by Natasha Deen
Spencer launched another pebble at the water, but this one caught itself in the reeds and splashed into oblivion.
“That was a nice try. Next time you’ll get it.”
“Thanks. You’re a good teacher.”
“Speaking of which...” He sat down on the bank of the pond and patted the spot next to him. “Your mom found the note Mr. Whitehead sent home.”
“Oh.” He sat down, drawing his legs to his chest and plucked at the grass next to him. “Is she really mad?”
“I think she’s more worried.”
His eyebrows came together in confusion.
“Worried about you,” Mason clarified, watching the small face for any twitch or grimace that would help light the troubles afflicting him.
“She doesn’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Your mom says it’s not like you to get into trouble or bring notes home.”
“Oh.”
And the monosyllabic answer, softly spoken, tinged with the gentle layer of acknowledgment and understanding, gave him the hand hold he looked for. “We haven’t known each other for a long time, but you can tell me if there’s something troubling you.”
Spencer tugged on the blades of grass, raised his eyes to the monochromatic sky, and hesitated.
With each passing second, Mason’s stress levels rose, reminding him he had no experience with children, and the only knowledge he possessed of pre-teen culture consisted of commercials. Images of imaginative—and disastrous—scenarios stampeded across his mind and ripped his tissue-paper knowledge into confetti.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” he said, the words prompted by both a cowardice and the desire to give Spencer space. But at the forlorn look in the boy’s eyes, the yellow streak down Mason’s back morphed into a bold, red stripe of a friend and protector. “But sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone who isn’t as close—”
“It’s a girl.”
Though the breeze whispered rather than roared, Spencer said the words in such a quiet, soft voice that it took Mason a few seconds to process the statement. And once comprehension came, his inner-coward squeaked with fright. A girl? Sending up a litany of Please don’t let this be about sex, pregnancy, or STDs prayers to every deity he could remember, he asked, “What about the girl?”
Spencer heaved a sigh from his tiny chest, the sound laden with the heart-breaking vibrations of unrequited, unattainable love. It resonated with Mason, who found a kinship and harmony because his sighs made the same echo each time he saw Aya.
“She’s beautiful,” the boy said. “Beyond beautiful.” Sincerity and genuineness lit his eyes. “Inside and out—she’s what heaven is made of.”
“I don’t understand what she has to do with the trouble you get into.”
“I do it for her.”
Huh. He never would have figured he’d have anything in common with a nine-year old, but there it was, both of them up to their necks in trouble, and all over a girl.
“You mouth off to Mr. Whitehead because she likes it?”
“Yes—no—” He scratched the top of his head, his tiny face scrunched together in thought. Silence ensued, and Mason pondered the shared angst of love, which united small boys and grown men.
“I’ve loved Jessica since preschool, and I’m going to marry her.”
The conviction in his voice voided any inclination to launch into the tired, puppy-love rhetoric of adults, or to point out that life, vast and wide, lay ahead of him.
“Mr. Whitehead is a jerk.” Spencer kicked at the grass. “He’s always calling us names, telling us we’re stupid. One day, he was picking on Jessica, telling her she didn’t try hard enough and—I don’t know what happened, but my ears started to burn, and I heard this loud noise in my head...” He dug into the grass with the heel of his sneaker. “I just started yelling at him.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t remember exactly...something about his unresolved Oedipal issues, and his mother toilet training him too early...and I might have said he was orally fixated,” he mumbled. His cheeks turned red, the robust shade spread its way to his hairline and the tips of his ears.
Mason—not knowing if he should applaud Spencer’s grasp of Freudian theory, laugh at the idea of a pint-sized psychoanalyst, slap him on the back for defending the downtrodden, or be horrified at his misbehavior—felt a swift, deep sense of understanding for Aya’s single parent status, and a renewed sense of respect for his own father, who surely must have had these uncertain moments, and yet had soldiered on as the only parent.
“You must have been pretty mad to use Freud.”
“Mr. Whitehead’s such a jerk.” The words exploded into the air, startling the frogs into silence. “He’s a horrible teacher, and a terrible person, and he made Jessica cry.” Spencer turned to Mason, his need for understanding transmitted itself in his wide-eyed gaze. “I couldn’t stand to see her cry.”
“I understand,” Mason said wryly. “Believe me, I understand.”
“I’m not sorry I said those things.” His passionate tone dimmed as he added, “but I am sorry mom’s disappointed in me.”
Mason picked his way among the brambles of the story, trying to find a clear path. “Did you tell your mom what happened that day?”
Spencer shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell her that I’m in love.” Embarrassment stained his cheeks pink.
“So, what did you tell her?”
“That Mr. Whitehead was being a jerk.”
“I understand why you did it the first time, but you’ve been getting more letters sent home. Is he still picking on her?”
“Kind of. Now he’s being mean to everybody for any little thing. Today, Jeff dropped a pencil by accident, and Mr. Whitehead made us all stay in for recess.”
The tyranny of the powerful over the powerless. He’d seen it countless times between executive boards and the regular workers, and one of the purest joys in Mason’s life was foisting those arrogant jackasses from their thrones of power. “So, now you take on the teacher because...”
“Everyone else is too afraid to do anything.” He shrugged. “I can’t do a whole lot, I’m not strong or anything—” He smiled. “But I have a big brain and a big mouth, so why not use it? Besides, Jessica calls me a hero every time I stand up to him.” His face flamed scarlet at his confession.
Mason grinned. “It’s okay to want to please her. I can’t say I agree with your methods, but love can make you do strange things. And I really like you standing up for the underdog. You’re an amazing person, you know that? And you’re going to be one hel—heck of a man when you grow up.”
A firestorm of red flooded the child’s cheeks, but couldn’t blot out the pleasure in his eyes. “Really? You think so?”
“I know it—hasn’t anyone told you that?”
“Mom, Pops, but they don’t count—they’re family.”
Mason ran a hand along his day-old stubble. “Speaking of your family and your methods, there’s a better way to put Mr. Whitehead in his place. We can put that big brain of yours to better use. Talk to Aya—you don’t have to tell her you’re in love,” he hastened to add when he saw the look of horror on Spencer’s face, “but she’s your mom. All the parents should know what your teacher is doing—they can go to the principal, the school board. It’s a long term solution, and you wouldn’t have to keep getting in trouble.”
“Mom may not listen to me.”
“Has she ever ignored you?”
“No.”
“Then talk to her.”
Spencer turned to him. In his eyes, a knowing look glowed with a light even the cloudy afternoon couldn’t steal. “You like her a lot, don’t you?”
“Who, your mom?” Feeling suddenly exposed, Mason shifted, uncomfortable with the line of questioning and the all-seeing gaze in Spencer’s eyes. “Yeah, sure, she’s a nice lady.”
“No, I mean like her, in the s
ame way I like Jessica.”
“You love Jessica.”
“You love my mom.”
Whoa. “I barely know your mom—I’m sure she’s very lovable, but I don’t really know her.” He pulled himself upright, cursing his inner-Hyde for being so obvious that a child could see his reaction.
“You give her the same look that Fluffy gives Althea.”
Mason frowned. “Who’s Fluffy?”
“The bull mom brings in from Jason’s ranch to stud the cows. He’s in love with Althea.”
That sentence brought the conversation to a slamming halt. More than the disbelief that someone had named a bull “Fluffy,” he was stunned to find out he resembled an animal with horns. “I’m not in love,” he said, when words finally came to him.
“A man in love can always recognize the signs in another man—or bull.”
“I can’t argue that.” He tossed a clump of dirt at the pond. “But sometimes we see things in other people because we want to, not because those characteristics are really there.”
Spencer gave him a scornful look only a pre-teen could manage. “Are you going to say anything?”
“I’m sure Althea is already aware of Fluffy’s feelings.”
Spencer heaved an exasperated sigh. “I meant to my mom.”
“It’s complicated.”
He nodded in agreement. “Like me and Jessica.”
Mason wrapped his arm around the child’s frail shoulders. “I’ll keep your love a secret if you keep mine.”
“Deal.”
He grinned at him, lost teeth and freckles, and Mason’s heart sighed, expanded, and added a new compartment for pint-sized sages.
“Hey, Spencer...”
“Yeah?”
He wanted to ask the boy if he knew of Aya’s secret weapon, but as soon as the question formed, he trashed it as inappropriate and running the risk of adding a heavy burden to too small shoulders. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”
“So are you,” he said.
Mason smiled, the compliment worth more than its proverbial weight in gold. Then he remembered the reason for being at the ranch, the truth of what the future held, and his smile shriveled, a plant too delicate for the dark soil of deception in which it was laid. And the clouds crowding the sky descended, entered his body, and filled his heart with black reality.
Chapter Six
“I wish you’d stop fussing over me. I’m sick, not dead.” Thanks to cell phone technology, the long-suffering tone of Keith St. John’s voice reached Mason’s ears with crisp, digital clarity.
“I’m not fussing.”
“You’re fussing worse than a mother hen.”
Mason lay on his bed, pressing his head into the pillow and smiled. “I’m a wealthy and powerful man. Calling me a chicken could bring down the wrath of forces you’d best not mess with.”
“Cluck, cluck.”
He laughed. “Aw, dad. Let me take care of you.”
“You are taking care of me—you’ve arranged for the best medical supervision a man could have. The nurses are doing a fine job.”
Mason heard the tinkle of ice-cubes hitting glass, then the pop-fizz of a can being opened.
“I’m fine—but what about you? Lately, you’ve sounded...tired, worn out.”
“I’m good.”
“Gobble, gobble.”
“Wrong bird.”
“When you’re frettin’ over me, you’re a chicken; when you’re lying to your old man, you’re a turkey.”
His smile widened. “I’m not lying.”
“When are you coming home? It’s been six weeks since I’ve seen you—I’m not complaining,” his dad said. “I just miss you, is all.”
The loving words turned Mason from a grown man into a child who ached to feel his father’s arms around him, and hear him say everything will work out. “Soon, I hope. It just depends on this latest...deal.”
“Still won’t tell me anything about this ‘secret’ negotiation?”
“No.” Like he was going to let his dad know about his alter-ego, and the deception involved in getting Aya’s land.
“Fine.” His dad chuckled. “Play James Bond on your old man.” A short silence, then a spasm of coughs followed his father’s words.
Mason bolted upright. “Dad. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The words came out in a begrudging grumble. “I swallowed my cola wrong. Geez, now I can’t even drink without you doing a Florence Nightingale.”
His body stood down from its high alert as he rolled his eyes sky-ward. “You enjoy putting me into fits.”
“I enjoy you—you were the best thing I ever did with my life.”
His father’s words wrapped invisible bands around Mason’s heart. Soft as goose-down, strong as titanium, they were the bonds of security that had given him wings to fly, and on them were written the values he used to define his life and purpose.
“You sure you want to make such a claim? Your life’s not over yet,” Mason said.
“Unless Billie Holiday is about to resurrect herself and marry me, you’ll always be the best part of me.”
“At least, the best-looking part of you.” He spoke the glib words to cover the pain of potential loss which threatened to pour out of him, but the husky, rough edge in his voice belied the cocky statement. Silence fell between them.
Then his father said, “I’ve been thinking about the farm.”
“Yeah?” He twisted, punching the pillow into a thick, fluffy pile, leaned his back against the headboard, and ignored the spasm of anxious-pain that ripped through him. When he’d first proposed buying Aya’s farm, his dad had objected—forcefully. Now, Mason wished fervently, his father would tell him to scrap his plans and get the hell home.
“You know I thought you’d lost your mind—trying to fulfill a stupid, long-forgotten dream...but the more I think about it, the more excited I get.”
“Good.” But it didn’t feel good, at all. It felt like hell. He slumped against the pillows. So much for a “get out of jail, free” card; so much for leaving, running from Aya, and pretending half his heart wouldn’t forever be left in Montana.
“My kid buying me a house.” His dad snorted with derision. “I should’ve done that for you.”
“What are you talking about? We were never homeless.”
“I never gave you a house, never had the money. You spent your years going from one ramshackle trailer to the other. A tumbleweed, that’s what I made of your growing up.” Self-contempt tainted his words.
“You gave me a home, and I never cared if it was an apartment or a trailer.”
“Still, a child making his parent’s dream come true—it seemed wrong.” Guilt wrestled in the words.
“We’ve been through this—”
“I know, I know. And I’m okay with it, now. Pride has its place, but it shouldn’t be at the expense of a child’s wish. I get it, son, and I accept it.”
Mason cursed himself. So concerned with reassuring his father, he’d missed the opportunity to wriggle out of buying the land. The knowledge he wanted out, the fact he would have manipulated the situation for his benefit made him feel lower than a snake’s belly. What kind of man was he turning into?
His father drew a deep breath. “When I close my eyes at night, I think about those hills, sky. I don’t know what it is about that land, but there was something about it—”
“Love,” Mason said softly. “The land has been loved by its owners.”
“Yeah,” his dad breathed. “It was—son, you sure these people want to sell? I wouldn’t give it up if it was mine.” Parental suspicion crept into his words as he asked, “You’re not keeping anything from me, are you?”
“Jim Michaels is determined to sell. His son and daughter-in-law are dead and he wants to move on.” His lips twisted as the image of Aya rose in his mind and made his heart twinge. “Jim wants to take care of his granddaughter and her son.”
“Okay.” His father�
��s voice had returned to normal pitch, the searching beacon that had sought to illuminate any deception in Mason, evidently satisfied by his half-answer.
He rocked into a sitting position. “I shouldn’t keep you, Dad. Let’s call it a night before I tire you out.”
His father chuckled. “I can tell when I’m being rushed off the phone.”
Mason didn’t deny it. The precarious line he treaded between half-truth and half-lie left him full of guilt and torment.
“It’s fine,” his dad said. “The TMC channel is playing a John Wayne double feature tonight, anyway.”
Mason winced at the mention of his father’s hero and the reminder of his failing to live up to the standard of the Duke. He wished him a goodnight and flipped his phone shut. Red numerals from the clock radio on his night table announced the midnight hour, but he knew sleep would elude him. He crept from his bedroom, closed the door quietly, and headed to the kitchen.
On the ground floor, he met Jim coming up the basement steps, his plaid shirt half-buttoned and his hair askew. The reflection of the midnight moon beaming through the landing’s window caught the older man’s startled expression.
“Destina’s window was stuck.” He said it quickly, with a guilty edge as though defending himself against a gun-wielding interrogator.
“Darn thing sticks, what? Two or three times a week?”
Jim cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that.”
“Good thing she’s got you.”
“Good thing I got the window,” Jim mumbled under his breath.
Mason nodded at his disarranged hair and rumpled clothing. “You must have worked up quite a sweat un-sticking it.”
Jim looked at him, the light of the moon bright enough to reveal his half-denial, half-pleasure expression. “Listen, don’t say anything. Destina and I are trying to ease into the relationship. Aya was real close to her grandma, and I don’t think she’d mind me finding love again. But until I know that things will work out, I want to keep it quiet. I don’t want to distress her.”
He would bet his income Aya already knew, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
“What are you doing up?” Her grandfather smoothed his hair and buttoned his shirt.