Come Home to Deep River

by Jackie Ashenden

  No, it was for him—and he probably deserved it.

  “What?” He folded his arms, resisting the urge to go to her, pull her back into his arms again. “Show your mother the lay of the land?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to know. And you said it was just between you and me.”

  “I wanted your mother to know you weren’t on your own. That I agreed with you.”

  “Which could have involved you simply standing beside me as a friend, not…” She gestured wordlessly.

  “What? Not putting my hands on you and making it clear that we are an item?”

  “But we’re not an item, Si.” She let out a breath and turned away. “That was the whole point of not telling anyone. And now you’ve just made this even more complicated.”

  He frowned. “How?”

  “You know Mom’s history.” Hope went over to the bar, going behind it. “She had an affair with some guy and ended up with me and…” She stopped, picking up a cloth that sat balled up on the bar top. “Granddad kept her here. Mom just told me. She couldn’t care less about the bar because she’s still angry with Granddad. Because when she told him she wanted to leave, he told her that she could go but that I would have to stay here. He wouldn’t let her leave with me.”

  Hell, had that been what he’d walked into just before? No wonder there had been so much tension in the air.

  “And now I’m angry at her,” Hope went on, looking up at him. “Which I shouldn’t be. Because that’s a terrible thing to do to someone, to use their own child against them like that. But…” Her hand closed around the cloth. “She stayed for me, she said. And because she was afraid that Granddad was right when he told her that she couldn’t look after me. That’s why she stayed here even after Granddad died.”

  Si studied her face. A kind of directionless rage that felt somehow familiar to him gleamed in her eyes. He’d felt the same way about his father, even though he knew he shouldn’t. A helpless fury that the old man couldn’t be happy without alcohol in him, even though his own son was right there to help.

  “It’s okay to be angry with her,” he said. “She should have told you all of this.”

  “Yes. Yes, she should have. I just…what was the point of me staying here, then? All those years ago? I did it for her, to look after her. And she didn’t need it.”

  “But you did.” He could see it now, the hurt gleaming in her eyes. And it made sense to him all of a sudden. “You needed her. You were trying to prove something to her, weren’t you?”

  Hope looked away. “She never told me she loved me, not once. Not in all the years since Granddad died.”

  The pain in her voice cut him like a knife, and it was all he could do to remain standing there, to not go over to where she stood and take her in his arms. Tell her the truth that had been in his heart so long that it had become part of him.

  That he loved her. He’d always loved her. But telling her would accomplish nothing but adding more complications to an already complicated situation. She’d made a decision that had been hard for her, and he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise it.

  Besides, love was a burden, as he knew all too well, and she didn’t need to carry that along with everything else.

  So he didn’t tell her. Instead, he said, “She does love you, Hope. If she didn’t, she would have gone and left you with Bill.”

  “Maybe.” Hope kept her gaze turned away. “Look, I’ve got a few things to do right now, so do you mind if we have this conversation later?”

  “Hope—”

  “Please.”

  The soft plea in the word caught at him and he was powerless against it, even though his instinct was to stay, to hold her, make her feel better any way he could.

  If all you can think about is telling her you love her, maybe you could use some distance yourself.

  Yeah, and wasn’t that the truth?

  “Okay,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be around if you need me.”

  He turned to go.

  “Si.” Hope’s voice was quiet.

  He looked back, but there was a part of him that somehow already knew what she was going to say. “Yeah?”

  The expression on her face was guarded, and the suspicion inside him became a certainty; she hadn’t looked at him like that since they’d started sleeping together. But something had changed, and he wasn’t sure what it was.

  “I think I need a couple of nights on my own,” she said, confirming it. “Just to get a few things straight in my head.”

  He wanted to ask her what it was that she needed to get straight, because he could help. She didn’t need to do this by herself. And anyway, they didn’t have much time together, so why waste it?

  But that would have been selfish of him. So all he said was, “Fine. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter 15

  Si stood at the bottom of the gravel drive that led up to Filthy Phil’s place, having the kind of conversation with Damon that he should have had where the reception was better. But his friend had called him to update him on the situation with Wild Alaska, and he needed to tell Damon about his decision to stay in Deep River anyway, so he’d answered the call.

  Damon had not taken any of it well.

  “You’re staying?” Damon sounded furious. “Why the fuck would you want to do that?”

  Si gritted his teeth. It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected this kind of response, but after the past few days, he didn’t have the patience for it. Not when he didn’t have Hope in his bed at night.

  She’d wanted distance, and so for the past few days, he’d given it to her, not imposing himself, waiting until she came to him. But she wasn’t coming to him. She closed herself in her office during the day, and the past few times he’d knocked and gone in to see if she was okay, she’d barely looked at him.

  He had no idea what was going on, but it was pissing him off, even though he knew he had no right to be pissed off. They weren’t together in any real way. She wasn’t his girlfriend. And if she didn’t want to sleep with him, she wouldn’t. But it still annoyed him.

  “Because Cal left this town to us,” he snapped down the phone. “And because I was born here. It’s my hometown. And I know you don’t give a shit about that kind of thing, but I have a responsibility.”

  “What about your responsibility to me and this damn company?” Damon demanded. “What am I supposed to do now if you’re staying in that little shithole?”

  Si scowled. “You think I’m simply going to walk away and leave you and Zeke to deal with it? You know me, Damon. You know I wouldn’t do that. Also, Deep River is not a shithole.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone.

  “So what are you going to do, then?” Damon asked at last, still sounding angry, his voice crackling with static.

  But Si wasn’t in the mood to deal with his friend’s anger, especially not when the reception was so crappy. “I’ll call you when I know,” he said and hit disconnect.

  Then he stood there for a second, trying to get a handle on his temper, staring out at the mountains with their crisp caps of snow and the green tide of the bush lapping around their bases. The river flowed through all that green in a wide silver strip, and from where he was on the side of the hill, he could also see the town at the edge of the river below, all those familiar, slightly ramshackle buildings clinging to its bank.

  It was a beautiful day, with the air clear and the sky a brilliant blue backdrop, showcasing Deep River’s true riches. It wasn’t the black stuff underneath the ground, but those mountains and bush. The ribbon of the river and the small, quirky town that sat on the edge of it.

  His anger dissipated, his heart abruptly full. And if he hadn’t been sure before, he was suddenly sure now. This was what had brought p
eople to Deep River—the environment that surrounded them—and this was what made them stay. This was what was going to make him stay too, because he couldn’t let it all be given to people who cared only about what they could exploit from under the ground. Who cared only about the money.

  It’s the people who matter, too, don’t forget that.

  That was true. People like Mal, who’d made him dust shelves as a punishment, a punishment that Si had secretly enjoyed since it got him out of the house and away from his dad. And April, who used to sneak him donuts after school when he hung around the diner, not wanting to go home. And there had been others who were kind to him, who knew what had been going on with Joshua Quinn and his lonely son.

  That was edging into territory he didn’t want to think about, so he turned from the view and made his way up the narrow gravel drive to Phil’s rundown old house.

  He’d once spent a bit of time here. Phil had given Si odd jobs to do while telling him stories of his days on the traplines. He’d also let Si talk as much as he wanted about his mother, and that was something Si had never forgotten.

  They called him Filthy Phil, but not because he was filthy, but because he’d once dropped a Bible on his foot in church and let forth such a stream of curse words that the whole town had been talking about it for days.

  Now, the old ex-hunter was sitting on his porch in what was obviously a hand-carved chair and doing something with his hands. And it wasn’t until Si got closer that he saw what it was.

  Phil was knitting something small with bright red yarn. He didn’t look up from his work as Si approached the rickety wooden stairs that led up to the porch.

  “Good to see you, boy,” was all he said. “Did you bring my books with you?”

  Si had mentioned to Mal that he was going to visit Phil, and Mal had told him to stop by Deep River’s little library before he went. Phil had a weekly delivery of library books, usually brought up to his house by Mal or Astrid, since the old man didn’t come down into town often.

  So Si had stopped by the library before he’d gotten a ride up to Phil’s from Sonny Clarke, who owned the gas station, and had been amused at the selection. Apparently Phil’s tastes in reading were wide ranging—there was a thriller, a mystery, one or two nonfiction books, plus a couple of romances.

  “Yeah,” Si said, coming up the wooden stairs. “I got them for you.” He put them down on the small table that sat next to Phil’s chair—another beautifully hand-carved piece. “You chose these yourself?”

  “No. I let Astrid pick ’em.” Phil finally glanced up from his knitting, surprisingly sharp blue eyes gleaming from underneath bushy white eyebrows. “And yeah, before you say anything, I like love stories.” His grin turned wicked in his white beard. “Makes an old man feel young again.”

  Si grinned back. He hadn’t seen Phil since he’d returned, but in many ways, the old guy hadn’t changed.

  He still looked like he’d been handcrafted out of old leather, his skin weather-beaten and lined by the years spent out in the elements, but his mind was still sharp as a tack and apparently his sense of humor was still fully operational too.

  “Hey,” he said, “doesn’t everyone need to feel young again every so often?”

  “True, true.” Phil’s hands worked rhythmically at his knitting, the metal needles clicking. “You want to talk to me about this oil nonsense?”

  Si leaned back against the porch railing. “You know all about that?”

  Phil snorted. “Of course I do. I may not go down into town much, but that doesn’t make me ignorant about town goings-on.”

  “Fair enough.” He stared at the old man. “What do you think about it?”

  “It’s bullshit. Not that it matters what I think. I’m not going to be here for too much longer anyway. It’s a decision that you young folk will have to make.”

  Si raised a brow. “What? You planning on dying in the next few months?”

  “Don’t think that’s up to me.”

  “Your opinion is still important.”

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t. Only that I don’t have to deal with the consequences, which, come to think of it, might make me see things differently.” The old man nodded to himself. “Could use a little money to make my old age easier.”

  “You don’t want the money,” Si said.

  “Don’t I?” Phil finished a row and then turned his work around to start the next. “My military pension doesn’t stretch that far.”

  Yeah, sure. The old man was shit-stirring, and Si was well aware. Phil had been born in this town, had left to fight for his country a couple of times before returning to do what his father had done before him, which was to earn a living in the mountains he loved, hunting and trapping. In fact, quite a few of the heads on the walls of the Moose had come from Phil.

  He was too old for it these days, and even before Si had left, Phil had started turning the property his family had leased into a wildlife sanctuary—giving back to the land what he’d taken, or at least that’s what he’d told Si once.

  Anyway, the upshot was that Phil loved this place, and Si knew it. The last thing he’d want would be to hand over his lease to some oil company that would ruin what he’d spent the last few years building.

  “And yet your place is in pretty good repair,” Si pointed out. “Though I see some of the shingles on the roof need replacing.”

  Phil gave a cackling laugh. “You notice things, boy. Always did.”

  “And you’re a shit-stirrer. Always have been.”

  “True,” Phil acknowledged, clearly enjoying himself. “My grandson visits from Anchorage every so often. He fixes the place up for me.”

  “He does a good job.” And the guy truly did, since although Phil’s place was pretty ramshackle, it was all in good repair. “When is he coming back? Because if it’s not for a while, I’ll give you a hand with the roof.”

  Phil’s bright blue eyes were suddenly very sharp. “Generous offer. I’ll take you up on that. Especially since you’re apparently going to be staying here.”

  “I see the jungle telegraph is still working. Who told you that?”

  “I have my sources.” The old man gave a satisfied nod. “I always knew you’d come back. And once you did, I knew you’d stay.”

  Si didn’t quite know how to take that, whether to be offended that Phil could have anticipated him so easily or to be pleased that at least someone remembered that he wasn’t a man to walk away from his responsibilities, even though he had at one time. “What makes you say that?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

  Phil’s needles clicked. “Because the girl is still here.”

  Si went very still. “What girl?”

  “You know who I’m talking about.” The old man’s gnarled hands moved steadily. “You’re like your father, Silas. A man of deep emotions. And you can run from those emotions all you like, but they always bring you back.”

  Si gripped the rail he was leaning against very tightly. He wanted to deny it, say that he was nothing like his father, but in some ways, the old man was right. “Dad didn’t run from his emotions.” He tried to make his voice sound as neutral as possible. “He went looking for them in a bottle.”

  That you gave him.

  Phil shrugged. “We all find ways of dealing with the shit life throws at us. Some ways are better than others.”

  “Yeah,” Si said, unable to help himself. “And some just get you killed.”

  “Don’t let anger get in the way, boy. Your father was angry at the world for taking June away.”

  June, his lovely mother. Who’d died very suddenly of a brain aneurysm.

  “Yeah,” he heard himself say. “Well, he wasn’t the only one who was angry.” Because in many ways, Si had lost two parents. His mother and then the father that he’d loved. The father who’d changed and only became that ma
n when he’d had half a bottle of vodka inside him.

  Phil’s gaze was far too perceptive, and it felt like he was seeing past Si’s anger and down beneath it to the hurt little boy that was still inside him. “It’s not your fault, Silas. Don’t take responsibility for your father’s bad decisions.”

  But it was his fault. It always had been.

  “I didn’t, remember?” Si said shortly. “I ran away instead.”

  “Did you?” Phil stopped knitting for a second. “Or did you go away to prove a point?”

  Something shifted inside him, something uncomfortable. “What makes you say that?” He couldn’t quite keep the sharp note out of his voice. “You don’t know me, Phil. You don’t know why I left.”

  Phil stared at him for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair, resuming his knitting, his attention back on his hands again. “I was your age once. A bit of a rabble-rouser. A bit of a troublemaker. The town thought I was bad news, and so I decided why bother changing their minds? And I left. I thought I was escaping, but it wasn’t until I came back that I realized it wasn’t an escape I wanted. I left to prove myself, to show the town what kind of man I was and that they’d be sorry they made me leave. But you know, the funny thing was, they didn’t really care what I’d been doing while I was away. The only thing that mattered to them was what I did when I returned.”

  Si shoved himself away from the railing, the uncomfortable sensation twisting around in his gut no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The present is all that matters, boy. You might think that you’re taking responsibility for the town, making up for past sins, yours and your damn father’s, but ultimately, the whys don’t matter. You don’t need to prove yourself. It’s the action you take in the present that’s important, because the present is all any of us ever have.”

  Si didn’t know what to say to that, because the old man was wrong. He hadn’t left to prove himself; he’d left because there was nothing here to hold him. His final responsibility had gone and the last tie had been Hope. And she’d told him to leave.