“I’m sorry...”
Sheryl rubbed her upper arm again and again as if to erase the memory of the pain. “Sorry.” The word came out in a burst of disbelieving anger. “You think you can get rid of everything you did to me with that single word?” She bit her lip. This wasn’t going at all as she had thought it should. She was supposed to be in control, calmly asking him about the letter he returned, asking for some kind of restitution. But what could she ask from this frail man who could barely talk? What could he give her now that would change anything?
“Mark said.. .Jason’s dead.” Ed’s words came out in a tortured sound, and when Sheryl turned to him a lone tear sparkled on his wrinkled cheek.
She only nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from the path of the tear as it slowly drifted down to his chin, puzzled that the news of Jason’s death should cause it.
“How?”
“Car accident.” She clutched herself harder, concentrating on the color of his hair, the droop of his shoulders. She had to be strong, his tears were too late and didn’t help her now.
“Do you.. .miss.. .him?”
Sheryl looked away, biting her lip. Her stepfather, the man who had hated Jason before they’d left, now looked as if he was grieving Jason’s death, whereas she, his wife, had not shed a tear. She pressed her fingers to her eyes as if to force something from them. "I don’t miss him. Dad.”
“Did you...love him?” Ed tried to lean forward.
Sheryl felt the beginnings of a headache building behind her eyes. This was even harder than she had envisioned. Ed challenging her, blustering at her—these she had ready answers for.
Not this unexpected concern, his probing questions—these she wasn’t prepared for. They came around behind her and pushed away all the defenses she had built against him. Now he could be proved right, and while her prideful nature didn’t want to admit it, she knew that if she was to have any kind of peace in her life, if she was to regain any kind of power over her future, she had to admit her part in what had happened in the past.
“Did.. .he love.. .you?” Ed asked this time.
Sheryl felt a catch in her throat. Had anyone cared in the past few years whether she had received love? “I think he wanted to,” she replied carefully. Slowly she lowered herself into the chair across from Ed. “Jason wasn’t a good husband. Dad. But I stayed with him because that’s what wives do. That’s what you taught me.”
Ed said nothing, his eyes holding hers as another tear formed. “I’m sorry.”
Sheryl only nodded, his tears touching her emotions in a place she didn’t think Ed would ever have access to again. “I’m glad you’re sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, too. Sorry that I ever married him. Hard as it is for me to say it, you were right about him.” She smoothed the wrinkles out of the worn skirt, the confession draining her.
She had come for vindication, for this chance to find out whys and why nots and suddenly it became wearying, draining. But she pressed on. The threat of his death demanded that the events of her past find some kind of finish, closure. “I just wish I could know why you and Nate couldn’t let me be part of your family.”
“I never.. .had a girl.”
But you had a son, Sheryl thought. You loved him.
“I don’t think.. . I even.. .knew how to love Nate.”
Sheryl’s heart skipped at his response. It was as if he’d read her mind. “Why did you marry my mom?” Sheryl avoided his eyes, pleating her skirt, her voice soft as she moved on to other questions.
“She was pretty.. .and so sad.” Ed sighed. “I wanted.. .to help her.. .help you.”
Sheryl rubbed her finger over the crease she had made in her skirt, his confessions settling into her memories.
“I needed her,” Ed said softly.
“And what about me?” She looked up at him, questioning. “Did you need me, too?”
“Yes. I loved her. I love you. Please believe.I love…you.”
Sheryl sighed, rubbing her forehead. She stood, looking down at this broken man. She couldn’t dredge up enough anger to hate him. Tucking her hair behind her ear she tilted her head to one side. “Well you had a strange way of showing it,” she said quietly.
Ed blinked slowly, concentrating on her, shaking his head with long tired movements. “I’m sorry...so sorry...”
Sheryl felt a strange thickening in her throat. She swallowed it down, willing the emotions back where she had consigned so many more.
And as she forced her emotions back to equilibrium, as she battled with old dull pain, Ed closed his eyes.
Sheryl felt her heart stop, and she rushed over to his side, almost praying that it wasn’t so. Frantically she grabbed his hand, searching for his pulse.
He twitched and his head fell forward as Sheryl felt the faint, but regular heartbeat. She sat back on her heels, her own heart bursting in her chest. He had fallen asleep and there was nothing left for her to say, so she quietly left.
Chapter 7
Mark reached back and pulled his shirt off in one easy motion, ignoring the buttons. Balling it up he tossed it in a corner of the kitchen, joining the rest of his laundry.
Scratching his chest, he wandered to the fridge, pulled it open and grimaced at the contents. He took an apple out of a broken cellophane bag and took a quick swig of milk right out of the carton.
Another nourishing meal, he thought as he kicked the door of the fridge closed behind him.
He walked into the living room. Should clean this up, too, he thought, munching on his apple.
A wood stove sat smugly on a brick pad, awaiting chilly fall nights and cold winter days when it would radiate welcome heat. For now it held an assortment of dust-laden pictures: wedding portraits, family pictures and school pictures from nieces and nephews.
A wave of melancholy washed over Mark as he walked through the empty room on his way upstairs to his bedroom. When he’d first seen the house, the Simpson family had lived here, and kids and furniture had filled it. It looked better then.
He finished his apple as he trudged up the stairs. It was still early in the evening. The dew came down too soon to hay longer into the night. Tomorrow, after two dry days, they would be able to go until dark.
The rest of the evening stretched before him, empty, quiet...boring. His dad had repeated his mother’s invitation to supper, but he’d declined. In spite of his better judgment he found himself inexplicably drawn to Sheryl, and he couldn’t understand her. She made it fairly clear any time he tried to get past her guard that she didn’t want his concern.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Better that he stay at home instead of subjecting himself to more of the same. Humiliation wasn’t an emotion that sat well with him, so why seek it out. It had taken a while to get over Tanya’s rejection, he shouldn’t be in such a hurry to let another woman give him more of the same.
Mark walked over to the window, opened it and threw his apple core out, pausing to appreciate the view. Five years he had lived here, yet he never tired of the view.
The corrals lay below him, laid out in squares of graduating sizes. It had taken almost an entire summer to build up his corral system to make it easier for him to sort his cows. The work reaped its own rewards, he thought, remembering the past fall and how much quicker he and Nate had separated the heifers from the steers and the calves from the cows.
Beyond the corrals lay the hay fields, neat triangles of stuked hay dotting the clipped field. In two days they would have the lower fields done and then they could haul the bales to Nate’s place where they would await the trucks from Langley. It had taken a few years and a lot of hard work. This hay contract and the increase in cattle prices should help the ranch turn a healthy profit, for a change. If things held, the partnership would be well able to support two families.
Mark laughed ruefully. Make that one family and one bachelor.
He glanced over his shoulder at the spacious bedroom behind him. A mattress pushed against one wall served as hi
s bed, the rumpled sheets mocking his mother’s constant nagging as he grew up. It looked lost in the room.
The condo he’d owned in Vancouver had come furnished, and a cleaning lady used to come in once a week. It had never felt like a home, but at least it had been neater than this place, he thought, running a finger through the dust that layered the windowsill.
This house needs a family.
In spite of his earlier resolve, his thoughts wandered to Sheryl. In his mind he saw her again on a tractor seat, working in heat and dust, never complaining, a faint smile curving her lips, softening the hard lines of her face. She looked more appealing all dusty and dirty, manhandling Nate’s old Massey around the corners, than Tanya or any of the women before her ever could after spending an afternoon in their salons. In Sheryl he sensed a love for the land that so closely echoed his own, and it called to a deeper part of him.
Tanya had never wanted to share this life, had wanted no part of it. Whenever he’d brought her out here, she’d complained about the distance, politely declined offers to go riding and smiled deprecatingly at his family. Tanya fit in Vancouver, but not out here.
With a short laugh, he spun away from the window and off to a much-needed shower. Sheryl had her own plans, as well, and they didn’t include a bachelor rancher.
But as the hot water poured down over him he couldn’t help but remember those brief moments of vulnerability that seemed to call out to him.
Lenore’s house exuded a quiet peace that enveloped Sheryl as soon as she stepped inside. It was as if the house, which had held so many people on Sunday, had shrunk down, pulled into itself. The living room was symmetrical again, the couches neatly facing each other across a delicate Queen Anne coffee table, whose legs seemed to barely touch the deep pile of the carpet, wing chairs flanking the fireplace presiding over the room.
In the kitchen the counters were visible again, an oak table had also shrunk down, four chairs neatly surrounding it, the crystal vase of flowers reflected in the gleaming surface of the table.
“Just sit down, Sheryl. I’ll make some tea while we wait for Dale to come back.” Lenore dropped her bags of groceries on the countertop with a muted clunk. “I’ll Elise to tell her you’re here for supper, so she and Nate don’t worry.”
Sheryl almost laughed at that. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure it doesn’t matter whether I show up or not.”
Lenore paused, her hand still holding on to a cupboard door. She let it slip shut and leaned back against the cupboard, her arms crossed over each other.
“Now I know you’re not a whiner, so I don’t think that’s one of those ‘feel sorry for me’ kinds of statements. They do worry about you.”
Sheryl didn’t want to get into a discussion over Nate’s lack of fraternal devotion—he obviously had Lenore fooled—so she merely shrugged in answer.
“Nate and Elise often wondered how you were doing when you lived in Edmonton,” Lenore continued, concern furrowing her forehead. “He tried to get hold of you...”
“Please, Lenore,” Sheryl interrupted, suddenly tired of seeing Nate as the blue-eyed boy. “Nate knew Jason’s last name, he knew where we lived. He never once tried to contact me.” She caught Lenore’s eyes and held them, the emotions of the day catching up on her. She felt a sob begin way down in her chest.
Then the all-too-familiar invisible hand closed off her throat, pushed closed the crack in her defenses, and the heartache subsided. For a fleeting moment Sheryl wished the tears would come, wished the pain could be lanced, but knew that her solitary life could not allow her to get swept up in the ensuing emotional storm.
“Are you okay?” Lenore came around the counter to kneel beside her, gentle hands covering Sheryl’s tightly clenched fingers. “Is it Ed?”
Sheryl shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.” She drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to relax. “Ed told me...” But she stopped. What could she possibly gain from opening up to Lenore? She didn’t need to hear confessions from someone who was such a small part of her life. “Sorry,” Sheryl said, drawing her hands away. “It’s been a tiring day.”
The back door opened just then, deep voices laughing, bursting into the house, bringing vitality and breaking the quiet.
“That sounds like Mark.” Frowning, Lenore got up, leaving Sheryl to compose herself and at the same time try to stop the foolish trill of her heart at the sound of Mark’s voice, the mention of his name.
“How fast did you have to drive to get here the same time as your father, Mark?” Lenore asked as both men walked into the kitchen at the same time.
“Dad drives like an old lady,” Mark said, quirking a tired smile at his mother.
“I thought I’d give you enough time to get supper on the table, but I see I should have driven even slower,” Dale joked. He turned to Sheryl. “So how’s Ed?”
“He was sitting up today. They took him off the monitors,” Sheryl said suddenly self-conscious of her faded denim skirt and too-large white T-shirt. It annoyed her that being around Mark could bring that out. She never cared what she looked like before.
But as she looked past Dale’s smiling face to Mark’s serious one, things other than her clothes took precedence: like the clean sweep of his freshly shaven jaw; how his brown hair, still damp from his shower, swept just above his dark eyebrows; how his eyes seemed to delve into hers, seeking, drawing her out. She faintly heard Lenore’s laughter, Dale’s dry answer. On the periphery of her vision she saw them move past her, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from Mark’s, couldn’t break the connection that seemed to grow with each step he took closer to her until he stood in front of her.
“Hi,” he said, his deep voice soft, the single word winging home to a heart that hungered for more.
“I thought you were going home?” she replied, her voice unsteady.
“I did and then changed my mind.”
Her heart lifted and thrummed as time slowed and all else seemed to fade. She caught herself, blinked, swallowed and forced her leaden feet to step away.
Mark was a complication she could ill afford. Solid, secure in his faith and surrounded by family and community.
She turned away, breaking the contact by force of her will.
“Do you need any help with supper, Mrs. Andrews?” Sheryl offered, her voice rough edged. She cleared her throat and caught Lenore’s scrutinizing glance.
“You can start browning the hamburger,” she said, handing Sheryl a fork.
Sheryl had a hard time working, knowing that Mark’s eyes followed her every move. It was disconcerting, puzzling and exciting, and she didn’t know which emotion took precedence.
By the time they sat down to supper she felt wound up tighter than a spring.
Lenore was well organized and in less than twenty minutes managed to pull together a Stroganoff-based sauce over buttered noodles with a crisp salad on the side. They seated themselves around the table, Sheryl between Lenore and Mark, and as Dale paused, she knew what was coming. Too late she tried to drop her hands to her lap. Lenore had already captured one and Mark held out his hand for the other one. She hesitated, and he laid his hand, callused palm up, on the table, inviting yet not pushing. It would have looked ungracious to refuse, so, reluctantly she laid her hand in his large one, quenching the light trill that quivered up her arm at his touch.
Then his fingers wrapped around hers, firm, hard, secure, and as they bowed their heads Sheryl felt peace flow through her that was a combination of Mark holding her hand and the communion of four people united in prayer.
When Dale quietly said amen, Sheryl carefully slid her hand out of Mark’s, thankful that he loosened his hold on her and, picking up her fork, tried to eat.
“How much more baling do you have to do?” Dale asked Mark.
“Three more days, tops. I’m thankful it’s been going so well.”
“I can’t come tomorrow and help you. I’m afraid,” Dale began.
&nbs
p; “I’ll help again.” Sheryl interrupted, her voice quiet.
Mark almost dropped his fork. He had been hoping, praying, that she would offer. He didn’t dare ask.
“You don’t have to,” Lenore said. “I’m sure Dale can...”
Sheryl smiled at Lenore. “I’m sure he can, too, but this time I want to finish what I start.”
“Now what do you mean by that?” Lenore asked.
Sheryl looked down at her plate. “When I was younger I used to drive the tractor, but could only last a few days. Then I would take off...” She let the sentence hang, and Mark tried to decipher her expression, but a heavy swag of golden hair hid her face from him.
“I still think it’s a bit much to expect a young girl like you to help with that dusty, dirty job.” Lenore placed her knife and fork together on her plate and pushed it slightly away from her.
“Well I’m glad she doesn’t mind,” Mark replied. “It sure helps me out a lot.”
“I don’t imagine you worked on a farm in Edmonton?” Lenore asked, ignoring Mark’s warning glance.
Sheryl pushed the noodles around her plate as if contemplating the easiest way to answer the question. “I worked in a bar.”
“How did you like that?”
Mark stifled a groan. His mother, soft-spoken though she pretended to be, could never manage to get away from her tendency to be nosy.
Surprisingly, Sheryl smiled. “I disliked it thoroughly. I can’t imagine a more futile occupation than serving drinks.”
“How long did you do that?” Lenore asked, resting her elbows on the table, her chin propped on her hands.
“Too long.” Sheryl looked up and smiled a wry smile. “When we first moved to Edmonton, I took some secretarial courses, then got a job working at a lawyer’s office.” For a moment she seemed far away, then with a shrug she looked down at her supper. “But things slowed down, and I got laid off.”
“Mark tells me that you are studying again.”
Mark almost groaned. Sheryl must think that she was discussed at every possible moment. As if to confirm that, she glanced sidelong at him.
Homecoming (Sweet Hearts of Sweet Creek Book 1) Page 10