ALEC CONNORS SHOOK BUCK’S HAND. “THANKS FOR a great day. I’m a history lover, so I’ve got to say this ride topped even the whitewater rafting. Will I be able to find books about the gold rush and McHenry in the bookstore I saw in town?”
“I’m sure Heather—she’s the owner of Heather Books—has a good selection on the history of these mountains and the Boise Basin gold rush,” Buck answered. “Zeb McHenry gets a mention in some of the history books, but I don’t think anybody’s ever written a whole book about him.”
“You ought to do it. You’re a natural storyteller.”
Buck laughed. “I’ve got a neighbor who’s a writer, but I doubt I’ll ever be one. I like horses more than words.” He patted the side of the horse trailer for emphasis. “If you go to the bookstore, tell Heather I sent you.”
“I will. In fact, I think I’ll drive into Kings Meadow today and check it out.”
Other members of the party came over to thank Buck for the trip before walking away from the trailers.
“Well,” Chet said when it was just the two of them, “you were a hit.”
Buck turned to face him. “More like the horses and scenery were a hit. Didn’t hurt that Mr. Connors is a school teacher and loved learning something new.”
Chet opened the back of one of the trailers and unloaded the first horse. “Hope you like telling your stories, because I’m sure you and the trail rides are going to get rave reviews on the Web site. All of the guests will be wanting the same experience from here on out.”
“Wouldn’t mind it.” Buck led a second horse away from the trailer. “Enjoyed myself, more than I thought I would.”
Chet’s youngest son, Pete, showed up to help, and it didn’t take long for the three of them to unload the remainder of the Leonard stock from the two trailers. When only Buck’s gelding remained, he closed the back of his four-horse trailer and got into his truck.
Chet came to the door of the cab. “We’ve got more guests arriving tomorrow. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know when we’ll need you next.”
“Okay.”
Buck turned the key in the ignition as Chet took a step back. With a wave, Buck pulled on out. He left the windows down, the hot summer air blowing in as the truck rolled along the two-lane highway toward home. It felt good to be working again. And if Chet’s ideas panned out, the work would keep Buck busy almost full-time.
“Thanks, Lord,” he said softly.
His thoughts veered to Charity. Not a surprise. He’d thought of her often during the ride today. As he’d pointed things out to the guests or shared a bit of history, he’d pictured Charity on the day of their ride to the same location, along that same trail. He’d heard her voice, pictured her smile. He’d remembered her reaction to the Riverton estate, and he’d felt again the desire to take care of her, to shelter her, to be there for her when she needed him.
He wanted her to need him.
Am I falling in love with her?
He tested the words in his heart, rolled them around in his mind.
Have I already fallen?
He couldn’t be sure. He’d never been in love with a woman before. For years he’d been too busy caring for his dad and then his mom, working overtime, working more than one job. Later, when it was just himself to look out for, he hadn’t wanted a serious relationship. He’d never let himself consider something more.
Now he was considering it.
It wasn’t in Buck’s nature to quit without giving his all. He owed it to himself—maybe he owed it to Charity too—to see where his feelings might lead.
“I have to find out,” he whispered, the words whisked away by the wind.
CHARITY PUT DOWN THE PEN AND CLOSED THE JOURNAL. Then she reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes.
Soul searching was an exhausting endeavor. Self-analysis seemed never ending. She’d done so much of it over the past year. But the events and emotions of recent weeks had finally convinced her that she needed to dig ever deeper. That’s what she’d tried to do today. She’d tried to bare her soul in the pages of the journal.
It had surprised her when she began writing about the day she’d realized she was pregnant. It was shocking to see those words upon the page, black ink on off-white paper, detailing the emotions that had overtaken her on that cold February afternoon. The same emotions overwhelmed her now.
There was a quote she’d seen on the Internet that said, “You’re only as sick as your secrets.” If that was true, Charity was sicker than she wanted to be, sicker than she was willing to remain. And that was a step in the right direction.
After sitting a moment, thinking it through, she reached for the telephone. She needed to make a call now before she lost her nerve. Drawing a deep breath, she punched in her sister’s number.
Terri answered before the second ring. “Hey, Charity.”
“Hi, Terri.”
“I’m glad you called. We haven’t talked since we were there for the weekend.”
“I know. I’ve been writing a lot.”
Terri sighed. “Aren’t you ever going to listen to me? You need to get out more often. It isn’t good for you to shut yourself up the way you do.”
“I have to shut myself away. I’ve got a deadline.”
“But you aren’t dead yet.”
This wasn’t going the direction Charity had planned. “Terri, I need a favor.”
“I called because I need to tell you something. I need you to listen until I’m all done talking. No comments. No gasps. Nothing but silence. Do you think you can do that for me?”
There was a long pause, then, “I’ll promise to do my best.”
“Thank you.” But how do I begin? She searched for the right words. “Something happened to me when I was at BSU. In the winter, just before I turned twenty. I know that seems a long time ago, but sometimes, to me, it’s like it’s happened again and again.”
She drew a quick breath and continued. The words came slowly at first. She stumbled a few times and had to go back and fill in the gaps. But the more she talked, the faster the words came until they were pouring out of her, like water over a spillway.
Until now, no one but Charity and Jon Riverton had known what happened that night in his bedroom in the mansion. Only she had known how her alcohol haze had made the room spin, how she’d had no strength to resist his forceful seduction. She’d been a naïve, inexperienced virgin, unprepared for what was about to happen, too gullible for words, too eager to please. She told her sister everything—her failure to scream, to refuse, the copious tears she’d wept when it was over, how violated she’d felt, the guilt that took hold, the callous way Jon had put her in a chauffeured automobile and had her driven back to Boise. Already discarded.
And then she told Terri about the pregnancy, about Jon’s threats—frightening and detailed—of what he would do if she told anyone. Particularly if she told his father. The pressure he’d exerted to force her to have an abortion. The hatred she’d felt—for him, for herself, even for the baby inside of her—as she counted down the months, waiting for the ordeal to be over. She admitted it all—her deepest, darkest sins, her unending shame.
She held nothing back.
Her sister never made a sound.
At last, Charity’s words dried up. She closed her eyes and waited for a response.
“Oh, Pipsqueak.” Terri’s voice broke over a sob.
Charity had made it through the confession without breaking down, but once she knew her sister wept, her own tears began to flow.
“Finally,” Terri said, “it begins to make sense. Why you didn’t like to come home. You didn’t want to run into him. You didn’t want to be reminded.”
A lump formed in Charity’s throat.
“What I wouldn’t do if I could get my hands on him. I’m glad his life caught up with him. I hope he’s miserable, wherever he is now.”
She almost smiled at the big-sister response.
Terri was silent for a few moments. Then, in a more determined tone than before, she said, “I’m not going to give you a sermon or a pep talk, sis. But I think you need to do a couple of things. First, you need to find a counselor.”
“I’ve tried counseling. More than once.”
“Try again. Get a good counselor who can walk you through the healing process. You’ve been punishing yourself long enough.”
Punishing myself. Was that what she’d been doing all this time? Punishing herself?
“And . . . you’re going to have to tell Mom and Dad what you just told me.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Charity whispered.
“You can. You’ve taken the first step. It’ll get easier.”
Charity dried her eyes with another tissue. “You always sound so sure of yourself.”
“Helps that I’m always right.”
“Uh-huh.” This time she did smile, though briefly.
“Sis, I’m proud of you for telling me. It took courage.”
“I don’t feel very courageous,” she replied.
“Listen, maybe I am going to give a sermon. Charity, you did a really dumb thing when you were nineteen. You got drunk and you went somewhere you shouldn’t have gone with a boy who flattered you and then betrayed you. You got pregnant, but even though you were scared and unhappy, you didn’t abort the baby. You made plans to give it up for adoption. You took a bad situation and tried to do the right thing. But then you lost your child. That’s a pain no woman forgets. You’ve got emotional scars. That’s obvious. And you’ve let fear sabotage your relationships with men and with your family for way too long. But you’ve done a lot of stuff to be proud of too. You got your degree, even though you could have dropped out of school. You’ve written three books and started a new career and supported yourself the whole time. And recently you’ve seen where you weren’t living right and you made decisions to change those things. That’s courage, Charity, and you’ve got a lot of it inside of you.”
Wow, she mouthed, but no sound came out.
Terri released a short, mirthless laugh. “Sorry. I couldn’t hold it back any longer.”
Charity cleared her throat. “I think I’m glad you didn’t.” “I love you, sis.”
“I love you too.”
“Let’s talk again in a day or two.”
“Okay.”
After they said good-bye, Charity went into the living room and lay on the sofa, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. She felt drained. Empty, but in a good way. Her sister’s “sermon” replayed in her head, and an unfamiliar peace seemed to fall over her, like a down comforter.
Before long, exhausted, she slept.