May glanced helplessly toward Christy. “Will you wait?”
She hesitated. If she responded in any affirmative way she knew it would be a lie, and for some reason she was having trouble bringing herself to lie to May. “I’ll try” was what came out as May was sucked back into the sanctuary, leaving Christy standing alone.
Back in the van she felt safe enough to sit for a minute. It would be a while before May came looking. She kicked off her mules and stuck on her sneakers. She’d seen May. She’d fulfilled Aunt Edna’s wish. So why was she regretting leaving?
Because she knew she hadn’t fulfilled Aunt Edna’s wish at all. She was trying to justify disappearing from May’s life. Again. Aunt Edna didn’t just want them to see each other’s faces; she wanted them to have a relationship.
Who was she kidding? If all she’d really wanted was to know May was all right, she would’ve been content with her conversation with Harvey. But she hadn’t been, and that’s why she’d come. She’d hoped attending the funeral would be a salve to her conscience, enough of a sacrifice to rationalize getting on with her life without more guilt about May.
But as she sat in the van with the heater blasting in her face, Christy longed for more. She didn’t want to leave, and it caught her off guard to feel that way. There was no denying May was a part of her and always would be. May’s blood ran through her veins too.
Christy lit a cigarette with the dashboard lighter. She had to get over this. She wouldn’t let herself entertain hopes of May accepting her back, of having a sister again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She reflexively jumped at the rapping on her window. The cowboy-hat guy who’d been with May was standing outside her door. Christy lowered the glass halfway.
“Sorry to startle you. My name’s Jim. I’m a friend of May’s.” He handed her a small piece of paper folded in fourths. “It’s the ranch address and phone number, in case you didn’t have it.”
Christy released her emergency brake, unsure what to say. “Thanks.”
Jim stepped back from the van to let her pass, then took one step toward her again as if he was about to say something more. Christy didn’t give him the chance and drove away.
***
As soon as she could, May burst back into the foyer, hating that she’d kept Chris waiting. She searched the room, but she quickly realized none of the people loitering there was her sister.
She smacked a hand to her forehead. She’d been an idiot to leave her. After feeling the hesitation in Chris’s hug and knowing what Harvey had said, she should have guessed Chris wouldn’t wait. It all happened too fast. If only she’d said something. Done something.
Acting on one last impulse, May ran out the door, only to be met by Jim. She raced past him. Chris had to be here. Maybe she was waiting somewhere in the parking lot.
“She’s gone, May.”
Stopping in midstep, her determined shoulders fell. She went back to Jim. “You sure?”
“As soon as you told me she was here I went to find her and keep her busy. But by the time I did she was practically driving away.”
“You’re kidding.” May shook her head. “I don’t believe this. She’s doing it to me again.”
“I gave her your address and phone number.”
“You talked to her?”
“Barely even had time to hand her the paper.”
May watched the traffic barrel down the street in front of the church. She wished, though she knew it was futile, that she would see Chris driving back.
“She could be going to the cemetery.”
The cold wind whipped May’s dress against her legs, and she held her arms around her ribs, hesitant to voice her fears.
Ruth came up behind her. “Where’s your sister?”
“She . . . left.”
The three of them headed for the truck as the funeral director placed a magnetic flag on the hoods of all the cars, readying them for the procession. May slipped into her truck, the cloud of regret thickening around her heart. She could’ve just missed her only chance to talk to Chris.
And there was something else lurking at the edge of her thoughts. An apprehension. Renewed worry over what her sister had become. For when they’d been close enough for May to smell the cigarette smoke in her sister’s bleached blonde hair, the face staring at her wasn’t the one of beauty and youth she’d idolized as a girl. Even caked with makeup, there was no hiding the hollow look on Chris’s face. Her eyes, once clear and bright, were now hard, dull, and bloodshot. It was an old woman’s features on her thirty-three-year-old sister.
May’s throat tightened at the question bubbling up inside. What had happened to Chris?
Chapter 9
Christy parked the Barn’s van behind the silver Escalade and checked out the country manor in front of her. Nestled in a stand of pines, it had a clear view of Boulder Mountain and not a neighbor within a mile. A six-bed, five-bath kind of place. Hopefully the guy who’d died had as much good taste in books as he did in homes.
She let out a long breath and undid her seat belt. She should be excited. Today she could finally prove herself to Hunter and Mr. Dawson by pulling this thing off. What an opportunity.
Stepping out of the van, Christy walked up the flagstone path to the huge, leaded-glass front door with brass fixtures, trying to appear relaxed, like she did this all the time. But if she bought these books today Vince expected her to bring them to him first. He’d even left a message giving her a meeting time: today at two, his place. He’d make her a gourmet lunch to celebrate.
She rang the doorbell, and a decked-out woman with a cell phone to her ear answered. “Yes?”
“I’m Christy Williams from Dawson’s Book Barn. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Ann.”
The woman spoke into the phone, “That book person’s here. I’ll call you back.” Snapping it shut, she extended a hand toward Christy. “I’m Ann.” Her grip was dry and all business, like the gray pantsuit she wore.
“Nice to meet you,” Christy said and walked inside to the smell of fresh paint.
“Glad you came today,” Ann said. “We’re having the shelves taken out tomorrow and our entertainment center delivered the day after. Gotta get rid of those books.”
Christy followed her through several rooms furnished with sofas, lamps and chairs that could have been shipped directly from an Eddie Bauer Home catalog.
“Should’ve seen this place before,” Ann said over her shoulder, her heels leaving small dents in the carpet. “Michael’s father hadn’t bought a new piece of anything for thirty years!” She held open a door at the back of the house. “In here.”
Christy found herself in a room coated with burgeoning bookshelves, works of art themselves. A Greek mythology theme with gods and horses and sword wielding men was intricately carved in the woodwork up by the ceiling. A fireplace with a marble mantel lay cold against the right wall, but the room still had the faint odor of smoke, like the Barn did in the summer when the stove was dormant. Immediately Christy knew this guy had been a book lover. All the dust jackets were protected with clear plastic covers, and the books were neatly arranged by size.
“We’re getting a plasma TV to go right here,” Ann said, holding her arms out in front of the left wall of shelves. “Satellite too. You just can’t pick up any good stations out here.”
Christy pretended to share in Ann’s delight by smiling as if she understood. But that wasn’t easy. Selling the books themselves was one thing. Keeping her father-in-law’s library would be like Ann having to wear his shoes. They might fit him wonderfully and be worn to the point of perfect comfort, but they would never fit her. Even so, tearing out the shelves altogether seemed cruel. Surely there must be somewhere else in this huge place for a TV.
“If I could look these over,” she said, “I’ll be able to make you an offer in a few minutes.”
“Take your time, but I need to leave by twelve,” Ann said, then left her alone
.
Christy took a step back and inspected the books, trying to reassure herself by pretending Hunter stood beside her. Bad idea. It only reminded her of the crime she was about to commit against him.
She removed Richard Carvel by Winston Churchill, wondering if Ann’s father-in-law had thought, like so many others before him, that the novel was written by the former prime minister of England. It wasn’t. An American novelist of the same name had penned this historical novel of the Revolution as well as several other works. Eventually the prime minister wrote the American novelist suggesting one of them change his name to help the confused public. Mr. Prime Minister started signing his name with the middle initial S.
Christy returned Richard Carvel to the shelf. When she’d discovered those stolen books in Vince’s study, she’d despised him for what he did. What made her any better? Now she was doing it for him.
Plucking the books off the shelves and examining them, Christy calculated in her head how much she could offer. What were one or two books when the Barn was getting hundreds? No one would ever notice. Not even Hunter. She was the first and only person to lay eyes on this library. And yet Hunter trusted her enough to pre-sign a check for her to use in the purchase. He had confidence in her integrity and in her ability to do this. It had been a long time since anyone had confidence in either.
Letting him down had become a ball in the pit of her stomach. Hunter was starting to matter to her in a way she didn’t fully understand.
She remembered his pride when he showed her For Whom the Bell Tolls and the boyish delight in his eyes. She shared that delight. Could that be why he was giving her the chance to make something of herself?
Christy continued going over the books, her trained eye looking for anything interesting. She didn’t have time to examine every individual title, but the skill came in guessing their average value and making an offer that both benefitted the Barn while pleasing the client. In this collection she found a large selection of military history titles like History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, a popular set history buffs and veterans alike snatched up every time. The Barn would be pleased to have it.
So would Vince.
She squatted to check the bottom shelves. He’d promised to limit his selections to one or two choice titles each time, but she knew it wouldn’t stay that way. He’d push for more, like he did with everything else.
Christy was having trouble concentrating. If Ann accepted her offer, what she decided to do with these books today could change her life forever. There was still time to back out of Vince’s scheme. But if she did, she was almost positive Vince’s threat to tell all to Hunter had been real. Maybe it was a bluff, but could she risk the chance it wasn’t and lose the best job she’d ever had?
With only minutes remaining before she’d need to make her offer in order to have time to pack up the books, she had to hurry her examination of the library. Say she lost her job. What would she do?
There was Aunt Edna’s inheritance. That money would be more than enough to keep her afloat while she shopped for another job. But she had no idea when it would come. Maybe she could wait until she got the money to do the right thing.
One last shelf to go. She removed a copy of The Call of the Wild by Jack London. It still had its dust jacket. She expected it to be a reprint like all the other copies she’d seen. Instead, the copyright page read beneath the publisher’s name, Set up and electrotyped. Published July, 1903.
Christy stared at the page. She was sure the first printing was in July. Carefully, she checked under the dust jacket to see the boards beneath. They were “vertically ribbed,” with thin, upraised lines in the cloth running from top to bottom. The points of a first edition. All of London’s firsts were collectable, and usually a first edition of The Call of the Wild would run around five hundred. But it was the dust jacket that made this copy worth thousands. In the strange world of rare books, dust jackets were often worth more than the book itself. Especially true with this title, because so many of the original owners had discarded the dust jackets.
She paged further to the title page and the wonderful glossy frontispiece on the opposite page by Philip R. Goodwin. No hints of foxing, the brown stains often found in older books, could be seen on any of the illustrative plates. Hunter would die when he saw this.
The ball in her stomach tightened. Out of all these books, this one took the prize. Vince would want it.
Steps came briskly to the door, and Christy realized her time was gone. She placed the book back on the shelf, trying hard to keep her thoughts from spinning out of control. She forced herself to center on the task at hand. Hunter taught her to play fair in making offers, and she intended to put that into practice.
Ann accepted her first offer of eighteen hundred dollars for the whole lot with a suppressed grin. Although Christy would have been willing to negotiate, Ann obviously hadn’t expected that much. Filling in the amount on the check, Christy knew she’d done well. For approximately three hundred books it was a good price, both ways. This wasn’t junk from the attic like they so often saw. Almost everything would be sellable. She’d allowed around three dollars per hardcover, less for the softcovers, more for the set and a few other juicy titles. Eight hundred dollars went toward The Call of the Wild.
A wearying two hours later, Christy heaved the last box into the van and slammed the door with finality. She lit a cigarette and admired her handiwork. Success! She’d acquired a clean, sellable collection for the Barn without a hitch.
She leaned against the van’s door, letting her body finally rest. Vince would be expecting her soon. She smiled to herself as a spark of determination grew into a flame within her chest. Vince didn’t deserve these books.
Climbing into the van, she knew what she had to do, and shoving aside her fears, she started the engine. For once in her life she would take the high road. Make Aunt Edna proud. With her spirits high, she blasted her favorite classic rock station and pointed the van toward Dawson’s Book Barn.
It was later on the freeway, when she neared the exit that would have taken her to Vince’s, that her determination wavered. What would she say to him? What would he do?
She turned up Yes’s “Owner of a Lonely Heart,” blew past the exit, and sang along at the top of her lungs.
***
The view from Squatter’s Mountain always took May’s breath away. But today, standing with her gelding, Spirit, at her side it did more than that. It tore open her heart.
This was her special place to get away from everyone when she needed it. The ranch’s buildings were out of sight, two miles away as the crow flies. But the Spanish Peaks remained, their serrated tops slicing the blue sky. Only two trails accessed this summit. The one visible when approaching the peak was the shorter cattle trail. It was too dangerous to attempt on horseback in the snow, though it made a great hike in warmer weather. The roundabout path she’d used today was longer and clearly the safer route for riding. Worn wide from years of use, it wound up the back of the mountain and offered relatively secure footing for Spirit as it twisted through the firs.
Nothing had changed in the eleven years she’d been coming here. But today the mountains chided her; the trees whispered that in a few months they would belong to someone else. The bank’s response came today. Another certified letter. It was a page full of their legal explanation, but it could all be summed up in one word: no.
She tightened her hat’s stampede string beneath her chin as the wind gusted. What would she do without this ranch? Hire herself out to another outfit and start over? That’s what Jim would do. He was good enough for any foreman to want him, but she wasn’t. And what about Ruth? There was no doubt that she had the experience and knowledge, but May knew Ruth considered herself too old to begin again.
May followed a red-tailed hawk as it glided across the sky, level with her vision. Besides her horse she was utterly alone, and that’s the way she wanted it. Ruth ha
d never thought of herself. She’d always been so grateful to have May on board. Training her to eventually take over completely had been Ruth’s only goal, so her beloved ranch would perpetually remain long after she was gone. Would they both be forced to move to town? Could she survive a nine-to-five job?
“I can’t stand the thought of losing this place, Lord.”
Her only answer was a snort from Spirit.
Reaching into her saddlebag, May removed the ratty paperback Bible she always carried there. Sometimes on long rides home when Spirit was more than willing to have a free rein, she’d read from the saddle, one hand on the horn, the other holding the book.
She turned to the Psalms. “‘The righteous cry out,’” she read out loud, “‘and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’”
Keeping her finger in the pages, May lifted her face to the sky. That was her. Brokenhearted. In trouble with no way out. Holding the book to her chest, she knelt on the ground, not caring if her knees got wet in the snow.
Spirit nuzzled her shoulder as if sensing her distress, and May stroked his velvety nose. Losing the ranch wasn’t the only thing bothering her. Just like she’d suspected, Chris hadn’t been at the cemetery, and May’s old teenage feelings of blaming herself resurfaced. Why did Chris leave all those years ago? Somehow she must have done something to drive her away, right? If she’d only been the good kid she was supposed to be, maybe Chris would actually want something to do with her now.
May returned the Bible to her saddlebag and mounted Spirit. With a click of her tongue, she urged him back down the mountain. She was losing everything she cared about these days.
***
At 10 p.m. Christy’s phone rang. She’d just poured herself a glass of sherry to celebrate her day. She’d had a wonderful time showing her catch to Hunter at the Barn, and he’d been as pleased with the books—and with her—as she’d hoped.
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