by Carol Grace
"I'm not worried," she said with deliberate calm, walking toward the fire and stretching her hands out in front of her. "Why don't you stay? Sarah would like that."
"Would you?" he asked impulsively. What made him say that? What could she possibly say without being rude?
"I, uh, of course I would. But that's not the point. The point is for you to spend time with your daughter. Besides, she says you need four for Pictionary. She's gone to get your father."
"I don't believe my father's playing Pictionary," he said. "The last time my father stayed up past eight o'clock was when two pregnant ewes gave birth to twins in the same evening four years ago."
"Do you know how to play Pictionary?" he asked, taking four folding chairs out of the closet.
She stared at the wall, her mind a blank. "I don't know. Maybe it will come back to me. I never know what I know how to do until I try it."
"Like horseback riding... or kissing."
She studied the pattern in the hand-woven carpet. "Yes."
"Those came back to you."
"Or maybe you're just a good teacher."
"Or maybe you've had a lot of practice."
"Riding?"
"Kissing."
She glanced up, trying to read the expression in his eyes. Was Parker Robinson teasing her or did he seriously want to know? "Does it matter?" she asked.
"Aren't you curious about your background?" he countered.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "And other times I don't want to know. As if I've been cut loose and allowed to be or do whatever I want. It's... liberating."
Voices in the hall prevented him from answering. Sarah had her grandfather by the hand and was pulling him into the living room. "We need you, Grandpa," she said. "So we can have two on each team." She set the game on the table and looked around the room at the fire now burning brightly in the fireplace and at her father and Christine. Before anyone could protest she had them sitting around the table with a stack of cards in the middle and a pad of drawing paper and pencils.
"You're Christine's partner," she said to her father, easing Parker into a folding chair with her hand on his shoulder.
"Here's what you do," Sarah explained eagerly, one knee on her chair, the other foot on the floor. "When you get your assignment, you try to draw it so your partner will know what it's supposed to be."
Her grandfather nodded slowly and picked up a pencil in his gnarled hands. Sarah plunked an egg timer in the middle of the table. "We each get three minutes to guess. Should I go first?" she asked quickly before anyone could protest or quit before they'd begun.
Christine looked at Parker who'd opened his mouth to say something to his daughter, but closed it when she didn't give him a chance. In a flash Sarah had read her card and drawn a picture. Her grandfather looked at it over his glasses and his eyebrows knit together in concentration.
"Is it a flower?" he asked.
"No, no, no." Sarah shook her head with frustration.
"I don't think you're allowed to talk, are you?" Christine inquired mildly.
"Sorry," Sarah said, pressing her fingers against her mouth.
"So you have played this before," Parker said in a low tone.
Christine met his gaze across the table, but she had no answer. Had she played it? With who? Children? Whose children?
Sarah drew more pictures and her grandfather dutifully guessed, but never got it right. The answer was windmill. Then it was Christine's turn. She selected a card that said "Royal Wedding." She sketched a head with a crown and showed it to Parker. He shrugged.
"Come on, Dad, try," Sarah urged.
"A hat," he said.
Christine shook her head and drew a church and a steeple. She drew stick figures of a man and woman. The man wore a top hat and the woman wore a long dress with a train and a crown on her head. Parker guessed church, then stopped. Sarah squirmed in her chair hardly able to keep from shouting out the answer.
"A wedding," he said reluctantly.
"You're good at drawing," Sarah said, studying the picture of the bride and groom. "Isn't she, Dad?"
Without looking at the drawing, he nodded.
"I could sure learn a lot from Christine if I lived here," she said.
"I'm sure you could," he said with surprising mellowness.
"And I could raise goats."
"I think we've already been through this a few times," Parker said. "This is a sheep ranch, you know."
"Goats browse where it's not good enough for sheep," Sarah informed everyone at the table. "They can clear the land of brush for you," she said with a smug smile.
"That may be true," her grandfather said. "But goats need just as much care as sheep."
"That's why I need to be here," she said, her eyes glowing. "All the time. To take care of my goats."
"Sarah," her father said, "I thought we were playing a game. You can't raise goats because you’re not here all the time. You go to school in Denver," he said with surprising patience, "and after school you'll go to college. In the summer you can come home. You can have a pet, a dog or a cat, but..."
"A dog or a cat?" Her voice rose as the impact of his words hit. "I don't want a pet. I want goats. A whole hard of goats and if you don't get them for me, I'll get them for myself." With that she stalked out of the room, head held high, shoulders back. The room was silent except for the hiss of the logs in the fireplace.
The old man braced his arm on the table and rose slowly. "Got ideas of her own, that girl," he said. "Don't know where she gets 'em." He shuffled to the door then turned to look at Parker. "The back forty might do for goats," he suggested.
Parker took a deep breath. "You're not taking her side, are you?" he asked.
"Just an idea," he said. "If she was a boy--”
"But she's not. She's a girl. An intelligent girl with a stubborn streak. And a few crazy ideas. She'll get over them."
Emilio nodded and left the room. But the tension remained. Parker stood and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Christine took her drawing of the church and the bride and groom and put it in her pocket.
"I suppose you're on her side, too," Parker said with a glance at Christine still sitting at the table staring off into space.
"Hmm?" She pulled herself out of her reverie. "I can understand why she loves it here and wants to stay," she said.
"You can?"
"So can you," she said. "And don't tell me it's because you're a man. Women can appreciate beauty, solitude, fresh air "
"I know that. I'm not a complete sexist."
He sat in the chair next to the fireplace, stretched his legs out in front of him and stared into the flames. His forehead was creased with lines she wanted to smooth. Despite her siding with Sarah in this argument, she understood his frustration with the girl. But not his insistence on her staying at boarding school. She realized it had something to do with his ex-wife. Probably everything had something to do with her. She cast a long shadow over his and his daughter's life. And after today Christine felt herself falling helplessly under the same shadow.
Christine touched the drawing she'd made, smoothing the paper between her fingers. She had no trouble drawing a picture of a bride and groom or a church. She knew exactly how the veil swept past the waist, how it felt fastened to the headpiece. She could almost hear the music in the church. Smell the flowers. Her stomach knotted and she felt like she was going to faint. Instinctively she put her head between her knees.
"What's wrong?" Parker got to his feet and crossed the floor in two strides.
"Nothing. I..." She looked up and the blood came rushing back to her head. "I had a feeling, a memory.. . and now it's gone." She swallowed hard, trying to repress the memory, but why?
"Something from the past?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
She drew a ragged breath. "Maybe. I don't know." She tried to stand. He pulled her up with strong hands and she stood there for a long moment, her eyes filled with longing for what she
couldn't have until she broke away.
"She likes you, too. Part of it is, I don't want her to get too attached to you."
"For fear I'll leave."
"You will leave," he said.
"Yes." She knew she'd have to leave. Had to find out who she was and where she belonged. Because she had to know, and because there was no place for her here, not permanently.
She turned on the heel of her slipper before he could see the tears welling in her eyes.
"Wait a minute," he said.
But she walked out the door, down the hall and into her room. Not her room. His den. Nothing here was hers. Not even her clothes. Soon she would leave here, before it was too late. Before she'd fallen in love with this place and with its owner.
The next afternoon Parker found Christine in the henhouse gathering eggs. "Can I talk to you?" he asked from the doorway.
She slid the basket of eggs over her arm and stepped outside. The soft sound of hens clucking filled the spring air. Parker stared off into the hills in the distance and she wondered if he'd forgotten why he'd come. She studied his profile, his strong nose, stubborn chin and broad forehead. Finally he turned toward her, his forehead creased with lines.
"I had a call from the employment office."
Her heart fell. Her throat clogged with sadness. She knew what was coming. She was going to be fired. She'd been expecting it, but that didn't make it any easier. She hated to leave this place, this safe haven. Most of all, she hated to leave Parker. But she held her chin high and looked him in the eye.
"Did they find someone for you?"
"Yes. A man with some experience who doesn't mind the isolation. At least that's what they tell me. He can't start for another week though. So I was wondering..."
"Of course. I'll be glad to stay until he comes." Christine was proud of her steady voice.
The lines in his forehead disappeared. He thought she'd fall apart. Well, he didn't know her. Nobody knew her. Least of all herself.
"Thanks," he said, then he turned and left.
Somehow she got through the day. She made vegetable soup for lunch with Sarah's help. The girl chopped carrots and celery while Christine made a meat loaf for dinner.
After dinner Sarah dragged out old home videos and then went to Christine's room to drag her to the living room to watch them.
"It's my last night, you know," Sarah said. "I won't be back for two weeks, cuz next week is my class ski trip."
"I—I won't be here then. Did you hear? Your dad found a real cook."
Sarah's face fell. "What?"
"So the next time I see you will be in Denver," Christine continued cheerfully. "Because it's time for me to go find out who I am."
"I know who you are," Sarah insisted. "You're... Christine, don't go," she pleaded. Her eyes filled with tears and Christine blinked back a few of her own. She hugged the girl tightly and promised to come and see her. They wiped their eyes on Christine's tissues and Christine gave in to her request to watch the videos with her.
To her surprise Parker and his father were in the living room waiting for them. The tape was cued up and a fire was blazing in the fireplace.
The videotape showed a laughing, skinny little girl on her pony riding around the corral with her father holding the bridle. There was her grandfather holding a baby lamb, the ranch hands cavorting in the background and maybe even a former cook or two in a tall white hat. But there was no sign of Sarah's mother. Of course not. What did she expect? Parker looked younger, but not much happier. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him watching himself and his family with a nostalgic smile on his face. Did he know how lucky he was to have this family? Probably.
After they'd watched the tape, Christine and Sarah made popcorn and the four of them ate it together in the living room. For a going-away party, it wasn't bad at all.
When Sarah left the next day, she hugged Christine tightly and made her promise to visit her at school. Then she jumped into her father's truck and they drove to Clear Creek to meet a friend whose parents were driving the two girls back to Denver. The same Clear Creek where Christine was supposed to have taken the bus from that day so long ago, and yet such a short time ago. Soon she'd go back there, get on the bus this time for sure. No more stalling, she thought as she returned to an empty kitchen.
It wasn't empty for long. Parker's father Emilio came in for a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. "Hear you'll be leaving us," he said.
Christine glanced up from the old cookbook she was thumbing through. "Yes," she said. "You'll be getting a real cook."
"You're about as real as they come, to my mind," he said, studying her under his bushy eyebrows.
"Thank you, but...I'm not making any progress here."
"It's that son of mine," he grumbled.
"Oh, no. I mean in recovering my memory."
"Humph," he said as if he didn't believe her.
"Parker has been great, really. Giving me the job and everything."
"Needs a wife."
"Yes, maybe. But I don't think he wants one."
"Doesn't know what he wants."
Christine couldn't help but smile despite the sadness that crept into her heart. The idea of Parker not knowing what he wanted was almost funny.
"I know what I want," the old man continued. "A grandson to leave the place to."
"What about Sarah?"
"She'll marry somebody. Move away."
"I don't know about that," Christine said. "She loves this place."
He shook his head.
"Don't give up," she urged him.
"I won't if you won't," he said with a sudden smile.
She returned his smile, but she'd already given up. Given up hoping she'd ever be back there, ever break through Parker's defenses, ever find love, real love. Because despite her loss of memory, somehow she knew one thing. And that was that true love is a rare and precious thing, and that if you're lucky enough to find it, you should never let it go.
Chapter Seven
For the next week Christine studiously avoided Parker. It wasn't really hard because it was clear he was avoiding her. She cooked, and in between cooking she gardened, she rode old Cindy to the duck pond and back and tried not to think about the future. The future without Parker, without the ranch. Instead she memorized the view from the front porch, of green pastures and purple mountains in the distance. Of grazing sheep and cloudless skies. She inhaled great gulps of fresh mountain air and vowed never to forget this interlude in her life no matter what lay ahead of her. Or what happened before she came there.
It was easy to be philosophical during the day when she was busy. But at night after she'd loaded the dishwasher and hung the cast-iron skillets and copper-bottomed saucepans back on the rack in the kitchen, it was a different matter. She went to her room and tried not to ask herself what if. What if she went to the Department of Missing Persons and nobody was missing her? What if she wandered around looking for herself and never found a clue as to who she was? What if she couldn't get on the bus again and simply wandered around Clear Creek? What if she never saw Parker again, never saw Sarah, either? Never returned to see the ranch under a warm summer sun, with the lambs frolicking on the new grass, and never saw it under a blanket of fresh snow?
When the new cook came she allowed herself two days to show him around, from the kitchen to the bunkhouse to the garden. But by the second day he was whipping up a huge batch of chili and a pan of corn-bread with one hand and a mountain of tapioca with the other and she realized with a pang she wasn't needed there anymore. After dinner she swallowed her pride and asked Parker for a ride to town the next day. He said sure, and disappeared into his office.
She knew he was relieved to have her go. She saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice. There was no need to say any more. So when he knocked on the door to her room later that evening she was surprised. He stepped inside and looked around. She hoped he was pleased to see she'd left it exactly the way she'd
found it by removing the vase of wildflowers, folding away the colorful afghan and packing her clothes in a small bag Parker had loaned her the last time she'd tried to leave. Or maybe he didn't notice.
He noticed. Parker felt a growing emptiness in the house and she wasn't even gone yet. He also felt guilty at forcing her to leave. Guilty and worried. He was worried she'd wander around Denver not knowing where to go or what to do. The same worries he'd had the last time she'd tried to leave. Only worse. Last time he barely knew her, this time he'd grown accustomed to having her around. Gotten used to seeing her in the kitchen when he walked by the window. To eating her gourmet food, hearing her talk with his father, or rather listen to him, watching her ride through the pasture when he was mending fences. It was strange how well she fit in. Maybe it was because she didn't know where she was supposed to fit in. Anyway, this time he was taking no chances on her not getting on the bus. He was driving her all the way to Denver. He had a good excuse, too.
"I can give you a ride into Denver tomorrow," he said abruptly, finally dragging his eyes from the empty bureau, from the wood paneling, to look at her.
"What?"
"I'm meeting some other purebred breeders there. Hope to sell them some of my rams and maybe pick up something. I'm looking for a couple of ewes to improve my stock."
She sat on the edge of her bed and looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "You mean you're taking the rams with you?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Just pictures and specs. No rams allowed in the hotel."
"Hotel?" she repeated.
"I'm staying a few days. Naturally I'll stop in and see Sarah. Then I have to go to the meeting of the Colorado Sheep Breeders Association. Actually I was asked to give a talk on heredity and environment."
She stared at him with her mouth open.
"What's wrong?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Is it so surprising that I can talk about sheep? Most people are surprised I can talk about anything else."