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Before they could continue the conversation, Ben returned. “I’m sorry for the interruption. That call was from Matilda Matheson, an elderly lady who has a trunk full of memorabilia in her attic. She would like to make a donation, if we’re interested.”
“Is she bringing it in today?” Juliet asked.
“Oh, no. Tildy has arthritis and doesn’t venture far from her house. And even if that weren’t the case, she can’t donate anything until her niece takes time to climb into the attic and go through the trunk.”
“What’s in it?” Juliet asked, obviously interested.
“Tildy can’t remember,” Ben said, with a chuckle. “Bless her heart.”
Eager to get back to the discussion of the gold mine, Mark asked, “So who do you think is the legal owner of the Queen of Hearts?”
“Most of the rumors don’t amount to much. And even if Crazy Red ran off with the deed, the old archives ought to prove that the title wasn’t ever transferred properly. So I have to believe the mine was handed down to Caleb. And from what I understand, he’s hired a lawyer to defend his claim.”
Caleb certainly had the money to put up a legal fight for the land.
“Of course,” Ben added, “Some of the old-timers would like to see Caleb Douglas get his comeuppance. But as far as the Thunder Canyon Historical Society and the museum go, we appreciate his generosity in helping us preserve our early history.”
Mark and Juliet completed the tour, but instead of finding answers, Mark was left with more questions.
But one thing was true. Roy Canfield, the editor of the Nugget had been right. The real story revolved around the deed of the old gold mine.
And Mark planned to find out who really owned the Queen of Hearts.
“Do you mind if we stop at Super Save Mart on the way home?” Juliet asked.
“No. Not at all.” Mark pulled out of the museum parking lot onto Elk, then turned south on Pine.
Juliet planned her speech carefully, trying to maneuver the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “Your parents sound like nice people.”
“I suppose so.” His eyes remained focused on the road.
“Maybe we should pay them a visit. Marissa and I could go with you. I think it would be a nice outing.”
“Not today.”
She slid a glance at him, saw that same hardened expression he’d worn when Gladys discussed his parents. But Juliet wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. To push when necessary. “Maybe another day, then.”
He didn’t answer, and she realized he wouldn’t commit. And that he had no intention of discussing his family situation with her.
Juliet was trying to be sensitive to his feelings. She really was. But his stubborn side was frustrating her to no end.
“I’ve never bowled,” she said. “But it sounds like a lot of fun, especially in a league called the Gutter Busters. Maybe we could go watch some Wednesday. Or even play a game or two.”
“I used to bowl once in a while,” Mark said. “But I play golf now, whenever I get a chance. And the pro who gave me some pointers said the bowling was affecting my swing.”
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to prod him further or throw something at him. But she let it go.
For now.
Moments later, they parked in front of the grocery store. This time, Mark carried the baby, while Juliet filled the cart with things she needed to prepare a special dinner. She didn’t know about Mark, but she was getting sick and tired of The Hitching Post meals. And even if she weren’t, she didn’t like him paying for everything.
She hadn’t made a list, so they wandered from aisle to aisle, picking up pinto beans, rice and tortillas.
In the produce section, she selected tomatoes, green chilies, cilantro and onion. And in dairy, she grabbed a half gallon of milk, sour cream and a bag of Monterey Jack cheese.
As they neared the butcher case, a woman wearing an oversize black sweatshirt with a sunflower appliqué gasped and placed a hand on her chest.
Was something wrong?
The woman’s gaze had locked on Mark’s, and subsequently, so did Juliet’s.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Hi, Mark.”
Juliet froze, a package of chicken breasts gripped in her hand. She studied mother and son, saw their tension-filled stances, felt the awkwardness. And it broke her heart. The reunion should have been exciting, something worthy of a hug, a bright-eyed smile.
“I…uh…was hoping you’d come by the motel,” Mrs. Anderson said. “We’ve missed you. We both have.”
“I’ve been busy.”
The woman’s eyes dropped to the bundle of pink flannel Mark held. Then she glanced at Juliet, a hundred questions in her gaze.
“This is my friend,” Mark said. “Juliet Rivera.”
“How do you do?” The woman reached out a hand. Her eyes begged for answers, for more of an explanation, for something Mark wasn’t providing her. But she remained silent. Watery eyes told Juliet she was hurting, but not because Mark’s presence had disturbed her.
“This is Juliet’s baby,” Mark said. But he didn’t unwrap Marissa. Didn’t reveal her sweet face.
Juliet stepped forward and withdrew the edge of the pink flannel blanket. “Her name is Marissa. And she’s a week old today.”
Mark’s mother smiled, sentiment glistening in her eyes. “What a precious baby.”
“She certainly is. Thank you.” Juliet should have been pleased that Mark had introduced them, but she suspected he’d merely meant to avoid any of the questions that hung in the air.
How have you been?
Why haven’t you called?
When will we see you again?
“I was just picking up things to make a special dinner to celebrate Marissa’s birth,” Juliet said. “Do you like Mexican food, Mrs. Anderson?”
“Yes, I do.” The woman’s green eyes grew wide and bounced from Mark to Juliet and back again. “My husband and I don’t get a chance to eat it very often, especially when it’s homemade. Having been brought up in Texas, we miss a good Mexican-style meal.”
“Then maybe you’d like to join us for dinner,” Juliet said.
Mark tensed.
“Why…” The woman paused, then looked at Mark as though wanting him to second the invitation.
He held his tongue.
Juliet wanted to kick him in the shins. Couldn’t he see the woman was hurting? Maybe more than he was?
“My husband isn’t feeling well,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Perhaps another time.”
“Of course.” Juliet offered her a sincere smile, which was far more than her son had offered.
As Mrs. Anderson turned to leave, Juliet stopped her. “Wait, please.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a slip of paper and a pen, then jotted down her telephone number. “Let me know when your husband is feeling better.”
The woman took the paper, holding it close. In that moment, Juliet knew they’d all been hurt. Deeply. And by something she didn’t understand. Something that needed to be fixed.
“Well, I’d better get back to the motel,” Mark’s mother told him. “Your father is working the front desk by himself, and it’s been very busy today.”
Mark nodded. “I’ll stop by and see you before I leave town.”
“Please do.” Mrs. Anderson’s lip trembled, then she looked at Juliet. “It was nice meeting you. And I will give you a call.”
Juliet flashed her a sincere smile.
Then the woman pushed her empty cart away.
Mark’s jaw locked, like the Tin Man’s after a heavy rain.
But Juliet had a feeling he might not be silent when they got back to the car.
Chapter Ten
Mark gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. He didn’t want to fight with Juliet, but he didn’t want her getting chummy with his folks, either.
Not while he was still in town.
He wasn’t up for a family reunion. Not yet. And maybe not ever.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” Juliet said. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, not really.” He was just frustrated, especially since he refused to share enough of his past to make her understand.
Years ago, Susan had tried to push him to reconcile with his family before their wedding, since Mark had refused to invite his parents.
“I don’t want to chance ruining a day that’s supposed to be happy,” he’d told her.
Like Juliet, his fiancée hadn’t understood the falling-out and had thought the absence of the groom’s family would look weird to people. When Mark had finally leveled with her, opening his guts and explaining why he and his parents didn’t have a close relationship, she’d backed down.
It might have been his imagination, but she’d never seemed to look at him the same after that. So, from then on, he’d intensified his resolve to keep his shameful secret to himself.
Still, Mark didn’t want something from the past to affect his relationship—or rather his friendship—with Juliet. “It’s your apartment, and you can socialize with anyone you want. But I don’t appreciate you inviting my parents to dinner without talking to me first. That’s all.”
She nodded, as though she actually understood his feelings rather than the filtered half-truth.
“I’m sorry it bothered you.” Juliet turned in her seat, facing him. “I should have waited to say something. But your mother seems very nice. And since I’m a new resident of Thunder Canyon, I like meeting people who live in the community.”
He could understand that, but he still didn’t like being pushed. Forced to do something that chapped his hide. “Why don’t you invite my parents to dinner after I’m gone?”
She didn’t respond right away, which made him think the conversation had died a slow death. Thank God. But as they neared The Hitching Post, she brought it up again. “I wish you weren’t so stubborn.”
He bit back a hard-ass retort. It wasn’t Juliet’s fault that he didn’t want to be around his parents. Well, his father, anyway. And she had no inkling of the kind of cruel accusations that had been slung at Mark years ago, accusations that still hurt, that still echoed in his mind.
You no good rebellious bastard.
You son of a bitch.
You let your sister die.
You killed her.
Get the hell out of my house. And don’t ever come back.
To this day, he could still feel the grief, the guilt, the pain of rejection.
There probably weren’t too many sixteen-year-olds who, after an outburst like that, would’ve dropped their heads and plodded to their rooms with their tails between their legs.
Mark certainly hadn’t.
He’d thrown a few belongings into a knapsack, grabbed his jacket and stomped off into the stormy night, determined to either escape the godawful guilt or die in the process.
But he hadn’t done either.
Around midnight, the sheriff found him thumbing a ride out of Thunder Canyon, sopping-wet and chilled to the bone.
“I can’t believe you’d run off at a time when your family needs you,” the uniformed officer had said.
Mark clamped down his shivering teeth, refusing to say anything in his own defense. And after a speech about minors and curfews, the sheriff had taken him back home.
It didn’t take an honor student or an Eagle Scout to figure out his dad wasn’t particularly pleased to see him walk in the front door, even though he hadn’t said a damn thing. The hateful scowl his old man had worn was an image Mark would never forget.
“Sorry to hear about the loss of your daughter,” the sheriff had told his parents. “It’s a damn shame.”
Jess Anderson had merely grunted, then climbed into the old family station wagon and driven down the mountain to the motel, where he’d holed up until the funeral.
His mother had burst into tears again, leaving Mark to face the sheriff alone. He’d actually wished the police officer would have pressed charges against him. Manslaughter. Negligent homicide. Something.
But he hadn’t.
Still, every time his old man looked at him, each time his mother went into his sister’s empty room and cried, whenever someone in the community whispered behind Mark’s back, a gavel in his head pounded out his guilt.
And he couldn’t blame them. It had been a tragic, rebellious mistake that couldn’t be corrected.
