Return to the Black Hills

by Debra Salonen

  “Oh,” she said, smiling. “So, you have a little of the wanderlust, too. Like Jessie.”

  He didn’t see the parallel. Texas was a long way from Iceland. But he didn’t say so. “I’d better get inside and make sure Shiloh isn’t online. Punishment for climbing that tower today.”

  “Yeah, wow. That was scary. Jessie makes it look so easy, but you wouldn’t catch me up on that thing. No way, no how.”

  Although the two women were both fair and there was a strong family resemblance, he had a hard time reconciling the fact they were twins. Identical twins.

  How identical? he wondered.

  When she moved to walk past him, Cade turned, too. His shoulder bumped her shoulder, and he politely steadied her with a hand on her arm.

  Nothing. Not a hint of tingle.

  “Have a good night,” he said. “Dad has satellite in both the bedrooms, if you’re interested.”

  “Cool,” she said, blithely traipsing down the steps—obviously also unaffected by their contact. “I wouldn’t even own a TV if it weren’t for Sentinel Passtime. I love watching Jessie.”

  He blinked in surprise. “I thought the goal of a stunt person was to look so much like the star nobody could tell the difference?”

  “It is and she does. She’s the best. But Jess and I have a special kind of bond. Twin sense. Believe me, I know her when I see her. G’night.” She wiggled her fingers and strolled across the lawn.

  He thought a moment. He was pretty sure he had a couple of episodes of Sentinel Passtime on his digital recorder. Would he be able to spot Jessie if he saw her pretending to be someone else?

  He opened the door and walked inside. He’d check it out after Shiloh was in bed. He was curious. That was all.

  DAWN.

  Holy spitwad. Buck couldn’t remember the last time he got up this early. Probably on one of his hunting or fishing trips. He’d been semiretired from ranching for several years and paid good money to have someone else wake up in the wee hours of the morning.

  Stumbling along a pitch-black trail to reach the pinnacle of what passed for a mountain in these parts was not part of the brochure, he thought grumpily.

  Faith Mountain, Matthew called this place. “That’s not its given name,” he’d said last night when he talked Buck into joining the small group planning the hike. “But those of us who come here often know it’s a very spiritual epicenter.”

  Buck didn’t think that word meant what Matthew thought it meant.

  “The moments just before dawn are especially porous,” he claimed. Porous? “If you truly want to reach someone who has passed over to the other side, this could be your best chance.”

  Baloney. Complete and utter hoodoo nonsense, Buck thought. But he decided to make the climb anyway. He didn’t know why. To prove he could? Probably. Both of his wives had called him bullheaded. “You’d spend a hundred bucks to prove the dollar in your hands was worthless, wouldn’t you?” Helen once asked.

  He would. He probably had. Numerous times.

  Take this retreat, for example. He was paying ten times that to prove what? That he wasn’t a complete and utter screwup where relationships were concerned?

  He didn’t know. Maybe he’d ask Helen when he saw her this morning.

  His thick-sole hiking boot caught on the tip of a jagged rock and he stumbled, catching his balance using the brand-new high-tech walking sticks he’d purchased at the retreat store the day before.

  “Careful,” Matthew said, suddenly materializing a step away from Buck.

  The leader of the group—a silver-haired fellow in his sixties—motioned for everyone to fan out around him. “We’ve reached the pinnacle,” he said in a hushed whisper, his voice so achingly poignant you’d have thought they were looking at a double rainbow.

  Buck covered his snicker with a fake cough.

  “Are you, okay, Buck?”

  “I’m fine, Matthew. Thank you.”

  “Good. We use this time to meditate individually, and then rejoin everyone to chant Ohm before we head back down.” He directed his flashlight toward a generous-size flat rock a few feet away.

  Buck followed the light and sat. The rock was cold but he ignored the distraction. He was here to focus. On the past, mostly. On memories he’d felt certain had been flushed away by a million or so bottles of Jack Daniel’s. The people he’d loved. The ones he’d lost. When he looked at Matthew, his tutor, he was reminded of Charles. His firstborn.

  The two were nothing alike, but Charles would have been Matthew’s age now if he’d lived. Hard to believe he’d been gone thirty years or better. Funny the things that stuck out in his memory, Buck thought.

  Like his firstborn’s first tooth, which the baby promptly buried in the fleshy part of his father’s thumb. Buck had carried the scar for years. He reached up and rubbed his thumb across his nose.

  God, how he’d loved that boy.

  Proud? His pals had claimed Buck had turned into the most obnoxious, boastful parent they knew. “My kid did this. My kid did that.”

  A heaviness settled over him.

  My kid thinks I killed his mother.

  And maybe I did.

  Not on purpose, of course. Neglect. Pure and simple. Too busy acquiring land, juggling government contracts, investing in his breeding program, drinking with his buddies. He’d missed what his kids saw every day. His wife was disappearing. Literally.

  He’d never even heard of an eating disorder before his wife was diagnosed with bulimia. He took her to the University Of Minnesota Medical School for treatment. He got her the best care he could find. But they couldn’t undo the damage her self-starvation had inflicted on her body—especially her heart.

  Passed away. Too young. In the prime of her life. Such a waste.

  Platitudes became his new reality.

  If he could overlook the fact that his wife was barfing up the elaborate meals she cooked for her family, how could he possibly be in charge of three kids all by himself? He was a failure. He only had to look in his eldest son’s eyes to see proof of that. He went searching for help.

  “I married Helen for your sake, Charles,” he remembered telling his then seventeen-year-old son. “You and Renata and Cade. Cade, especially. You’re almost grown, but Cade needs a mother. He’s still a little kid.”

  Buck looked into the murky near light of daybreak. He could almost see him. Handsome as sin. Filled with potential—and fury.

  That’s a lie, Dad. For once in your life, admit the truth. You married Helen because you were a coward. A complete and utter coward.

  “Dawn,” a voice said.

  Buck turned to stare at the red ball inching above the indistinct curve of the earth. Blurry. Not from clouds, but from tears. The kind that came from shame.

  “GOOD MORNING. YOU’RE UP BRIGHT and early.”

  Jessie looked from under the hood of her car to find Cade standing a foot or so away, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “I forgot to check the oil yesterday. I’m about ready to replace the engine again.”

  “Again?”

  “The first was a couple of years after we got it. My mom’s boyfriend at the time owned a body shop. He showed me how to drop the tranny. It’s not all that hard if you have the right tools.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “And the second?”

  “I bought a crate motor and rented a stall at a garage down the street from where I live.”

  “You’re pretty self-sufficient.”

  She was—and proud of it. And while there was nothing overtly judgmental in his tone, she felt defensive. “I think every woman should know about car engines. If for no other reason than to be aware if some unscrupulous mechanic is trying to screw you.”

  He walked closer. “I agree. Do you think you could teach Shiloh how to change the oil? I was starting to show her some of those things when she suddenly decided I was a mean and controlling father. Not someone she wanted to learn squat from.”

  She replaced
the dipstick and closed the hood, balancing on her good foot. “Sure. I could do that. And I wouldn’t worry too much. Kids butt heads with their parents. That’s a given.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Absolutely. My mother and I were polar opposites. She never understood why I did the things I do, and, I guess you could say, I felt the same way about some of her life choices.”

  “Like what?”

  She grabbed her crutches, glad for the support. “Do you have any more of that?” she asked, motioning toward his cup with her chin—partly because she needed a caffeine fix and partly to avoid the much-too-personal question. “I live within walking distance from four fabulous coffee houses. I haven’t made my own since I moved to L.A.”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you on Dad’s veranda with the pot.”

  He smiled that friendly puppy-dog smile that had stayed in her mind all night. She’d even dreamed about him, for heaven’s sake. A nice dream. The kind that was probably illegal in several states in the South.

  Jessie had been awake for a couple of hours. She’d been too wiped out the night before to shower, so that was the first order of business. After another hot and cold compress therapy, she felt fairly optimistic that the specialist would have good news for her when she saw him.

  But she wasn’t taking any chances. She moved slowly, carefully skirting the collage of outdoor furniture. Instead of taking a chair at the table, she eased her butt into a chaise so she could elevate her foot.

  “Hey,” Cade said a couple of minutes later. “Your ankle looks a lot better.” He set an insulated Thermos on the table and handed her a mug that said World’s Best Grandpa. “Do you like sugar and cream? I can run back inside.”

  “Black is good. Thanks.”

  He pulled out a chair at the table and joined her, refreshing his plain green ceramic mug, too. “I don’t mean to sound nosy, but you and Remy have both mentioned your mother. I understand she passed away recently, and I’m sorry to hear that. But could I ask about your father? I thought Shiloh and I had a pretty great relationship until about six months ago.”

  Jessie brought the mug to her nose and inhaled deeply. She loved coffee, but there was nothing like the kind her mother used to make. She took a sip before answering. “This is good. Thanks. And, I’m sorry, but I can’t be of any help where you and Shiloh are concerned. Remy and I never knew our father.”

  “Oh. He passed away?”

  “Yes, but that’s not why we didn’t know him. Mama refused to tell us his name. Our birth certificates say Unknown.”

  He looked shocked. “She never told you?”

  Jessie looked toward the house, where her sister was busy composing a shopping list. “She did, but not until we were seventeen. He was dead by then.” The revelation had been high drama at the time, completely devastating poor Remy. But as usual, Mama made no excuses, offered no apologies. She lived her life the way she wanted and everyone could be damned.

  The patio door opened a few inches and a tousled blond head popped out. “The list is done, Jess. Better check it over and see if you want anything.” She looked at Cade and smiled. “Hi, Cade. Hey, I was going to call over and see if Shiloh could go shopping with me.” She pulled a face. “But it is Sunday. If you’re going to church…”

  He shook his head. “We haven’t gotten back into that routine, yet. She’s still asleep, but it’s time for her to get up. I’m sure she’d love to go.”

  “I’ll be ready in half an hour,” Remy said, crossing her fingers.

  The door slid shut.

  “That’s why you were checking the oil.”

  She didn’t say anything. She took care of things: her car, her sister, her family. It’s what she did. Most of the time.

  Cade stood. “More?” he asked, reaching for the pot.

  “No, thanks. I’d better take a look at that list. Appreciate it, though. Chili and coffee. Two for two.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the chaise and readied her crutches. She hated knowing he was watching her. Did he see her as damaged, helpless? That’s how the people of her town saw her when she came home from the burn center. That pity was probably the reason she went out of her way to take on every physical challenge she could find. Starting with gymnastics. Burnt skin didn’t stretch, but she practiced and practiced—back bends, forward rolls, walk-overs, flips—ignoring the pain, until she could do anything the non-burn victims on her school’s team could do.

  She took a deep breath and pulled herself up, pausing to catch her balance. She didn’t like the feeling of vertigo the pain pills gave her, but she wouldn’t be taking them for long. As the swelling went down, she could start weaning off the meds.

  “Let me get the door for you,” he said.

  “No,” she said sharply. His good manners undoubtedly were to blame for her crazy dreams. Sexy dreams. “No, thank you. I’m capable.”

  “No one could ever dispute that.” He sounded amused, but he turned and left without touching the door.

  Jessie watched him walk across the lawn and mount the stairs two at a time. Being laughed at was almost as unforgivable as pity.

  “Get over yourself,” she muttered, nearly dislocating her shoulder trying to slide the door while balancing on one foot. Cade was being nice, not trying to cop a feel. What happened the night before was an accident, and the fact that she couldn’t put it out of her mind was probably due more to her dismal sex life than any sort of mutual attraction. She didn’t date—for want of a better word—men with kids. Period. As the child of a serial dater, she lived through the ups and downs of her mother’s passionate, turbulent, confusing relationships. The highs of hoping this Tom, Dick or Harry might be the one. The lows of being sent to the store to buy more tissues when he turned out to be simply one of many.

  She hobbled to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. The house was compact but practical, with bedrooms separated by the common rooms. She heard the water turn off. Remy would need another fifteen minutes, at least, to “get presentable,” as their mother liked to say.

  Jessie unplugged her phone from the charger and turned it on. She’d been too wiped out last night to stress about whether or not she got reception, so she’d turned it off. Now she checked for messages.

  Two. Eerik and Marsh.

  They’d arrived back in L.A. safely. Both apologized for deserting her in her hour of need. She snickered softly and shook her head. They were teammates and friends, but she knew better than anyone that the only way to get ahead in this business was by watching out for your own interests. They had jobs to go to tomorrow. She did not. She’d planned it that way. Not this way, but that was hardly their fault.

  But it could be J.T.’s fault.

  She tried his number. As it had all day yesterday, the call went straight to voice mail. She repeated her earlier message. “Ignoring me only makes you look guilty,” she added.

  Could he have tried to hurt her? Worse, could she have been that poor a judge of character? She’d definitely blown it where his mother was concerned, but she’d believed at the time she and J.T. started dating their friendship went beyond their connection to Dar. Had they created an even worse problem by trying to humor Dar’s fixation on the two of them becoming a couple?

  She didn’t know, but that situation was out of her hands. Whatever happened to Dar would be settled in the courts. With any luck, Jessie would one day be able to resurrect Girlz on Fire—a mission she still believed in wholeheartedly. It would take time and a lot of money. Money she’d hoped to earn by winning Kamikaze.

  Stifling a sigh, she worked her way around the counter to the refrigerator and pulled her ice pack from the freezer.

  Fifteen minutes later, Remy dashed through on a perfume-scented breeze—her hair a cloud of gold, her simple cotton skirt topped by a pretty, pale green blouse. “I’ve got the list and the keys,” she said, looping her purse over one shoulder. “Call me if you forgot anything. Shiloh’s
waiting. Behave yourself.”

  Jessie blew out a raspberry. “Don’t forget to use the parking brake if you stop on a hill,” she hollered. She’d been planning to take Yota in to have the rotors turned and the brake pads replaced before she left L.A., but there simply hadn’t been time.

  She picked up the remote but didn’t turn on the TV. She wasn’t good with downtime. She didn’t know a single person in her profession who was. Except for Zane. She’d never seen anyone party until the wee hours of the morning, show up for work, hit every mark without pause then drop into a dead sleep between takes. He claimed to have developed the technique in the military. “You know the adage ‘Hurry up and wait’?” he’d once told her. “Nobody waits better than the Army.”

  On a lark, she tried his number.

  No answer.

  “What is going on with these guys?” she muttered with a frustrated sigh. Oh, well. There was nothing she could do at the moment.

  She hit the power button. What does one watch on a Sunday morning? she wondered, idly punching through the menu. She settled on a car race, but left the sound on mute. She watched the silent jockeying for position without any real interest until she saw two cars collide. The lead car spun into the wall and flipped once, landing on its hood and sliding into oncoming traffic.

  A knot formed in her throat. Memories of her own crash worked their way into her head. The sound of metal ripping under pressure—a sound that mimicked the screams she remembered from the treatment room where the nurses scrubbed away the dead and dying tissue on her back, igniting the nerve endings like individual leads attached to an electrical probe.

  She startled violently a second later when her phone rang. Swallowing hard to get some saliva back in her mouth, she hit Receive. “Hello?”

  “Is this Jessie Bouchard?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “I’m calling from the Pennington County Sheriff’s Department. Deputy Miller wanted to know if you could come in and meet with him today.”

  “When? My sister just left with my car.”