by Ruby Laska
"Roan, didn't you hear me? I called your name from all the way across the restaurant."
Roan clenched her teeth so hard she was probably wearing the enamel off, biting back the words she would have loved to say to Mimi. Words that had been forming in her mind since the first day her father brought the never-before-married department store saleswoman home a decade ago, a scant six months after his wife had been buried.
Mimi had exclaimed over Roan then, even tried to buddy up with her, take her for what she called "girls' days out"—manicures and champagne lunches and window shopping. Roan had endured exactly one such outing before she refused to go again. It was clear what Mimi wanted: an escape from the cramped basement apartment she rented from her sister, from the paycheck-to-paycheck existence. She'd been fifty-five then and tired of standing on her feet all day. Roan could understand that. What she had trouble with was Mimi spotting her father like an apple hanging from the low branch of a tree and grabbing hold with no thought for anyone else's welfare.
Earl Brackens wasn't rich, but he was quite comfortable, especially with the income from the leased acreage. Within a few months Mimi had quit her job, moved in, and was driving Elaine Brackens' car. She cleared out all of the deceased woman's clothes from the closets. One day, a week after Mimi moved in, Roan came home and discovered that she had thrown out her mother's nearly empty perfume bottles, as well as the crystal tray on which they had always sat.
Roan had run to her room and slammed her door. How could she tell this woman, this interloper, thief of her father's affections, that the old bottles of Shalimar and Aliage were her last connection to her mother? That nearly every day, she snuck into her mother's closet and put the bottles to her nose and breathed in the scent of the woman who had loved her more than anything in the world, pretending for a few precious seconds that she wasn't gone?
"That old stuff?" Mimi said the next morning at breakfast, as she spooned cottage cheese over canned peaches, the morning portion of her perpetual diet. Roan had told her father what had happened, and clearly he had betrayed her and told Mimi. "Honey, it was old. No one wears Shalimar anymore. Come on, we'll drive into town and buy you something nice."
Roan hadn't gone to school that day. She found her friends Merri and Tucker down at the goal posts before the first bell, where they were already getting high. She was looking for a change and she found one: the haze she got lost in that morning was the closest thing to home she had until she moved out.
"Oh, I guess I didn't notice you," she said frostily. Across the table, Cal lifted one eyebrow before turning to Mimi and her companion. He got out of the booth, removing his baseball cap and offering Mimi his hand.
"Good morning, ma'am. I'm Calvin Dixon. I live out at—"
"Well, any friend of Roannie's is a friend of mine!" she interrupted breathily. She stood a couple inches taller than Cal in her heels, but she still managed to bat her eyelashes in a way that allowed her to seem to look up to him. Roan rolled her eyes; Mimi had never met a man she couldn't flirt with. "And this is my new friend. Patton Shanks, please meet my step-daughter who I've been telling you so much about. Roannie, this is Patton. He's an entrepreneur." She said the last word with a verbal flourish and a questionable French accent.
"A pleasure to meet you," Roan muttered while Cal shook hands with Mimi's new boyfriend. He was medium height, thick around the middle, and bald with tufts of hair protruding from his ears. He nodded his head so vigorously that his jowls shook.
"She's even prettier than you said," he told Mimi, as though Roan wasn't even sitting there—a comment that didn't sit well with Mimi. She narrowed her eyes and tapped the table with one long, lacquered fingernail.
"So, Cal. Are you looking to tame our Roannie? Because I have to warn you, no one's been able to settle her down yet."
"Thank you, ma'am, I appreciate the warning," Cal said calmly.
"What business are you in, Calvin?" Patton wanted to know.
"Law enforcement, sir. I'm hoping to join the police force. Taking my exams the week after Thanksgiving, and then—"
Mimi jumped back from the table as though it had burned her. "The Conway police force?" she demanded. "Nothing but a bunch of power-mad crooks."
Roan tried to catch Cal's eye; she needed him to get off the subject fast. After fire destroyed the farmhouse, there had been an investigation and Mimi was briefly interrogated about her whereabouts when the fire began. Once she was cleared, she threatened to sue—and very well might have, if the lawyer-boyfriend she'd hired hadn't broken up with her.
But Cal wasn't paying any attention to her. "They seem like good men," he said mildly. "Chief Byrd interviewed me, and—"
Roan stomped his foot with hers, and he stopped talking and looked at her with surprise.
"Byrd's the worst of them!" Mimi snapped. "Trust me, if you've got any sense—"
"Mimi, I'm so sorry, but we were in the middle of an important discussion. I only get an hour for lunch, and so we'll have to catch up later." Roan added a smile as genuine as she could make it. There—she'd managed to behave, for once. Her father, looking down on her from heaven, would be proud.
Mimi sniffed and nodded curtly to them. "We need to be on our way anyway," she said, her temper clearly piqued. "Patton and I are going to the cinema later."
Roan waited until they'd been seated on the other side of the busy restaurant before she dared to inhale.
"The cinema, huh?" Cal said. "They don't go to the movies like regular people?"
"Oh, God, no. Mimi never met an air that she couldn't put on. Funny thing is, I don't think she's ever left the state of North Dakota."
"I was trying to tell her that I live in the bunkhouse on her property, but she wouldn't let me get a word in."
"So now do you see—" Roan bit her lip, wondering how to say it. "Do you understand why I can't talk to her? If she even suspected there was something of value in the house, she'd bring in a wrecking crew to find it."
"Still. You can't just—"
"Okay, okay, I get it." The words came out more harshly than she intended. "You'd have them haul me in and apply the letter of the law. Stocks and public flogging."
Something shifted on Cal's face. Where there had been concern before, there was...something deeper.
"Look," she said impulsively. "Having Mimi here kind of ruined my appetite. What do you say we get our lunch to go. We can eat at my house. I want—I'd like to show you something. So you'll understand."
Cal raised one eyebrow and regarded her thoughtfully. "I guess that'll work," he said. He slid out of the booth, digging for his wallet, before Roan could insist on paying.
She blew out a breath as she watched him talking to Marcia, who was manning the cash register. Marcia glanced over at Roan and gave her a finger-and-thumb circle high sign behind her back. Great: first Gayle, and then Mimi and Marcia were flirting with him. Roan felt...irritated. True, she had no claim on the man, but hadn't she walked in here with him? For all the women in the restaurant knew, she and Cal were an item.
Lovers.
Her face was aflame by the time he came back, carrying a paper sack. "I had her toss in some lemonades...hey, you all right?"
Roan nodded faintly and grabbed her handbag. As they walked out of the restaurant, she tried to ignore all the admiring glances that followed Cal to the door.
CHAPTER SIX
Cal gave Roan the paper lunch sack to hold on her lap while he drove. It was less than a mile to her house, and neither said much on the way. The sky had darkened further while they were in the restaurant, and the earlier snowflakes gave way to cold, spitting rain that collected in gloomy rivulets on the windshield.
Roan jumped out as soon as Cal parked in front of the house, and made a run for the back door—just as the heavens opened and rain poured from the sky. Roan made it under the overhang before it really started coming down, but Cal caught the worst of it: within seconds, he was drenched.
Roan unlocked the back
door, and they hurried into her apartment at the back of the house. Inside, it smelled like cloves and old lace, a girly smell that made Cal's knees weak. Roan took one look at him and laughed.
"How on earth did you manage to get so wet on the way from the truck?" she asked, and then her hand was on his face, wiping away the water seeping from his dark hair into his eyes.
The minute her fingertips brushed his skin it was as though the touch carried a bolt of lightning with it. Cal caught his breath and closed his eyes as Roan wiped carefully along his forehead, his cheeks—then withdrew her hand. Their eyes locked on each other: it was obvious that she had felt it too.
"I have to take Angel out," she breathed, as something poked against his thigh.
Cal glanced down: a brown dog had come silently into the room, and stood wagging a long, curved tail, looking up at him hopefully. She had a flat, quirky face that made it clear there was a bulldog somewhere in her family tree, and a soft pink snout that she used to bump against his hand. Her coat was glossy, speckled with quarter-sized tan spots, and she looked well-fed and healthy.
"I take it this is Angel?" he laughed, the tension broken.
"Yes. I hate leaving her all day. I turn the television on for company, but when I can, I come home and let her out at lunch."
"Well, since I'm soaked, I might as well take her out."
Roan paused, her lips parted. "Would you?" she finally asked softly.
It was as though he'd offered to build her a house, not take the dog around the block. As Cal shrugged, he wondered if simple kindness was that rare in her world. If Mimi really had been her main caregiver after her mother's death, and her father had withdrawn, maybe there hadn't been much love to go around.
His heart contracted painfully. Just as quickly, he forced himself to ignore the feeling. There was nothing to be gained by getting sentimental—or by imagining parallels to his own growing-up experience. He was here as a friend, maybe as a professional, too—if he could keep Roan from doing something self-destructive now, the odds were much better that they wouldn't have to meet later on opposite sides of the law.
"Where's her leash?" he asked gruffly.
Roan grabbed a pink lead from a hook on the wall. After a moment's hesitation she dug into an old porcelain cookie jar shaped like an owl and held out a fistful of treats. "You can reward her if she waits for you before she crosses the street," she said. "The only thing is...she can't sit down. I mean, she can, but I don't make her. It hurts her too much."
Angel, her ears perked up at the jingle of the leash, went to stand next to Roan with an air of gleeful anticipation. Cal saw the problem: she walked with such a profound limp it took her twice as long to cross the small room as it would another dog.
"What's wrong with her?" he asked, pocketing the treats and bending to clasp the leash to her collar.
"Hip dysplasia. Advanced—both back legs. She needs surgery." Roan took a breath and expelled it. "Which is why I need to find Grandpop's treasure. If I don't—"
She didn't finish the sentence, but before she turned away Cal saw her brush tears angrily from her eyes.
"Would you like tea?" she asked, busying herself at her stove, picking up the teakettle and turning on the heat.
"Sure," Cal said, and let himself out the door of the small apartment, going slowly so as not to rush Angel, who didn't seem to mind having a new companion for her walk.
But that wasn't what he meant to say at all. Cal had been planning to turn around and leave, and instead he had committed to a walk in the rain and a cup of tea, which he didn't even like.
When he pulled the door closed, he turned and saw Angel looking up at him, as if waiting for him to catch up before they set out on their walk. And he could almost swear the animal was wearing the canine equivalent of a knowing smile.
#
Roan watched from the window, tracing the rivulets of rainwater on the outside of the glass with her fingertip. The apartment was scented with lemon, steaming from the herbal tea, and she'd put out a plate of gingersnaps that Mrs. Castleberry had brought over. Roan didn't have much of a sweet tooth, but Mrs. Castleberry loved having someone to bake for, so Roan pretended to consume the cookies and muffins and banana bread her landlady baked even while most of it got taken down to the bike shop and devoured by Roan's co-workers.
At least it was appreciated, Roan thought. A little kindness could go a long way. She glanced at the photograph hung over her fireplace: her mom and dad, shortly before her mom got sick, laughing with their arms around each other's waists. Roan knew now that they couldn't possibly have been as perfect—or as happy—as she had once believed. Life was complicated; even the best times were colored by everyday disappointments and failures and losses.
People did the best they could, she was starting to understand. But that didn't make up for everything that had happened in her twenty-four years. Everything she'd lost and endured and missed out on.
People who thought they had all the answers—like Cal, who seemed to be on a quest to check off good deeds—could be dangerous. He didn't realize that sometimes the best thing to do was just stay out of the way. If Roan could just find the treasure she needed, Angel would get her surgery and everyone could go back to living their lives and Roan would never set foot on the old ranch again.
She was so deep in thought that she didn't see Cal and Angel return. He knocked on the door and then opened it himself. "Okay if we come back in? Seems to have gotten worse out there."
He stood dripping on the braided rug while Angel shook, carefully, even that motion hurting her. Roan recognized the faint whimper she made deep in her throat and went to get one of the pain pills Dr. Raj had given her for the hardest days.
"Weather makes it worse sometimes," she said.
"You have a towel or something I can use to dry her off?"
"Of course. Here. Oh, I'm so sorry you got soaked," she added, unable to suppress a faint grin. There wasn't an inch of him that was dry. His jet black hair, however, stood straight up; rather than plastering against his scalp as her own would.
He ran a hand through it self-consciously—and ineffectively. "My hair looks ridiculous, doesn't it," he said ruefully, as he bent down next to Angel. He unhooked her leash and handed it back to Roan.
"It's just so..." Roan struggled for the right words. "Tall?"
"Yeah, I know. It's been that way my whole life. I'm part Cherokee, part Mexican, and I guess the combination...well, anyway."
"How do you get it to stay down when you're not walking in the rain?" Roan set down the bottle of medication and grabbed a second towel.
Cal looked away self-consciously. "You don't want to know," he groaned. "There's...product involved."
Roan laughed. "You say that like it's a dirty secret!"
"Hey, I live with a bunch of guys who work on oil rigs. You have to man up in an environment like that—it gets kind of high testosterone."
Roan handed him the towel. She was enjoying this—more than she'd enjoyed a conversation in a while. It wasn't that she didn't like talking to the guys at work, but the shop was busy, the workload satisfyingly full, and there wasn't a lot of time for banter.
Of course, that wasn't all of it. Roan felt herself redden as Cal peeled off his jacket and she saw that even the shirt underneath was soaked; her gaze traveled over the damp fabric sticking to his chest and arms. Cal was built—he had the biceps and pecs of a weightlifter, and even through the shirts she could see the definition in his abs.
Roan swallowed hard. "Let me throw your jacket in the dryer," she said.
"Well..." he hesitated, and she took the garment from his hand.
"And your other things. Your clothes. I can have them dry in..."
Her voice broke off as she saw how he was looking at her. Hungrily. Letting his gaze travel over her face, down the soft sweater she'd slipped on while he'd been walking Angel to replace her rain-dampened shirt.
"I mean I have something you can put on," she
said, babbling. "Sweats from work. They're Hank's. Oh! I mean, I only borrowed them one day when I got grease on my pants...never mind, forget that I—I mean, unless you want—"
"It would be good to get out of these wet things," Cal said, looking at least as embarrassed as her. "Tell the truth, I've got water running down my back."
Roan dashed to her bedroom and dug the sweats out of the dresser. At least they were clean; she kept forgetting to give them back to Hank. She handed them to Cal without looking and pointed to the bathroom.
"Just throw your stuff in the dryer," she said. "Let me know if you need me to turn it on..."
She nearly groaned at her unwittingly suggestive word choice, but Cal was already down the hall.
"Don't worry," he said as he closed the door. "I've been doing my own laundry all my life. I can probably figure it out."
CHAPTER SEVEN
When he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Roan had gotten Angel toweled off, and the dog was resting on her bed in the corner of the kitchen, licking her chops.
"I put peanut butter on her pills," Roan admitted sheepishly. "That way she takes them without any trouble."
"I probably would, too," Cal said.
"We can sit in here," she said, putting the teapot and two cups on a tray and setting it on her coffee table.
"Don't you have to get back to work?" He hesitated before taking a seat at the other end of her couch. He felt a little ridiculous in the borrowed sweatshirt, which stretched tight across his chest, and the sweatpants that bagged around his waist. He sat down gingerly at the other end of the fussy old pink couch.
"In a bit," Roan said. "Walt won't care if I take some extra time. I always stay until the work's done. I mean, I'll go just as soon as your laundry is dry," she added, blushing.
"I really appreciate it."
"How did you and your friends end up renting the bunkhouse?" she asked abruptly, changing the subject.