by Sherry Lewis
“I’ll-call the sheriff,” Gil said. “You’d better stay outside and keep an eye on them.”
Henry didn’t even hesitate. He wheeled around and stepped outside again, muttering something under his breath Marti couldn’t make out.
Out of long habit, she pressed the save key on her computer before leaving her work. “What’s wrong?” she asked Gil.
He ignored her and walked quickly toward the kitchen to make his phone call.
Suddenly apprehensive, she hurried to the door and called to her father, “Who are you keeping an eye on?”
Henry jerked one arm toward the road. “Damn snowmobilers on the north field.” He glared at her as if she’d personally driven a machine across his precious fields. “I told you that s.o.b. would be nothing but trouble.”
She didn’t need to ask. She already knew the answer. But she asked anyway. “What s.o.b.?”
Her father’s eyebrows collided over his nose and he waved his arm toward the road again. “Dennehy.”
“Rick? He doesn’t even own snowmobiles.”
“Well, he does now.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Marti stepped onto the porch and crossed her arms against the chill. “His brother-in-law rented them.”
“Same thing,” her father said. Then, as if her words had finally penetrated, he whipped around to face her. “Did you know they were bringing snowmobiles onto my property?”
“He asked me if you’d give them permission to run on the north field,” she admitted. “But I told him no.”
Gil barked a hostile laugh in her car. The sound startied her. She hadn’t heard him come back outside. “Well, that shows how much he listens to you.”
“If there are people running snowmobiles on the field, I’m sure Rick knows nothing about it.”
“Oh, he knows, all right,” Henry said.
Her heart slowed. “Is he one of them?”
“No,” Gil admitted reluctantly. “But I’ll bet my bottom dollar he told them to come over here.”
Marti rounded on him. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he do that?”
Her father scowled darkly. “Because he’s a son of a bitch.”
Marti’s temper flared. “How can you say that? You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
“How?” she demanded. “Have you even bothered to meet him? Or are you basing your opinion on what Gil says?” She didn’t try to disguise her disgust.
And it wasn’t lost on her father. He abandoned his post at the edge of the porch and closed the distance between them. “I trust Gil’s opinion. In this case, I trust his over yours.”
“Yes, I know,” she snapped. “That’s been painfully obvious since I came back. But why?”
“Gil hasn’t gone all doe-eyed over Dennehy,” Henry said. “He hasn’t lost his perspective.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t? Maybe he has a reason for trying to turn you against Rick.” The accusation escaped before she could think about the wisdom of voicing it.
Gil jumped from the porch to the yard below and planted himself in front of her. “The only interest I have is what’s best for your dad. I don’t know what you see in Dennehy, Marti, but you’re acting like a fool.”
A week ago, his words would have hurt her. Two days ago, they would have made her angry. Today, a strange sense of calm filled her. “No, Gil, I’m not.”
Before she could say anything else, her father’s gaze locked on something in the distance. “There’s the sheriff. We’ll get this straightened out now, once and for all.” Pushing past her, he strode across the yard to his truck.
But before Gil could follow, Marti stepped off the porch and blocked his path. “When do you plan to tell Dad what you want to do with the Lazy M?”
Gil’s face didn’t change, but his eyes hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Any doubts she might have harbored about Cherryl’s story evaporated as she met his icy blue stare. “Don’t lie to me, Gil. I know all about the factory. And I can’t tell you how sick it makes me to think you’d try to use Cameron and me to take advantage of Dad.”
“What factory?” He put on the mask of innocence she’d seen him wear so often during their marriage.
She wouldn’t play his game. Not anymore. She shook her head and nodded toward the truck. “You’d better get over there. He’s waiting. But I suggest you talk him out of pressing charges, and while you’re at it, tell him the truth about the Lazy M.”
He snorted a laugh.
“I’m serious, Gil. If you don’t, I will.”
His smile froze in place, and his eyes narrowed. But his expression didn’t faze her. Not this time. He must have sensed her determination, because something else flashed through his eyes a split second before he pushed past her and jogged toward the truck. She never would have believed it, but she would have sworn he’d looked apprehensive, if only for a moment.
And for the first time ever, she knew she could match him and beat him—even when it came to Cameron.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MARTI SAT on the floor in front of the Christmas tree and worked to untangle the cord on a set of multicolored lights. Heat from the fire she’d built after dinner and the occasional sound of logs popping teased her into believing all was right with her world.
She sipped from the glass of mulled wine at her side and stole a peek at Cameron. He sat on the couch, chin resting on one hand, as he watched Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney dance across the television screen in White Christmas. To her surprise, he looked interested in the movie and even amused by some of the dated bits of dialogue.
She loved seeing him so relaxed around her, but she wondered again, as she had several times during dinner, if she should tell him what she’d decided about her relationship with his father. But once again she talked herself out of it. She’d be a fool to ruin this new, easy camaraderie they shared. And she didn’t want to ruin Christmas for everyone.
Whether she liked admitting it or not, the possibility that he’d want to stay in Gunnison while she went back to California frightened her. All her brave words to Rick in the cemetery about letting Cameron live with Gil had been only that—brave words. No matter how strained their relationship had been, she didn’t want to lose Cameron.
Finally, working the last bit of cord free, she leaned up on her knees to plug the lights into the extension cord she’d stretched into the middle of the floor. Holding her breath, she willed the lights to work. But nothing happened. Not even a flicker. Sighing heavily, she unplugged the set and started gathering it together again.
“Let me see that.” Cameron’s voice sounded so unexpectedly loud behind her, she jumped and whipped around to look at him. He reached one hand out over the arm of the couch toward her and said again, “Let me see the lights. Maybe I can get them to work.”
Smiling, she handed him the jumble of cord and lights. “I hope you can. This is the fifth set I’ve found that doesn’t work, and I’m beginning to think I’ll have to make a trip into Gunnison in the morning before I can decorate the tree.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He dropped the lights into his lap and began checking each bulb methodically.
She watched him work for a few minutes, then said, “Rick tells me you’re very good at this sort of thing.”
A pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She sat back on her heels and reached into the box at her side for one of the tiny Santas she’d carefully wrapped in tissue last time she’d packed them away. “He’s quite impressed with your talents as a carpenter.”
Cameron glanced at her again but his smile faded, as if he suspected her of some sort of trick. “Is he?”
Marti smiled encouragement. “Is that the kind of work you’d like to do when you graduate?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.”
“Well...” He hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
“You really don’t want to go to college?”
Cameron let another long silence hang between them, and she could almost see him battling the urge to tell her the truth.
She tried to make it easier for him. “You don’t, do you?”
He pulled his head back and squared his shoulders as he always did when he anticipated an argument. “No.”
The look on his face made Marti’s heart sink. But she took a deep breath to fortify herself and tried to keep her smile warm and friendly. “I know I’ve pushed you to get more education...”
He glanced away quickly and every muscle in his body seemed to tense.
“But that’s only because I want you to be happy. I’m finally beginning to realize you won’t be happy doing something just because I think it’s the right thing to do.”
His gaze traveled slowly back to her face, and she could see curiosity mixed with disbelief in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you really like working with your hands, and if you have even half the talent Rick seems to think you have, maybe that’s what you should be doing.”
“Are you serious?”
Nodding, she set the Santa aside and pulled another from the box. “Yes. That doesn’t mean you don’t have to finish high school, just that maybe I’ve been wrong about college.”
His smile reappeared, but it remained tentative. “Really?”
“Really. If you promise to do your best in school for the next two and a half years, I’ll back off on the college thing.”
His smile faltered. “What? You expect me to get straight A’s?”
“No. I expect you to do your best, and I’ll accept whatever grade that earns you. But you have to promise you’ll try.”
He tilted his head and gave that some thought. Please, Marti thought. Please, don’t get angry.
Finally, as if in slow motion, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”
She thought her heart might burst out of her chest. Instinctively, without giving herself time to think, she leaned forward and touched his hand. When he didn’t withdraw it, tears filled her eyes. She tried to blink them away so he wouldn’t see them, but as quickly as she could clear her vision, a new wave of tears took their place.
To her amazement, his expression softened a little more. She resisted the urge to scoot closer. She didn’t want to push too hard and drive him off again.
He glanced down at his knees and opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. But before he could speak, the front door banged open and her father stomped inside. He stood there, red-faced and breathing heavily, and glared at her.
Marti stood quickly and stepped over several sets of lights to reach him. “Dad? What’s wrong?”
“I just finished talking to Gil. The sheriff isn’t going to do anything about the trespassing this afternoon. Nothing.” He narrowed his eyes and slammed the door shut behind him. “And if that’s not bad enough, Gil tells me you’ve been saying some pretty harsh things to him, little girl.”
Marti’s pulse stuttered and shapeless dread filled her. She sensed more than heard Cameron tense behind her, but she didn’t let herself look at him. “What did he tell you?”
Her father shrugged out of his coat and hung it in the closet, then slammed that door shut, too. He crossed the room and dropped heavily into his favorite armchair. “I thought things were goin’ better between the two of you. But from the sound of things, you care more about Dennehy than your own husband.”
“Gil’s not my husband, Dad. Remember? We’ve been divorced for the past three years.”
He waved her answer away with one hand as if it meant nothing. “And now I find out you’ve threatened Gil with lies if he didn’t talk me out of calling the sheriff this afternoon.”
Marti knew the time had come to tell her dad the truth, but she didn’t want to have this argument in front of Cameron. She brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “Can we finish this in your office?”
Her father shook his head, leaned back in his seat and gripped the armrests. “Cameron’s not a child. He deserves to know what’s going on. After all, you’ve let him believe you and Gil would get back together.”
Frustration and anger flared within her. Cameron stepped in front of her. The mellow expression he’d been wearing had disappeared and the old hostility had returned.
“I did try to work things out with your dad,” she assured him. “But then I found out he wants to build a factory on the Lazy M.”
“Gil wouldn’t do that,” her father interrupted.
“Of course he would,” she insisted. “He’s always looking for the quickest way to make a dollar.”
Cameron tugged her around to face him again. “What factory?”
“I know Gil,” her father said before she could respond. “I trust him.”
“But you don’t trust me?” The question came out harsh, bitter and angry. She took a deep breath and tried to temper her voice. “I’m your daughter. Why would I lie to you?”
“What factory?” Cameron demanded again.
Caught between the need to explain to Cameron and the growing urgency to convince her father of the truth, Marti met her son’s gaze. “I found out that your dad only wants to marry me again so he can get Grandpa’s property. He plans to sell it to a company from Kansas City that wants to build a factory along the river.”
What little light remained in Cameron’s eyes flickered out. “No way.”
“Gil wouldn’t do that,” Henry said again.
Clenching her fists, Marti tried desperately to maintain some level of control. “Why would I make up something like that?”
“Why not?” Cameron demanded. “You’re always trying to make him look bad.”
“That’s not true,” she shouted. “He does that well enough by himself.”
Making a noise low in his throat, Cameron spun away from her and jerked open the coat closet. “Go to hell.”
“You’re not leaving here—”
“Yes I am.”
She couldn’t let him leave. Not while he was this angry. “Cameron—”
He shoved his arms into his coat, yanked open the front door and stepped onto the porch. “Just leave me alone,” he yelled, and slammed the door between them.
She raced across the room and followed him outside. She didn’t even bother with her coat. She didn’t have time. “Cameron, wait.”
Ignoring her, he ran down the driveway toward the access road.
She followed him for several feet, but she couldn’t hope to keep up. “Cameron! Come back. Let me explain.”
She might as well have been talking to the trees. Frantic now, she turned back toward the house intending to grab her keys and follow him in the car. But her father stepped onto the porch and took her by the arm. “Get back inside, girl. I’ll go after him.”
Tears of anger filled her eyes. “Why did you have to bring this up in front of him? Didn’t you know how he’d react?”
“This isn’t my fault, girl. You should have been honest with him from the beginning.”
“Honest?” The word tore from her throat. “I can’t be honest with either of you. Both of you only believe what you want to believe.”
“Now, Marti, calm down—”
She started to push past him, but he caught her arms and held her in place. She tried to jerk away, but he only tightened his grip. “Let go of me,” she snapped. “I need to go after Cameron.”
“You’re not in any condition to go anywhere.” Her father’s voice changed subtly, and she recognized the no-nonsense tone he’d used so often during her childhood. “Go back inside and wait there. I’ll take care of Cameron.”
But she wasn’t a child any longer, and she was no longer afraid of that tone. “He’s my son—”
“And he’s my grandson.” He led her through the door and released her to grab his coat from the closet. “I’ll find him, don’t worry. And I’ll take him to Gil’s to let him cool off.�
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Marti’s heart almost stopped beating. “No. Don’t take him to Gil. Bring him back here.”
“Listen to me, Marti.” Her father gripped her shoulders again and shook her. “Bringing him back tonight will only make things worse. You’re both too upset and angry to talk.”
The last thing she wanted was for Cameron to go to Gil’s. She shook her head vehemently, but her father went on before she could speak. “Trust me.” His voice dropped another notch, but this time his voice soothed her. “Let the boy spend the night with Gil. I’ll drive back over in the morning to pick him up.”
She pulled another step back from the edge of hysteria. She looked into her father’s eyes, expecting to see anger—the same anger she’d always seen. But tonight she saw something else—concern.
It only lasted a second or two before her father jammed his hat on his head and turned away.
Marti wrapped her arms around herself and clutched the sleeves of her sweater as if they’d keep her steady. “All right, Dad. Take him to Gil’s.” She couldn’t remember anything that had ever been so hard for her to say. Tears filled her eyes again. “Please tell Cameron I love him.”
Her father’s voice was low. “I’ll let you tell him yourself tomorrow.”
She walked away from the door and curled up on one end of the couch, wondering whether she’d misread her father’s reactions all these years. Had he used anger to disguise what he really felt?
That thought brought her up short. How many many times had Cameron shouted at her—doubting, demanding, blaming—always accusing her of being angry? Of course, she hadn’t always been angry. Often, she’d been in the grip of some other emotion—sadness, loneliness, fear—emotions she couldn’t always explain to a young boy. And so she’d kept her mouth shut and silently resented Cameron’s accusations.
But Cameron had been doing nothing more than she’d done with her own father. And she’d unconsciously mimicked the behavior that she’d disliked most of her entire life.
She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her cheek on them, and this time she didn’t try to stop her tears.