Strawberry Hill

by Catherine Anderson

  Ah, the memories. Being here again brought them all back to her and filled her with an ache of sadness for the young, idealistic, and absurdly hopeful girl she’d been all those years ago. Never once when she’d lain in Slade’s arms and surrendered her body to him had she believed that he’d ever even look at another woman, let alone be unfaithful. Never had she pictured herself running away from Mystic Creek, either. It was her home. How had it happened that she’d grown old living on the Oregon coast without Slade at her side? The young woman she’d been then couldn’t have imagined hating his guts someday. That was for sure.

  But now she did.

  In one way, she could scarcely wait to see him again, her mind spinning with different scenarios. That maybe he’d be glad to see her. That he might be old, bald, and overweight. She couldn’t picture him old, though. In her memories, he was still tall, strapped with muscle, and handsomer than any guy had a right to be. Would he be stooped at the shoulders now? Would his mesmerizing gray eyes have turned bloodshot and rheumy? Had arthritis twisted and knotted his hands? The thought deepened her sense of sadness, because coming back to this place and seeing it through mature eyes had stripped it of all the magic. She’d heard people say that a person could never go back to their childhood home and reclaim the past. Now she knew that was absolutely true. Everything was familiar, but nothing was the same.

  Her cell phone blasted its ringtone and lighted up the inside of her purse. Startled, she fished around in the interior pocket for the device and answered the call, which was from Nancy. “Hi, sweetie. I got here safe and sound.”

  “You were supposed to let me know,” Nancy complained. “And I’m dying at this end. Did he go ballistic when he saw you?”

  Vickie rested her head against the seat. “Haven’t seen him yet. I got here an hour early. Nobody here but little old me.”

  “Oh, no. So now you have to just sit and wait? You must be even more nervous than I am.”

  Vickie turned the steering wheel from side to side with her free hand. “I am feeling a tad jumpy, for sure. But, oh, well. If he’s nasty, I’ll just head back into town. Look up the two old friends I’ve kept in touch with. I haven’t seen Mary Alice or Marilyn in forever. We talk on the phone. Marilyn sent me a picture of herself in a Christmas card last year, and she’s aged so much. She’ll undoubtedly think the same about me.”

  “You’ve never talked to me about her.”

  Vickie sighed. “I left this place and everyone in it behind, honey. To me, it seemed like the less I said, the better. I didn’t want you kids asking questions about where I grew up. I made a point to get in the habit of having your grandparents visit us instead of us going there.”

  A rattling sound came over the air. Nancy grumbled under her breath. “I just spilled my coffee.” More rattling and then the sound of running water. “So did you stop to buy all the practical joke stuff?”

  “I did. Remembered to hit Walmart before I left Bend. The rubber snakes and glow sticks were displayed on an end cap. A clerk finally helped me find them.”

  Nancy laughed. “I want daily texts! I hope he’s still terrified of spiders, too. Did you get all the stuff hidden in your duffel?”

  “Yes, and I even remembered to get a spare bottle of ketchup.”

  A loud giggle from her daughter prompted Vickie to draw the phone away from her ear for a moment. “I almost hope he acts like an ass,” Nancy said. “It’ll be so fun to hear how you make him pay. Just remember, Mom. If he lets you stay on as the cook, hold your cards close to your chest for a while. Once you confront him about Brody, he may cut you a check and tell you to leave, and you may not find another job right away. Make as much money as you can before you shake him all up.”

  Vickie’s smile faded and a tingle of panic came up the back of her throat. “I don’t think I should have come, Nance. I must have gone temporarily out of my mind.”

  “Mom, Mom,” Nancy hurried to say. “You’re forty years late going back! Don’t talk; just listen. He sired a son and then refused to even acknowledge his existence. He never shouldered one iota of the responsibility of raising him! Never sent you a dime! When you start to think you shouldn’t be there, that you shouldn’t do this, just think about Brody riding a broom-handle horse until he was almost six! And remember when he volunteered at the fairgrounds during every rodeo that came to town? He shoveled shit. Carried water. He did anything and everything, no matter how hard, just to be around those horses.”

  Vickie closed her eyes. Nancy was so right. It was all too easy to bypass all the bad memories and focus instead on the wondrous moments of her youth. And in the process, she forgot all that Brody had endured as a child and still did as an adult. It wasn’t fair, and she couldn’t lose sight of that no matter how much she’d once loved the man who sired him. Brody was a Wilder. Slade’s big, prosperous ranch should become his someday. Vickie had come back here to at least look Slade straight in the eye and try to set matters right. And failing in that, what was wrong with playing a few mean pranks on him and taking the cooking job only to quit right when Slade needed her the most? One good turn deserved another. Slade had abandoned her when she’d needed him the most, and then, even worse and more unforgivable, he had turned his back on his own flesh and blood.

  “I’m sorry.” Vickie released the words with a slow breath. “You’re absolutely right, Nance. I’m chickening out, and I can’t let myself do that.”

  “No, you can’t,” Nancy agreed. “Bide your time. Then blow it wide open and rub that man’s nose in it. What he did was unconscionable, and whatever he gets, he deserves. It may not do Brody one bit of good, but at least you’ll know that you did your best to settle the score. Cock both barrels and let that old fart have it.”

  Just then Vickie heard the rumble of a diesel pickup. “Somebody’s here, Nance. I gotta go.”

  “Text me!” Nancy cried. “I want play-by-play accounts! Scare the shit out of him with the rubber snake first.”

  Vickie broke the connection and lifted a buttock to shove the phone in her hip pocket. A newer-model red Dodge, pulling a long horse trailer, parked across the clearing from her Nissan. The trailer was gigantic, large enough to accommodate at least eight horses, but it was the pickup she studied with a measuring eye. The paint was filmed with dust. The long bed had several dings on the side facing her. Piles of camping paraphernalia poked up from the cargo area in front of the gooseneck.

  And she knew it was Slade’s truck; she would have bet money on it. His favorite color had once been red, and the vehicle had “rancher” written all over it. It had been used hard and rarely been washed. Dried globs of clay dotted the rear mud flap that she could see. The frayed end of a rope dangled over the tailgate. Her dad had once driven a pickup similar to it, a rig purchased for grueling work. Ranchers who ran their own spreads had no use for frivolous vehicles. They needed trucks with lots of muscle and high clearance.

  Vickie’s lungs hitched when the driver’s door opened and a long, denim-clad leg swung out. She noted the dusty and well-worn riding boot, the frayed hem of the pant leg, and the bony shape of a man’s bent knee. She stared at that knee, wondering why God had decided to make that particular human joint a gender identifier. Most women had soft, rounded knees with blurred definition of the bones. Men had big, square, knobby knees that pushed against denim and reshaped it. That knee poking out of the pickup screamed “man.” Even worse, it shouted “Slade Wilder.” All these years later, Vickie couldn’t remember being particularly fascinated by his legs. But in a lineup of two hundred knobby knees, she would have recognized Slade’s instantly.

  The thought was so stupid—so obsessive and sappy—that it alarmed her. Feelings. Yearnings. Needs. They rose within her like a mushroom cloud after an atomic blast, obliterating her sense of self. And suddenly she was terrified to see the entire length of him again. Frightened in a way she’d never been, not even the night
Matt had beaten the hell out of her and she’d believed he might kill her. That commission of violence had been an attack on only her body, the blows inflicting physical injury but lacking the power to touch her inner self. Afterward, she’d crawled into the bathroom and locked the door, not to hide but to regroup and go back out swinging. She’d still known exactly who she was, what she held dear, and what she needed to do to shift her teetering world back onto its axis.

  Slade’s tactical strategies weren’t and would never be physical. She also understood that his power over her was far more dangerous.

  Rather than look at him, she searched the interior of her car for just one thing that might ground her and keep her focused on who she was, what she was, and why she had returned to this place and the man who had almost destroyed her. Her gaze caught on the rearview mirror ornament that Brody had made for her in fifth grade by cutting a horseshoe shape from cardboard and covering it with glued-on beads. Over the years, she had replaced bits of glass that fell off, coated it with quick-drying resin to protect it, and replaced the ribbon from which it hung at least a half dozen times. “Open end up, Mom,” Brody had told her. “That way you can catch lots and lots of good luck.” It was the perfect thing to remind Vickie of her reasons for being here, which wasn’t to resurrect a relationship that had ended years ago, but to hopefully set things right for her older son, who had never caught any good luck from the moment he’d been born.

  Seeing that horseshoe, staring at it, helped to center her as nothing else could. A gift of love from the son Slade Wilder had sired. Coming here was like climbing inside a time capsule and locking the lid behind her. If she allowed it, she could get lost in this place. Become so intoxicated by romantic fantasies that reason held no sway. The line between the present and her past might blur until she could no longer see it. This place that she’d once loved so dearly wasn’t her reality now. She had to remember that. Her home, her life, her loved ones, and everything she had struggled to build over the last forty years lay over the mountains in Coos Bay. She couldn’t let herself sink into what might have been, could have been, or should have been. She was no longer Vickie Granger; she was Victoria Lynn Brown.

  Determined not to let this moment send her reeling, she turned her head to take her first good look at Slade. Over forty years had passed since their last encounter. That was two-thirds of her lifetime. It was silly to think of him in a romantic way. Absurd to think he might be glad to see her. Foolish to wish that what they’d once felt for each other might somehow be rekindled.

  He was leaning against the bed of the truck now, one leg braced in front of him to hold his weight, the other bent. The stance, so classically cowboy, had been duplicated in silhouettes by artists all over the country. She wanted him to have a potbelly. She wanted the strength of his lofty frame to have been diminished by age. She needed to see a man who’d become all but a stranger to her.

  Only he hadn’t. The blue plaid of his western shirt showcased his flat abdomen. Faded Wrangler jeans skimmed his narrow hips and sheathed his long legs, delineating the bunched tendons and muscles in his thighs. Head bent, he studied information on a clipboard he held in his left hand, which didn’t appear to be misshapen by arthritis yet. The sleeves of the shirt had been folded back, neatly and precisely, revealing his forearms, which displayed even more of the ironlike hardness that tempered his frame. Had his body always been so steely? Recalling how it had felt to be held close in his arms, she decided it had been. Only then she’d been young and madly in love. Feeling the relentless strength of him had turned her on and made her feel feminine in a way that no other man had ever matched.

  And there had been a few men. She’d divorced Matt when she was twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. She’d been too young to be alone, without anyone to hold her close at night and satisfy the needs of her body, so she’d set out to find a life partner. Male patrons at the restaurant had asked her out, and she’d started accepting. She’d learned the hard way that none of them were looking for a lasting relationship, and just getting through the boring dinners had been a trial.

  Much later in life, she’d tried online dating. That had been a disaster as well, and she’d eventually given up on ever finding anyone. Slade Wilder had ruined her for all other men.

  She stared out the dusty window at his chisel-cut features. Let her gaze linger on his firm mouth. Remembered touching her fingertip to the cleft in his square chin. And suddenly she felt as if her lungs imploded, pushing out all the oxygen so it erupted from her mouth in what sounded like a tremulous sigh. She realized how long she’d been sitting there. How long she’d been stalling, staring, wishing, and dreading. She had two choices. She could get out of the car and face him, or she could drive away and never look back. The latter option smacked of cowardice, and even though life had beaten her down and kicked her in the teeth more times than she could count, she was still and always would be a Granger. Grangers never backed down from anybody.

  She reached for the handle of the door, pushed it open, and got out. Slade didn’t look over at her. But a dog she hadn’t noticed came bounding out from under the pickup and ran toward her. He was a beautiful creature, with long, thick fur that glistened like polished onyx. He had the look of a Rottweiler in coloring, his manner was friendly, and as he skidded to a stop in front of her, she extended her hand so he could smell it.

  “Aren’t you a beauty,” she murmured. “Yes, you are.” As far back as she could remember, she’d always loved animals, but dogs were her favorite. Unlike people, canines were always honest and genuine. This fellow was happy, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth to accentuate his smile. She ran her fingers over his head and knew Slade brushed him frequently. Fur didn’t feel so silky without regular grooming. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” As a very young man, Slade had lost an old dog he loved, and he’d sworn he would never get another one. Apparently he’d changed his mind, and Vickie was glad of that. Too many dogs and cats never found good homes. “You’re a lucky boy. He’s a lot better dog owner than he was a boyfriend.”

  Giving the dog a final pat, she straightened, hoping Slade might look her way as she took a few more steps toward him. Waiting for him to notice her was agony. Instead he turned to study the camping gear in the bed of his truck and then jotted something down on the paper atop the clipboard. She dimly realized that he was taking inventory. She remembered helping her father do the same thing. An outfitter couldn’t afford to go up a mountain without every single thing he needed. Preparing for such a venture took weeks of planning and making lists, followed by checking items off as they were packed. She remembered one year when her dad had gotten all set up and realized that he’d forgotten to bring salt. The oversight had sent Vickie’s mother into a panic, for she was the camp cook, and flavorless food didn’t go over well with guests who paid top dollar to enjoy their meals. Even though it was turning dark, Vickie had ridden her trusty horse back down the mountain to get salt and had returned before her mom entered the cookshack to start breakfast the next morning.

  Coming to a stop several feet away from the pickup and trailer, Vickie gathered her courage and said, “Hello.”

  Slade did glance up, but he gave her a dismissive look and resumed his task. She took a deep breath and resumed her advance on him. Only before she could think what else to say, three pickups came around the curve of the road and turned into the trailhead parking area, horse trailers angling sharply behind them. Slade set his clipboard atop a pile of gear and strode toward the vehicles as they stopped side by side near the opposite tree line. Horse hooves drummed on the trailer floors. The animals whinnied, the sounds laced with eagerness and excitement.

  Vickie quickly decided that now wasn’t the time to make her identity known. Slade obviously hadn’t recognized her. And, oh, how it hurt to know that. He clearly thought she was just another city person who’d come here for a hike and was waiting for friends to join her. Most wo
men from out of the area didn’t venture into a wilderness area alone.

  She wanted to feel angry because he hadn’t recognized her instantly. But she knew how much she had changed. Her mirror told her that. She’d borne three children. Age and gravity had taken their toll on her face and body. Her shoulder-length mane of impossibly curly hair, once auburn with coppery highlights, was now threaded with silver and had lost its gloss. It was a shame that time changed a person’s appearance so drastically, because she still felt the same on the inside, the girl who loved Slade Wilder.

  Her stomach knotted and cramped as that realization sank in. She still loved him. How that could be, she didn’t know. She’d been telling herself that she hated him for so long that she could barely wrap her mind around it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Slade felt shell-shocked. Vickie. When he’d looked up and seen her, his knees had almost buckled. It was like someone had shoved a liquid nitrogen nozzle into his ear and pulled the trigger to fill his cranial cavity with cell-destroying coldness. He couldn’t think, couldn’t register his own feelings. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Or having a nightmare.

  He greeted his six seasonal hired hands, half of them men who’d gone up the mountain with him during seasons past. He’d hoped to take inventory of their gear to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, but that was impossible now. All he could think was, Dear God, it’s really her. Until this moment, he’d sometimes wondered if she was even still alive. A certain percentage of people didn’t live into their sixties. Heart attacks, cancer, and strokes took them out. A few years ago Marilyn Fears, who owned and operated the Mystic One-Stop Market at the end of West Main, had slipped up and told Slade that Vickie had borne three children and had lived over on the coast somewhere for a while. When Slade had tried to press her for more information, she’d said that Vickie had stopped contacting her. Marilyn hadn’t mentioned a husband, but Slade believed there must be one. The Vickie he’d known wouldn’t have slept with a man without a ring on her finger.