Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  Because of her restless night, it was late when she arose. By the time she came downstairs, it was to find Roman using a small drip percolator to brew some very black, very strong coffee. A pot that, Shelly guessed, contained warmed milk sat on a nearby burner. Acey was seated at the table, a mug of regular coffee in front of him, disbelief in his gaze as he watched Roman concoct genuine café-au-lait.

  “You ain't actually gonna drink that crap?” Acey asked as Shelly walked into the kitchen. “I've seen crankcase oil lighter and thinner than that stuff.”

  Shelly laughed and dropped a kiss on Acey's white head—he'd dispensed with the bandage. “I hate to tell you this, but he drinks it every morning. It's a Louisiana thing. They all drink it that way—and in little bitty cups that most men would be ashamed to be seen holding.”

  Roman turned around from his task and grinned at her. Picking up a dainty cup from the counter, he waved it in the air. “I packed mine, along with the percolator—when traveling west a man must take provisions.”

  Acey made a rude comment, and Shelly grabbed a mug of coffee from the white coffeemaker on the counter. “I may have lived there for a long time, but I never could get used to the coffee.” Sitting down across from Acey, she took a sip from her mug and sighed. “Now that's how coffee should taste.”

  “So what's on the agenda for today?” Acey asked. “I told Roman that if you didn't have anything special planned I'd take him on a trail ride, kinda show him the place.”

  “No, that's fine.” She glanced at Roman. “You won't feel as if I'm deserting you, will you? I really want to test some of that semen and see how viable it is.” She looked around. “I'm surprised that Nick isn't here already.”

  “He's been here, ate you out of house and home, and is currently in the barn, I believe, drooling over the semen tank,” Roman said, laughter in his voice. “You know, you people really need to get out more. A semen tank. You'd think that you'd found a gold mine.”

  “To us it is a gold mine,” Shelly said, standing up. “Do you mind if I leave you with Acey for a few minutes while I go to the barn? I promise I won't be gone long.”

  Roman's handsome face took on an expression of horror. “Deserted! A man of my looks and talent deserted for a semen tank! My God, my vanity may never recover.” He grinned at her. “Get outta here. Until you and Nick get over that tank, you're not going to be any fun anyway.”

  Shelly was gone before he finished speaking. She found Nick in the lab, just standing and staring at one of the tanks, his hands resting on it as if it held the secrets of the universe. He was so lost in the moment that when Shelly touched his shoulder he nearly leaped out of his skin.

  “Holy shit!” he yelled, jumping backward. Seeing who it was, he exclaimed, “Dammit, Shelly, don't go sneaking up on me like that.” Hand clutched to his chest, he stared at her. “You damn near gave me a heart attack.”

  “I'm sorry,” Shelly said, trying hard not to laugh. “I thought you heard me come into the room.”

  Nick smiled ruefully. “Nah. I was so mesmerized by the tank that a B-52 could have flown in here and I wouldn't have heard it.”

  “So have you checked it out?” Shelly asked.

  He shook his head. “I was waiting for you. Felt we should do it together.”

  Nervous and expectant, they opened the first tank and after scanning the inventory carefully lifted out an ampule and selected one thin straw for testing. It had been a difficult choice, but in the end it wasn't age or glory that made their choice, it was simply that there were a lot of straws from this particular bull.

  The microscope was set up, and while they waited for the semen to thaw in the thawing unit on the counter, they made a more thorough examination of the lab.

  Looking into one of the cupboards, Nick whistled. “Man, I don't know what Josh must have been thinking—he kept this part of the operation right up to date, but let the actual cattle breeding and selling go to pot. I can't figure it out.”

  “Me neither,” Shelly answered, frowning as she discovered bottles of semen extender, tubes of K-Y jelly lubricant, and a couple of gallons of Nolvasan solution—the use-by dates indicating that they had been bought within the last few months. She glanced over at the microscope and thawing unit—they looked new, unused, and she suspected that they were. In fact, remembering the invoices she had pored over recently, she was pretty certain she had seen the paperwork on their purchase. So what had Josh been thinking? Money had been running out by the time he had bought the up-to-date equipment and supplies, so why spend it on a cattle operation he'd abandoned? She sighed. It was another of those questions that they'd probably never know the answer to.

  “Maybe,” she said, thinking aloud, “he felt guilty about having let Granger Cattle Company fall by the wayside—maybe he was thinking of trying to start it up again.”

  “Could be—from the equipment and supplies in here that's what it looks like, but I dunno.” Nick said, scratching his chin, “it just doesn't make a lot of sense.” He shook his head. “We'll probably never know exactly what he planned—just put it down to one more mystery surrounding dear old dad.”

  Shelly glanced sharply at him, the bitterness in his voice almost palpable. “Do you hate him?” she asked quietly.

  “No, but sometimes…sometimes, I wished to hell that Jim Hardcastle had kept his mouth shut.” He looked away. “I'd have probably had questions later on,” he grimaced, “since I seem to bear more than a passing resemblance to Josh. But it maybe wouldn't be the burning question that it is for me now.” He shrugged. “A question we'll most likely never answer—unless, of course, Mom decides to come clean—which isn't damn likely. And even if she confirmed it, it wouldn't prove anything. So I'm stuck with the unanswerable question.”

  From the doorway, Roman asked, “But why? DNA testing would resolve the question for all of us.”

  Nick spun around, his gaze going from Shelly to Roman. “You told him?” he demanded, accusation in his voice.

  Shelly shrugged, but it was Roman who answered. Strolling into the room and shutting the door behind him, he said, “Yes, she told me, but it wouldn't have made any difference—once I laid eyes on you I started wondering.” He smiled. “You're right—you bear more than a passing resemblance to Josh.”

  “Yeah, well, it's going to have to remain one of life's little mysteries,” Nick muttered, turning away and walking over to the counter. Staring hard at the thawing unit, he laughed bitterly. “You know it's funny—I can get a DNA report on a damn bull dead for thirty years, but as for proving Josh is my father…” He snorted. “That, my friend, is blowing in the wind.”

  “Perhaps,” said Roman, walking up to stand beside him, “but you're neglecting the fact that we can do something to clarify the issue. I'm no expert, but I know that Shelly's DNA alone could prove that you are a Granger. Not Josh's son, but a Granger. My DNA wouldn't add a great deal to the mix since there are so many generations between, but if we used it, it would certainly be added proof that you are a Granger. Remember DNA is like playing the odds and using mine will only help tip the odds a little more in our favor. Not a lot, but definitely more.” At the blaze of hope that sprang to Nick's eyes, Roman held up an admonishing finger. “You'll note that I didn't say that we can prove that you are Josh's son—only that we share a common ancestor…a Granger ancestor.”

  Nick swallowed, the desire, the hope he felt so naked that it hurt to look at his face. “You'd do that?”

  “In a heartbeat.” Roman grinned at him. “For my own protection, you understand—if we are relatives, you will only have kind thoughts of me, and I needn't fear some sort of painful Oak Valley initiation from you.”

  Nick couldn't speak. He couldn't make light of the subject, although he appreciated and recognized that Roman was trying to make it easier for him. He struggled for words, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he would break down and sob. To know the truth had been a dream for him for so long that suddenly having at least
a partial solution presented was almost more than he could bear. He turned away. Swallowed thickly. “Thank you,” he managed in a gruff voice.

  Aware of the emotional impact Roman's offer had on Nick, giving him a moment to recover, Shelly said briskly, “Well, thank goodness that's one problem solved. We can make an appointment with the Willits Hospital and find out whom we need to see and how we go about collecting the DNA. And in the meantime…” She walked up to stand beside Nick. “In the meantime let's see if any of this semen is any good.”

  Taking the straw from the thawing unit, she snipped the end and carefully placed a few drops of semen on the glass slide. With fingers that only trembled slightly, she placed the slide under the microscope.

  She took a deep breath and looked at Nick. “You want to look first?”

  Nick hesitated. So much was riding on what those precious few drops of harmless-looking liquid contained. If it was bad news, he didn't know if he wanted to be the one to spring it. More to the point he didn't know if he could bear the disappointment. He grimaced and hedged. “Technically you own the semen,” he said. “Maybe you should be the first one to look at it.”

  No more than Nick did Shelly want to look through the lens of the microscope and see…nothing. So many hopes and dreams were just a squint away, and yet she was reluctant to take that final step. Right now they still had hopes and dreams. The instant they looked into the microscope…. She swallowed, her fingers clenching and unclenching. Depending on what the microscope revealed, those hopes and dreams could be realized or shattered.

  Roman glanced from one tense face to the other. Pushing his way between them, he muttered, “Well, I for one can't stand the suspense.” He bent forward and closing one eye stared down at the semen. A wide smile crossed his face. “Yes! Swimmers! I see swimmers.”

  Nick and Shelly gasped and shoved Roman aside, each trying to look down the microscope at the same time. Shelly won the battle and let out her own shriek of joy when her gaze saw the tiny twisting sperm. “It's true. Swimmers!”

  Nick took his turn peering at the semen. “Man, look at those little suckers—each and every one potentially a calf. Hot damn! Are we lucky or what!”

  Faces bright, laughing and gabbling plans for the future at the same time, Nick and Shelly did a jig around the lab. Roman watched amused. When he thought that they had celebrated long enough, he asked, “So what happens now? What's the next step in this odyssey?”

  Shelly and Nick stopped their gyrations, but still grinning they walked over to stand beside Roman. Pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen forward in her wild dance with Nick, Shelly said, “I think a telephone call to the Angus Association in St. Joseph, Missouri, is the next thing. From what I've read, we'll have to run DNA tests on one straw of each of the bulls before we can start using the rest of it.” She made a face. “I hate sacrificing even those few straws, but there isn't any choice. That's one thing Josh didn't do. And in the future, if we want to continue collecting and storing or selling our own semen, we'll have to meet the requirements of the Angus Association.” Catching her breath, she took another look at the slide, a smile spreading across her face. “Aren't they beautiful?” she breathed.

  “In a fashion,” Roman murmured, a teasing glint in his eyes, “but as far as I'm concerned, when you've seen one sperm, you've seen them all.”

  Shelly hit him on the shoulder. “You would say that. These, I'll have you know, are important sperm.”

  “If you say so.”

  Together they cleaned up the lab and put all the equipment away. Shelly and Nick both suffered a pang at the disposal of the half-filled straw of semen. Each straw was so very precious—from the inventory, they knew that some of the bulls had less than a half dozen straws—and one of those would have to be sacrificed for DNA.

  It was a cheerful trio that walked back to the house. Maria, home from Mass and looking very attractive in a crimson pantsuit trimmed in black braid, had joined Acey in the kitchen, and the two of them were sitting and drinking coffee. They both looked up when the other three entered, a question in their eyes.

  “You'd better be smiling cause you've got good news,” Acey said, “and not cause you've got gas.”

  “It ain't gas, old man,” Nick said. “We only looked at one straw of Granger's Best Ideal—Beau's grandfather—and even though it's almost twenty-five years old, it looked damned good.”

  There was another round of dancing and whooping, and the next couple of hours were spent in joyful discussion of the future of Granger Cattle Company. By the time they finished lunch, there was a little drizzle falling and Roman's ride with Acey had been postponed. The group broke up, Acey heading to the barn, Maria to her house, and Nick back up to his place. The house seemed quiet and lonely after the morning's excitement, and Shelly suggested a drive into town.

  Roman quirked a brow. “Does the town even open on Sunday?”

  “Yes, it's open on Sunday. Just not a lot of places.” She grinned at him. “But then there aren't a lot of places in St. Galen's to start with.”

  Roman's first impression was not, well, impressive. The half-shabby buildings, some in desperate need of paint, some of them obviously empty for a long time, the uneven sidewalks, the overhead electrical wiring and poles reminded him of forgotten, decaying towns in the Deep South. He saw nothing that could explain the affectionate pride on Shelly's face as she pointed out the main features of the town.

  His silence got through to her, and she glanced at him. “You don't like it, do you?” she asked in a small voice.

  He tried a diplomatic approach. “It's, uh, different, not quite what I expected.”

  “You thought you'd find fancy brick sidewalks and filigree balconies and wrought-iron streetlights?” she asked with an edge. “Bistro joints with dainty little sidewalk tables?”

  Roman grimaced. “No, not exactly. It's just that…that St. Galen's looks like hundreds of other sleepy little towns that progress has passed by.”

  “And we like it that way!” Shelly snapped. “We don't want a McDonald's on every corner, or, or Round Table Pizza or any of the other businesses that come with progress.” She almost spit out the last word. Glaring at Roman, she said, “Let me tell you something—I know who owns every one of these buildings. I know their families, and my father knew their families. I know the history of the place. This isn't a town of nameless strangers. You may have your oh, so, la-dedah hangouts in New Orleans, but I'll bet you don't know anything about who owns them—or their families.”

  Roman held up his hands in surrender. “I'm sorry. It's just that you talked so much about it that I expected…” He made a face. “I expected something different. I'm sorry.”

  Shelly kept her eyes fixed ahead. “It isn't the buildings, Roman, it isn't even the place—it's the people. They're the heart of Oak Valley. And sure, I wish sometimes that the overhead wires were gone and that a little more money was spent on paint.” She sighed. “What I'd really like is a Chinese takeout or a really great pizza place.” She cut her eyes at him. “One that delivers. But there isn't, and I can live with that because the area has so much more to offer. I can drive down to Willits or Ukiah and get those things that I just mentioned. But I can't get the, the slower pace of life, the pleasure of always seeing someone I know, of watching Jeb caution old man Shelton about driving that ancient wreck of his. It has no windshield and no one knows the last time it was licensed. Jeb won't turn him in—nor will any of the other deputies, because old man Shelton is a fixture around town—and he only comes into town from the hills once a week on Fridays for groceries.” She grinned. “We all know when we see him coming to get out of the way.”

  Shelly came up behind a beat-up white truck that was stopped in the middle of the street. Two bales of hay and a pair of black-and-white cow dogs were tied in the bed of the pickup. She didn't recognize the driver, but she recognized Profane Deegan, standing beside the cab and carrying on a spirited conversation if his waving arms wer
e anything to go by. When she would have pulled on by, Profane left off his conversation and waved her down.

  His sun-wrinkled face sincere and his wiry salt-and-pepper beard spiking out in all directions, he leaned into Roman's side of the Bronco, and said, “I sure am goddamn sorry to hear about your bull, Shelly. You ever find the son of a bitch that let him out, I'll kick his ass back to Kansas for you. Goddamn shame.”

  “Thank you,” Shelly said, a lump forming in her throat.

  “Well, you know you can sure as hell count on me.”

  He looked expectantly at Roman and, reminded of her manners, Shelly introduced them.

  “Damned pleased to meet you,” Profane said, vigorously shaking Roman's hands. “Hope you'll stay a while.” Pointing to the fellow half-hanging out of the pickup truck, Profane said, “This sorry-looking motherfucker here is Sam Higgins. He owns the Bar 7 out near the buttes. You remember his daddy, Shelly? Wild Horse Higgins?”

  Shelly did, and a few minutes were spent in casual conversation, a couple of vehicles winding their way around the Bronco and truck.

  Pulling away from the truck and Deegan, who was once more involved in his previous conversation, Shelly said, “That's one of the things that makes St. Galen's great.”

  “Profanity?” Roman teased.

  Shelly laughed. “Yeah. When it comes from Profane.” She laughed again, her earlier defensive mood gone. “And he would kick someone's ass back to Kansas if he found out that they'd turned Beau loose.”

  Still smiling, she parked nose first in front of the big log building that housed Heather-Mary-Marie's. Several cars, including a Suburban that looked like Sloan's, were parked in the same manner in an untidy row. As she and Roman exited the vehicle, she said, “Cleo only opens the store for a couple of hours on Sunday—mostly so the Lotto people can come in and check their numbers.”

  Entering the store, Shelly's heart leaped when the first person she spied was Sloan. Looking big and heartbreak-ingly handsome in well-worn black jeans and a plaid shirt, he was leaning on the counter, talking to Cleo. At the sight of Shelly, the expression on his face left no one in any doubt of his feelings.