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“Forget it.” He sounded very firm. “I’ll drive you.”
Abby closed her purse and got to her feet. Jesse put his arm casually around her shoulders, to guide her through the dancers, now thickly crowding the dance floor. Abby couldn’t see Marguerite. Oh well, she’d more or less said goodbye already.
The evening was crisp and cold, and Abby pulled her jacket more tightly around her. She took a deep breath, which cleared the smoke from her lungs. Early November in northern Minnesota could be colder than this. At least, there wasn’t any snow on the ground yet.
Jesse led the way to a late-model pickup truck with dual rear wheels, probably the vehicle that had pulled the Winslow stock trailer to Minnesota from Alberta. He handed her into the passenger side, not speaking until he’d climbed into the vehicle and shut the door.
He paused, his hand on the ignition. “Where you staying?”
“The Spruce Valley Inn.”
“That’s the one right near the exhibition grounds?”
“Yes.” The town’s motels and hotels were pretty well full this week with the out-of-towners visiting the stock show. Her niece and nephew were staying with some friends they’d met on previous trips to Carlisle with Abby’s father, their grandfather. Abby wasn’t keen on that situation, as she couldn’t keep an eye on them the way she was sure her sister would want her to, but on the other hand, she was able to get the early nights she preferred.
“I’m just down the street. At the Alta Vista.”
“Oh.” Abby felt like a fool. She was no conversationalist. Why hadn’t she taken a cab? They were strangers, although they’d danced and he’d bought her a drink and she supposed he must be interested in her. They had nothing to say to each other, nothing in common except that they both knew the difference between a Black Angus and a Holstein. They weren’t even in the same area there--he was beef and she was dairy.
He drove to her motel through the empty streets, not more than a five-minute drive. He didn’t say anything. She supposed that was another thing they , had in common-neither of them was much for chitchat. Abby looked out the window. The shops were dark, of course, but so were most of the cafеs and restaurants. Even the movie theater was deserted. Not even midnight yet, but it seemed the good folks of Carlisle went to bed with the chickens, as her father said. Abby smiled to herself wryly. A live wire like her would fit right into this kind of town.
Abby had often wondered about the kind of town she’d fit into. She’d grown up in Wicoigon. She’d gone to school there, then lived in Grand Falls during her college years. She’d moved back to Wicoigon to teach elementary school. She and Frank had honeymooned in Hawaii, a big splurge that had taken all their meager savings, but that was about as far as she’d traveled. She’d only been out of state a handful of times besides her honeymoon. Twice to a 4-H meet and once to a friend’s wedding in Nebraska. The occasional stock fair back when she traveled with her father. Sometimes she recalled the days she’d yearned to see the world, meet other people, go to the places she’d read about in books. All that had changed when she married Frank, and then when both Frank and the baby they’d wanted so much passed out of her life. Everything was different now. She’d gone to earth like an injured fox; she’d turned to her family and the town she’d always known. She had nothing else to turn to. Neither arrangement was perfect, but then life so rarely was.
They were at her motel. She’d have to say something....
She had her hand on the door of the truck. “Well, thanks—”
“Wait a minute. You going to be all right?”
“Me?” Abby was slightly bewildered.
“Yeah. You said you weren’t used to drinking.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, laughing weakly. “I’m not drunk, you know.”
“I’ll walk you to your room. Make sure you get in all right. Stay there.” He came around and opened the truck door for her and she scrambled out, in a fairly unladylike manner, she was sure.
He took her arm as they walked toward her door on the lower level, number 101. The sidewalk was frosty, and she was grateful for the support as the leather soles of her shoes slid a little.
“I’m fine now,” she said nervously. Did he expect a good-night kiss? What did a person a woman—do in a situation like this? Abby glanced toward the well-lighted front office of the inn. At least there were plenty of people around.
“Your friend, the one who never came back for you, she said you needed to take your mind off something. Are you in some kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?”
This Canadian cowboy, this stranger, seemed genuinely concerned.
Abby stared at him, his eyes looking black under the artificial light of the streetlamp, and to her horror, she felt hot tears running down her cheeks. Something crumpled beneath her breastbone, something she’d clung to like life itself for nearly two years.
“Not unless you can undo the hand of God,” she whispered rawly. “Can you? My little girl was born dead. My husband died two years ago, before our baby was born,” she rasped, barely recognizing her voice. “That’s what Marguerite was talking about when—” Her voice ran out. It just stopped.
Abby swiped at her wet cheeks, suddenly angry that. this man had mentioned the one subject that belonged to her alone. She tried to jam the key into the lock.
“Oh, damn. Honey, I’m so sorry-” She felt his hand on her shoulder. He sounded shocked. “I had no idea-I’d never have mentioned it if I had. I thought it was some problem with your stock—”
Abby actually managed a strangled laugh. She jabbed at the lock again—damn this stupid key!—and then Jesse took it from her and unlocked the door himself. The door swung open, the room faintly redolent of air freshener and travelers’ shoes and damp carpet. If only it was a problem with the damn cows. If only it was something like a missing show halter or a lame foot or a digestive problem one of the heifers was having. Dysentery. Heaves. Hoof-and-mouth. Brucellosis. Mad cow disease. She felt hysteria rise within her. The quicker she could get rid of this cowboy, the better.
But he was right behind her. “You sit down, Abby,” he said, flicking on the lights and shutting the door. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
Abby sat heavily on the bed, dropping her handbag to the floor. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She stared at the unfamiliar sight of the tall, handsome stranger, bustling about her motel room, ripping open the package of complimentary coffee, dumping it into the filter, filling the reservoir with water, turning on the miniature coffee machine, then assembling two mugs by fitting cone-shaped plastic inserts into the plastic receptacles provided. Disposable. Discardable. Sterile.
A dam burst in Abby. She sobbed, bolt upright on the bed, her hands in front of her face. She felt the bed sag as Jesse sat down beside her. She felt him put his arm around her, heard the helpless mutterings of manly comfort as he tried to calm her. What a situation for him to be in!
“Please go,” she said, pushing him away. “Please leave me alone. There’s nothing you can do. It’s over, it’s past. There’s nothing anyone can do—”
“I’ll leave. But I want to see you settle down a little first. Drink some coffee. Here, just get it all out, honey.” He put both arms forcibly around her and suddenly Abby collapsed into them. It felt good to lean on someone. Finally. She laid her cheek against his shirt and wept He stroked her hair awkwardly and kept muttering to her.
The relief. The terrible loneliness of weeping by herself... She was not alone now. She was with a strong, handsome stranger. A stranger who, oddly, cared what was happening to her. Of course, anyone would be flummoxed to have a woman collapse on him, the way she had....
“Look, honey. Let me get up and get you a cof fee. I think it’s ready.”
Abby sat upright again, stiff as starch, shocked at how she’d welcomed his arms around her. Briefly. She watched as he poured two cups—“Cream—this whitener stuff? Sugar?”
She nodded. “Cream.” She blew her nose loudly on the tissue she’d taken out of her handbag.
He stirred the coffee and brought it to her. He handed her one cup, then sat in an armchair beside the bed and carefully pulled the small bedside table toward her so they could share it. She set her cup down, too.
She tried to smile. “Thank you.”
“Hell.” He looked ill at ease. He took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “Whew!”
She laughed. “That bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
They sat in silence again, as though the emotional storm of the past ten minutes hadn’t happened. Abby realized he wasn’t comfortable discussing it. She realized that, like so many men, he’d just as soon stick to the present, to the action possible in any situation. The coffee. The news. She thought she’d seen him glance longingly at the silent television in the corner. No way she was turning it on; he wasn’t a guest. He’d be on his way the instant he finished his coffee. She was fine now. She’d be okay. She didn’t know what had come over her.
Anyway. It was done. It was past. She felt a little better now.
Suddenly Jesse put his cup down and stood. “I’d, uh, I’d better be on my way now.”
Abby got up, too. She was only a short distance from him. She had to look up to meet his gaze. “I—I want to thank you—” she began.
He stepped forward and put his arms gently around her. He pushed back a strand of hair that stuck damply to the side of her cheek. His eyes didn’t meet hers. He seemed to be studying her, as though committing her features to memory. “You’re a fine woman, Abby Steen. A fine beautiful woman.” His voice was rich and deep.
“Oh—”
“Listen to me. It’ll come out all right in the end. Believe me. I know you’ve heard that kind of thing before, but it’s true. You’ll, uh-” He met her gaze then and stared at her for a second or two. It seemed like a very long time to Abby’s overstretched nerves. “Troubles are bad but uh, you’ll—” he began again. He stopped and swallowed.
“Oh, damn,” he whispered, then leaned down and brought his mouth to hers and Abby took a long, deep, shaky breath and kissed him back. It felt good, it felt right. It had been so very long since she’d had a man’s arms around her, pressing her against him, as though imprinting every curve of her body on his, as though he ached for her as she ached for him. For someone.
He kissed her deeply, and she felt the vibrations of what was happening right down to her calves, along her thighs, the inside of her thighs, her breasts.... She clung to him, eager to meet his kisses, to taste all of him.
Then she felt his fingers, strong and expert, on the hook of her bra, through her blouse, pinching, succeeding... yes, she exulted silently as she felt her bra loosen and her breasts spring free. Just as I dreamed, just as I imagined...
Just as I so desperately need to wipe the pain away. For a few hours. A night, a day. Maybe forever.
“Don’t leave me,” she heard herself whisper. “Stay with me. Please.”
CHAPTER TWO
Glory, Alberta
March
THE LAYOUT OF THE Lazy SB, home of Winslow Herefords, was a little unusual. You approached the ranch by following a long grade that led from the flat of the prairies, smack against the sky, to the broad valley of the Horsethief River.
Once at the end of the short graveled lane that led from the secondary highway, you came upon a fairly new, white-sided prefab building of modest size, perhaps twelve hundred square feet. That was where Jesse Winslow lived. To the south, a little up the hill from the river, was a trailer, an older model measuring less than thirty feet. That was where the Winslows’ uncle, Brandis McAffrey, had lived until he died three years before at the age of eighty-four, dividing his share of the ranch between his two nephews. The trailer had been empty since then.
A little higher again, on a gentle knoll, was the old Winslow family home. It was built of clapboard, somewhat weathered now, and stood two stories, square and proud, on the knoll overlooking the ranch corrals and barns and the Horsethief River in the middle distance. A fancy-cut veranda, the style of a previous time, wrapped itself around the house, and old-fashioned deep pink roses, long gone wild, small of bloom and long of thorn, climbed up to the roof on two sides. That was where Noah Winslow lived.
The brothers got along fine; they just preferred to live separately. The arrangement suited them. There’d been a third brother, Casey, but he’d died at the age of twelve of a ruptured appendix. Doc Lake had seen to him when Jake Winslow had rushed him to town, after pooh-poohing the severity of the boy’s “bellyache,” but it was too late. Casey had died four days later of the massive infection that had set in, and the loss of her middle son had hastened Macy Winslow’s decline. She’d suffered for many years from a sort of mysterious palsy that incapacitated her. No one knew exactly what it was, but one day, about two months after Casey’s death, Macy had gone down for a nap in the afternoon of a bright spring day and had never woken up.
The neighbors had talked. It was a small community, Glory and the surrounding farm and ranch district. People had wondered at the sudden death of a woman in midlife who only trembled a bit, enough that she couldn’t hold a teacup steady. There were whispers of suicide—not just because of Macy’s losing a son like that but having to live with a man like Jake Winslow. A hard man. Some said a violent an.
But the doctor’s certificate had read “unknown natural causes” and that was good enough, as far as the remaining Winslows were concerned. She’d been buried in the churchyard up on the prairie, a church that only she of all the Winslows had ever attended. There was singing at the grave site and purple martins looped overhead as Macy McAffrey Winslow was lowered into the rich brown prairie soil. It was the only time, outside of his wedding, that Jake Winslow had ever been seen at church. Six months later, he’d sold his interest in the ranch to his brother-in-law, Brandis McAffrey, Macy’s half brother, and had disappeared. No one knew if he was dead or alive.
Since then Noah and Jesse and their Uncle Brandis-until his death-had been running the Lazy SB. Neither Noah nor Jesse ever talked about the disappearance of their father. Not many people in the area believed he was missed, even by his two boys.
Neither had married. Nor had Uncle Brandis ever married. Noah was close to his mid-thirties and Jesse was twenty-seven. If Casey had lived, he’d be thirty-one.
SPRING HAD COMB early to the northern range this year. By late March, the snow had cleared or blown away and most of the newborn calves had a pleasant and peaceful introduction to the world on the Lazy SB. No blizzards. No sudden March northwesters bringing freezing rain. No deep winter snow on the ground to weary the lumbering mothers. Noah and Jesse had ridden the range all month, watching for cows with problems. There’d been a few, but this year they’d lost fewer calves than ever before. Noah was pleased. A dead calf was money lost on a working ranch. Not just the loss of what the calf would have brought, as a feeder or a finished steer, but money lost in feeding the mother for a year without a calf to show for it. Ranch economics were tough and tight.
By the third week in March, Noah figured most of the calving was done. The few cows that hadn’t given birth yet were down in the lower field, close to the ranch so that either he or Jesse or Carl Divine, their foreman, could go out and check on them occasionally.
Other ranching and farming tasks were approaching. Seed to get in from Regina for the hay crops he was experimenting with this year. Bulls to examine for health problems and get into condition before turning them out with the cows in July. Roundup to organize, maybe mid-May this year, depending on the weather. Branding to follow, along with inoculating, castrating, dehorning, worming and all the other hundred and one jobs a rancher had to keep up with to look after his cattle properly.
The weather so far was just about perfect. You couldn’t ask for a finer spring day. As Noah left Carl in the barn checking veterinary supplies and walked up to the house to get some lunch, he noticed his brother turning into the yard. Jesse didn’t stop at his own bungalow, but continued on up Noah’s driveway.
Noah waved briefly, then walked into the house to start the coffee machine, which he usually got ready before he left the house in the morning. He opened the refrigerator. Bologna or ham or leftover roast beef? He pulled out the sliced ham and began to gather the makings of the rest of his sandwich. Maybe make extra, in case Jesse hadn’t eaten.
Lettuce, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, cheese slices, a few chunks of raw onion, a tomato slice or two, more pickles—the entire creation topped with a couple of peperoncini peppers and a dab of horseradish. Now that was a sandwich, Noah thought with satisfaction.
Jesse came in without knocking and sat heavily at the kitchen table.
Noah glanced at his brother. “You eat?”
“Not yet.”
“Sandwich? Carl’s down at the barn.”
“Sure.” Jesse sighed and Noah spared him another glance before topping the three sandwiches he’d made with a thick slice of Glory Bakery bread. He leaned down on each sandwich gently, just enough to make it all stick together and not topple off before he could wrap one up for Carl and take the other two to the table for him and Jesse. He’d planned to eat down at the barn with his foreman, but now that Jesse was here, he might as well stay up at the house and eat with him.
He set the plate on the table, pushing aside the week’s accumulation of magazines and newspapers. His brother hadn’t even taken off his hat, which was unusual. He hadn’t said another word, either. Noah walked back to the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of cans of beer. He popped the tab on his as he returned to the table.
“Beer?”
“I could use one,” Jesse said, reaching for his can and popping the tab, too. “Thanks.” He took a long draft and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. Noah noticed a letter sticking out of the pocket of his brother’s shirt. The letter had been opened.
The two men ate their sandwiches in silence for five minutes. Then Noah decided to cut to the chase. “I thought you weren’t coming home from town until later this afternoon. That barbed wire the coop ordered come in early?”
He knew Jesse didn’t have the barbed wire, the pickup hadn’t ridden as though it had a load in the back. Still, no way was he coming straight out and asking—that wasn’t how the men in his world did things. Not men who loved cowboying and the independent life above all, men like him and Jesse. A man was generally his own boss, whether he worked for wages or not. A man worth his grub and his paycheck knew what needed doing without being told.
“Nope.” Jesse drained his beer. “Didn’t get it yet. I, ah, I had some news in town.”
Noah regarded him for a second or two. “News?” He bit into his sandwich.
“Got a letter today.” Jesse patted his chest pocket and frowned.
“Girlfriend?”
“This is no joke, Noah.” Jesse swore softly under his breath. “No joke at all.”
“Well, you’d better tell me then. Save me guessing. I got work to do this afternoon.”
His brother heaved another sigh and stood up to retrieve the pickle jar from the fridge. “You recall that exhibition I went to last fall in Minnesota? Me ‘n’ Barney?” he asked as he stabbed into the jar with a fork.
“Sure do. Got two blue ribbons for those young bulls sired by Mack. Grand champ and reserve.” Mack was the pet name Noah had for Macintosh Millicent Merrigoldas Blazes, the top bull on the ranch, the five-year-old Noah would have mortgaged his soul to acquire. He hadn’t had to, luckily, and Mack had turned out even better than he’d dreamed. Blood will out, old Brandis used to say. Blood and breeding.
“Well, I met a woman down there.” Jesse screwed the lid back on the pickle jar and pushed it to the center of the table.
Noah stared at his brother. He looked unhappy. This wasn’t like Jesse. Was he in love? Women were nothing new to him; he had women falling all over him wherever he went.
“And?” Noah took another bite of his sandwich and chased the heat from the peppers with the last of his beer.
Jesse patted his pocket again. “She wrote. Told me, uh—jeez, Noah, I don’t know how to put this,” Jesse said in a rush. His eyes were hangdog. This was the younger brother Noah had pulled out of quite a few jams over the years. He knew the look well.
“Hell, Jess. How bad could it be? You catch something you weren’t figuring on catching? You left her with something she wasn’t figuring on getting left with-”
“Yeah. She’s having a baby. Mine—”
“What?”
“She’s having a kid. She don’t want nothing from me. Just figured I should know, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, she doesn’t want anything from you?” He surprised himself with the intensity of his feelings. This was bound to happen. Jesse was a womanizer. Noah was amazed it hadn’t happened long ago. Maybe it had. “What did she write for if she didn’t want anything?”
“You’re a hard son of a bitch, Noah.” Jesse stood up. “Some folk are decent, you know.” He glared at his brother. “Some people got feelings. Some folk figure there’s a right and a wrong way to do things.”
For a minute Noah thought Jesse was going to leave. But he didn’t. He stood at the kitchen window for a few seconds, staring out over the rivet valley, then sat down again.
