Finally Home (8 page)

“Sometimes?”

“Well, when I was a kid, I thought they fought constantly, but in retrospect I think . . .” She shrugged. “Relationships are tricky.”

“She took his boat.”

“What?”

Sophie exhaled and quietly resumed brushing. “She hated that boat. Hated it. But it was Dad's pride and joy.” She cleared her throat. “She sold it a couple months after the divorce was final.”

They brushed in silent unison for a moment.

“It doesn't really sound like they would have had an idyllic relationship with or without you, Soph.”

She nodded, thinking. “In some ways that almost makes it harder.”

“What? Why?”

Her brows beetled. “I mean . . . if it was just me . . . just the strain another human being put on their relationship . . . if that had been too hard for them . . . that would be one thing. But to think that that's just how they are. That mean. That . . . vengeful.” Her lips twitched. “That's my heritage. My stock,” she said and glanced up, eyes haunted.

Casie shook her head. “I don't know why love makes people crazy.”

“If that's love I'd rather have the stomach flu.”

Casie thought about that for a second, thought about the burbling insanity she sometimes felt in Colt Dickenson's presence. Thought about the euphoric angst he caused the rest of the time. “I'm not sure we always have a choice,” she said.

“
I
do,” Sophie said and led the mare out of the barn.

“Where are you going?” Casie asked.

“I'm going to work with Chester for a few minutes.”

“What?” Casie asked and hurried after her. “What are you talking about?”

“The bay,” Sophie said, not turning toward her.

“I know who Chester is.” Casie caught up to her at the gate to the pasture. “But you can't work him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's not gelded yet.”

“And he's not gelded because he's not trained.”

“Soph!” Casie said and caught her arm. “I mean it, I can't take that risk.”

“You're not risking anything.”

“Are you kidding me? What do you think your dad will do if you get hurt”—she made a face—“again.”

“Well, he won't find out, will he?” Sophie asked and turned Evie loose. “Because he's not around.”

Casie shook her head. “I know you were looking forward to seeing him, but—”

“This isn't about him,” she said and sighed. “Okay, maybe it is kind of. I mean . . . it just . . .” She gritted her teeth and turned away. “This is my world.” She glanced around at the endless acres. “I thought maybe this once he could take an interest instead of running off to the Virgin Islands with some bimbo who hasn't been a virgin for . . .” She stopped herself.

“I'm sorry,” Casie said, “but breaking your neck probably isn't going to help anything.”

“You don't trust me, either!” she snapped.

Casie had to stop herself from taking a cautious step to the rear. So the mature Sophie Jaegar was gone again, replaced miserably by the twisted, angry Sophie. But Casie had seen her before. Was familiar with her moods.

“Fine!” the girl said. “That's just fine.”

Casie steeled herself. “How about we both work him?”

Sophie narrowed her eyes but didn't immediately spew vitriol. “How do you mean?”

“We could pony him together.”

“Don't you have chores to do?”

Casie forced a shrug, setting aside the thought of broken fences and yet-to-be-stacked hay bales. “They can wait,” she said and watched the girl's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch as if they were no longer braced against the weight of the world.

CHAPTER 7

“W
hoa,” Emily said and wiggled her bottom into the Escalade's cushy seat. “This is even nicer than
my
ride.”

Max glanced at her with wry appreciation. “High praise,” he said.

“Yeah,” she agreed and rolled her head sideways to glance into the backseat where Bliss was strapped into her carrier like a nuclear bomb. “What do you say, Buttercup?” she asked, but the baby's eyes were already drooping shut, downy lashes falling drowsily over plump mocha cheeks.

The sight did something funky to Emily's heart. She couldn't say what it was for sure, but the area near her solar plexus felt gooey.

“That's a nice sound,” Max said.

“What?” She glanced at him. They had already turned onto the snow-packed gravel that led toward town. He'd slouched down in the seat a little and propped his left elbow on the armrest. With two fingers on the wheel, he navigated the eco-unfriendly vehicle like an aged farmer checking soybeans.

“That noise,” he explained and sighed heavily to demonstrate. “The sound of love.”

“I didn't do that,” she scoffed, then sat up a little straighter. “Did I?”

“Yeah,” he said and glanced at her. “You did.”

“Oh, well . . .” She shrugged. “I just . . .” For a second she considered trying to downplay her feelings, to crack a joke or find a bit of sarcasm, but the truth was too easy, too obvious. “I didn't know.”

“Didn't know what?”

“That she'd make my heart turn inside out.”

The car fell silent. She glanced out the window. The whitewashed hills rolled silently into the distance, dotted here and there by a jagged line of rock or bent pine.

“It must be nice,” he said finally.

“What's that?”

“To love like that.”

She turned her attention back to him.

“I mean . . .” He laughed. “I'm crazy about Sonata. Don't get me wrong.”

“Yeah.” Emily blinked, wondering where this was going. She was a little embarrassed to realize that sometimes, with Bliss so overpowering in her mind, it was difficult to remember that other people had problems, other people had issues and hopes and aspirations. For just a second she wondered if her own mother had ever felt the same way. Wondered if Jennifer Casper had ever made
her
baby the center of her universe . . . before she'd stepped out of her life and never looked back. “She seems great.”

“She is!” He nodded emphatically, but the edges of his eyes seemed a little pinched.

“Classy,” Emily added.

“She's a hard worker, too. And smart.”

If she wasn't mistaken, there was a “but” coming. Emily didn't want to hear any buts. Mostly she just wanted to stare at Bliss. But that didn't seem right, either. Casie would inquire, show an interest, and probably solve any impending problems. That's what made Casie special, what made her different from . . . say . . . Emily's mother. And when she looked at it in that light, the choices were pretty clear. Exhaling softly, she focused all her attention on the driver. Max Barrenger was medium height with a stocky build and a face that had seen some years. “So how did you meet?”

“Skiing,” he said. “In Vale. I was racing down a black diamond when someone came tearing past me like she'd been shot out of a cannon. I nearly broke my neck trying to beat her to the bottom.”

The “cute meet,” Hollywood would call it. “Did you manage it?”

He chuckled. “It takes a stronger man than me to beat S. at anything.”

Emily smiled, then pointed to the left. “That's a really nice area. When you're ready to snowshoe that would be a good place to park your car.”

He glanced at the narrow, snow-covered approach. “I don't have to worry about getting towed?”

“Seriously?” she said, and he laughed as he turned toward her.

“I guess there's not a shortage of parking out here.”

“Not so much.”

He nodded as he looked back toward the road. “It
is
beautiful.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. Maybe there had been a time when the vast spaces had intimidated her, but now they felt like home and freedom and security all rolled into one. She didn't know how much of that was because of the place and how much was because of the people, but she would make herself worthy of both of them. She
would,
she vowed, and hushed the doubts that gnawed nastily at her psyche. “I think so, too.”

“You did it again.”

“Did what?”

He sighed dramatically.

“I did not.”

He grinned. Crow's-feet bracketed his eyes and a little silver edged the hair around his ears. “You look at the land kind of like you look at your baby.”

She shrugged. “Well, it's a good place to be.”

“Are you from here?”

“No.” She glanced out her window again. Stray memories started nudging in, needy, angry memories that eroded her peace. She shoved them back into the dark recesses of her past where she kept the sleepless nights and grinding insecurities.

“Let me guess.” He narrowed his eyes, looking worldly wise. “I bet you grew up in . . .” He studied her. She knew what he would see: wild dreadlocks, milk-chocolate skin, crafty eyes. But maybe she'd learned to hide that craftiness. Or maybe, when she wasn't looking, it had receded a little, settled back into the shadows, waiting. “Seattle,” he said.

She opened her mouth to refute his statement, but he held up a hand, shushing her.

“Just wait. There's more. Your mother was an artist. Thus the cool . . .” He motioned toward his own mostly dark hair. “ 'Do.”

“Cool 'do. Yup.” Her hair was crazy. There wasn't really a good euphemism for it. Years ago, she had wished it was straight and smooth like her mother's, but that was before she'd realized her childish dreams had no bearing whatsoever on the future. It had taken her longer to realize that Jennifer Casper's
own
dreams had little more influence than her child's. Such was the sharp blade of addictions.

Max grinned, drawing her back to the present. “And your dad . . .” He narrowed his eyes as if divining the past. “Your dad was an oceanographer.”

“Oh boy,” Emily said, forcefully dispelling old demons.

He laughed at her tone. “Who worked late hours trying to . . .” He wiggled his fingers at her. “Save the blue gill whale.”

“I don't think there's any such thing as the blue gill whale.”

He shook his head as if to dismiss such nonsensical logic. “But the long hours took a toll on his marriage.”

“Didn't they just?”

“Hence the divorce.” He made a face. “It was sad but amicable. Maybe their struggles are what gave you such depths.”

Depths?
she thought, but before she could question his wild assumptions, he spoke again.

“Maybe that's even why you're such a great mom.”

There were a thousand elements to dispute about his story. Or maybe she should just laugh, but his last statement touched a sensitive chord in her, pinging it gently. “You think . . .” She paused, stilling the telltale tremor in her voice. “What makes you think I'm a good mother?”

He stared at her, mouth quirked in a smile, but eyes solemn. “I've been around.”

“Yeah?”

He glanced out the window again. “Hither and yon.”

There was pain in his voice now. Casie would probably delve into that. Not that Emily Kane could ever be the woman Casie Carmichael was, but . . . “You have kids?” she asked.

“Look at that!” he said and touched the brakes sharply.

Emily jerked her gaze to the right. A quartet of wild turkeys was searching for goodies along the roadside. “Aren't they great?” she asked.

“They're huge.”

“Yeah,” she agreed just as three of them took to the air, sweeping low over the reeds that poked at bent angles through the snowdrifts. “It doesn't really look like they should fly, does it?”

“Man, that would make a great shot.”

“Are you a hunter?”

“Me?” He laughed. “No. I meant it would make a nice picture.”

“Oh. You're a photographer.”

He shifted his shoulders a little. “That's kind of a grandiose term for what I do, but yeah. I like to fiddle.”

“What kind of camera do you have?”

“My favorite for action shots is the four hundred–millimeter Nikon.”

“You have a telephoto lens?”

“Yeah, but it's heavy as a mother. Not that mothers are, umm . . .” He made a face. “. . . Fat or anything.”

“Nice save,” she said and turned the conversation back to cameras. There was something about photographs that had always appealed to her . . . the way they could capture a moment and hold it forever. Memories slipped away. People left. Things changed. But photos held true to the moment, clinging with timeless tenacity. “I just have a little ELPH PowerShot. It only has a twelve times zoom, but it's red so . . .” She shrugged.

“Totally makes up for its lack of capabilities.”

“But that doesn't mean I wouldn't give my spleen for one of those old-school Kodaks,” she said.

“Those Six-Twenty folding cameras?” he asked, gazing raptly across the console at her.

“They are
sweet
.”

“Can you tell Sonata that? She thinks I'm obsessed with those old cameras. But life's not all about work.”

“Sometimes it kind of has to be,” she said.

“But sometimes it's about . . .” He shrugged. “Finding yourself. Sometimes it's about family and friends and . . . old-timey pictures.”

“Like those sepia pics.”

He sighed dreamily. “Anything that requires a developer is orgasmic.”

“We could share a darkroom,” she said.

He stared at her, brows slightly raised.

Blood rushed to her face in a flush of heat. “I didn't . . .” Panic filled her. She jerked her attention to the passenger window. “Turn here!”

He did so without comment.

“It's just . . . just a little farther. Right behind those trees.”

“On the right?”

“Yeah.” Holy shorts, she was an idiot! Maybe there was a time when she had thought sex was just another biological urge, but things were different now. She glanced into the backseat.
Everything
was different now, she thought, and zipped her gaze back to Max.

“Listen . . .” he began, but she cut him off at the pass.

“The Frenches have lived here for about a hundred years, I guess. It's just the two of them now. All their kids moved east. But Fred and Birdie can finish off a rhubapple pie in about an hour and a half, so I try to bring one by every other day or so. She's teaching me to crochet, but she's got some arthritis so it's kind of slow going. Cindy Dickenson, though, Colt's mom, she's fantastic and she has alpaca. Did you know their fiber is twenty times warmer than wool?

“Turn in here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. That's great,” she said and wrenched her door open before the vehicle came to a complete halt. In a second she had speed-walked to the tailgate and was yanking at the handle.

Max approached slowly from the left.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course. I just . . .” She gave the mechanism another ineffective tug. Her face still felt hot. “I just want to get this done before Bliss wakes up.”

“Okay,” he said, and pushing her hand aside, smoothly opened the door.

She pulled out the nearest pie, checked the label on the aluminum foil, and hurried up the slanted steps. Fred French was glaring at her from the stoop, khaki pants cinched just below his armpits.

“Where's your truck?” he asked and jerked his knobby chin toward the Escalade.

“It just needed a little rest.”

“A little rest! It needs a tombstone. And I told you, we don't want no more pies.”

“I know you did, but I had an extra and the dog's getting fat.”

He glowered at her, then shook his head. “Well, here you go then,” he grumbled and held out a much-folded bill.

“Mr. French,” she said, backing up a step. “You know I can't take your money.”

“Why not?” His wrinkled lids shifted over rheumy eyes. “We ain't no charity, you know.”

“I know that. But
Mrs.
French is teaching me to crochet and—”

“Well, I ain't my missus and I don't do no crochet,” he said. Shoving the bill into the thigh pocket of her cargo pants, he snatched the pie out of her hands and slammed the door in her face.

“I know that,” she said to no one.

Silence stretched out on all sides for a moment. Somewhere in the shelterbelt behind them, a pheasant called. The sound was sharp and staccato in the morning air.

“Your Web site was right,” Max said. “Dakotans
are
friendly.”

“And New Yorkers are hilarious,” she said, tromping back to the Escalade.

Bliss was still sleeping. Emily pulled Fred's money from her pants pocket and stared at it as they traversed the bumpy yard.

“Must be a pretty good pie,” Max said and nodded toward the hundred-dollar bill.

She scowled at it as a dozen weird emotions fired up inside her. Her eyes stung, and that was weird, too, because she wasn't the sniffley sort. “I'm not a skank,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”