She just knew he would try to get one, too. She kind of hoped he did, because he was a pretty nice little kid. She’d gotten accustomed to having three boys as her cousins. They were loud and silly and mostly dirty, but they were okay.
Icicle snorted and bobbed her head.
“Give her a little kick with your heels,” Mr. MacGregor said. “She’s starting to slow down.”
“Okay.” Icicle’s ears were pointed straight up and her attention was on something outside of the corral, toward the hills. She began to prance, so Winter grabbed the saddle horn to keep her balance.
“Squeeze your thighs and knees, that’s right. And keep her heading around the ring.”
Icicle obeyed, giving Winter such a thrill she thought she might start laughing. Just a few weeks ago she’d been expelled for her severe psychological issues, and today she was riding a horse in Montana while wearing real cowboy boots. She leaned over and patted Icicle’s soft neck.
“Good horse,” she murmured. “Could somebody take a picture?” she hollered. Her father, leaning against the fence, pulled her cell phone out of his pocket.
“Lookin’ good, kid,” he drawled, and held up the phone.
Winter smiled for the camera. She didn’t know how long her father would stay here, but she wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOR ONCE THE lights on Main Street held no welcoming appeal. Instead, Jerry thought the town was almost pathetic in its dark and rain-misted state. There wasn’t a soul around at ten o’clock, and except for the glow of lights at the Dahl, nothing indicated that anything was going on.
He slowed as he turned the corner and saw the Dahl. He stopped the car in the middle of the street and saw that the Closed sign was still on the door, but he heard music coming from inside. Aurora was up to something, maybe a private party. Well, there was no law against that.
She hadn’t convinced Mike or Gary or Hank to ease up a little and vote for the permit, either. He wondered if there’d be some mean, high-powered lawyer sitting in his office in the morning. He’d bet Aurora knew a lot of mean people.
She would fight. Just the thought of tangling with that woman made Jerry lean his head back against the leather seat and moan, which he did for several long, fulfilling minutes. The show was going to air in eleven days. He’d spent months publicizing it, planning the watch parties, inviting the press, readying the town and yet...
Jerry turned on his cell phone for the first time in three days. He’d taken a break from politics and publicity, from budgets and council members, from smiling and hand-shaking.
It hadn’t helped his mood. He was alone and unloved. Tracy wouldn’t take him back, wouldn’t leave the Canadian director/former stuntman and ski champion and return to her Montana politician.
For all his pleading, he’d only proved that he was a pathetic excuse for a man. It was a miracle he still grew whiskers and spoke in a baritone.
The cell phone showed no calls or messages from Tracy. He sat there blocking the street, his headlights shining on the empty street in front of him, for long minutes. How long, he wondered, could he sit here without anyone noticing?
He should ask the county sheriff just how often he patrolled the main street of Willing, but then again, who really cared? The music at the Dahl stopped suddenly, then started up again. He heard a drum riff and laughter, but then quiet. So it was a live band. Maybe those crazy Wild Judiths were practicing, getting ready for the festivities next week. Maybe they’d learn how to sing in tune.
Wouldn’t that be something to look forward to?
Jerry knew he was anything but festive. Not only was his heart broken, but it had been trampled upon and then picked up like roadkill and fed to the hogs, just as old Lawrence Parcell described his ranching days back in the fifties. According to Bob, a lot of garbage was eaten by those enormous prize-winning hogs.
He closed his eyes again, knowing that his headlights were on and anyone who decided to actually get out of the house and drive down Main Street would see him and avoid a collision. Would the sheriff give him a ticket? Test him for alcohol?
There was nothing but coffee in his bloodstream. Miserable black coffee from two different gas stations between here and Billings. And candy bars. Snicker’s Dark, to be exact. He would explain his broken heart and resulting low blood sugar to any law enforcement individual who decided to make an issue out of the mayor sitting outside the local bar.
“Jerry?”
He didn’t open his eyes. “What?”
“Are you all right? Should I get my emergency kit?”
“I’m fine.” He opened his eyes to prove it, then turned his head to see Hip’s face in the passenger’s-side window. Horatio Ignatius Porterman was a decent man, tall and lanky, with an unfortunate drinking problem. He’d served time in Iraq as a medic and was the town’s EMT, but he never drove a vehicle. His cousin Theo, a collector of used cars, took him wherever he needed to go.
“You might want to park. You know, along the curb?” Hip opened the door and peered in. The interior light hurt Jerry’s eyes.
“Yeah, well, I was just checking on the Dahl. What’s going on?”
“A jam.” Hip smiled and lifted a narrow guitar case. “We might do a little Johnny Cash.”
“Have a good time.” When Hip hesitated, Jerry made a show of putting the car in gear. “Really. Go on. I’m leaving, moving on down the road, putting pedal to the metal and all that.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” Hip shut the door and Jerry stepped on the gas.
“Go have fun with the rest of the traitors,” he muttered. “See if I care.”
* * *
“NOT BAD,” JAKE said, nodding to the bass player. “You did a great job with that, Hip.”
The man, perched on a chair with his guitar in his lap, played a bass lick. “Like that?”
“Exactly like that.” Jake eyed his band of musicians. Adam, the enthusiastic drummer, had called all of the members of a local band called the Wild Judiths, plus several local men who wanted to jam with a guy from Nashville.
“The name of the band came from the Judith Mountains and the river,” one of them explained. “Seemed natural.”
“It’s a good name,” Jake agreed. “I like it.”
They’d played for three hours, taking turns with their own songs from their set lists to Jake’s suggestions. He felt good, felt as though he’d come home. Here he was, in a bar, with guys playing music. His daughter was with Lucia baking cookies for a Saturday-night fund-raiser at the school and would spend the night. She hadn’t protested staying with her future aunt and the little boys, having spent several hours out at the ranch riding a horse.
Jake wanted to write a song about that old horse. He was that grateful for its apparent inability to move fast and therefore toss his daughter to the ground. Yes, there should be a hymn to old horses, because they made fathers breathe a little easier.
Adam looked at his watch. “I gotta go. Work tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Hip said, turning off his guitar.
There was a chorus of groans from the rest of the jean-clad, unshaven crowd. Jake liked each one of them. They didn’t have a lot to say, but they stayed in tune and with the beat. Not one of them could sing, but the lead singer and rhythm guitarist managed to stay in tune and remember most of the words to the songs.
“We’ll do it again,” Jake promised, setting his own guitar aside.
“I sure wish the Dahl would open,” Adam muttered. “I talked to Hank and he said he’s kind of embarrassed by the whole thing, but Gary Peterson is the one who’s really ticked off.”
Jake leaned back in his chair. “Why? I mean, why would adding on to the bar be such an issue?”
&nb
sp; Hip shrugged. “Gary’s a traditionalist.”
Adam snorted. “He’s an old stick in the mud, that’s what I think. The guy should be voted off the council. Heck, we’re supposed to play after the show opens, you know? Now what are we supposed to do?”
“Mike’s coming around,” someone said. “I heard that from Maxine, who’s helping Cora set up her shop.”
Jake didn’t know any of those people, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised that in a town this small there were few secrets.
Adam eyed his guitar. “I’ve been wanting to ask you all night. Is that an old Martin?”
“Yeah.” He lifted it again. “A 2-44. From the nineteen thirties.”
“Sweet.” One of the other guitarists whistled. “I’ve never seen one before, but I’ve read about them.”
“I’ve had it for years,” Jake said. “It goes where I go.”
“No kidding. If it was mine I wouldn’t let it out of my sight.”
Hip leaned over. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”
“No,” Jake agreed. “They don’t. There aren’t many people creating instruments one guitar at a time.”
Jake handed it to him.
“Go ahead. Try it.”
It was another half hour before the men left the Dahl. Jake’s rare guitar was examined and complimented. It was carefully held and played by four of the guys, including a shy eighteen-year-old whose father brought him along as a treat for studying hard on his midterm exams.
Jake was the last one left in the bar, and after he’d helped Adam carry parts of his drum set to his truck, he thought he’d better thank Aurora. He hadn’t seen her since he’d arrived at seven. She’d unlocked the back door for him and seemed distracted. Plus, she’d had bits of thread stuck to her black T-shirt.
“I’m sewing,” she’d explained, brushing at the thread. “Tell the guys the liquor’s off-limits.”
“I will. Thanks.”
She’d disappeared back up the stairs. Somehow he couldn’t picture Aurora Jones behind a sewing machine stitching up anything. He wondered if she’d mind if he came up just to say good night and thank her for giving him his sanity back.
He saw a light under the door at the top of the stairs and heard the television, so he knocked. “Aurora?”
It took a minute for her to come to the door, and when she opened it she blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to her pink sweat pants and black T-shirt. “I didn’t expect— Well— I thought everyone had gone home.”
She looked adorable. Her silver hair was clipped into some kind of knot on top of her head and she was sprinkled with bits of thread and tiny pieces of fabric. Her feet were bare and she wore no makeup or earrings. Somehow the lack of jewelry made her seem younger. She stepped aside to let him inside.
“Come on in,” she said.
“Sure.” He followed her down a hall and into the large room that served as a living, dining and kitchen area. Fabric was piled along the back of an oversize chair in front of the television, and a large table near the kitchen held the sewing machine and several mountains of fabric and sewing tools.
“I’ve interrupted you,” he said, fascinated by the mess. He’d expected her to live in a place that matched the dark knotty pine of downstairs, but this apartment was bright, with light walls and modern furniture. He noted the large windows and the updated kitchen.
“That’s okay. My back was starting to hurt.” She shrugged. “I’ve been sewing for hours.” She picked up the remote from the kitchen counter and switched off the television, which had been featuring the weather. “Tomorrow’s demolition day,” she explained. “I’m hoping for sunshine.”
“And will you get it?” He noted the quilted, intricately pieced wall hangings, the photographs of what must be her parents, standing in front of the Parthenon, and the shelves filled with books.
“According to the local weather channel, yes.” She stood awkwardly near the table and then gestured toward an open bottle of wine on the counter. “Would you like a glass?”
“Sure.” The invitation surprised him. Aurora seemed more relaxed here in her own place. He liked this side of her. He watched her retrieve another wineglass from a cupboard above the sink and then fill it halfway with a deep red wine.
“Chianti,” she said. “A Classico. Enjoy.”
“You like wine, then?”
She looked a little embarrassed. “Lucia and Meg tell me I’m a wine snob, but I grew up with parents who knew wine and liked to talk about it.”
“I grew up with parents who liked wine, too,” he said, smiling a little in self-deprecation. “And whiskey, rum, vodka and whatever else they could drink.”
“I heard it was pretty bad,” she said. “Lucia didn’t break any confidences, but I got the impression you and Sam couldn’t wait to leave home.”
“It’s no secret,” he said. “I’ve given interviews and I’ve never tried to hide the fact that I ran away from home. My parents lived the high life, with enough money to buy all the booze they wanted and enough social standing to prevent anyone from questioning their children’s bruises.” He took a sip of the Chianti, which was surprisingly light. “It’s why I don’t write drinking songs.”
“What kind of songs do you write?” She started to clear a space at the table and then stopped. She gestured toward the chairs on the other side of the room. “I guess we’d better sit down away from the sewing.”
He eyed the piles of blue, white and yellow rectangles and blocks. There seemed to be some kind of organization to the piles, but there were other small stacks of fabrics that were just piled up. “What are you making?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said, somewhat shyly. “I just keep sewing until it makes sense. It will be a quilt. Maybe a large one. I don’t know.”
So she was an artist or incredibly disorganized. Interesting.
“Where’s Winter?”
“Spending the night at Lucia’s. They’re baking.”
“Baking?” Her perfect eyebrows rose. “Winter is baking?”
“Reluctantly,” he confessed. “She’d rather be on her iPad or texting or whatever it is she does to stay in touch with her friends, but Lucia needed help and Winter volunteered. There’s no school tomorrow, so she’s spending the night and Sam promised to take everyone out to breakfast.”
“And to the demolition?”
“Oh, yeah. Matt, the middle one, probably won’t be able to sleep tonight. He can’t wait.”
He followed her over to the living area. She gestured toward the large chair and perched on the chaise.
“Oh,” she said, reaching for the violin. “I need to put this away.”
“Wait.” He set his wineglass on the coffee table and touched the fiddle. “You play?”
“A little. A long time ago.” But she didn’t meet his gaze. He lifted it, weighing the elegant instrument in his hands. The wood was exquisite, as was the craftsmanship.
“This is beautiful,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, her voice soft. “It is.”
He tipped it in order to see inside for a clue as to who made it, but the light wasn’t good enough. “What is it?”
“It’s very old,” Aurora explained. “It was a gift from my parents on my sixteenth birthday.”
Jake didn’t know a lot about violins, but he knew fine woodwork and he knew age. He knew beauty. And he knew this was no ordinary instrument. “And the sound?”
“Is spectacular.”
“A sixteen-year-old girl with a violin like this? That’s interesting.” He tipped the violin over to see the flames of wood on the back, then gently righted it and admired the patina. “How old?”
She hesitated. “Approximately sixteen ninety-eight.”
He very carefully
handed it back to her and hoped his hands weren’t shaking. “You said sixteen ninety-eight?”
“Yes.”
“And who made it?”
Aurora sighed. “It’s not important. And it’s not something I want to become public knowledge. It should be in a bank vault, in a special room. But I can’t bear to lock it up.”
“So you play.”
“Yes.”
“By yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a shame. But at least you play it and it isn’t locked away. Will you play something? I’ve never heard a violin from sixteen ninety-eight.”
“I only play scales,” she said. “Just scales.”
Jake smiled. “Just play anything at all. Scales are fine. I’d like to hear the sound.”
She did not look pleased, but she held the violin and lifted the bow that rested on the table. “I don’t usually keep them out,” she said. “But I heard the music tonight—by the way, you made the guys sound better—and I couldn’t resist trying to play along a little bit. Just for fun.”
“Were we too loud?” He watched her stand, adjust her feet and posture and lift the bow to the strings. The violin nestled under her chin as if it belonged there, as if it was part of her. Jake waited. The woman owned a valuable violin and had played when she was a child. Who gave a teenaged girl a violin like this one?
She’d said she was pampered and adored, he remembered. Obviously.
Aurora played scales effortlessly, bowing faster and faster, her fingers dancing across the strings. He noted the posture and the way she held the violin. She was classically trained. He’d shared the stage with enough fiddlers to recognize the difference between those who had been trained for orchestras and those who had taught themselves some bluegrass tunes.
The Husband Show Page 13