by Naomi Horton
"Finally."
"I have to tell you, big brother, they are really something else. You've made me a very happy aunt."
Gord's grin widened with pleasure. "Move back to Burnt River and you can play aunt to your heart's content."
"I haven't said no yet," she reminded him with a laugh.
"It feels right, Kathy. Being in Burnt River. Practicing law here. It feels good. At Dad's funeral, when Cliff Albright first asked if I was interested in moving back here, when he'd said that he was getting old and needed a partner, I thought he was nuts." He gave a quiet laugh. "Now you couldn't get me out of town with dynamite. It's a good place to live, Kathy. You'd be happy here."
Kathleen just nodded again, thinking, fleetingly, of Jett. Of what he'd say if she announced to all and sundry that she was thinking of staying. "It's tempting, I won't deny that. To get back to someplace where the words values and integrity still mean something."
She realized Gordon was looking at her curiously and managed a rough smile. "When I told you I'd quit Adams, Caldwell and Associates, I wasn't quite lying. But it wasn't the whole truth, either. It was a … mutual decision."
Gordon just smiled. "I didn't think you'd walked away from one of the most prestigious law firms on the East Coast because you just got bored one day, Kathy. I figured there had to be more to it."
"When they hired me six years ago, I thought I had it made. That all I had to do was work hard and make partner, and my life would be perfect. But with every day that passed, I found myself liking it less. Liking myself—what I was becoming—less. I was turning into someone Dad would have admired, and it scared me."
"I've been there," Gordon said quietly.
"I know. That's what gave me the courage to finally walk away." Kathleen wandered across the room and dropped into one of the chairs. "We were in the middle of one of the biggest cases of the decade, representing a pharmaceutical company in a huge class-action suit worth millions. It was starting to look really bad for us, and I was told to lose a critical piece of evidence. I refused. Adams, Caldwell and sundry Associates suggested I might be happier continuing my law career elsewhere. I concurred."
"Cliff Albright ran a straight-up law office, and so do I. Come on as my partner and you'll never feel compromised again, I promise you that."
"An honest lawyer? You're going to give the profession a bad name."
"Come in with me, Kath. I can get a new shingle made up in a day—Patterson And Patterson, Honorable Attorneys At Law. We Ain't Our Old Man."
Kathleen laughed. "And you think people will believe us?"
"Some people in town have made it plain that they'd crawl through broken glass before they'd hire a Patterson to do their lawyering for them. But there are plenty of others who love the irony of watching one of Nelson Patterson's kids working for the little guy instead of trying to stick it to him. Having both of us in town will double their fun."
"And there's enough work for two of us?"
"There's enough work for six of us," Gord said with feeling. "I'm the only game in town, now that Cliff's gone. I'll be honest with you—moving back here would be good for you, but it's mainly me I'm thinking about. You're a damned good attorney, and I think we'd make a great team."
"I won't deny it's tempting."
"Burnt River's a long way from Baltimore, I'll admit that," Gordon said grudgingly. "It won't be life in the fast lane, that's for sure."
"Life in the fast lane's not all it's cracked up to be." Kathleen gave him a half smile. "And Baltimore was never my choice, remember. Baltimore just … happened."
A flicker of something darkened Gordon's face. He shoved the chair back almost roughly, walked across to the walnut liquor cabinet and poured himself a long shot of Scotch whiskey. "I should have killed Jett Kendrick sixteen years ago." He held the bottle up with a questioning look at her.
Kathleen shook her head. "Killing Jett wouldn't have helped. I was already three months pregnant by the time you discovered the real reason I'd run off to Baltimore in such a hurry."
"It might not have helped you, but it would have made me feel better," Gordon muttered. "Still would, come to think of it."
"Forget it." Laughing, Kathleen leaned well back in the chair and put her feet on the coffee table. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it now? You never said much back then."
"That's why," he said quietly. "I let you down back then, Kathy. You were my kid sister. I should have come back here and beat the hell out of Kendrick, but I was—" Shrugging, he dropped into the chair again. "I was twenty-one and too busy with law school and girls to even care. Burnt River was a bad memory, one I didn't even want to think about. So I did nothing." He shook his head, tight-lipped with anger. "It was like something out of a Gothic novel, the way Dad hustled you and your shameful little secret out of town."
"It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Mac and Leah are generous, loving people, and they made me feel as though I was one of their own kids. It was the first time in my life I felt as though someone actually cared. And after the baby died, I—they took care of me, Gord. Emotionally, I mean. If it hadn't been for them…"
"I should have been there for you then, too." Gord swirled the liquor in the glass, not looking at her. "I didn't know you'd lost the baby until nearly a month later. I was too busy partying to keep track of when you were due, and Dad didn't let me know." He gave his head a shake. "I've always felt guilty about that."
Kathleen had to laugh. "Come on, Gord, lighten up. There was nothing you could have done."
"I could have come down to see you. I could have phoned you. Could have written. Sent flowers. Done something. I mean, hell, even Dad flew down to be with you."
"Dad came to Baltimore to talk me into giving the baby up for adoption," Kathleen said bitterly. "He didn't give a damn about me or the baby. He just didn't want me coming back to Burnt River with Jett Kendrick's mixed-breed mongrel brat in my arms."
"The miserable old—" Gord bit off the rest of the sentence. "It was always about him. His career, his reputation, his future. The rest of us were just…" He made an angry gesture. "Window-dressing. Props to make the Honorable Judge Nelson Patterson look like the caring family man Supreme Court nominees are supposed to be."
A log popped on the fire, the sound like a pistol shot, and they both jumped, staring at each other a little wide-eyed. Then, abruptly, they both started to laugh.
"I didn't sleep for five nights straight after the funeral," Gord said, still laughing. "I was sure he was going to come back to tell me everything I'd done wrong, how disappointed he was that I couldn't handle even a simple burial without screwing up."
Kathleen nodded, not saying anything. She looked around the big, fire-warmed study, remembering being summoned here to face the music for some transgression or other. Throwing a ball in the house, galloping down the stairs too noisily, forgetting to hang up her coat.
And talking back, of course. Her natural gift for argument made her a formidable opponent in the courtroom, but back then it had done nothing but get her into trouble.
The room hadn't changed much. Dark paneling, acres of law books, wing-backed chairs in burgundy leather, plenty of brass and polished hardwood. The big grandfather clock in the corner still ticked loudly, filling the stillness with the passage of time, a reminder to all who entered of how valuable it was to the man who used to sit here, how little he appreciated having it wasted.
He used to sit behind the massive desk, papers laid out in front of him in precise formation, nothing out of place, not a hint of clutter…
A chill stole down Kathleen's back as she defied the past, daring it to scare her. She'd stood in front of this desk for the last time sixteen years ago, fifteen and pregnant and defiant to the end. That defiance hadn't kept her father from shipping her off to Baltimore, but it had changed something between them.
It was on that day that she'd stopped being afraid of him. Fear had been changed to something else that afte
rnoon, something hot and fierce and vital. And she'd never been afraid again.
"You never came back, did you? Except for Mom's funeral."
"Once or twice." Kathleen smiled faintly. "There never seemed to be much point. Dad and I couldn't talk to one another for more than five minutes without arguing, and he always made me feel as though I was taking up his time. He never hid the fact that he was relieved when it was time for me to leave, so after a while I just stayed away. It seemed easier on both of us."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I tried a few times, but … hell, let's face it, he didn't give a damn. After a while, neither did I." He finished the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down. "He gave us brains, good educations and the ability to take care of ourselves. I figure we should thank him for that and let the rest go."
"Amen," Kathleen said quietly. Another ghost down. Maybe that was the end of them.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Vic's Café hadn't changed much in sixteen years.
Which wasn't saying much, Kathleen thought as she stood on the sidewalk in front of the place and perused it distastefully. The big front windows were dirty and fly-specked and covered with painted signs advertising cheap breakfasts and great hamburgers, and even out here, the air was redolent with hot grease.
There was still a rickety screen door you had to pull hard to open, the frame filthy with a thousand handprints and peeling stickers advertising soft drinks and candy bars. The floor was still green linoleum, the stools still chrome and red plastic, the countertop still pale green Formica, dotted here and there with plates of sugared doughnuts and pies covered with plastic domes.
Another time warp.
She'd spent the morning wandering around town, marveling at how any place could change so much and still be the same.
Like her.
Smiling at her own sense of drama, she slid into one of the booths along the wall, wondering if Vic was still running the place. But it was a statuesque blonde who trotted across with a smile and a menu, and for some reason, Kathleen didn't even ask. If she decided to take Gordon up on his offer of a job, she would have plenty of time to catch up on old times. But for the moment she was enjoying being anonymous, a stranger passing through.
She ordered coffee and flipped idly through the small jukebox mounted on the wall. The names of the groups were different, but the flavor of the music was pretty much unchanged: still lots of broken hearts and teenaged angst and cowboy laments about love gone wrong.
She looked around the place curiously. A couple of farmers in feed store hats were sitting at the counter drinking coffee and smoking unfiltered cigarettes, and two young women shared a Formica-topped table, laughing over grilled cheese and fries, while a baby cooed happily in a carrier beside them. Four men—ranch hands, by the looks of them—were crowded into one of the booths, talking and laughing while sliding speculative glances her way.
Just like old times.
The waitress came across with two cups of steaming coffee just then. She set one in front of Kathleen with a smile, then took the other one to the next booth. All Kathleen could see of the occupant was a battered cowboy hat, but when he thanked the waitress, the voice was too familiar to ignore.
She slid out of the booth and walked around to look at him. "Well, hi. How are you feeling this morning?"
Jody Kendrick lifted his head painfully, both eyes swollen almost shut. The skin around them had turned a sulphur yellow that clashed with the purple bruising across his high cheekbones. "Hi," he croaked, trying to smile. "Been worse, I guess."
"Not in this lifetime, I'll bet."
He managed another crooked smile, pleased at the attention.
"Mind if I join you? It's nice to see a familiar face," she said.
"Yeah, sure!"
Kathleen picked up her coffee and slid into the seat across from him, smiling as she saw the pile of school books spilled carelessly across the table. "Cutting classes?"
He gave her a startled look, then ducked his head, looking almost ridiculously guilty. "Not gonna tell my old man, are you? He's on my case all the time as it is."
"I doubt I'll be seeing your dad anytime soon," she assured him dryly. Idly, she picked up the nearest book. "Biology. Hope you're doing better in it than I ever did."
His shoulders slumped again, and he stared into his coffee morosely. "Squeakin' by, I guess."
She set the biology text aside and picked up another one. "Algebra. Now that's something I could have lived without."
"No kiddin'."
Kathleen took a sip of hot coffee to hide her smile. "That bad, huh?"
He nodded, looking as though someone had just died. "Don't know why I hafta learn all that stuff anyhow. Got nothin' to do with what I want. Got nothin' to do with rodeo."
"I have to admit it didn't make much sense to me when I was your age, either." She paused, then laughed. "Come to think of it, it still doesn't make much sense. Especially algebra." She made a face. "Who in their right mind needs algebra?"
"No one I can figure out."
"Is that the only class you're flunking?"
He lifted his head and stared at her. "How'd you know I was flunkin' algebra? Dad don't even know. Yet."
"Lucky guess," she said dryly. "What else?"
He shrugged, just a little too carelessly. "Chemistry, I guess. All them formulas and stuff to remember." He frowned and gave the sling on his left arm a hitch. "What'm I gonna need chemistry for, anyhow? Don't need chemistry to stay on a saddle bronc for eight seconds. Don't need chemistry to figure out my winnin's." He let his shoulders slump, eyes bleak. "I just can't figure this stuff out! It's too hard, and if I ask Dad, he gets mad and jumps all over me and—ah, what's the use!"
He dropped his head into his hand and stared unhappily into the coffee. "Soon as I can, I'm quittin' school. Figure I can get a job with one of the rodeo stock contractors until I'm old enough to join the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, then all them X's and Y's won't matter. Nothin'll matter except staying in the saddle long enough to get me into the money."
Oh, boy. Kathleen looked at him, trying to figure out what to say. He didn't want to hear all the usual platitudes—he'd heard them a dozen times by now. And they wouldn't carry any more weight with him than they did with any other fourteen-year-old boy who saw no relevance between school and his dreams.
"What does your dad think about that?"
"I don't guess he cares," Jody said in a sullen mutter. "He figures I'm gonna flunk out anyway. Keeps sayin' if I do, he ain't keeping me on rent-free. That I'll have to work for my keep like the rest of the hired hands."
"Don't be too hard on him," Kathleen said mildly, feeling an unexpected surge of sympathy for Jett. It sounded as though he was doing his best to keep Jody in school, even if his best meant driving the boy in the opposite direction. "Subtlety never was your dad's strong suit." Even in bed, she found herself thinking irrelevantly. Maybe especially in bed, where his lack of subtlety had once had its own benefits.
Jody gave her a frankly curious look, and Kathleen avoided his eyes. There were some things a fourteen-year-old boy did not need to know about his father's past. "Have you talked to your teachers about the difficulty you're having with algebra and chemistry? I'm sure they could arrange special tutoring or—"
"Ain't just that." Jody's shoulders slumped even lower. "It's Miss Cameron's civics class. Even if I pull my marks up in them other things, I'm never gonna make civics." He gave her a look of pure despair. "I got this paper to write. It counts for half the year's grade, and I…" He shook his head. "It was supposed to be handed in last week."
"And you haven't even started it yet."
"Oh, I started it." Jody looked up, face miserable. "I started it three or four times. Miss Cameron says she'll give me more time, but that won't help. I gotta write twenty pages on the Constitution. Twenty pages. That's … that's a whole book, practically! How'm I gonna write twenty pages ab
out the Constitution, you tell me that?" He stared into the coffee as though it might have the answer he needed. "Twenty pages…"
Kathleen had to bite her lip to hide her smile. She'd been there. "What kind of extension did you get?"
"Two weeks." It was little more than a whisper. "But I don't figure two years would help me any. I may as well just drop out now and save 'em the trouble of kicking me out. I'll get a job. I'll do something…"
"Jody, you're fourteen," she said gently. "You can't just—"
"Fifteen," he said stubbornly.
Kathleen felt something twist inside her, and she just stared at him. Fifteen! That—that meant Pam had gotten pregnant at almost the same time she had.
Kathleen closed her eyes, feeling dizzy with shock. Jett had been sleeping with both of them. Slipping out of one pair of arms and into the other with hardly time to catch his breath between.
"Well, damn him," she heard herself whisper, not realizing until too late that she'd said it aloud. She looked at Jody quickly, but he was still staring glumly into his coffee mug, too lost in his own misery to hear hers.
It was silly to be reacting like this, she told herself calmly. It was an old betrayal, after all. And just one of many. So why was she taking it so hard?
Because there was still a tiny part of her that cared, she realized with a sinking heart. A tiny part that still loved the man, that had been harboring the secret hope that she'd been wrong all this time, that he had loved her, and it had all just been some kind of mistake…
She gritted her teeth and let herself fantasize for one brief moment about driving down Main Street and spotting Jett crossing in front of her. Oh, it had been a terrible accident, she would tell the police. She'd meant to step on the brake, but her foot had slipped and hit the accelerator instead. Poor Jett, she would say, feigning tears. He hadn't stood a chance…
She found herself smiling a little malevolently. "So your dad's already convinced you're going to flunk school this year."
Jody nodded unhappily.
"It sure would be nice to prove him wrong, wouldn't it?"