“Sure, Justin, your order will be up in fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
He was driving by Raven Christmas Tree Farm now, acres and acres of perfect trees, growing in perfect rows. He caught a glimpse of the family’s log home and wondered how Tiffany, just a few years younger than him, was adjusting to living with her aunt and mother after so many years on her own in Seattle.
It couldn’t be easy, especially given the family’s tragic history.
And then he was back in the town limits, driving by the street where Willow had grown up. She hadn’t been in contact since she left, so he had no idea where she was, or what she was doing.
Probably she and Paul were out of the country, traveling in some exotic locale. The fact that Justin and Willow were still legally married probably didn’t bother either of them.
With hindsight Justin had no doubt Willow had come back to Lost Trail—and to him—looking for a responsible parent so she could ditch her daughter. He couldn’t judge her too harshly, though, since his reasons for going into the marriage hadn’t been particularly noble either.
Having undergone radiation treatments that could affect his chances of ever fathering a child, he’d seen this as an opportunity to have a daughter—and to make his own dad a grandfather. The fact that Geneva wasn’t Justin’s biological child didn’t matter. He loved her as much as if she were. And his father did, too.
No, he could never regret adopting Geneva.
He just prayed he would be around long enough to raise her.
When Tiff Masterson’s ex-boyfriend’s name popped up on her cell phone, she hesitated before opening the message. Six months had passed since his name had appeared in her notifications. Six months since she’d cheated on him. Six months since he’d said he never wanted to see her again.
Why was he reaching out now?
Did he have more anger to get off his chest? She wasn’t sure she could cope with that.
Did he want to get back together? She wasn’t sure she could cope with that, either.
She pushed aside the stack of invoices and glanced out the window of her father’s study. Her dad had been dead for sixteen years and she still thought of this room as his. Just last week she had moved some of the farm records from the office in the barn to the house. Now she was glad she had.
Not only was the weather cold, but the bleak November landscape was not inspiring either. Brown grass and bare trees and a low, muted sun. Once the leaves were all gone and before the snow arrived had to be the ugliest time of year on their Christmas tree farm. It was hard not to miss the warmth of the West Coast and the evergreen appeal of Seattle.
Her finger hovered over the miniature photo of Craig’s face. Maybe it would be wiser to un-friend him and cut this final tie. Before she could decide, the landline rang. Knowing her aunt was visiting friends in Hamilton and her mom rarely answered the phone, Tiff dashed to the kitchen.
A row of white linen napkins—folded into fancy fans—were on the table, ready for the Thanksgiving feast. Her mother was carefully printing names onto cardboard place holders. She gave Tiff a vague smile as the phone rang for the third time.
“Want me to get that?” Tiff asked, trying not to feel annoyed.
“If you want.”
Her mother had taken a calligraphy course a long time ago but today she was struggling with each letter. It hurt to watch and Tiff turned with relief to the phone. “Hello.”
“Is that you, Tiff? How are you, honey?”
“I’m good, thanks.” Sybil Tombe was the town librarian and one of her mother’s oldest and dearest friends. Actually, thanks to her mother’s prolonged depression, Sybil was her mother’s only friend now.
Tiff missed her brother and father, too. But what was happening to her mother had gone beyond mourning.
When she was eighteen Tiff couldn’t wait to leave home. Now that she was thirty she worried she had been too selfish. Clearly her mother had mental health issues. Tiff owed it to both her mother and her aunt to try and help.
“I wanted to let your mom know Lacy Stillman died in her sleep last night,” Sybil said.
News of death, even of someone very old, was always disconcerting. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Lacy was an institution in this town. She and Tiff’s grandmother Holmes were once good friends. According to Aunt Marsha the two matriarchs concocted a scheme to get one of the Stillman boys to marry one of the Holmes girls.
It hadn’t worked. Rosemary, Tiff’s mother and the youngest of the Holmes daughters, married Irving Masterson, a man she met in college, while Marsha never married at all.
“The celebration of life is already scheduled for tomorrow. And there’ll be a potluck at Lacy’s ranch house afterward.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make sure Mom gets there.”
There was a hesitation. And then: “Your mom looked worn out after Riley Concurran’s service. Maybe you should skip the church and take your mom to pay her respects later in the evening.”
Tiff glanced at her mother who was lining up the folded napkins at the center of the long, hickory dining table. It was true that Riley Concurran’s death—ruled homicide in the end—had taken a lot out of her mother. Riley had been one of the farm’s temporary workers, a recent hire whose tragic past led her to an unfair and untimely end.
“Maybe you’re right. We’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
After the call ended, Tiff went to the dining room to help her mother. “Do you want me to set out the plates and cutlery?”
“No, dear. I’ll do it.”
“I can pull them out of the cabinet at least.” The blue-trimmed Wedgewood plates were as familiar to her as the color of her mother’s eyes. She set a stack of them on the corner of the table where it would be easy for her mom to reach them.
“Did you hear me talking to Sybil? Lacy Stillman died last night.”
Her mother’s hands stilled and for a moment she was like a statue, shrinking into herself. “More death. I hate it.”
“Lacy was very old. And it sounds like she didn’t suffer.”
“No. It’s always the ones left behind who do that.”
Chapter Two
Wednesday, November 22
Zak drove his old truck through a log entry gate. Hanging from the overhead beam was the ranch brand: a circle with a sideways “S.” Artistically speaking the S could represent the west fork of the Bitterroot River, which wound through the property. It also looked like a snake.
Pretty much all the land before him, stretching to the Bitterroot Mountains, belonged to the Stillmans. Kind of awe-inspiring to a guy who didn’t even own his own home yet. One day soon he would, though. Every month he saved more than half his paycheck. After three years at the sheriff’s office he had enough for a good down payment. All he needed was to find the right place.
On the passenger seat of his truck was a plastic-wrapped plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Tradition in this part of the world was to bring gifts of food when making bereavement calls. And since his work had kept him from the celebration of life, that’s what Zak was doing.
If he happened to reach a deeper understanding of the circumstances under which Lacy Stillman had died...well, that would be a bonus, but nothing he’d ever admit to his boss or colleagues.
If he told anyone he didn’t feel right about Lacy’s death, they’d laugh him out of town. That didn’t change his need to find answers. He was used to thinking differently from other people, especially his parents and older brothers, who fortunately no longer lived in Lost Trail, or Montana for that matter.
Zak steered his Ford around a curve in the graveled road, then to the top of a rise. On impulse, he pulled over and shifted into Park. From this vantage point he could see all three of the main ranch houses. Each sat on about an acre of land with ponderosa pine and quaking aspens between them. The original ranch house, the one in the middle, was where Lacy Stillman had lived, alone since the death of
her husband. Built of log, timber and rock, it was a modestly sized, L-shaped home with a small front porch and a vegetable patch to one side.
The house to the right looked like one of those fancy lodge-styled homes advertised in slick magazines. The materials used were the same as Lacy’s, but the windows were massive and the roof sloped at a deep pitch to allow for a generous second story. The views would be fabulous from up there.
Lacy’s younger son Clayton lived in this impressive house along with his glamorous wife Vanessa and daughter Nikki. Nikki had been two grades behind Zak in school, a plain-looking girl who was involved in 4-H and loved horses.
The third house was a ranch-styled bungalow. The various shades of gray and tan in the cedar-shake roof suggested a lot of patching had happened recently. The paint on the white picket fence surrounding a dried-up garden was badly flaked and he could tell from here some of the windows had lost their seal. This less-than-immaculate home was Eugene and Em’s and the only one Zak had previously visited. Their son Tom was two years older than Zak, but Luke was the same age.
Luke, as well as his brother, had been one of the cool kids when they were growing up. He and Zak hadn’t hung out together on weekends, but they’d become friends when they both joined the track and field team. Since graduation they saw each other rarely, but Luke always invited Zak to the family’s awesome New Year’s Eve parties.
From those occasions Zak knew the inside of the house, a lot like the exterior, showed signs of neglect. No one in Luke’s family seemed to care much about decorating or housekeeping. For the party the main rooms were usually presentable but last year Zak had spotted a fluffy layer of dust on the bookshelves in the office next to the bathroom.
Three houses. Three very different families.
Zak pulled back onto the road and began the descent into the valley. He passed another signed gateway and his tires rumbled over the metal cattle guard meant to keep livestock on the correct side of the fence. He parked at the end of a line-up of vehicles, behind Dr. Pittman’s sedan. He grabbed the plate of cookies, and then made his way to the front entry.
The sun had set in the minutes he’d taken to survey the property and through the uncurtained windows he could see the place was packed. The murmur of multiple conversations, occasional bursts of laughter, and the aroma of chili and corn bread all leached from Lacy Stillman’s home.
His mouth watered. The grilled chicken breast and spinach salad he’d eaten for dinner had nothing on this. Since he was training to run another marathon this spring, he had to watch his weight. But he had a feeling tonight he would give in to temptation.
The front door was ajar so he didn’t bother knocking. No one would hear him anyway. Right away he spotted Luke, hanging out near the entrance with his older brother, Tom, and younger cousin, Nikki. They had beers in hand and were talking over one another in heated debate.
Tom and Luke were medium height, narrow-hipped men, with skin still dark from the hot summer just past. Tom had a huskier build, and a good twenty pounds on his brother.
Nikki, Lacy’s only granddaughter, wasn’t dressed up for the occasion. She was in jeans and her brown hair hung in a braid over one shoulder.
Nikki was the first to spot him and stop talking. When she smiled, the guys turned to see what had silenced her.
“Hey, Zak.” Luke stepped forward, clasped his shoulder and shook his hand. “Nice of you to stop by.”
“Yeah, well, thought I’d pay my respects. Your grandmother was an institution in this town.”
“In the family, too.” Tom’s handshake was firmer than his brother’s.
His words to Zak sounded a little bitter, or was he reading too much into them?
“Is that for us?” Nikki nodded at the plate.
“Yeah. Just some cookies.” He handed them over.
“They’re still warm. And they smell fabulous. I’m glad you didn’t bring another casserole. I’ll put them on the dessert table for you.”
“Thanks.” Zak turned back to the brothers. “Sorry I missed the church service. I was working.”
“No problem,” Luke said.
He probably wasn’t missed. Zak was used to blending into the background. It had been a survival habit in a household where his dad could turn from jovial to furious in a second. His older brothers had literally rolled with the punches until they were old enough to fight back.
Zak had preferred to make himself scarce.
“I bet the church was packed?”
“Standing room only,” Tom said. “Grams would have been smiling.”
“It went okay. I am not looking forward to the family burial on Sunday, though.”
“Oh, Luke, are you going to cry?” Tom winked at Zak. “Luke and Nikki were Grandma’s favorites. Bet they both get more in the will than me.”
“Shut up, Tom. Who cares what’s in the stupid will? Sometimes it seems like that’s all anyone in this family talks about.”
“Chill, man. Zak, help yourself to a brewski. They’re in the kitchen.”
The front door opened again, admitting Zak’s old school friend Tiff Masterson and her mother, Rosemary, and Aunt Marsha. Zak caught Tiff’s eye and gestured that they would talk later. Then he left the Stillman brothers to welcome their new guests.
In the kitchen Tom and Luke’s mother, Em, offered him a beer. She looked uncomfortable in a black dress that strained around her middle and gaped awkwardly at the neck. She was also shifting from one foot to the other, a lot. Zak guessed her modest high heels were to blame.
“Sorry for your family’s loss, Em,” he said. Judging from her puffy eyes and the tissue peeking out from the edge of one long sleeve, she was in genuine mourning.
Em looked at him, bewildered.
“I’m Zak Waller. A friend of Luke’s.”
“Oh, yes, you’re my son’s track and field friend. Did you know Luke started running again?”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“Lacy considered running a strange hobby for a rancher’s son, but she indulged him. Luke could never do wrong in his grandmother’s eyes.”
“I imagine it’s helpful to stay fit when you work on a ranch.”
Em’s lips tightened. “It’s so hard to imagine this place without Lacy. Over the years she’s stepped away from most of the hands-on work. But she still made it out to the barns every morning. Led the cattle drives. Made all the key decisions.”
“No doubt it’ll be an adjustment.” According to Luke, his mom’s philosophy on ranching was a lot closer to Lacy’s than her husband Eugene’s was. In most ranching decisions Luke would side with his mother, and Tom with their dad.
Not that it mattered when Lacy was alive, since she made the final call. But now that she was gone it would matter. A lot.
“I had a beer with Lacy when she was in town last week. She mentioned how lucky she felt to live and work so close to her family. I’m sure you’ll miss her very much, but at least you know she had a good, long life.”
“We will miss her. Definitely. And she did have a good life, particularly after her husband died.”
The comment struck Zak as odd. “How long ago was that?”
“It’s been sixteen years since Jack died in a ranching accident. A long time. But Lacy sure wasn’t ready to join him. Her father didn’t die until he was ninety-eight and her mother lived to be one hundred and one.”
Interesting. Eugene and Clayton had probably expected to live under their mother’s thumb for another ten years.
Behind him Marsha Holmes was waiting for her turn to talk to Em, so Zak stepped aside, joining the line-up at the buffet table. Besides chili and corn bread there were assorted salads, pickles, freshly baked buns, and a variety of sliced meats and cheeses.
He took some of the chili and corn bread then moved out of the way. While he was spooning back some of the spicy chili, an old friend of his father’s came over to commiserate about the shutting down of Zak’s father’s hardware store.
“Sign of the times, when our small-town businesses fail,” the man said. “Now we have to drive all the way to Hamilton when something breaks down.”
It was a shame, Zak agreed, though he did not miss one thing about working at the old family business. Or the family that had owned it, either.
Once he was finished eating, Zak paid his respects to both Eugene and Clayton. They were standing in the far corner of the living room, Clayton a few feet in front of his brother, and seeming more in the spotlight.
The brothers were so similar in appearance they could have been twins. Clayton, however, besides being more outgoing, was also better dressed. In his suit, shirt and tie he looked more like a banker than a rancher.
“Zak Waller.” Clayton clasped Zak’s hand between both of his warm, callused palms. “Sure do miss your dad’s hardware store in town. Any thoughts of starting up a business of your own one day?”
“No, sir. Going to stick to working for the sheriff’s office.”
He wasn’t sure Clayton heard his answer. He was already shaking the hand of another visitor. Zak stepped further into the corner where Eugene was taking long gulps from a tall crystal glass containing a deep amber liquid—and no ice.
Eugene wore a western-styled blazer and black jeans. His bolo tie was on crooked. It didn’t seem appropriate to point this out, however.
“Sorry for your loss, Eugene. Our town won’t be the same without your mother.”
Eugene said a gruff thank-you then took another drink from his glass.
Obviously not in a chatting mood.
Well. He’d done his duty, made his rounds. There was still Clayton’s wife Vanessa, holding court at the other end of the room, next to the dessert table. Like her husband, she was dressed and groomed impeccably. She certainly looked more at ease in her black dress and heels than Em. But Zak was sure she wouldn’t have a clue who he was so he gave her a pass.
Zak set down his empty beer and went in search of a toilet. “There’s only one bathroom,” Luke told him. “Down the hall and first door on the left.”
Bitter Truth Page 2