“You’re avoiding the question.”
She shook her head. “I said that I’m a private person.”
Nick had been raised between two brothers. His older brother, Colt, jumped headfirst into every situation, confident of his success, always needing to prove himself, while Trey, his adopted younger brother, found his paths made smoother by faith in God and humanity, but Nick knew both men. Their outward natures hid a lot of internal junk. Being stuck in the middle made him privy to a wide family spectrum. “And that answer says you’re either not capable or not comfortable living a normal life surrounded by everyday occurrences. So why should I trust my children with someone who has clearly shrugged off everyday existence?”
“Privacy equates to inability.” She mused the words with a measured look at him. “Interesting assessment.”
“Hey, fixing you isn’t on my agenda, and while I appreciate the way you’ve put together the setting”—he flicked his attention to the house, the dog, and the talking bird —“this is all a little too surreal for me. Thanks for the time, Doc. Send me a bill and I’ll put a check in the mail. I’m going to guess you don’t do a whole lot of online banking out here.”
“No charge,” she answered smoothly as she rose from the bench. “I wish you well, Mr. Stafford. No offense taken.”
“None meant, ma’am.” He reached out to shake her hand and felt like a fool when she didn’t extend hers. “Well, then. Have a good day.” He did an about-face, strode back to his truck, climbed in, and backed it around before aiming the big V8 up the slope. He turned onto the main logger’s path, carved out over a decade before and kept clear by an avid group of hunters, and followed that to the county road.
He was right back where he started. The principal wouldn’t be happy, his family wouldn’t be happy, and hey, news flash! He wasn’t happy.
He stopped for gas, picked up a package of his favorite popcorn treat, Halfpops, then went for broke and bought two more and ate all three bags on the way back to the Double S. He stuffed the empty bags into one of the storage bins behind the seat so the girls wouldn’t see them. He was careful with their snacks when they were at home, more so because he knew Angelina would feed them anything she pleased at the ranch. Since he respected and possibly feared the former Seattle detective who had agreed to marry his know-it-all big brother, he held his tongue about it and the girls weren’t worse off.
Whitney would have a fit if she was here, and you know it.
He knew it and he didn’t want to care. But something about a woman leaving her husband and two beautiful little girls meant he must have done something drastically wrong. Otherwise, why would a woman turn her back and walk away from her children?
You tossed aside a chance to help two little kids? What are you thinking?
Elsa shoved the mental scolding aside and moved toward the house. She knew exactly what she was thinking. She didn’t dare let herself get drawn in by another anxious parent, even if the guy was a twelve on a “smokin’ hot cowboy” one-to-ten rating system. Sure, he needed help. She saw it in his eyes and heard it in his tone, even as his words refuted her sister’s directive.
You want to help him. No. Strike that. You’re intrigued about helping the girls, especially the older one. You’ve worked with kids like her before, and you’re good at what you do. Isn’t it time to move on? Especially if it can help this child? And if you help the big sister, the younger one benefits as well. Are you willing to let Will Belvedere’s depraved choices steal more of your life?
“You’re a jerk! You’re a jerk! You’re a jerk!”
Elsa didn’t need the bird’s ill-timed reminder. It was there in the mirror’s reflection, in the set of a stubborn man’s shoulders, the understandable question in his eyes. Who in their right mind would bring their precious children to a therapist with her mental health record? No one. Not if they knew her history.
He was right to run hard and fast, and she was just as right to let him.
The phone rang as she finished laying out food for Hoyl in the parrot cage. She raised the phone, read her sister’s number, and clicked End, but Rachel wasn’t fooled by that. She called right back, knowing Elsa couldn’t resist two tries in a row, just in case something serious had happened. She answered the phone as she opened the front door for the bird to return to his cage for the night. “Hey, Rach. What’s up?”
“Stop ignoring my calls; how did the appointment with Nick Stafford go?”
“Patient/client privilege, HIPAA rules, leave me alone.”
“Stick to basics, then,” her older sister insisted. “Did he show?”
She could answer this honestly and keep the guy temporarily out of trouble. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“You sound genuinely pleased,” noted Elsa as she wired the bird’s cage shut. “Why?”
“His daughters are delightful, even if Nick is oblivious,” Rachel replied. “They’re smart, funny, and have a lot going for them. But it’s real tough when you’re old enough to understand that your mother’s new boyfriend is more important than her children.”
“You think they know?” Nicholas Stafford had seemed more protective than the average angry single dad she’d met while in active practice in a Seattle suburb. She wouldn’t have labeled him as a rash talker in front of his kids, but then she’d been wrong before. A tight sigh wound its way up from gut level. She forced it back, determined to stride forward.
“It’s Gray’s Glen, small town USA. Of course they know,” said Rachel. “Wives running out on rich husbands, chasing rodeo cowboys, ditching kids. Please, that’s a reality TV show with no cable bill involved. Dakota might be a little less informed, but Cheyenne was older when Whitney took off. Trust me. She knows.”
Mother abandonment, the toughest scenario for any child to surmount. Bad enough when inadvertent, like death, but the raw, ragged-edged emotions left by a mother’s deliberate abandonment could leave lifelong scars and present challenging behaviors.
“When are the girls coming to see you?”
Rachel wanted definitive answers. Elsa could throw the guy under the bus and tell her sister he wasn’t going to follow through, or she could give him some time to figure out what he wanted to do. Life and emotions weren’t as cut and dried as her big sister seemed to think. “Once again I’ll cite patient/client privilege and leave it at that.”
“Elsa.”
“Rachel.” Elsa blew out a breath as she studied the deepening shadows surrounding her forest home. “I understand the district’s concern, and I’ll keep you in the loop. For the moment, you’re about to end the spring semester, all the kids will be on summer break soon, and then they have the entire summer to try and make headway. This isn’t a quick fix, ever. You know that.”
“I do, but Nick Stafford has already shrugged off my concerns for seven long months. We’ll have to hold Cheyenne back a year, and while that’s not the end of the world, I don’t think being labeled as stupid by her peers is going to help anything. Her self-image is already soured.”
“You can’t just pass her?”
“Not and live with myself,” Rachel retorted. “But I don’t want to add to her passive/aggressive plate by pushing her over some unseen edge.” She paused, sucked a quick breath, and backtracked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way—”
“You’re fine, Rachel. And you’re correct, the stubborn, quiet ones can brew a head of steam no one notices.”
“I won’t ask any more questions, but I want you to know that if you need information from me, I’ll share,” Rachel continued, and Elsa knew not all school administrators were that accommodating. If they were—
No, she wouldn’t look back and wouldn’t cast blame. There was plenty of it to go around. From a clinical point of view, she understood not everyone could or would be saved. But every now and again, when shadows loomed and she remembered the sound of little Christiana Belvedere’s voice, she wondered what would have happened if she’d called the scho
ol with her concerns that day. Would they have taken steps to hold the children there?
Probably not, but she’d never have the chance to know because she never made the phone call.
And then it was too late.
Her sister’s words bothered her all night. Or was it the look of defeat in Nicholas Stafford’s troubled brown eyes that messed up her sleep? In any case, she questioned her snarky attitude and her judgment well into the next morning. Finally, she stormed into the house, picked up the phone, and hit Nick Stafford’s number. He answered on the second ring, which meant he wasn’t crazily avoiding her. “Double S Ranch, Nick speaking.”
“Mr. Stafford, this is Elsa Andreas.” Was he hauling in a breath? Looking around him, uncomfortable? Peeved and considering hanging up the phone without another word?
Stop creating the scenario and let it occur naturally. Why is it so easy to use your training on everyone except yourself ?
“Yes?”
“I’ve been reconsidering our conversation yesterday.”
“The one where you held all the cards and treated me like some kind of low-level species beneath your dignity?”
“That would be the one.” To her relief, he laughed, so she waded in. “I’ve had time to think about the girls and their current situation and how I might be able to help.”
“Doctor, I—”
“Here’s the thing,” she went on, ignoring his objection. “You and I don’t have to be best buddies for me to be effective with your children. And yes, I decided I wanted a more solitary setting last year, but a love of solitude doesn’t negate years of education and practical experience in family therapy. My sister has legal means at her disposal to ask a court to order your children into therapy, but is that what you want?”
“Absolutely not.” His voice went hard.
“My thoughts exactly. Here’s my suggestion. You come over here again —”
“Or you could come here, save me the drive to Middle-earth.”
“Funny. Like I haven’t heard that before.” Rachel tweaked her about it all the time, but she had to hand it to Nick Stafford. It sounded funnier coming from him.
“Your steady barrage of company makes Tolkien jokes, Doc? Why do I suspect that’s not the case?”
“Reiterating,” she drawled, disregarding his comment, “you could come over here and our first session could be a family session. You get to know me, I get to know all of you, and the noisy bird is a great conversation starter for kids. It’s neutral ground, Mr. Stafford. Kids do better on neutral ground. And yes, at some time I’d like to come there. With your permission, of course. Rachel and I were raised on a ranch up north, so animals, hay, dogs, and farm equipment are a comfortable setting for all concerned.”
“You’re a ranch kid?” Doubt speared his voice.
“Not everyone finds their home on the range, do they?” She left the question rhetorical and moved on. “My familiarity with their setting might make sessions at your place beneficial.”
“My father’s home, you mean.”
His father’s home? She’d been tapping a pencil against the tabletop. She stopped. “You and the girls don’t live on the ranch? I assumed —”
“We live in town, but I work here, so the girls are at the ranch fairly often.”
“I see.” And here might be conflict number one, because with a huge spread like Sam Stafford’s Double S Ranch, why wouldn’t his son be living on the gorgeous rolling acreage spreading across the rich plain of the fertile Kittitas Valley? Too much family proximity? An aversion to the ranch? Separation of job versus daily life? Her mind jumped to possible scenarios, any of which might have an effect on the girls’ behaviors.
He sighed, and he didn’t try to cover it. In fact, he might have exhaled extra loud for her benefit, and when he did, she almost smiled. “Unless you prefer the long drive to Ellensburg,” she continued. “They have many good therapists there, and I won’t be offended.”
Seconds mounted, and when he did speak, she knew she’d made her point. No one had extra time these days, and single parents suffered from lack of time more than most. “When should we come?”
She wasn’t about to let scheduling mess up progress. “My schedule is flexible,” she replied smoothly. “Yours isn’t. What works for you? Do the girls have after-school activities we need to work around?”
“They do, but they’re free on Thursday and Friday this week.”
“Does that work with your schedule?”
Again the pause, but he didn’t make her wait too long before he conceded. “I’ll make it work.”
“Perfect. Thank you. I’ll see you and the girls on Thursday at five.” She hung up the phone before he could answer. She was pretty sure he’d prefer being a no-show if she gave him the chance. He’d put Rachel off for most of the school year, which meant he was adept at shelving problems. Reticence in his tone indicated he was cornered, and Elsa had been a western girl for a long time. Born-to-the-saddle cowboys never liked being cornered. Now it was up to him.
She moved toward the door, set down the phone, and walked outside.
Clean spring air had swept away the smell of winter mold from leaf clutter and needle droppings. Birdsong surrounded her, bright and vibrant, assorted visitors singing welcomes as they cared for northern nesting grounds.
She used to love springtime. The dance of new life, resurrection, rebirth. She’d reveled in the fresh angle of the sun, its sharper rays, a more defined warmth. On her parents’ ranch, they’d be birthing puppies, piglets, and calves—a true season of renewal. Her brother, Ian, and his family would come to help, even her littlest nephew. Ian had bought an old-timer’s house up the road and fixed it up for his growing family so they could all be part of the ranching process. When Nick said he lived in town, her internal radar had spiked, but she’d been in Gray’s Glen long enough to hear a little history. And current history in Gray’s Glen revolved around Sam Stafford and the Double S.
She drew on her cape and stepped outside. The bark-like voice of a heron paused her. It was joined by another great blue, then another, and as she turned toward the honking voices of pterosaur-looking birds, a sweeter, more melodic tune made her stop. Moving slowly, she peeked around the corner to find the songster. On the southeast side of the shed, in the lee of a faded, peeling shutter, a purple finch knit bits of grass and weed in quick, decisive motions. His bright plumage danced in the warming sun, and when his mate flew in with more nesting material, he bobbed a quick look of true love her way and kept right on working as she flew off in search of more goods.
A young pair, most likely. Hurried, with no last year’s nest to guide them, but the fury of first love and babies pushed them to commit. Did they stay together out of need or desire?
An age-old question that niggled present-day anthropologists.
She stared around her small holding, suddenly dissatisfied, and with a swoosh of her cape, she strode back inside and gathered her art supplies. She piled them into the car and followed the logger’s road to a higher elevation where dense foliage welcomed her. She pulled her cloak close, set up the easel, arranged her colors in nonspectral order, and let the shadows draw her in.
Up here, she was safe amid somber grays, blues, and browns. Brightly colored birds singing songs of love didn’t find cozy nesting corners in the gloomy chill, and when she’d applied paint thickly to the eighteen-by-twelve canvas, she took a razor blade from the side pocket of her bag and began carving muted images of shadowed trees and lifeless branches, light along the edges and growing darker inside.
Like her.
“I’m going because I have to, not because I want to,” Nick reminded his family Thursday afternoon. “My kids are not crazy, I am not depressed, and we don’t need any backwoods therapist to tell us otherwise.” Nick Stafford put an exclamation point at the end of his statement by tearing the memo of his appointment into confetti-sized pieces, then letting them sift softly into the nearby kitchen garbage can as
he faced off with his future sister-in-law, Angelina Morales.
“Fat lot of good that’ll do you,” muttered his brother Colt as he passed by on his way outside. He paused, kissed Angelina good-bye, then shot a sympathetic look his brother’s way. “Go easy on him, honey. He’s the sensitive type.”
“Sensitive?” Angelina encroached on Nick’s space with a spatula, and he had to draw up all his manly reserves not to cringe. He’d known Angelina for a while now, and she wasn’t afraid to use whatever weapon happened to be at hand. “This is not sensitive. It is stupid—so stupid a blind man could see. You tell me”—she pointed outside where Nick’s two daughters romped with her son—“what it is that you fear and I will fix it for you.”
“I fear nothing.” He met her gaze and grabbed his hat as if dismissing her, but Angelina had been a decorated Seattle police detective for years. She didn’t do “dismissed” easily. She rounded the counter and scowled up at him.
“There was plenty of fear on your face when we prayed for Cheyenne to live a few weeks ago.”
Well, okay, he’d been downright scared to death then, when Cheyenne tried riding a ranch mount with no one around. She’d taken a nasty blow to the head when she fell off. Seeing her unconscious in the hospital bed about took his breath away. But Cheyenne was all right now, she’d promised to do her schoolwork, and there was ranching to be done.
“Do not put anything ahead of the health of these children, Nick Stafford.” She folded her arms and braced her feet, ready to stand her ground or do battle, and Nick was pretty sure she’d be fine either way. “You heard the principal. For Cheyenne to remain in school, even if she’s held back, she needs counseling.”
“She needs academics,” he growled. “The rest will take care of itself.”
“How’s that been working out so far?” she wondered, facing him. “Oh, that’s right. It hasn’t. If you let your stubborn, overinflated Stafford pride get in the way of this child’s success, I’ll—”
Home on the Range Page 2