Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  She ap­pro­ac­hed mo­re slowly, fe­ar­ful of in­t­ru­ding. It flit­ted thro­ugh her mind that the­re was a irony in his cho­osing to find so­li­tu­de in a ce­me­tery and per­haps com­fort from a de­ad man. Or was he he­re to bury his emo­ti­ons? That tho­ught an­ge­red her. Sla­de had be­en fig­h­ting his emo­ti­ons sin­ce they had met. She re­fu­sed to al­low him to bury his he­ad in the sand any lon­ger- and his he­art along with it. She wo­uld slowly and su­rely co­ax his fe­elings out of him, even if it to­ok the length of the­ir li­fe­ti­me.

  Sla­de's hands we­re in his poc­kets, his he­ad was bo­wed. She wasn't su­re if he was pra­ying, gri­eving, or thin­king. Her skirts rus­t­led, an­no­un­cing her ap­pro­ach. He didn't mo­ve. She ca­me up be­hind him, he­si­ta­ting only a he­ar­t­be­at. Then she step­ped for­ward, obe­ying her he­art and her in­s­tincts, lo­oping her arm in his and pres­sing aga­inst him.

  He was ten­se. He didn't say an­y­t­hing and ne­it­her did she. He ac­cep­ted her pre­sen­ce; for the mo­ment that was eno­ugh. They sto­od in si­len­ce for a whi­le, the sun set­ting now with fi­na­lity. Gulls whe­eled abo­ve them be­fo­re fle­e­ing thro­ugh the in­co­ming mist. Sha­dows slid out from the tom­b­s­to­nes, long and eerie. A chill crept in with the dusk.

  Fi­nal­ly he fa­ced her, his eyes in­tent and pro­bing.

  Re­gi­na ma­na­ged a bra­ve smi­le. "Hel­lo, Sla­de."

  He re­ac­hed out a hand. Gas­ping with de­light, she ga­ve him hers. He grip­ped it firmly. "Did Ed­ward ha­ve so­met­hing to do with you be­ing he­re at Mi­ra­mar?"

  "Ed­ward? No."

  "I didn't think so." He sta­red at her. "If I sent you away, you wo­uldn't go, wo­uld you?"

  "No, I wo­uld not go."

  "I gu­ess you're he­re to stay."

  "I am."

  His mo­uth slowly tur­ned up. A sin­g­le last ray of opa­les­cent light slid over the rid­ge and Re­gi­na saw that his che­eks we­re wet and that he had be­en crying. "A man can only be a fo­ol for so long. I know when to sho­ut un­c­le."

  "I beg yo­ur par­don?" she whis­pe­red.

  "I ha­ven't be­en happy. I want to be happy, Re­gi­na." His vo­ice was un­s­te­ady.

  "Let me ma­ke you happy! I can! I will!"

  He al­most la­ug­hed, the so­und ro­ugh, then pul­led her clo­se and threw his arm aro­und her. "I think you al­re­ady ha­ve."

  She sig­hed in re­li­ef and le­aned aga­inst him. He wo­uld no lon­ger fight the­ir mar­ri­age, he wo­uld no lon­ger fight her. She wan­ted mo­re, she wan­ted him to openly lo­ve her, but she co­uld wa­it for that. She was in­s­pi­red with con­fi­den­ce. She smi­led, ga­zing past her hus­band at the gre­en rid­ges sur­ro­un­ding them, the jewel-li­ke crown of Mi­ra­mar. "Lo­ok," she whis­pe­red. "Mi­ra­mar is smi­ling at us."

  Inde­ed, it se­emed that way. The inky night swir­led over the hills and they se­emed to co­me ali­ve, pul­sa­ting with mysti­cal, ma­gi­cal joy. But it was only the ten­d­rils of fog, of co­ur­se, along with her ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  Li­fe so­on slip­ped in­to its own un­qu­en­c­hab­le rhythm. The­re was a lot of work to be do­ne, and both fat­her and son re­lis­hed the chal­len­ge. Sla­de had hi­red a do­zen men wit­hin the first few days of his re­turn. Every day he to­ok the crew to the si­te whe­re they we­re fe­ve­rishly at work cle­aring the ac­re­age he wo­uld put to the plow in the spring. Ti­me was not on the­ir si­de and ever­yo­ne knew it. Bo­nu­ses wo­uld be gi­ven if half of the land was cle­ared in thirty days. And Sla­de did not stand idly by and watch. Re­gi­na so­on le­ar­ned that her hus­band enj­oyed physi­cal la­bor as much as he enj­oyed men­tal chal­len­ges. Every night he ca­me ho­me ex­ha­us­ted but sa­tis­fi­ed, and ro­uti­nely he wo­uld dis­cuss his day with her over the din­ner tab­le. Re­gi­na was an avid lis­te­ner. She fer­vently ho­ped he wo­uld suc­ce­ed in what se­emed to her an im­pos­sib­le task.

  Rick ne­ver sa­id a word abo­ut the chan­ges ta­king pla­ce on the ran­c­ho. Re­gi­na knew that Sla­de had re­sor­ted to un­der­han­ded tac­tics to win that bat­tle, but she did not bla­me him. When push ca­me to sho­ve, she wo­uld un­fa­ilingly sup­port her hus­band, and Rick wo­uld al­ways ha­ve to be pus­hed hard when he was op­po­sed to so­met­hing. Yet he wor­ked hard alon­g­si­de his son, as ca­ught up in the ra­ce aga­inst ti­me as ever­yo­ne el­se.

  Edward re­tur­ned ho­me a few days la­ter. Ever­yo­ne was happy to see him, Re­gi­na in­c­lu­ded; he was a ray of bright sun­s­hi­ne and she ima­gi­ned that he wo­uld al­ways be wel­co­me whe­re­ver he went. Vic­to­ria was ec­s­ta­tic. And Ed­ward was the per­fect son, pa­ti­ently en­du­ring her pam­pe­ring, all smi­les and in­dul­gen­ce.

  Vic­to­ria had to­le­ra­ted Re­gi­na with co­ol dis­da­in sin­ce Re­gi­na had co­me to Mi­ra­mar at the end of the sum­mer. Re­gi­na co­uld only as­su­me that Vic­to­ria had fi­nal­ly ac­cep­ted the fi­na­lity of her mar­ri­age to Sla­de.

  As for Re­gi­na and Sla­de, they slid so easily and so ne­arly ef­for­t­les­sly in­to a do­mes­tic ro­uti­ne that it might ha­ve be­lon­ged to them in anot­her li­fe­ti­me. For a few days the­re was so­me aw­k­war­d­ness and ten­si­on bet­we­en them. But Re­gi­na was eager to ple­ase her hus­band, to bring com­fort in­to his li­fe, and Sla­de se­emed to want to get clo­ser to her now. He left her with re­luc­tan­ce every mor­ning and re­tur­ned ho­me to her eagerly every night. He sha­red all of the hap­pe­nings of the day with her, his tri­umphs and his di­sas­ters, his ho­pes and his fe­ars. Re­gi­na had al­ways so­ught to be clo­se to him, and now that he no lon­ger held him­self at a dis­tan­ce, the­ir pas­si­on grew and the ca­ma­ra­de­rie they had sha­red just af­ter the­ir wed­ding du­ring tho­se first days in San Fran­cis­co blos­so­med anew.

  It qu­ickly be­ca­me ob­vi­o­us to Re­gi­na what had hap­pe­ned to them in San Fran­cis­co. For wha­te­ver re­ason, Sla­de had be­en in­tent on wrec­king the­ir mar­ri­age by pus­hing her away from him. She co­uld not un­der­s­tand why. He was a com­p­li­ca­ted man, so she might ne­ver know the who­le of it un­less he vo­lun­te­ered the in­for­ma­ti­on him­self. But as the month pas­sed she be­gan to ha­ve sus­pi­ci­ons. Se­ve­ral ti­mes he men­ti­oned her li­fes­t­y­le in En­g­land, wat­c­hing her clo­sely and awa­iting her res­pon­se in­tently. Re­gi­na fi­nal­ly cal­led him on it. "Are you wa­iting for me to tell you that I miss my ho­me? Or that I reg­ret re­tur­ning to you?"

  Sla­de win­ced. "Do you?"

  It was then that she un­der­s­to­od him. He was af­ra­id that she wo­uld be­co­me dis­sa­tis­fi­ed with her lot, cast in as it was with his. "No, Sla­de. I do not."

  He stu­di­ed her and slowly smi­led. His next words we­re pro­of that she was right. "I think I mi­sj­ud­ged you, Re­gi­na."

  "I think that you ha­ve," she res­pon­ded, mo­ving in­to his arms.

  By the first of Oc­to­ber the ro­un­dup was com­p­le­ted and all the herds mo­ved to mo­re shel­te­red ter­ra­in to wa­it for the first on­s­la­ught of win­ter. Sla­de had fi­nis­hed cle­aring two hun­d­red ac­res and it did not lo­ok as if he wo­uld me­et his go­al of three hun­d­red, half of what he even­tu­al­ly ho­ped to put to the plow, be­fo­re the ra­ins. The days we­re gro­wing shor­ter. All the men we­re wor­king in a frenzy now, trying to fi­nish the ob­vi­o­usly im­pos­sib­le pro­j­ect. Ti­me was run­ning out if they ho­ped to cle­ar all the land, for on­ce win­ter set in the gro­und wo­uld be­co­me muddy and im­pas­sab­le.

  To­ward the end of Oc­to­ber Re­gi­na sto­od by the win­dow wat­c­hing the first few drops of ra­in be­gin to fall. Ten­si­on fil­led her. The sky was dark and gray. It was al­most dusk and she pra­yed the­se few sprin­k­led drops we­r
e not the be­gin­ning of the ra­iny se­ason. Just last night Sla­de had sa­id they ne­eded anot­her two we­eks.

  Vic­to­ria ca­me to stand be­si­de her. "They didn't ma­ke it," she sa­id qu­i­etly. The­re was no ani­mo­sity in her to­ne. If an­yo­ne co­ve­ted the ric­h­ness that Mi­ra­mar co­uld one day bring the fa­mily, it was Vic­to­ria. "It's go­ing to ra­in."

  "May­be not," Re­gi­na sa­id ho­pe­ful­ly.

  Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter the driz­zle be­ca­me a dow­n­po­ur.

  An ho­ur la­ter the men ca­me in, ex­ha­us­ted, so­aked to the bo­ne, muddy and dis­ma­yed. Re­gi­na to­ok one lo­ok at Sla­de's grim fa­ce and flew to his si­de. His eyes told her that the win­ter had in­de­ed be­gun, be­fo­re they had fi­nis­hed what had be­en im­pos­sib­le to be­gin with.

  Ever­yo­ne was som­ber at the sup­per tab­le that night.

  Re­gi­na spo­ke in­to the dis­mal si­len­ce. "Well, cle­aring two hun­d­red ac­res is not­hing short of a mi­rac­le. You will be ab­le to plant tho­se ac­res at the first sign of spring."

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing.

  Rick sa­id, "Wasn't no mi­rac­le, ho­ney. The­re's no such thing."

  Sla­de lo­oked up.

  Edward sa­id, sip­ping a glass of red wi­ne, "Sla­de, I be­li­eve you ha­ve just be­en in­di­rectly com­p­li­men­ted for a job well do­ne."

  Sla­de was still, his fork po­ised over his pla­te.

  Rick sa­id, "Well, hell. It was an im­pos­sib­le job, an' it was mostly do­ne."

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at Sla­de, smi­ling. Al­t­ho­ugh Rick and Sla­de had ap­pa­rently set­tled past mi­sun­der­s­tan­dings, Rick's pra­ise was ra­re and she knew her hus­band che­ris­hed it when it ca­me. But she had no chan­ce to jud­ge his re­ac­ti­on. For sud­denly Josep­hi­ne scre­amed.

  She scre­amed from the kit­c­hen as if so­me­one was com­mit­ting blo­ody mur­der.

  And she scre­amed aga­in.

  Cha­os erup­ted. Ever­yo­ne le­aped to the­ir fe­et and rus­hed to­ward the kit­c­hen. Re­gi­na fo­und her­self be­hind the men whi­le Sla­de led the char­ge. He burst thro­ugh the kit­c­hen do­or and ab­ruptly fro­ze. His brot­her and fat­her col­li­ded aga­inst him.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not see past the tal­ler men. Frig­h­te­ned, her he­art thun­de­ring, she grip­ped Sla­de's arm, stan­ding on tip­toe, pe­ering past him.

  Josep­hi­ne was pros­t­ra­te on the flo­or. A big man sto­od abo­ve her. Re­gi­na cri­ed out, thin­king Josep­hi­ne inj­ured or even de­ad. She ten­sed, wa­iting for Sla­de, Rick, and Ed­ward to le­ap for­ward to at­tack the in­t­ru­der.

  "J­esus," the big man sa­id, whi­te-fa­ced. "What the hell is wrong with Josep­hi­ne? She fa­in­ted when I wal­ked in the do­or! And what the hell is wrong with all of you? You act li­ke you're se­e­ing a ghost!"

  Re­gi­na gas­ped, sud­denly thin­king the un­t­hin­kab­le and pra­ying for the im­pos­sib­le. Then a mi­rac­le un­fol­ded be­fo­re her very eyes as Sla­de rus­hed for­ward with a cry, not to at­tack the man, but to em­b­ra­ce him. "James!"

  James had co­me back from the de­ad.

  Chapter 29

  Pan­de­mo­ni­um erup­ted in the kit­c­hen. Sla­de wrap­ped James in a be­ar hug. Ed­ward po­un­ded his back. Rick grab­bed James's fa­ce in his two hands, sho­uting at him. "Whe­re the hell ha­ve you be­en? Jesus! Whe­re the hell ha­ve you be­en? We tho­ught you we­re de­ad!"

  Ever­yo­ne was te­ar­ful, ex­cept James, who was stun­ned and be­wil­de­red. Re­gi­na was crying, but la­ug­hing too. She whis­pe­red her own qu­ick pra­yer of thanks to God for such a won­der­ful mi­rac­le. Then she re­ali­zed that Josep­hi­ne had be­en for­got­ten in the en­su­ing re­uni­on. She rus­hed to the pro­ne wo­man. Kne­eling, she felt for her pul­se. Josep­hi­ne had only fa­in­ted; al­re­ady she was stir­ring.

  It was then that Re­gi­na felt a dis­tinct war­ning tin­g­le ra­cing up her spi­ne. The fo­ur men we­re sho­uting at each ot­her in­com­p­re­hen­sibly. James was sa­ying so­met­hing abo­ut a let­ter. Wa­rily she lo­oked up. One per­son was not par­ti­ci­pa­ting in the spon­ta­ne­o­us ce­leb­ra­ti­on.

  Vic­to­ria sto­od in the do­or­way. Many dif­fe­rent emo­ti­ons pla­yed ac­ross her fa­ce, but not one of them was joy. Re­gi­na shud­de­red. Nor did Vic­to­ria ap­pe­ar the le­ast bit sur­p­ri­sed. A hor­rib­le tho­ught daw­ned. Yet it was in­de­cent. Re­gi­na told her­self that Vic­to­ria co­uld not ha­ve known that James was ali­ve and kept such a sec­ret to her­self. Her ima­gi­na­ti­on was run­ning away with her.

  Vic­to­ria re­ali­zed that she was be­ing wat­c­hed, me­eting Re­gi­na's pe­net­ra­ting sta­re. Her eyes we­re angry, yet an in­s­tant la­ter a smi­le tran­s­for­med her fe­atu­res.

  Re­gi­na was fro­zen. Her he­art po­un­ded pa­in­ful­ly. This wo­man was so­me­how in­vol­ved in the mystery sur­ro­un­ding James.

  Josep­hi­ne mo­aned. "Lawdy, I've se­en a ghost!"

  Re­gi­na stro­ked her brow. "No, de­ar, James has re­tur­ned, but not as a ghost, as a mor­tal man."

  Josep­hi­ne cri­ed out and Re­gi­na hel­ped her to sit up. "James!" she sho­uted, fu­ri­o­us. "I'm gon­na whip you so bad you won't sit fer a we­ek! Co­me he­ah, boy!" And she star­ted to we­ep. Josep­hi­ne had be­en the only mot­her James had ever known and she had lo­ved him as she did any of her own chil­d­ren.

  James was such a big man that he lif­ted the sob­bing wo­man ef­for­t­les­sly to her fe­et. "God, I'm sorry. You all tho­ught I was de­ad?" He lo­oked hor­ri­fi­ed.

  "Now I'm gon­na kill you," Rick sa­id, bo­xing his son's ears. But then a grin split his te­ar­s­ta­ined fa­ce. "What the hell hap­pe­ned? Whe­re the hell ha­ve you be­en?"

  James ope­ned his mo­uth to res­pond and then he saw Re­gi­na. "Who's this?"

  Instantly Sla­de pul­led Re­gi­na for­ward, his arm aro­und her. "This is my wi­fe, Re­gi­na."

  James was in­c­re­du­lo­us. "You're mar­ri­ed?"

  "I'm mar­ri­ed," Sla­de sa­id, with no small amo­unt of pri­de and ple­asu­re. "What the hell hap­pe­ned to you?"

  "I wro­te one let­ter and sent two te­leg­rams," James pro­tes­ted. "I don't un­der­s­tand!"

  The­re was a mo­ment of so­ber si­len­ce. Re­gi­na co­uld not help re­gar­ding Vic­to­ria, who was the only one to of­fer an ex­p­la­na­ti­on. Che­er­ful­ly, she sa­id, "Ma­il gets lost all the ti­me. And old Ben at the post of­fi­ce is drunk mo­re of­ten than not. Wel­co­me ho­me, James! How won­der­ful to ha­ve you back!"

  James eyed her, ob­vi­o­usly not bu­ying his step­mot­her's wel­co­me for an in­s­tant. "Ben Car­ter qu­it drin­king last ye­ar. Or did he start up aga­in?"

  "Not that I know," Sla­de sa­id grimly.

  "Let’s go in­si­de," Vic­to­ria sa­id. "You're drip­ping all over the flo­or. He­re, let me ta­ke yo­ur pon­c­ho. You must ha­ve qu­ite a story to tell!"

  Re­gi­na was sick. So­met­hing most de­fi­ni­tely was I wrong. She knew what was wrong. So­me­how, for so­me re­ason, Vic­to­ria had in­ter­cep­ted the let­ter and the te­leg­rams. But why?

  She did not know, co­uld not even gu­ess. And she did not da­re spe­ak out. It was not her pla­ce to do so, and I the­re was a chan­ce she co­uld be wrong. La­ter, pri­va­tely, I she wo­uld men­ti­on her sus­pi­ci­ons to Sla­de. God, how hurt Rick wo­uld be if Vic­to­ria had known that James was re­al­ly ali­ve. Then she tho­ught abo­ut Ed­ward. He wo­uld be de­vas­ta­ted to le­arn of such tre­ac­hery.

  They mo­ved in­to the den. Sup­per was for­got­ten. Josep­hi­ne and Lu­cin­da bro­ught in ste­aming-hot cof­fee for ever­yo­ne and a pla­te of hot fo­od for James. Ne­it­her wo­man re­tur­ned to the kit­c­hen; in­s­te­ad th
ey ho­ve­red hap­pily aro­und James, just as ever­yo­ne el­se did.

  Whi­le he ate, be­fo­re he la­un­c­hed in­to an ex­p­la­na­ti­on, Re­gi­na stu­di­ed him. He was a very han­d­so­me man, a De­lan­za tra­it. He was big­ger than Ed­ward and Rick by se­ve­ral in­c­hes, and not just tal­ler, but mo­re he­avily bu­ilt. Yet the­re was no fat on his hard, po­wer­ful fra­me. His ha­ir was the rich brown of mink, his eyes anot­her sha­de of De­lan­za blue. He was cer­ta­inly a man to set fe­ma­le he­arts flut­te­ring.

  But the most ob­vi­o­us re­sem­b­lan­ce among all the men was the­ir cha­ris­ma. When James en­te­red a ro­om ever­yo­ne wo­uld sit up and ta­ke no­ti­ce. Re­gi­na had se­en the sa­me thing hap­pen aga­in and aga­in with Rick, Ed­ward, and her own hus­band Sla­de.

  Rick was sit­ting on the so­fa on one si­de of James, Sla­de on the ot­her. Re­gi­na sat be­si­de Sla­de, hol­ding her hus­band's hand, ec­s­ta­ti­cal­ly happy for him. Ed­ward had pul­led up an ot­to­man, so clo­se that his knee al­most brus­hed James's. Lu­cin­da and Josep­hi­ne had pul­led up cha­irs and sat be­si­de Rick, crow­ding him. They we­re even clo­ser to James than Rick's wi­fe. But Vic­to­ria sat in a cha­ir on the ot­her si­de of the se­ating area, dis­tinctly re­mo­ving her­self from the fa­mily gro­up, which Re­gi­na fo­und dis­tur­bing and sig­ni­fi­cant.

  "Eno­ugh fo­od," Rick grow­led. "I want to know whe­re the hell you've be­en. We fo­und yo­ur hor­se dow­n­ri­ver af­ter the flo­od­wa­ters sub­si­ded, his leg bro­ke, de­ad, ca­ught in two up­ro­oted tre­es. We al­re­ady knew you'd di­sap­pe­ared. Jesus! We lo­oked for you, not wan­ting to find you, af­ra­id to find you de­ad!"