THOMAS FITZPATRICK SWIRLED a drink in his hand and stood near the window of his office. He tossed back a large swallow of Scotch, felt the alcohol hit the back of his throat and burn all the way down to his stomach. It was still morning. Ten-fifteen. Too early for a drink except on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, the signing of a particularly good deal. Or the day a man’s served with divorce papers. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the neatly typed documents from some high-powered lawyer in San Francisco. James T. Bennington. A tiger. The best. June was going for blood.
He swallowed the rest of his drink and poured another. Two would be his limit. Sitting at the desk, he stared down at the divorce papers. Signed, sealed and delivered. His wife had actually filed. She had more guts—and pride—than he’d ever given her credit for.
Being served had been humiliating, but not surprising. His reconciliation efforts with June had been feeble. They’d just gone through the motions of seeing a marriage counselor, engaging in a few “dates,” trying to figure out what to do with the rest of their lives. All that time and money had been wasted. June wanted out. She was tired of Thomas’s deals and his women. When Jackson Moore had come back to town and discovered that Thomas was really his father, all hell had broken loose. June had known the truth, of course, but it had been a well-kept secret. The boy had even been kept in the dark and Thomas had continued his on-again, off-again affair with Sandra Moore, Jackson’s sexy, loose-moraled mother. He smiled as he thought of her. Sandra, of all his mistresses, had most touched his heart.
June had found the strength to move out and take their daughter, Toni, with her. Though Toni was old enough to be on her own, she’d still been living at home, here in Gold Creek. Thomas’s baby. His little girl. His princess.
He sighed. He didn’t really blame his wife. The love they’d once shared had died a long time ago. Sandra Moore wasn’t his first mistress, nor had she been his last.
There had been lots of other women. Bosomy, beautiful females he’d met when he’d been out of town. Young women who had pretended an interest in him but were really impressed with his wealth.
He sipped this drink slowly and set the glass on the table as he settled deeper in his chair. The old leather creaked.
He thought of Carlie Surrett. Lord, she’d turned into a beauty. His fingers moved slowly up and down his sweaty glass. Years ago she’d caught his eye, but he’d drawn the line at girls still in their teens. If he remembered correctly, she’d left town because of that scandal with the older Powell boy, Ken or Conrad…no, Kevin. That was it. He’d committed suicide, or so everyone thought, because he’d loved Carlie and she’d broken up with him and become involved with his younger brother—that arrogant kid who ended up joining the army. There had even been some scandal about pregnancy, but no one knew for sure if that was true. Carlie certainly hadn’t come back to town with a kid tagging behind her.
Pulling on his mustache, he thought long and hard, as he always did when he considered something he wanted. Without realizing what he was doing, he shoved back his chair, walked to the bar and plopped a couple of ice cubes into his glass. He caught his reflection in the mirror and scowled. Age was creeping up on him. Age and disappointment. He hadn’t wanted to lose Roy years ago, and he didn’t want to suffer the pain and financial strain of a divorce now. He’d hoped Jackson would forgive him and that somehow he’d end up with Turner Brooks’s ranch. He’d even tried to wrangle the sawmills from his nephew, Hayden. Nothing had worked. He seemed to have lost the Midas touch he’d once possessed.
So now he wanted Carlie. She was old enough, and he was soon to be single. Nothing was standing in his way. Unless she was involved with someone; he’d have to check. It wouldn’t be hard to find out all about her.
Carlie’s father, Weldon, worked for him as a foreman at the logging company. Good man. Steady worker. Company man. Carlie was Weldon’s only daughter and he’d disapproved when she’d taken off for the city. Weldon had grumbled about her getting too big for her britches though Thomas suspected that Weldon was covering up because he was hurt that his only daughter had run off to the city.
Rumor had it that she’d been married, briefly, but that wasn’t confirmed. Thomas didn’t really know much about her except that she and Rachelle Tremont had backed up Jackson Moore to prove that he hadn’t killed Thomas’s eldest son, Roy. Grief stole into his heart as it always did when he thought of Roy. God, he’d loved that boy. So had June. He’d been so bright, so athletic, and Thomas was sure there wasn’t anything Roy couldn’t do if he set his mind on it.
While Roy was alive, June had been a different person. Afterward, she was a shell of the woman she had been—a bitter shell. She had no longer turned a blind eye to Thomas’s affairs.
The whole family had started to unravel when Roy was killed. Brian… Hell, Brian was never half the boy Roy had been and then he’d married that tramp, Laura Chandler, who’d trapped him into marriage and who, it turned out years later, had actually killed Roy.
So Carlie Surrett had been right, and grudgingly Thomas admired her principles. Among other things. Her long legs, her blue eyes, her perfect face. No wonder she’d been a model. He felt a restless stirring between his legs, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time and in his mind’s eye he saw himself seducing Carlie, lying with her on silk sheets.
It didn’t matter that she was less than half his age. She was an adult, a gorgeous adult, and she was single. Rumor had it that she wasn’t rich and after all, her father was still working at the mill, struggling to make ends meet.
He folded the neatly typed documents and shoved them into his desk drawer. He decided to find out everything there was to know about Carlie and her family. The strengths and, more importantly, the weaknesses. He pushed the button on his intercom and told Melanie, his secretary, to get Robert Sands, a slick private investigator, on the line. For the right amount of money, Sands would leave no stone unturned and would find out all the dirt there was on the Surretts—finances, illegitimate children, affairs and any other little skeleton they’d like to keep locked in their closets.
For the first time all morning, Thomas Fitzpatrick smiled.
* * *
“WE’LL SEND A crew over to clean up the debris at the lakeside site.” Ralph Katcher, Ben’s foreman, reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his tin of chewing tobacco and propped one leg on the small step stool in the trailer Ben used as the official offices of his new company. It had been nearly two weeks since Nadine’s wedding—two weeks since he’d seen Carlie—and Ben had spent that time buried in his work, trying to start his own construction business. “The Hardesty brothers are looking for work and they’ll be able to salvage whatever’s left,” Ralph added.
“It’s not much.” Ben stood and stretched. He’d been sitting behind his beat-up desk for hours and his neck ached. He reached for the coffeepot still warming on a hot plate. “Nothin’ much but the chimney. I was over there the other day.”
“Leave it to Lyle and Lee. Believe me, they can find something out of nothing. ’Sides, the Hardestys work cheap. Best scrappers in the county.”
“Good enough. Coffee?”
Ralph shook his head, and chuckled. “I’ll pass. I’m about to head out for a beer. Besides, that sludge looks deadly.”
“It is,” Ben agreed, pouring the coffee into a chipped cup and taking a sip. Scowling at the bitter taste, he set his cup on the clutter of paperwork strewn over his desk and picked up his pencil again. The best decision Ben had made since he’d returned to Gold Creek was to hire Ralph. A hard worker who was supporting an ex-wife and a son, Ralph was glad for the work and had pointed Ben in the direction of several potential jobs.
Ralph pinched out some tobacco and laid it against his gum.
Ben pointed to the tin with his pencil. “That’s the stuff that’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, but if it’s not this, somethin’ else will,” Ralph replied with a grin that showed off flecks of brown against incredibly white teeth.
“I guess you’re right.”
“What about the house on Bitner? Mrs. Hunter’s place?”
“It’s a go. I’ll start looking things over today and let you know what needs to be done. She seems to know what she wants.”
“That’s Dora for ya.”
Ben rotated his neck and heard some disquieting pops. “I’ll talk to Fitzpatrick tomorrow. There’s got to be some repair work at the camp.” Ben hated to ask for work from old Thomas. Ever since seeing him with Carlie at Nadine’s wedding… The pencil he’d been holding snapped between his fingers.
“It would be nice to get a little money out of that old skinflint.” Ralph had been out of work for nearly a year since a back injury had sidelined him from his last job with a major construction company, which was owned in part by Thomas Fitzpatrick. Since the accident, the company had laid off more people than it hired and Ralph hadn’t been offered his old job because it had no longer existed: the company had gone out of business. Since then, Ralph had worked doing odd jobs—carpentry, chopping wood, even general yard work before he’d been introduced to Ben over a beer at the Silver Horseshoe. They’d struck a deal and he’d been working for Ben ever since. Ralph was grateful for the job and Ben was sure that he’d found the best foreman in the county. A burly man with muttonchop sideburns and slight paunch that hid his belt buckle, Ralph worked hard and was honest. Ben couldn’t ask for more.
Ralph grabbed a dusty Mets cap off the rack near the door, then slung his denim jacket over his shoulder. “Well, it looks like we’re gonna be busy.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You won’t hear me complainin’.” Ralph stepped out of the old trailer and jogged to his pickup.
Ben took another swallow of bitter coffee, before dumping the rest of the foul stuff down the toilet. He’d start a fresh pot in the morning.
Stretching so that his back creaked, he thought about leaving, then sat down again in the worn swivel chair behind his metal desk. He shuffled a few papers, and wondered when he’d feel confident enough to hire a secretary. Not right away. He picked up a manila folder and let the check fall into the mess that was his desk. Fifty-thousand big ones. More money than he’d ever seen in his life and he hadn’t even had to sign for it. All because he was now related to Hayden Monroe IV. Ben shouldn’t take it—just stuff the damned piece of paper into an envelope and send it back, but he was too practical not to realize the value of this—a peace offering—from his sister’s new husband.
“I just want to set things straight,” Hayden had told him when he and Nadine had returned from their week-long honeymoon in the Bahamas. “For the past.”
“That had nothing to do with me,” Ben had replied.
Hayden’s jaw had clamped tight. “This was my idea, not Nadine’s. Hell, she doesn’t even know about it.”
“Deal with my dad.”
Hayden had leveled him a gaze that could cut through solid steel. “I did, Powell. Now this is between us. Just you and me. Think of this money as an advance or a loan or a damned gift, I don’t care, but rebuild Nadine’s cabin the way she wants it. You can take your profit off the top, then pay me back when you can.” Hayden’s gaze had brooked no argument and the nostrils of his nose—a nose Ben had nearly broken just a few weeks ago—had flared with indignation.
It was a generous offer, one Ben could hardly refuse, so he’d agreed, but he’d had the proper legal papers drawn so that it was duly recorded that he was borrowing money from Monroe and the debt would be repaid within four years.
Ben had grown up believing that a person earned his way in the world, that he couldn’t expect something for nothing, and he wasn’t going to accept Hayden Monroe’s money just to ease his new brother-in-law’s conscience. This was a business matter. And a chance to rebuild his sister’s cabin, so family loyalty was involved. However, the sooner he paid back the debt, the better he’d feel.
Satisfied, he filled out the deposit slip for his new business and stuffed the paperwork into his briefcase. His father had called him a fool, referred to Hayden’s investment as “blood money.” Well, maybe George was right. It didn’t matter. For once Ben wasn’t going to kick the golden goose out of his path.
He’d been frugal, picking up this old trailer from Fitzpatrick Logging for a song, and putting it on an empty lot on the outskirts of town zoned for commercial use. He’d bought the weed-infested lot from a man who lived in Seattle and who had once planned to retire in the area. Later, because of the downturn in the California economy, the owner had changed his mind about his retirement plans and gladly sold the piece of ground to Ben. Once the lot was paid off, Ben planned to build himself an office complex, but that dream was a long way off. First he needed to line up more work than just the construction of a lakeside cabin for his sister and the renovation of the old Victorian house on Bitner Street.
Ben’s bid for the Bitner job had been lower than any of his competitors’ because he was hungrier and he wanted a real job, not a handout from his brother-in-law. Mrs. Hunter, the owner of the building, wanted it to be brought up to date: cleaned, repaired, remodeled, “whatever it takes” to get it ready to sell. She was a sly woman who had a vacancy that she hoped to fill and she’d decided Ben would make a perfect tenant for her downstairs studio. “We could do a trade. You get free rent and I get a little knocked off the bill?” She’d smiled sweetly, bobbing her head of blue-gray curls, but Ben had declined, preferring to keep a little distance between himself and the people who hired him.
However, Dora Hunter wasn’t to be outmaneuvered. “You think about it,” she’d told him during their last conversation. “It could be mighty convenient and I could come up with a deal you’d be a fool to pass up.”
Ben had decided right then and there that there was a shrewd businesswoman with a will of iron lurking behind the grandmotherly persona of apple cheeks and rimless spectacles. At seventy-eight, Mrs. Hunter was tired of the problems associated with owning and managing an apartment building and was ready to retire to Palm Springs to be closer to her daughter and good-for-nothing son-in-law. She’d confided in Ben as she’d signed their contract. “He’s a bum, but Sonja loves him, so what does it matter what I think? Besides, there’s the grandchildren…” She’d clucked her tongue. “Hard to believe that man could father such adorable boys. Ahh, well…” She’d put down the pen, looked up at Ben with a twinkle in her blue eyes and stuck out her hand. “Looks like we have a bargain, Mr. Powell.”
“Ben.” Her grip was amazingly strong.
“Only if you call me Dora.”
“It’s a deal.”
So Ben had a contract for his first “real job,” and it felt good, damned good, even if he wouldn’t make a ton of money. He had a chance to prove himself and, if Mrs. Hunter—Dora—was satisfied with the quality of his work, word would get out. In a town the size of Gold Creek word of mouth was worth more than thousands of dollars of paid advertising in the Clarion.
The Hunter apartments and Nadine’s cabin were just the beginning of his plan. He figured there were ample opportunities in Gold Creek, Coleville and the neighboring communities. He intended to specialize in remodeling rather than developing new projects. A lot of the buildings in Gold Creek were steeped in history and charm but nearly desolate in the way of modern conveniences. Most of the commercial property in the center of town had been built in the early part of the century and though attractive and quaint, needed new wiring, plumbing, insulation, heating and cooling systems or face-lifts.
Ben was determined to find work, even if he had to swallow his pride and offer his services to Fitzpatrick Logging, though that particular thought stuck in his gut. He locked the single-wide trailer behind him. In the army, he’d learned about construction and had taken enough college courses at different universities and through correspondence to graduate as a building engineer.
Now all he needed was a break or two. Hayden Monroe had given him his first. Dora Hunter had provided the second. It was just a matter of time, then maybe he’d settle down in this town, find himself a wife and… Thoughts of Carlie crashed through his cozy little dreams and he threw a dark look at the sky. Why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? Ever since the day of Nadine’s wedding, when he’d first spied her through the binoculars, he hadn’t been able to quit thinking about her. She was on his mind morning, noon and night.
And, as before, nights were definitely the worst, he thought, grimacing as he strode across the gravel to his pickup. He’d spent the past week tossing and sweating in his bed or under the spray of an ice-cold shower. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Carlie Surrett had gotten into his blood again.
But not for long. She definitely wasn’t the kind of woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with. A hot-tempered New York model, a sophisticated photographer—an artiste, for God’s sake. No, the woman he’d finally ask to marry him would be a simple girl, born and raised in this small town with no ambitions other than to have a couple of kids and enjoy life. He knew it was an antiquated picture of the American family, but it was exactly the kind of family he’d wanted ever since he’d left the army.
He had no room for Carlie in his life.
Besides, she was the last woman he should want. He had only to remember back to that horror-riddled night of Kevin’s death….
“Don’t!” he told himself as he noticed the first fat drops of rain fall from the sky.
Muttering under his breath, he threw his briefcase onto the seat of the old truck and had started the engine when he saw the dog—a dusty black German shepherd—lying near the side of the trailer. He hesitated, knowing he was taking on more than he’d bargained for, then let the truck idle.
Whistling softly, he climbed out of the cab. The shepherd’s ears pricked forward for a second and he snarled.
Ben lowered himself to one knee and began talking softly.
The dog growled.
“This is not a way to make friends and influence people,” he told the animal.
They didn’t move for a while, each staring the other down, before Ben whistled again.
The dog didn’t respond.
“Come on, boy.” Ben inched closer and watched the shepherd. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Ben was ready to spring backward if the dog decided to lunge. “Okay, now what’s going on here?” he asked as the animal issued a low warning. The shepherd tried to get up, stumbled and Ben saw the blood, a sticky purple pool, beneath the animal’s belly. With surprising speed, the dog attacked, snapping, and Ben jumped back. Now what? He couldn’t leave the animal there to die.
Knowing he was probably making a mistake, he climbed into the truck, found his leather gloves, a shank of rope and a thick rawhide jacket. After spreading a tattered blanket in the bed of the truck, he approached the dog calmly as he worked the rope into a slipknot.
“Okay, boy, let’s see what you’ve got,” he said.
The animal lunged again, but Ben was ready for him, avoiding the sharp teeth as he slipped the noose over the dog’s head and barked out his own command. “No!”
The animal froze.
“Down!”
Still no movement.
“That’s better.” Ben fashioned a muzzle with some hemp and braved the snarling jaws to quiet the animal. For his efforts he was nipped on the sleeve. “You are a bastard,” Ben ground out, enjoying the fight a little. “I’m gonna win, you know. Whether you like it or not, I’m taking you to the nearest vet and you’re going to be stitched up so you can bite the next idiot who tries to take care of you.”
Carefully Ben carried the writhing dog to the truck and laid him, snarling and frustrated, on the tattered blanket. “Stay!” Ben commanded, knowing the dog was too weak to stand or leap from the vehicle. He climbed in the front, snapped on the wipers, threw the rig into gear and headed into town, hoping that Dr. Vance and the veterinary clinic were still on the west end of town.
What was wrong with him? Ever since he’d landed in Gold Creek, he seemed destined on some sort of collision course with fate. First his battle with Hayden Monroe, then Carlie—hell, what a mess that was—and now the dog. The damned dog. One more problem that he didn’t need.
* * *
CARLIE RUBBED THE kinks out of her neck. She’d spent a long day in the darkroom and couldn’t wait to get home to a hot shower, a glass of wine and a good book.
Just before leaving the studio, she’d called Thomas Fitzpatrick, agreed to take the photographs for the logging company’s annual report, and wondered why she felt as if she’d sold her soul to the devil. The man was just offering her work, after all; it wasn’t as if he’d committed a major sin. He’d visited her father, as promised, and broken the news to Weldon that his job couldn’t be held. Her father, always a prideful man, hadn’t fallen apart. In fact he’d been grateful that Fitzpatrick had promised to find another position for him as soon as Weldon was fit enough to spend four or five hours at the logging company. “You can work as many hours as you want, kind of ease into the job again,” Thomas had told Weldon as he’d clapped him on the back. “The logging company’s just not the same without you.”
Her father had eaten it up, but Carlie had been unsettled by Fitzpatrick’s practiced smile and easy charm. She remembered that he’d once planned a career in politics and she didn’t trust him any more than she would a king cobra. He was too smooth to be real. And then there was all that trouble and scandal concerning Jackson.
So why are you planning to do business with him? her tired mind demanded. For the money. Pure and simple. Just in case the bastard had lied to her father.
As for Ben’s insinuations about the man, they were just plain false. She’d spoken to Fitzpatrick several times, her senses on guard, and each time he’d been a gentleman. Ben, damn him, had been wrong.
But he’d been wrong about a lot of things, she thought darkly, wondering if he had an inkling of the fact that he’d nearly been a father…. The pain in her heart ached and she shoved those agonizing thoughts far away, where no one could ever find them.
She drove to her parents’ apartment and managed a smile as she opened the door. “Hi! Thought I’d stop by—” She stopped in midsentence as she felt in the air that something was wrong—dreadfully wrong.
“Carlie?” Her mother’s voice shook a little and her footsteps were quick as they carried her down the stairs. White lines of strain bracketed her mouth and she looked as if she’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” Carlie asked, her heart knocking.
“Thank God you’re here.” Thelma’s voice cracked and she had to blink against an onslaught of tears. “It’s your father. He’s…he’s in the hospital.”
“The hospital?” Carlie whispered, her heart pounding with dread.
“He…he got that numb feeling again—you know, I told you it happened a couple of times before—and he couldn’t move very well and I called the emergency number and an ambulance took him to County General…. Oh, Lord, it was awful, Carlie. I stayed with him for a couple of hours, just to make sure he was resting, but then the doctor convinced me I should go home, that there wasn’t anything more I could do. I didn’t want to leave him—” Her voice cracked and Carlie hugged her mother tightly.
“Shh. He’ll be fine,” Carlie said, hoping for the best and knowing that her words held a hollow ring.
“They’re sayin’ it might be a stroke—a bigger one. Oh, Lord, I can’t imagine your father all crippled up. It’ll kill him, sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“Oh, come on, Mom, don’t think that way,” Carlie said, though she was smiling through her tears. A stroke?
Thelma sniffed, attempted a smile and failed miserably. “I tried to call you, but by that time, you were already gone.”
“So what did the doctor say? What exactly?”
“A lot of things I didn’t understand,” she admitted and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “The gist of it is that your father’s out of immediate danger, whatever that means.”
“Well, it sounds encouraging.”
“I’m not so sure.” Thelma wrung her hands and walked into the kitchen with Carlie, fearing the worst, following behind. “They’ve taken more tests and well, they practically wore poor Weldon out with all their poking and prodding….” Her voice faded and she stared out the window to the rainy winter night. “All we can do is pray.”
Carlie’s heart seemed to drop to her knees. Her father couldn’t be seriously ill, could he? He’d always been so big and strapping—a man’s man. Now he was frail?
“Come on, Mom,” she heard herself saying as she walked on wooden legs. “Let’s go see how he is and I’ll talk to the doctors. Then, if we think we can leave him, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be silly, Mom. I want to. Now get your coat.”
Thelma didn’t argue and Carlie ushered her out to the Jeep. The ride to the hospital took less than thirty minutes and Carlie spent the entire time willing her father to live, to be as strong as he once was.
She’d always depended upon her father. Whenever she had been in trouble, she’d turned to him, listening to his advice. He was kind and strong, not well educated, but wise to the world and she’d adored him. Even when they’d argued, which had happened more frequently in her teenaged years, they had never lost respect for each other because of the special bond they shared.
It had been he, not her mother, who had been hurt when Carlie had turned her back on Gold Creek. He, who had in those first few months when she’d been starving in Manhattan, sent her checks, “a little something extra to help out,” though she knew he’d grumbled loudly and often about her decision to move to New York. He’d never liked the idea of her modeling, wearing scanty clothing and being photographed; he’d felt personally violated somehow. However, Weldon Surrett had offered a hefty shoulder when she’d needed to cry on one and then been baffled when she no longer reached for him.
He hadn’t approved of her love for Ben. Years ago he’d warned her about both Powell boys. She’d ignored him and when, in the end, he’d been right, he’d never mentioned the fact. Of course, he hadn’t known that she’d been pregnant when she’d left Gold Creek. That little secret was hers and hers alone.
Her father had been hurt badly enough when she’d gotten married on the spur of the moment but had tried his best to like his new son-in-law, though they’d met only once and Paul had been disagreeable. But Weldon hadn’t so much as said “I told you so” when the marriage had failed.
Oh, Dad, don’t die, she thought desperately. She wasn’t done needing a father. For the past few months she’d convinced herself that she’d returned to Gold Creek to help him, when, she decided as she squinted through the drizzle on the windshield, it had been she who had needed help to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.
One thing was certain. It was time she stopped running. Time to face her past. Time to mend fences. Time to start a new life. Time to tell her father she loved him and time to deal with the one loose end in her life, the one dangling thread that still had the ability to coil around and squeeze her heart: her feelings for Ben.
But she couldn’t think of Ben now, not when her father was battling for his life. She drove the Cherokee into a spot near the emergency entrance, slid out of the Jeep and hunched her shoulders against the rain as she and her mother dashed across the puddles forming on the asphalt of the parking lot.
On the third floor of the hospital, in a semiprivate room, Weldon Surrett lay in the bed, his face slightly ashen, the left side slack. He was sleeping and his breathing was labored.
“Dad?” Carlie whispered, and he blinked his eyes open. It took him a second to focus before he smiled a little. “How are you?”
“Still kickin’,” he replied though he coughed a little and his tongue seemed thick.
“You gave us both a scare.”
He chuckled and coughed again. “Keeps you on your toes.”
“Sure does.” She grabbed his hand and held it tightly between her own. His grip was weak, but he was still the man who, singing in a deep baritone as he arrived home from work each evening, would scoop her up in his arms and swing her in the air. He’d smell of smoke and the outdoors and he would force her to sing along with him while her mother clucked her tongue and told them they were both mindless.
“Don’t suppose you brought me a beer?”
“Not this time.”
“Smokes?” he asked hopefully.
“The doctor would kill me, and I thought you gave those up years ago.”
“Smokeless ain’t the same,” he said. “But I’ll take chew if ya got it.”
“Like I always carry around a can of tobacco,” she said with a smile.
“You should’ve today,” he managed to get out.
“Don’t talk,” she said, still holding his hand. “You go back to sleep and we’ll stay with you awhile.”
“Sorry I’m such lousy company.”
Her throat clogged. “You’re good company, Dad. You always have been.”
He squeezed her fingers before closing his eyes again and Carlie fought the hot sting of tears. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered and though he didn’t open his eyes again, she felt him try to squeeze her hand a second time.
They waited until he’d drifted off, then Carlie decided it was time she spoke to the doctor. Her parents had led her to believe that her father had suffered a “mild stroke,” which was stronger than the smaller ones he’d experienced. The doctors hoped that after a little recovery, some intensive physical therapy, new medication and a change in diet, he’d be able to resume most of his usual activities. But seeing her father looking so weak, as if he’d just walked a thousand miles, she knew better. And it scared the living daylights out of her.
* * *
BEN SAT AT the computer, the one luxury he’d afforded himself, and worked with the rough drawings Nadine had given him. At first she’d wanted to rebuild the cabin as it was, but Hayden and Ben, agreeing for the first time in years, had suggested that she’d need something a little more modern, with two bathrooms instead of one and a couple of bedrooms rather than a single. She could still keep the loft, but she’d have an expanded kitchen and a fireplace that served as a room divider so that it could be seen from both the kitchen/nook area as well as the living room.
“Looks like I’m outnumbered,” she’d responded, with a slight trace of irritation in her voice.
“It’s just more practical,” Ben had explained.
“But I liked it the way it was.”
“So did I.” Hayden had wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and kissed her on the neck. “This will be essentially the same floor plan, but a little more modern.”
“You can even have a laundry room,” Ben had quipped.
“And a sewing room with enough space for your machine, a desk and—”
“Okay, okay, already! I’m convinced,” she’d said with a smile. “Just as long as I get to design the room layout.”
So here he was, struggling with her rough sketch, adjusting the size of rooms and placement of walls for duct work, support beams, plumbing, electrical wiring and taking into consideration the slope of the land, watershed and a million other things that would be required before the county would approve her plans.
By noon he was stiff from sitting, so he drove into town to the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge. The establishment hadn’t changed much in the years that he’d been away. The booths were still covered in a time-smoothed Naugahyde.
“Ben Powell!” Tracy Niday, dressed in a gingham dress and brown apron, slid a plastic menu onto the table in front of him. “I heard you were back in town.”
“You heard right.”
“Just passing through?” she asked.
“I think I’ll be sticking around for a while.”
“Coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
He opened the menu as she hurried back to the kitchen. He’d known that Tracy was in town, of course; Nadine and his father had written him while he was in the service. She’d been nearly destroyed after Kevin had died. Three weeks later she’d dropped the bomb with a mind-numbing announcement that she was pregnant with Kevin’s baby. Ben had already left Gold Creek when Tracy had told his father the news.
She’d given birth to a healthy baby boy eight months after Kevin had been buried. George had helped her out a little as her own family had nearly disowned her. Things were better now, or so Nadine had told him. Tracy worked at the bank during the week and put in a shift or two at the Buckeye on the weekends.
She returned, flipped over his coffee cup and poured the coffee from a fat glass pot. “You know,” she said as she set the pot on the table and grabbed her pad, “Randy would love to meet you.”
Randy was her son. His nephew. He felt a jab of guilt. “Sure. Anytime.”
“You mean it?”
“Give me a call.” He reached into his wallet and drew out a business card. “I’d like to see Kevin’s boy.”
For a second he thought she might cry. Her brown eyes glistened and she cleared her throat before taking his order and moving on to wait on the next booth.
Tracy had never married, though, according to Nadine she’d dated several men seriously. She’d spent the past ten years taking care of her boy and trying to better herself. She was pretty, one of those kind of women who seemed to get more good-looking as the years passed.
She returned to Ben’s table, talked with him, laughing and joking, smiling a little more than she did with the other patrons as she served him a ham sandwich, potato salad and a crisp dill pickle.
“Don’t make yourself scarce,” she said when he’d taken the final swallow from a coffee cup she seemed determined to keep filled.
“I won’t.” He left her a decent tip and waved as he walked out the door. A weak winter sun was trying to break through the clouds and the puddles of water, left over from the rain, shimmered in the pale light. He climbed into his pickup and drove to the veterinary clinic where he was told that the shepherd, though dehydrated and suffering from malnutrition, was on the mend. The hole in his belly was probably compliments of a fight with another dog or a wild animal and though the beast had lost a lot of blood, he would survive.
“I’ve called around,” Dr. Vance said as he rubbed the lenses of his glasses with the tail of his lab coat. “None of the shelters or other vets have any anxious owners looking for their pets. I even checked with the police department. He’s got a collar, but no license, so there’s no way of knowin’ where he comes from.” He patted the groggy animal on the head. “But my guess is that the dog is a purebred and someone’s taken care of him. He’s been neutered and had his teeth cleaned within the last year, and look at this—” he showed him the dog’s feet
“—his toenails have been clipped, fairly recently, so I don’t think there’s a worry of rabies, though I’d inoculate him.”
“If I decide to keep him.”
The round vet smiled, showing off a gold tooth that winked in the fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling. “You’ve got yourself a hefty bill here for a dog you’re gonna turn loose on the streets.” Again he patted the shepherd and the dog yawned. “Besides, every bachelor needs a dog. Someone to come home and talk to. Believe me, a dog’s better than a wife. This here shepherd won’t talk back.”
“I heard that,” Lorna, the doctor’s wife and assistant, called from the back room.
“Listenin’ in again?” he yelled back at her.
“Hard not to overhear you griping.”
Dr. Vance rolled his eyes and mouthed, “Women!” as if that said it all.
Ben agreed to have the dog vaccinated, then paid his bill. It took most of his patience not to be offended when the shepherd growled at him. “Okay, Attila,” he said, leading the animal outside and to his truck, “if you so much as snarl at me while I’m driving, I’m letting you off right then and there. You’re history.” The dog snorted as Ben helped him onto the sagging bench seat, but he didn’t bare his teeth, nor did he try to bite, which Ben decided, was an improvement over the day Ben had first found him.
“Just for the record,” he said, as if the beast could understand him, “I don’t want a dog.”
Settling behind the steering wheel, Ben thought of Dr. Vance’s words of wisdom about marriage. Vance was probably kidding; he’d been married forever.
Ben had already decided he needed a wife—but not Carlie Surrett. Yet, just at the thought of her clear blue eyes, lustrous black hair and intelligent smile, his gut tightened.
He wanted her. It was that simple. And though he could deny it to himself a thousand times, he had to admit the truth. “Damn it all,” he muttered, slapping on the radio. The dog let out a low growl of disapproval, which Ben ignored.
His house, a rental, was located on the outskirts of town. Once inside, he offered the dog food and water, then left him on a blanket in the laundry room. He had to meet some of the men who were going to clean the debris from Nadine’s lot, then he had to do a little work over at the Hunter Victorian. He’d figure out what to do about the dog a little later.
As for Carlie—God only knew what he’d do about her.
* * *
CARLIE WAS BONE weary. The past couple of nights she’d spent hours at the hospital with her father or talking with the doctors who attended him. Though Weldon Surrett had suffered a mild stroke, he would recover. His speech had already improved and he had partial use of his left hand and arm. He was frustrated and cranky, but if he changed his lifestyle, gave up high-cholesterol food, avoided cigarettes and kept active, the prognosis was encouraging.
However, he was stuck with months of physical therapy. He would eventually be released from the hospital, but he wouldn’t be able to work at any kind of strenuous labor for a long, long while.
He was too old to retrain for a desk job, and even if he were a younger man, he would never be happy cooped up inside, shuffling papers, filing and working with figures.
It looked as if he would have to retire early, as Thomas Fitzpatrick had suggested, and hope that whatever savings he and his wife had accumulated over the years would be enough to get them through. Thelma would still work of course, and Carlie intended to help out, though her father had been adamantly against the suggestion. Eventually, he’d collect Social Security, but those checks were still a few years away.
“We’ll manage,” he’d said from his hospital bed.
“But I can help—”
“This is my problem, Carlie, and I’ll handle it. Now don’t you say a word to your mother or go getting her upset. We’ve made it through rough times before, we can do it again.”
Reluctantly Carlie had dropped the argument when she’d seen the determined set of his jaw. Any further discussion would only have made him angrier and more upset and might have brought on another attack.
Now her stomach grumbled at her as she walked through the foyer to her apartment and noticed that the baseboards had been stripped from the walls. Mrs. Hunter, Carlie’s landlady, had told her that she was going to renovate the old place in hopes of selling out. She’d even approached Carlie about buying the old Victorian house on the hill.
At the time, Carlie hadn’t been sure she wanted to stay in Gold Creek; now, with her father ill, she’d decided to stay, at least for a while. She’d seen a lot of the world and was surprised at the feeling of coming home she’d experienced upon returning to this cozy little town, a town she’d once left without a backward glance.
“Well, hello there!” Mrs. Hunter opened the door to her apartment to walk into the vestibule. She was dressed in a raincoat and carried a floral umbrella of purple and pink. “I thought you were my ride down to the center,” she said, peering out one of the tall leaded-glass windows that flanked the front door. “Smorgasbord tonight, you know.”
“You’ll have a good time.”
“I hope so. Last time the food was overcooked, you know, tasted like shoe leather, but the company’s usually good. Let’s just hope Leo Phelps doesn’t drag out his harmonica. Why they let him play after dinner, when everyone else wants to get on with cards or bingo, I’ll never know.” She pulled a plastic bonnet from her behemoth of a bag and spread it over her newly permed gray curls. “Oh, here they are now. By the way, the workmen are still here, probably just finishing up, so if you run across a handsome man in your room…” She let the sentence trail off and laughed.
“I’ll know what to do,” Carlie teased as Mrs. Hunter walked onto the porch and closed the door behind her.
Still smiling to herself, Carlie gathered her mail and started up the stairs. She lived on the third floor, the “crow’s nest” Mrs. Hunter called it, and Carlie had come to love her apartment. The turret, where she kept her desk, had nearly a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view, and the old wooden floors, and hand-carved window frames held a charm that she’d found lacking in more modern apartments. Running her fingers along the time-worn rail, she hiked her way up the steep stairs and told herself that the climb would keep her in shape. There were drawbacks to living here—the heating and cooling systems were ancient, the windows rattled and she’d seen more than one mouse sharing her living quarters, but she still loved her tiny rooms tucked high in the eaves of the old house.
On the landing, she stepped over an electrical cord strung across the hall before it snaked through her front door. “Hello?” she called, not wanting to scare the workman as she entered.
Ben stood near one of the windows, his hip thrown out, his arms crossed over his chest.
Her heart missed a beat and she stopped dead in her tracks.
A tool belt was slung low over his hips and the sleeves of his work shirt were rolled over his forearms displaying tanned skin dusted with dark hair.
“Well, Carlie,” he said with a brazen smile that touched a dark corner of her heart. “I wondered when you’d show up.”