was successful, he’d dry the Twisted C right up. But why not buy up the land in between those parcels?
Their father hunkered down and squinted at the map. “Can’t just reroute the river. It feeds into the reservoir eventually, and the Feds would be on that in half a blink. I don’t know. I’ll head over and talk to Charlie after breakfast tomorrow.”
As his brother and father stepped back, Heath stood and rolled up the map. “It sounds paranoid, but this has to be about us. Denny sees us as in his way. He thinks he’d have had this town bought and paid for by now if not for you, Dad.”
“I know. He’s wrong, but I’m not gonna step aside to show him that. Whatever he’s got boiling under that five-hundred-dollar haircut, we’ll cool it off.”
*****
Charlie Granville had purported not to know Whitt’s intention and insisted that he’d only sold because the money was so good and he’d retained access to the creek. He thought Whitt was a moron who had chosen the parcels badly and paid wildly too much for them. When Heath’s father suggested that there might be more to it than that, Granville had agreed to sell Denny Whitt nothing else.
Maybe that would be the end of it. But Heath, Logan, and their father were still looking into it, trying to make sense of what seemed for all the world like nonsense.
In the meantime, life went on. The following Wednesday, just before noon, Emma showed up at the shop while Heath and his assistant were at the forge, working on a commission for an iron gate. He saw her leaning against the wide bay door as he slid a newly twisted picket into the quenching bath. With a wave at Bill to back off the fire, Heath pushed his goggles to the top of his head and walked over.
“Hey, sis. What’s up?” Emma didn’t often just drop by the shop.
She offered her cheek, and his kissed it. “Take me to the Lunch Basket.”
The Lunch Basket was a sandwich shop a couple of blocks off Ridge Road. The customers there were mostly local; tourists rarely strayed far from the main road.
Heath and Emma had lunch there every now and then, but normally, they’d planned ahead of time, and he’d scheduled his day accordingly. On this day, he’d planned to send Bill out to grab something for them both and eat it in the shop.
“Shit, Em. Look at me.” His work was filthy work, especially when he was at the forge.
“So wash your face and hands and put a clean shirt on. You’ve got a whole closet in your office. I want to talk.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Dad and Logan have something going on, and they’re not bringing Wes in, and it’s got him all lathered up. I want to know what.”
Heath figured it was the Denny thing, but he didn’t feel like it was necessarily his place to tell her what their father hadn’t. He ra
rely worked the ranch, and he left those dealings to those who did. Plus, he hadn’t seen much of his family since Sunday afternoon, so he was only assuming that there weren’t new developments in the situation.
Then again, nobody had said anything to him about the situation being a secret.
“I don’t know, Em…”
“Oh, bullshit. Of course you do. C’mon, buy me lunch and talk to me.”
He sighed. “Okay. You win. Give me five minutes to pretty up.”
*****
One of the best things about The Lunch Basket, besides the mostly local patronage and good food, fast and cheap, was that Jeannie Cannon, the owner, hadn’t gone in for the typical western style. Living in a historic town with a strong tourist draw, the Wild Old West aesthetic got to be a bit overwhelming.
The aesthetic was honestly earned, and many of the buildings in and around Jasper Ridge—including the big house on the Twisted C—looked the same way they’d looked for many decades. But the style tended to be heavy and dark, and it got ponderous, especially in the town proper, where the honest history mingled with tourist kitsch.
The Lunch Basket, on the other hand, was a bright, high-ceilinged space in a free-standing building only about twenty years old. The walls were covered with yellow-and-white lattice-print paper, grass-green fabric hung at the windows, and the tables and chairs were painted with high-gloss paint in bright, mismatched colors.
Jeannie served typical sandwich-shop fare, with a few local favorites thrown in. She handed it over in little wicker baskets lined with flowered paper. It was good food in a pleasing atmosphere. For the most part, the tourists hadn’t found it, so the locals preferred it, and she did a hopping lunch business.
Heath carried the tray holding their lunch over to a table by the window, where Emma sat, looking out onto the street. He sat and started shifting their baskets and drinks from the tray to the table. “I don’t know what you want me to—”
Emma cut him off with a hiss and a sharp wave. “Never mind about that. Something more important just came up.” Her eyes shifted past him, and he heard the bell over the door. “Well, hey there!” she called out.
Heath looked over his shoulder and saw Gabe standing just inside the door, looking their way, her expression the picture of surprise and confusion. She wore jeans and boots and a brown sleeveless top. And that black choker. The neckline of her top swept low over her chest, showing more skin than he’d seen before. She wore a necklace, too—a gold chain with a cross.
Her dark hair was loose, and she tucked it back behind her ears as she smiled shyly. “Uh, hi,” she said. “Emma, right?”
When had Emma and Gabe met?
Then her eyes moved from Emma to him, and the hesitant smile stalled out. She hadn’t seen him since Friday night, when she’d run from the bar. Heath’s mostly-healed hand ached with the memory.
She lived up at the Moondancer now, and she wasn’t around in town much. He guessed that she had the day off.
Across the table from him, Emma stood up. “That’s right! Well, come on over, honey. You shouldn’t eat alone.”
“That’s okay.” Her eyes had locked with Heath’s, but now she looked back at Emma. “I just…uh…came in for a bottle of water.”
That was a lie, Heath could tell. Emma had derailed her lunch. “Well, that’s silly. You can’t skip lunch. You’re skinny enough as it is.”
“Em. Back off,” Heath muttered.
His little sister ignored him completely and instead walked to Gabe and took her by the arm. When she pulled, Gabe came along. Emma Cahill Taylor was an irresistible force.
She pulled out the chair next to Heath and nudged Gabe to sit. She did, but scooted the chair a few inches away.
“So what’ll you have? Heath’s buying. The pulled pork is everybody’s favorite, or if you like something lighter, the chicken salad is great. It’s all great, honestly. You can’t pick wrong here.”
Gabe’s eyes darted around the café as if she might find rescue. All she found were a lot of eyes paying attention. They seemed doomed to be fertilizer for the town grapevine.
“Thanks, but really—I didn’t come in for food. I…uh…don’t usually eat lunch.”
“I guess that explains your figure then, doesn’t it? Just like pulled pork sandwiches explains mine!” Emma laughed at her own little joke. Her eyes shone with sudden inspiration, and Heath felt the urge to brace for impact.
“Emma…”
Ignored again, he sat helplessly as his sister said, “I just had the best idea! It’s Wednesday! If you don’t eat lunch, you’ve got to eat dinner—you should come to the ranch tonight! I do a big meal for the family on Wednesdays, and I’m a great cook, if say so myself. Besides, it’s practically a tradition to invite new people over. Right, Heath?”
They didn’t get enough new people in town to make a tradition out of something like that. His only reply was a death stare.
Gabe’s olive complexion took on a sickly hue. “Oh, no. Thank you, but I have to get back. I still don’t have my own ride. Pat brought me down, but…”
Emma scoffed. “Pat’ll be three sheets to the wind by sundown. I’ll take you to the ranch after I’m done at the market. You can help cook! And one of us will take you up to the Moondancer after.” The gleam in her eyes turned shrewd. “You know, some’d say it would be rude to turn down two invitations in a row.”
Okay, that was just enough. “Emma! Back. Off.” He turned to Gabe. “Sorry. You can ignore her.”
At least he didn’t see fear in those brown eyes as they searched his now. “It’s okay.” She smiled a little and turned back to Emma. “Sure. That sounds…it sounds good. Thank you.”
“Fantastic! Okay, well, I am too busy for lunch myself today.” She stood up and gestured at her uneaten meal. “Feel free to try that pulled pork. Let’s say we meet at the post office in a couple of hours?”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
When Emma came around to him and bent to kiss his cheek, Heath grabbed her wrist. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Be a gentleman, Heath Matthew. I’ll see you tonight.”
She kissed his cheek, and then she was gone. He gaped after her, his head spinning.
Movement at his side caught his attention, and he turned. Gabe had gotten up from the seat next to him and taken Emma’s seat across from him instead.
“I’m sorry about my sister. She’s subtle as a rock.”
She shrugged. “Since Friday, everybody thinks there’s something between us.” Plucking at Emma’s abandoned fries, picking one up and dropping it back, she added, “About a dozen people I barely know have tried to grill me for information about how I ‘snagged’ you, and warned me to be good to you. They don’t believe me when I say I have no freaking clue how I figure in what happened.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s a long story, and not really about you.”
She dropped a fry and lifted her gaze. Their eyes met and held. “Yeah. I’ve heard it now. Several times. And I guess you’ve heard mine.”
He nodded. “This town feeds on shit like that. I’m just…sorry. That you got pulled in like this, and…and that you have a story like you do.”
Her laugh was melancholy as she turned away and gazed out the window. “I ended up here because I was trying to get away from that story. Maybe I didn’t go far enough.”
“No such thing as far enough. In distance or time. I live with mine on my shoulder every day.” He paused, then asked, “You thinking of leaving?” He didn’t much like the idea of her going away.
But she chuckled and shook her head. “When Jerk got under the hood of my truck, he found all kinds of other problems. I guess it was a bad idea to drive it a thousand miles after it had sat for two years. Everything rubber had dried out. I was apparently about three miles from the whole engine just falling out on the road. If I had any money, I’d wonder if he was trying to screw me out of it.”
“Nah. Jerk’s a square dealer.”
>
“Yeah, I see that. Anyway, no. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” She surprised him with a grin—wide and almost happy, but dark and sorrowful, too. “I kind of like the idea that I drove my father’s pet truck right into the ground.”
That conflicted expression disarmed Heath utterly, because he understood it completely. The bitter, painful satisfaction of revenge.
He nearly reached for her hand—his arm actually lifted before he caught himself and rested it back on the table next to the basket of his uneaten lunch.
“What happened Friday—I’m sorry I scared you. That’s wasn’t me. There was a lot of bourbon involved.”
Her reaction was swift and stark—he’d offended her. “Sure it was. People say that to push responsibility away, and it sucks. That guy hurt you, and you wanted to hurt him back. That was in you. It was you. Being drunk just loosened you up to do what you wanted to do.”
She was talking about more than Friday night, more than him. She was talking about her father, too. He could hear the weight of personal history in her voice. He hated that she was thinking of him and her father in the same thought, but she wasn’t wrong. There hadn’t been a day in four years that he hadn’t had at least one thought that he wanted Brandon Black painfully dead.
“Okay. But only for him. I’m not…usually like that.”
One shoulder came up in a shrug. That cross—it was a crucifix, gold with a silver Christ figure—bobbled on her chest. “Does it matter?”
It did. God help him, it did. He’d not touched a woman in four years; he’d sworn he never would be with another again. The one sitting across from him now was barely old enough to be called a woman. Every goddamn eye in town was on them, watching and waiting to see what they’d do. But God help him, it mattered.
But he couldn’t say it. Rather, he said, “You can beg off dinner tonight. Emma gets like a terrier, but I can call her off.”
“I’ve been here long enough to know it’s probably a bad idea to get on your sister’s bad side if there’s a chance I might want to stay.”
Somewhere (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 1) Page 8