Leftover Love

by Janet Dailey

  “I’m not trying to talk you out of it.” There was something tenderly patient and indulgent behind that concerned smile. “I know it isn’t your intention to hurt this woman. All I’m asking is that when you find her, think about it carefully before you say something that might do more harm than good. For your sake, I hope it turns out that she is as curious about you as you are about her.”

  With an early start the following morning, Layne made good time on the drive to Valentine. The roads and the weather cooperated. The only slick patches were the early morning frost on the bridges, and there wasn’t a cloud in the diamond-blue sky. Her only complaint was the unrelenting glare of the sun off the ice-crusted snow covering the countryside, and a pair of dark glasses had alleviated that.

  After the highway had left most of the towns behind to thread into the Sand Hills, she seemed lost in a glittering world of blue and white—the unrelieved blue of the sky and the white of the snow-coated hills. Except for the gray ribbon of the road to point the way, there were few signs of civilization for long stretches of miles.

  Her few ventures into the Nebraska Sand Hills had not taken her into their northern end. When the first buildings of Valentine poked their roofs against the skyline, she released a breath of relief. Although it was lunchtime, she decided to check into a motel first and freshen up before looking for a place to eat. She pulled into a small, clean-looking motel.

  Not bothering with a jacket, Layne stepped out into the brilliant sunlight, which offered little warmth to take the chill off the brittle cold. She hurried quickly inside the heated building, her breath making smoky little vapor clouds.

  A bell rang overhead when she entered, but it was several minutes before an elderly man came shuffling out of a back room. Wispy tufts of white hair made futile attempts to refute the fact that he was nearly bald.

  “What can I do for you, miss?” His glance was bright with curiosity.

  “I’d like a room, please.” Layne stopped rubbing her sweatered arms to pick up the pen and fill out the registration card he set on the counter.

  “We don’t get many guests, especially this time of year, unless the weather’s bad and motorists find themselves stranded. Oh, I suppose we get our share of cattle buyers and grain dealers—and the salesmen,” he observed talkatively. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

  “A bit of both.” Layne hedged away from a direct answer.

  “From Omaha, huh?” he said, looking at the address she’d listed on the card. “Did you just drive in?”

  “Yes.” She decided to be the one asking the questions. “Do you know a woman named Martha Turner? She’d be somewhere in her middle forties.”

  “Martha Turner,” he repeated thoughtfully. “There’s some Turners that live around here, but I can’t say that I remember any of ’em were named Martha. You might want to check the telephone book.”

  “I will.” Layne nodded, mentally reminding herself not to overlook the obvious.

  “She a friend of yours?” He passed her a room key.

  “In a way.” She took the key and waved to him as she headed for the door. “Thanks.”

  Only half a dozen Turners were listed in the local telephone directory. Even though it was a long shot, Layne decided that lunch could wait until she’d made the calls from her room. The first five all disclaimed any knowledge of a woman named Martha. As the sixth phone was ringing, Layne was suddenly frozen by the thought—what if the sixth person said yes? What would she do? What would she say?

  There was a moment of panic when a voice answered. Her heart was racing like a steam engine, almost choking off her breath. “I’m … I’m trying to locate a Miss Martha Turner,” she finally managed to get out.

  There was a small pause before the voice replied—a man’s voice. “Well, you’re a little late. The only Miss Martha Turner I knew died ten years ago.”

  “Died? But … that can’t be.” It had never occurred to Layne that her natural mother might have passed away in the intervening years. The possibility left her stunned.

  “Well, you couldn’t expect her to live forever,” the grumpy voice retorted. “As it is, that old maid lived to be ninety-three.”

  “Nin—” With a faint laugh of relief, Layne realized they were talking about two different Martha Turners. “The woman I’m looking for is much younger than that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

  “Thank you very much.” There was a faint tremor in her hand when she hung up the phone.

  For one sheer instant she had thought the search was over. The reality of it left her shaken. It took some mental sorting to come to grips with the problem. Over the last eight years that she had been looking for her natural mother, the expectation of finding her had not been there. Each time Layne searched, it had always been for a clue that might lead her somewhere else. Even on this trip, she had not come to Valentine to find her mother, although that had been her professed intent. She hadn’t really believed she would succeed. At this rate she’d find only what she believed she would find—another dead end. This trip might only be the first leg of a longer one, but Layne was determined that it would not end as the others had.

  When Layne ventured out of the motel, she was bundled in her winter parka. There was a small café across the street. She waited until the traffic had cleared, then darted across. The café was filled with a noon crowd. Layne managed to shoulder her way through the throng of cowboy hats and boots and sheepskin-lined or quilted jackets to an empty counter stool.

  An aproned woman in her fifties slid a water glass in front of Layne, along with some napkin-wrapped silverware. “What’ll you have?”

  “Just a hamburger and some coffee.” Layne took off her mittens and shoved them inside the large pockets of her coat. She unbuttoned her parka but didn’t take it off, since she was sitting in a direct line with the front door. Each time it opened and closed, it sent a draft of frigid air over her.

  All around her there was talk of cattle and the outlook for the spring calf crop, along with frequent mention of the weather. An empty cup was set in front of her and filled with coffee from a glass pot. A cowboy-clad man beside Layne pushed his cup forward for a refill, and the waitress obliged.

  “It’s busy,” Layne observed.

  “Always is at noon,” the waitress said with a nod. “But the rush is over. The noise will start quieting down once their food’s set in front of them.”

  Twenty minutes later the waitress’s prediction proved accurate as the loud hum of voices was reduced. The clatter of silverware became dominant, punctuated by the odd, continuing conversation.

  “See what I mean?” The waitress smiled faintly as she stopped to refill Layne’s coffee cup.

  “I do.” Layne returned the smile. “Are you from here?” It was her nature to be inquisitive, so the purpose of her visit to Valentine only added importance to the answers.

  “Born and raised right here in these Sand Hills,” the older woman admitted with an air of pride.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know a woman named Martha Turner, would you? She moved here about twenty years ago, and we’ve lost touch with her since then.” Even though it was a relatively small community, Layne knew it would be blind luck if she stumbled across someone who knew or had known her natural mother. Still, she had to ask.

  “Twenty years ago?” An eyebrow was lifted in a skeptical arch. “That’s a long time.” But the waitress paused to think. “Martha, you say her name was.” She shook her head, as if the name was meaningless. “Who was she married to?”

  “She wasn’t married.”

  “Well, if she was here very long, that all changed. A woman doesn’t stay single in this town for long. I oughta know. I’ve been married twice.” She paused again. “Now if that’s the case, let’s see … there is Martha Atherton, but she was a Pitts girl before she got married. And Martha Hoverson, but she’s too young. Marge Blyson, but her given name is Margaret, not Martha. I just can’
t think of anybody,” she said to Layne. “It could be she got married and moved away.”

  “Yes,” Layne conceded.

  “Hey, Susie! How about some more coffee and a piece of that chocolate pie?” a male customer called to the waitress from the opposite end of the counter.

  “Be right there.” To Layne she said, “Good luck. Hope you find out what happened to her.”

  “Thanks.”

  After she had finished her coffee, Layne collected her check and worked her way to the line of customers waiting at the cash register to pay for their meals. Although fairly tall herself at six inches over five feet, she felt engulfed in the sea of hats crowning the heads of the men standing in line. Mixed in with the smell of tobacco smoke were the spicy scents of after-shave lotions and the smell of animals clinging to the woolen coats.

  As she was digging out the correct change for her meal check, she was roughly jostled. Layne staggered a couple of steps sideways before she could recover her balance and stop short of a table full of men. By some miracle, she hadn’t dropped anything.

  “Sorry, miss,” a deep and gravelly male voice said. “I guess I didn’t see you standing there.”

  When Layne looked at the person who had bumped into her, her glance encountered a mountain of a man. Her eyes were on a level with his wide chest, the impression of bulk intensified by a thick, fleece-lined jacket. He was a long, lean bear of a man, well over six feet tall by three or four inches.

  “No harm done.” As she offered the assurance, her gaze finally lifted its attention to his face.

  With a build like that, she had expected to see some craggy male face that resembled the models in cigarette advertisements. A keen sense of shock registered for a split second. There was nothing remotely attractive about the blunt contours of his sun-leathered features. They were all lean and harsh, his eyes darkly hooded by brows that grew thickly together. A dark brown Stetson was pulled low on his forehead, the jutting brim shadowing most of his face. If he were a Hollywood actor, he would have been typecast as a bad guy or an outlaw, she thought.

  The man seemed to sense her purely instinctive recoil from him. His lips came together in a severe line that only added to his uncomplimentary looks. Layne regretted that she hadn’t hid her reaction better. Broad, callused fingers gripped the pointed brim of his hat in a courteously respectful gesture as he made a place in line for her in front of him.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she stepped into the opening.

  While she waited in line, she couldn’t help stealing looks at him. There was something oddly fascinating about a man so completely unattractive. Layne recalled her initial impression that he was a bear of a man. On reassessment, she discovered it was an appropriate comparison, because the man did possess a kind of animal appeal. He was a lonely male brute, Layne decided, then wondered why she thought of him as being lonely.

  If he noticed her covertly eyeing him from time to time, he showed no awareness of it. But he kept well clear of her, making sure there was plenty of space around her, so there was no more accidental contact. Layne was just as glad, since the last brushing had nearly sent her sprawling.

  After she’d paid for her lunch, Layne left the café. The blast of cold air drove out all thoughts of the man as she hurriedly buttoned her parka and dug her mittens out of her pocket. Despite the bright sunlight, the temperature was frigid.

  Chapter 2

  One advantage of working as a reporter was that Layne was familiar with all the public information sources available to her. It was long, tedious work, checking through files and public lists. After a day and a half she had not come up with a single reference to a Martha Turner in any of the old records she’d checked.

  It appeared more and more likely that the waitress had been right the other day when she’d suggested that Martha Turner might have gotten married and left the area. It was her only remaining alternative. On the off chance that the marriage might have taken place within Cherry County, Layne spent the morning of the third day going through the marriage license records from twenty years ago and forward.

  It was always a nagging fear of hers that after going through so many documents and names, she might miss seeing the one she was looking for and skip over it without recognizing it. Yet when Layne finally did run across it, the name Martha Turner nearly leaped off the page at her. Eighteen years ago she had married a man named John Gray, and both had listed rural Valentine, Nebraska, as their home. According to the ages given at the time, Martha was sixteen years her husband’s junior.

  Layne jotted the information onto a sheet of her notebook. With her purse, coat, and knitted cap bundled under her arm, she carried the record ledgers back to the registrar’s counter. The male clerk didn’t appear to be much more than thirty years old, yet the top of his hair was thinning to the point of premature baldness.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, miss?” He smiled his curiosity as Layne dumped the record books on his counter.

  “Yes, thank you.” She caught the cuff of her ivory wool sweater with her fingers so the sleeve wouldn’t ride up her arm when she shrugged into her jacket. “Would you happen to know a man named John Gray?”

  A slight frown creased the clerk’s forehead as he appeared to struggle with a recall of the name. “I think he was a rancher.” He smiled again, almost apologetically. “I was born and raised in town, so I’m not too well acquainted with people in the rural areas. Everything’s too spread out. But I seem to remember recording the death certificate of a man by that name when I first came to work here—that would be about four and a half years ago.”

  “What about his widow? Is she still around?” Layne asked.

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Thanks anyway.” She headed out the door.

  The next stop was the local newspaper office for a search of the obituary notices over the last five years. Layne knew she was close to the end of her search, and an underlying thread of excitement laced her nerves. The trail was no longer twenty years old; it was only five.

  Not many people were interested in reading the back issues of the newspaper, so her request was regarded as unusual by the woman at the newspaper office. Layne was much too eager to get on with her search to pay much attention to the woman’s obvious but silent curiosity.

  The newspaper had neither the finances nor the facilities to microfilm past issues, which meant that Layne had to go through each old copy. A small area was cleared for her on one of the worktables and the first batch of previous issues, dated five years ago, was brought out. Layne went through that stack and two more before she found the notice of John Gray’s death.

  “‘… survived by his widow, Mattie.’ Mattie,” Layne repeated. Although her legal name was Martha, it was obvious that she was commonly known as Mattie. Which might also explain why no one had recognized the name Martha Turner. They had probably known her as Mattie Gray for too many years.

  Layne read on. No children of the marriage were listed in the notice. Evidently she had no half brothers or sisters. Home was listed as the Ox-Yoke Ranch, with Creed Dawson named as the surviving partner in the operation. In a happy daze, Layne noted the facts on her tablet sheet. Even if her natural mother no longer lived on this ranch, someone would know where she had moved to. It was just a matter of time before Layne finally saw her, after waiting and looking for so long.

  She was sailing on a high that knew no limit as she crossed the newspaper office to the front counter. The whole wonder of it still had her dazed when Layne pushed open the half-gate that separated the reception and work areas of the office. She wanted to laugh out loud, but the smile that wreathed her full mouth spoke volumes about the inner happiness that radiated from her.

  “I’m all finished,” Layne said to the woman behind the counter, who had carted out the back issues of the paper.

  With her head already in the clouds, that second’s distraction to speak to the woman
prevented Layne from seeing the man who entered the newspaper office in time to avoid him. She careened off his solid shape as though she had bounced off a wall. A huge pair of hands caught and steadied her. When she looked up, she was gazing into a dusky pair of hooded brown eyes and the outlaw-tough features of the man from the café. It was a face not easily forgotten.

  “I guess it’s my turn to apologize,” she said with a laugh, partly from self-consciousness but mostly from the inner good spirits that just wouldn’t be dampened. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “It’s okay.” There was a dismissive quality to the husky roughness of the man’s reply as he immediately released her and stepped back.

  Her flesh tingled where he had gripped her arms, the circulation returning. It was an indication of the power in those hands. She was in too good a mood to be put off by his standoffish attitude. A smile lay too easily on her lips for her to care whether his hard-favored features cracked with one.

  “We seem to be making a habit of running into each other,” she said. It was a lighthearted reference to the similar circumstances of their first meeting in the café, but the humor of it seemed to be lost on him.

  “It isn’t likely to happen again.” There was a flatness to his steady gaze.

  A little bit stung by such a cool rejection of her attempt at friendly banter, Layne redirected her attention to the woman behind the counter. This time she had to force her smile to broaden.

  “Thanks again for your help,” she said.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Curiosity got the better of the woman as she tactfully tried to find out what it was Layne had been seeking. “You sure went through a bunch of old issues.”

  “I know.” Since she had disrupted the woman’s work, Layne felt she was entitled to some sort of explanation. She settled on a half-truth. “Sometimes you have to go through a lot of old records to fill in the missing gaps in the family tree.”