He broke off to take a breath, then color reddened his cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture.”
“Don’t apologize. Everyone should feel passionately about something.”
Without words he gestured for her to turn onto a dirt road, then urged his horse closer to hers. “And what do you feel passionately about, Crystal?”
You. She was feeling things for him that she had only imagined feeling for James. For three years she had kidded herself and everyone else about how she loved James and how willing she was to live a regimented, following-other-people’s-orders-and-other-people’s-dreams existence as long as she was living it with him.
But she’d never loved him. She’d loved the idea of being in love. She’d loved being on the receiving end, for once, of her parents’ support and approval. But she’d been slowly suffocating, finding the smiles harder to force, finding the restrictions harder to endure. She was lucky things had ended before she and James had actually married, before there were children involved.
But knowing that didn’t lessen the hurt. It didn’t ease her sense of betrayal. It didn’t change the fact that everyone she’d trusted had let her down, and had done so in the most painful way she could imagine.
“I’m not sure I have any passions,” she remarked. She’d enjoyed teaching and would still be doing it today if she could, but she’d never been passionate about it. She’d never had any hobbies or interests that consumed her, had never found anything that she simply couldn’t live without. She’d been too busy living her life for someone else.
“We’ll have to change that then, won’t we?”
And he’d already made a good start, she thought but didn’t say so. Instead she turned back to his passion. “Do you speak Cheyenne?”
“Yes, ma’am. My grandmother insisted on it. Dad and Amy’s kids are learning, too.”
“And your children will also learn, when they’re old enough.”
“Yes. And maybe their mother, if she has any talent for languages.” His steady, intent gaze settled on her face. “Do you?”
Lost in the idea of Sloan’s children—beautiful, dark-eyed, raven-haired babies welcomed by both mother and father, by at least one set of grandparents and all the countless Ravencrest relatives—it took her a moment to realize he’d asked a question. She blinked to dispel the image of a chubby-cheeked infant cradled in her own arms—an image that made her heart suddenly ache with longing—and managed to summon up a somewhat haughty look. “Students at Chatham Prep study foreign languages from first grade on. I’m native-fluent in French, and I can squeak by in Spanish and Italian.”
“So you could probably learn Cheyenne. They have adult classes at the community center a few miles from here. Interested?”
Was she? She had plenty of free time, and if the other students didn’t mind having her join them, she would enjoy the classes. And if things worked out between her and Sloan, if all those adorable dark-eyed, raven-haired babies were hers as well as his, she could help teach them, and she wouldn’t feel left out of their conversations.
“Sure,” she replied. “I’d like to give it a try.”
He stopped both his horse and hers, and leaned over to brush his mouth over hers. “Oh, darlin’, my family’s gonna love you.” After a much too brief kiss, he nodded ahead. “Come on. They’re back from town now. I want you to meet them.”
Eight
Crystal hadn’t realized they’d gone full circle, but there was the Ravencrest ranch a few hundred yards ahead. They were halfway down the driveway when a kid gave a yell. By the time they reached the barn, his family was waiting—three solemn adults, four solemn kids, and Arlen.
Crystal felt far more nervous as she dismounted than she had the first time she’d met James’s extended family. The occasion had been dinner at Atlanta’s most exclusive club, and she’d spent most of the day getting her hair, makeup and nails done, and a week shopping for just the right dress. The goal hadn’t been to make them like her, but to gain their approval—two totally separate things. They hadn’t liked her, but they had deemed her acceptable, and so her engagement to James had proceeded.
And now here she was, meeting Sloan’s family for the first time in jeans and boots, windblown and smelling of a horse. What if they didn’t like her? It would be the kiss of death for their relationship, she imagined. They were far too important for him to disregard their opinions.
As his father, accompanied by the younger two boys, led the horses away to unsaddle them, Sloan slid his arm around her waist and moved her forward with him. When they reached the small group, he released her and hugged first his grandmother, then his grandfather and his stepmother. Crystal was touched by the natural gesture. Hugs had been few and far between in her own family, and the closest James and his father had ever come to an expression of affection was a handshake.
When he returned to her, he took her left hand in his. “Grandma, Granddad, Amy, I want you to meet Crystal Cobbs. Crystal, these are my grandparents, Dorrie and Hank Ravencrest, who promised to be on their best behavior this evening, and my stepmother Amy.”
“Who’s always on her best behavior,” the woman volunteered with an easy smile.
Amy was a surprise. Crystal had pictured…well, a motherly stepmother. Amy might well be motherly, but she was also only a few years older than Sloan. Tall, slender, with jet-black hair that fell past her waist, she was lovely—and, at first glance, appeared better suited to Sloan than his father.
His grandparents were exactly what she’d expected, his grandmother tiny and feisty, his grandfather tall and handsome. Neither of them were smiling. She hoped fervently that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign.
Next Sloan introduced his half brothers—Stephen, who was nine, and Hank, eight. Daniel, seven, and Darrell, four, were helping their father.
Amy invited them inside and showed Crystal to a bathroom where she could wash up. With the small makeup kit from her purse, she freshened up the best she could, then went in search of the others. She found Sloan in the living room, talking with his father and grandfather. Catching her eye, he silently beckoned, but she shook her head and instead went through the dining room to the kitchen, where Amy and Mrs. Ravencrest were preparing dinner.
“Can I help with anything?”
It was the old lady who responded. “Can you make biscuits?”
Swallowing hard, she shook her head.
“Here. Peel the potatoes.” The woman pushed a tray in her direction, which held a knife, a bowl of peelings, and both peeled and unpeeled potatoes. “How’d you get to be a grown woman without learning how to make biscuits?”
Crystal picked up the knife and a half-peeled potato and went to work. She was trying to think of a legitimate reason, then decided on the truth. If she hoped to ever fit into this family, lying to them wasn’t the way to start. “There was no need. The cook always made them.”
Both women stopped to look at her. “’The cook?’” Amy echoed.
“What are you?” Mrs. Ravencrest asked sharply. “Rich or something?”
“My—my family was—is.”
“And you aren’t?”
“I—I work for a living. I have since college. But—” Honesty forced her on after she cleared her throat. “I have some…investments.”
“So you’re rich, too.” Mrs. Ravencrest gave a sorrowful shake of her head. “A rich white woman. Just what my grandson needs.”
“Dorrie,” Amy chided, but the old lady wasn’t listening.
“There’s not a single woman on the reservation who would turn Sloan away if he came calling. But no, he goes out and finds himself a rich white woman who doesn’t even know how to make biscuits.”
Sloan’s stepmother, looking flustered and apologetic, caught Crystal’s eye and mouthed the word “sorry” behind her mother-in-law’s back. Out loud, in an overly friendly tone, she asked, “What brought you to Montana, Crystal?”
“My great-aunt Winona owns the Stop-n-Swap. When she
had a heart attack last summer and needed someone to stay with her, I volunteered. I liked Whitehorn, and there was nothing for me back in Atlanta, so I stayed. I still live with her, and I work with her in the shop.”
“You hear that, Dorrie?” Amy asked, a subtle challenge in her voice. “A lot of young women wouldn’t dream of giving up city life to come live in Whitehorn and take care of an elderly relative. Obviously, family is important to her.”
Crystal hoped it didn’t come out this evening that she was estranged from her own parents. The fact that it was no fault of her own probably wouldn’t count for much with the old woman.
She made it through the rest of the meal preparation without offending Mrs. Ravencrest too much, and the meal itself was enjoyable. With company filling their spots at the table, the four boys were allowed to eat on trays in the living room with the television on. Crystal found herself seated between Sloan and his grandfather, who was every bit as charming as the grandson, and she managed to avoid his grandmother’s too sharp look through most of the meal.
But her luck ran out when it came time to do the dishes. She offered to help, but before Amy got halfway through her refusal, Mrs. Ravencrest interrupted. “You and I will do them together, Crystal. We’ll talk.”
“We’ll all three do them,” Amy said quickly. “Cleanup will be done in no time.”
Mrs. Ravencrest turned a disapproving look on her daughter-in-law and quietly repeated, “Crystal and I will do them together. We’ll talk. Just her and me.”
Crystal flashed a panicked look at Sloan, who squeezed her hand as they stood up from the table. “Sorry, darlin’,” he murmured in her ear while suppressing a grin. “There’s not a soul in this house brave enough to go against her wishes, including me. Don’t worry. She won’t do you any lasting damage.”
Crystal gave him a sarcastic smile. “Thanks for all your help, Deputy,” she whispered before following his grandmother into the kitchen.
She and the old woman worked in silence the first few minutes, putting away leftovers, scraping scraps into the trash, running a sinkful of hot soapy water. Crystal was about to plunge her hands into the water when Mrs. Ravencrest none too gently moved her aside. “I wash.”
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, Crystal stepped back and picked up a dish towel instead. She’d barely dried the first glass when Mrs. Ravencrest spoke again. “You know about Sloan’s mother.”
“Yes.”
“She was a rich white woman, too.”
“And a fool. I’m not. I would never give up my own child, and I would kill anyone who tried to take him from me.”
The woman’s look was speculative. “Easy to say now, but will you feel that way when you have a Cheyenne baby?”
Instead of answering, Crystal concentrated for a moment on drying the glass she held, then set it aside before she got tense enough to break it. Before picking up another, she faced the old woman squarely. “Mrs. Ravencrest, Sloan loves you dearly—all of you. Partly for that reason, and partly because I was raised to respect my elders, I don’t want to be disrespectful to you.”
“But you’re going to, anyway.”
Crystal couldn’t read the woman’s expression and didn’t waste much time trying. “Sloan’s mother couldn’t commit to his father because she couldn’t accept that he was Indian. She couldn’t raise her own child because he was half Indian. She was racist and intolerant, and you and I both agree, I’m sure, that her attitude and her actions were unforgivable. But it seems you have exactly the same problem with me. You don’t like my relationship with Sloan because I’m white. You’re not willing to give me a chance. You’re not willing to get to know me. You’ve taken one look at the color of my skin and decided I’m not worthy of your grandson, and that makes you as racist and intolerant as his mother.”
For a time everything went silent in the room. The refrigerator stopped running. The water stopped dripping. The clock, or so it seemed, stopped ticking. Dorrie Ravencrest stood motionless, her strong, thin arms in sudsy water to the elbows, her dark gaze locked on Crystal.
Crystal felt sick inside. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut, wished she’d never come here, wished she’d chosen the third option—doing something else entirely—Sloan had offered last night. Now his grandmother was going to tell him what a rude and disrespectful woman she was. She would tell him to stop seeing her and find someone else, and he would listen because, Crystal knew instinctively, if there was one thing he wouldn’t forgive, it was showing disrespect to his family.
And she’d really wanted to fit in here.
After a time, Mrs. Ravencrest offered a response— “Humph”—then went back to washing dishes. Crystal was trying anxiously to determine exactly what that translated to when the old lady started talking again. “The secret to good biscuits is in the pan. I use my cast-iron skillet and melt some butter in it—butter, not margarine. If you’re worried about calories or cholesterol or any of that garbage, you shouldn’t be eatin’ biscuits in the first place. Roll out the dough and cut ’em out. You can use a drinking glass, but a rich girl like you might prefer a la-di-da biscuit cutter. Then dredge ’em in butter on both sides and bake—”
“Aren’t you angry with me?” Crystal interrupted in a weak voice.
“Why would I be angry? You got backbone. You’re not afraid to stand up for yourself. That’s important around here, especially for a white girl who intends to marry a Cheyenne. Not everyone’s as open-minded and accepting of such marriages as I am.”
“Open-minded? Accepting?” Crystal stared at Mrs. Ravencrest, who maintained her unblinking expression for a moment before giving in to a great body-shaking laugh.
She directed her next words behind Crystal. “When I gave you the quilt, I told you to choose well. You listened to my advice.”
Sloan wrapped his arms around Crystal from behind. “I always listen to your advice, Grandma.”
Mrs. Ravencrest pulled the dish towel from Crystal’s nerveless fingers. “Go on now. You two get along and let me get some work done here.”
As Sloan pulled her from the room, Crystal bewilderedly asked, “What just happened in there?”
“You just got my grandmother’s stamp of approval,” he teased, then stopped in the empty hall, pulled her close and bent his head for a kiss. “Welcome to the Ravencrest family, sweetheart.”
Sloan was whistling cheerfully when he walked into work on Monday. A command to report to the sheriff’s office didn’t put much of a damper on his mood, but the look on Rafe’s face did.
“The chief just faxed this over,” he said, tossing a single sheet of paper to him.
Sloan caught it before it slipped off the desk and read the few paragraphs as he sank into a chair. When he finished, he met his boss’s gaze. “They’ve got to be kidding. Who in their right mind would ever think Homer Gilmore might be involved with Christina’s disappearance?”
“Homer’s crazy as hell, but he’s not a criminal. Unfortunately, the Montgomerys and the D.A. are pressuring both the police and us for an arrest, and because Homer is crazy as hell, he’s not a bad choice for a frame. He sure can’t put forth much in his own defense.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Hopefully, keep him out of jail. Go talk to him. Find out anything you can—every time he saw Christina, where he was when she disappeared, everything he’s done and seen since then.”
“I’ll head out to his place now.” He gave the fax back, then left the building once again.
Homer lived northwest of town, about halfway between the Walker and Kincaid ranches and only a few miles from the clearing in Crystal’s vision. His cabin was tiny, one room, with a porch and a rocker. Like his good friend Winona, Homer collected other people’s junk, but while Winona’s junk had value to her customers, Homer’s was just junk. Rusted car parts and appliances, a broken-down chair and tires stacked in groups of three, among other discards, filled the clearing around his house. He seemed to have a particular f
ondness for shiny items. Dented hub caps were nailed to trees as decoration, pieces of broken mirrors hung from the branches, and aluminum cans with their food labels torn off were stacked everywhere.
When Sloan climbed out of his truck, he smelled smoke, coming from a fifty-gallon trash barrel off to one side, and heard the unceasing tinkle of wind chimes. Two dozen sets or more were hung from the porch rafters, catching the morning breeze.
He climbed the steps and knocked, but there was no answer. Old Homer didn’t have a car—couldn’t get a driver’s license even if he had one—so he traveled on foot or got a ride from a friend. Half the county, including Sloan, had taxied him around one time or another. He could be anywhere in the county, could come home in five minutes or five days.
Walking back down the steps, Sloan called, “Mr. Gilmore? It’s Sloan Ravencrest. Hello?”
Getting no answer, Sloan turned to go back to his Jeep, then stopped abruptly. Homer was standing less than two feet away. If his reaction time had been a second or two slower, he would have walked right into him. “Jeez, Homer, you scared me,” he admonished the man. “I didn’t hear you walk up.”
“That’s ‘cause you were yelling. No need to yell when right here I’m standin’.”
Sloan couldn’t argue his logic with him. “How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. How are you?”
“I couldn’t be better, either.” He’d spent both Saturday and Sunday with Crystal. His family had liked her. His grandmother had approved her. And he’d gotten plenty more of her kisses…though if they didn’t make love soon, his sexual frustration level was going to shoot off the charts and he was going to go as nuts as good ol’ Homer here. “Can we sit on your porch and talk a bit, Mr. Gilmore?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t got but one chair. There’s two of us. Two of us cain’t sit in one chair.”
Big Sky Lawman Page 14