A Promise Kept (21 page)

She’d become almost as good a liar as Alexander.

Allison

June arrived in southwestern Idaho with mild days full of sunshine. Wildflowers splashed an array of colors across hillsides and valleys—white, pink, purple, yellow, blue, red, orange. It made Allison think of an artist’s palette, blotches of paint dotting the surface.

With the winter’s snowpack long since melted and the ground firm and dry, Allison and Gizmo resumed their afternoon walks along the river. It felt good to stretch her legs after hours at the computer, and the fresh air always managed to clear the to-do list from her congested mind.

Today she found herself wondering how many times in her life Aunt Emma had walked this same path. Had Emma stopped at this particular bend in the river and watched the water tumble, foam, and churn over and around boulders, the way Allison liked to do? How old had Emma been when she came here to live? And what about her husband? What had happened to Alexander Monroe?

The questions teased Allison like a well-tuned mystery novel. She longed to reach the end of the story, but it was also fun to discover the clues along the way.

Allison’s first memories of Aunt Emma were here in the mountains. Allison would have been five, maybe six at most. Seen through a child’s eyes, the log house had seemed about three times the size it really was. And her aunt had seemed very
old even then. She would have been sixty-two or sixty-three. To a little girl, that was ancient.

Aunt Emma had baked chocolate-chip cookies whenever Allison came to visit. That yummy scent had greeted Allison at the door every time. No wonder she’d loved to go visit Aunt Emma!

It made Allison sad to know her aunt’s life hadn’t always been good, that Emma hadn’t been perfectly happy. But whose life was always good? What person on earth got to be happy each and every moment?

Whatever had happened to Aunt Emma, whatever the reason she had for taking back her maiden name and keeping her marriage a secret from later generations, she had made a good life for herself in her log house outside of Kings Meadow. The woman Allison knew had been content, wise, independent, adventurous. Everyone who’d known her had loved and respected her.

It gave Allison hope for her own future. Whatever her past had been, she could decide what her future would be. Choices she made today would determine her tomorrows. Knowing that made her feel stronger than ever before.

The sun was nearly touching the mountaintops in the west by the time Allison and Gizmo left the path along the river and climbed the incline toward the highway. They weren’t quite to the top when Allison saw a black pickup truck—the same kind as about twenty others in the area—turn off the road into her driveway.

“Come on, Gizmo. We’ve got company.”

They quickened their pace.

By the time the house came into view, the driver was out of the truck and up on the deck. She didn’t have to get closer to know who it was. Chet Leonard.

“I think he likes you.”
The memory of her mom’s comment made her suddenly nervous.

Chet turned away from the door, started toward the steps, saw her, stopped, and waved.

She waved back.

“Hey, stranger,” he called to her, grinning. “How was your vacation? Susan says you had a great time in Seattle.”

“I did, but it’s good to be home.” She climbed the steps to the deck. “What brings you out here?”

He removed his Stetson and bent down to greet Gizmo with a few strokes on the head. As he straightened, he answered, “It’s time I got my business online and quit relying on the newspapers to sell my horses. I hear tell you’re the person I need to see about it.”

“I’d be glad to help you, Chet.”
See, Mom. It’s just business
. “Come on inside.” She unlocked the door. “Would you like some iced tea? I need something to drink after my walk.”

“Sure.”

“Lemon?”

“Please.”

She took the pitcher from the refrigerator, filled two large glasses with tea, and added lemon wedges to the rims. As she handed a glass to Chet, she said, “There’s sugar and sweetener packets on the table.”

He squeezed the juice from the lemon into the tea. “This should be fine.” He took a sip. “Hits the spot.”

“Come on out to the living room. We’ll talk about what you want. Just give me a sec while I grab a few things from my office.” She went into the bedroom and picked up her laptop, a spiral notebook, and a pen.

By the time Allison got to the living room, Chet had settled in one of the matching chairs near the window. Allison had bought the set earlier in the year. The chairs were mauve in color and smallish, made for a woman’s more delicate frame. Chet Leonard
was anything but delicate, and he seemed to dwarf the furniture. She nearly laughed aloud at the sight.

As if reading her mind, he stood. “Maybe the sofa would be better . . . so I can see your laptop if you want to show me something.”

“I think so.”

Her mother’s voice seemed to whisper in her ear a second time:
“I think he likes you.”

Silently, Allison answered,
Be quiet. Go away
.

But her mother never had been one to let go of anything related to love and romance—or the possibility of same—not even in her daughter’s imagination.

More than an hour later Allison and Chet rose from the sofa.

“Thanks for giving me so much of your time.” He picked up his Stetson and held it in his right hand. “It’s pretty obvious I’m still living in the dark ages.”

Allison laughed. “Not quite that bad.”

“You’re being kind.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Don’t think you’ll insult me if you speak the truth. My boys have a way of letting me know how far I am behind the times.”

They walked toward the door and stepped outside onto the deck. Dusk had settled over the forest and the air had cooled.

Chet stopped at the top of the stairs and set his hat on his head. “If I had my druthers, we’d all be riding horses, corresponding with pen and paper, and having face-to-face conversations over supper.”

“You’d want to give up that fancy four-wheel drive pickup of yours?”

“Well . . . maybe not my pickup.” He grinned and winked.

The wink made her stomach feel funny.

Chet started down the steps. “See you in church,” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes. See you there.”

He strode to the truck, opened the door, then stopped and turned around. “Hey, would you like to come out to the ranch tomorrow after church? You could have lunch with me and the boys, and we could show you around the place. Might help you get a feel for what we do.”

There was that funny feeling in her stomach again.

“Maybe Susan and Ned could come too,” he added.

No reason to feel funny. It wasn’t like he was asking her on a date. “Sounds like a good idea. Mind if Gizmo tags along?”

“Nope. He’ll be welcome too.”

Allison remained on the deck, her dog sitting by her right leg, and watched as Chet got in his truck, started the engine, turned the pickup around, and drove away.

Allison

The next afternoon Allison leaned against the top rail of a wooden fence and stared across the rolling pastureland of the Leonard ranch. To the north, rugged mountains formed a gorgeous backdrop. Horses—dozens of them—grazed or slept in fields of green. In a paddock off to her right, a palomino rolled on his back, stirring up a dust cloud. The air smelled of newly mown lawn and hay.

This
was why people wanted the life of a cowboy. Or at least to live in close proximity to cowboys.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Chet stepped up beside her.

“Beautiful.” She turned and leaned her back against the fence, her gaze moving to the barn and the two-story house beyond.

Chet’s two boys were throwing a Frisbee for Gizmo in the fenced backyard while Ned and Susan Lyle observed them from the covered patio.

Last summer, when Marsha was still here and Rick was still living, the Leonards had invited Allison to come out to the ranch on a couple of different occasions. For one reason or another, she hadn’t been able to accept. Now she regretted it. There was something restful about this place.

“My great-granddad ran cattle on our land in the early part of the last century,” he said. “It was my grandpa who made the move to raising quarter horses.” He motioned with his head toward the paddocks behind the barn. “Some great performance horses have come out of this place. Lots of champions. Cutting. Barrels. You name it. Likely one of ours has done it.”

“Do you rodeo?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. Did when I was younger. Before the kids came. But all that traveling around wasn’t what I wanted for my family. I wanted to be a hands-on kind of dad. Be here when they took their first steps and all the firsts that followed.”

“Too bad there aren’t more fathers like you.”

“What about your ex-husband? Was he a good dad?”

She was surprised by the question.

“Sorry. Too personal? I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. It’s all right. But it isn’t easy to answer. It’s complicated.”

“Life’s complicated.” Chet turned his gaze toward the mountains.

“Tony was a good dad, most of the time. He loved our daughter. But sometimes . . .” She let her voice trail away.

“Marsha was a good mom to our boys. I guess we had our troubles like any married couple, but we always worked through them. But after Rick died . . . Well, I guess there were more cracks in the foundation of our marriage than I knew. Never would’ve dreamed she’d take off the way she did. Leave our sons. Get a divorce. Cut herself off completely from her past and everyone she knows and loves.”

Softly, Allison said, “Our situation wasn’t quite the same, but Tony walked out too. It’s a unique kind of hurt, being abandoned by the one you love.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No reason you would have.”

“How long was it before you stopped feeling like your lungs were being crushed?”

She figured that was a rhetorical question. And even if not, she wasn’t sure she could answer it. So she simply laid a hand on his upper arm.

Emma

1931

Emma hurried toward the house she and Alexander had moved into in the spring. Despite her best efforts to make them look otherwise, the three rooms were small and gloomy. Nothing she did made the house feel like a home. But Alexander had insisted after working at the dairy for a few months that they move out of her parents’ home, and the three-room stucco was all they could afford.

Alexander had seemed in a better mood over the summer. He laughed more. His words were kinder. He’d even gone to church with her a few times in August. They seemed to be friends again. Emma liked that and let hope blossom in her heart. Alexander had even agreed to go with her to Mark Thomas’s birthday party tonight. Her nephew was three years old, and the cutest little boy in the world.

She felt a pinch of sadness, a longing for a baby of her own. Especially now that Liza was pregnant again. How many prayers had Emma sent winging toward heaven, begging God to give her a child to love? Hundreds? Thousands? Was His answer no or not yet?

She glanced at her wristwatch. Mrs. Conners had let her off work an hour ahead of schedule so she would have ample time to change her clothes and freshen her hair before Alexander got home from the dairy. Even so, it would be difficult to make the party on time.

Please don’t let Alexander forget about tonight. Don’t let him be late getting home
.

Unlike her prayers for a baby, this one was answered quickly. When she turned the corner and looked toward the end of the block, she saw her husband’s truck in the driveway. Alexander hadn’t forgotten. He’d not only remembered, but he’d gotten home before her. Smiling, she quickened her steps.

She entered the house through the kitchen door. It only took a few steps to carry her across the room to the bedroom door. As she turned the knob, she said, “Alexander.”

In that moment her world came crashing to a halt.

Her husband was in bed—and he wasn’t alone.

“Emma, what are you doing home?”

It was as if she could see herself from afar. Her eyes widened. One hand gripped the doorjamb. The breath caught in her chest. Her face paled. A buzzing sound filled her ears.

“Emma.”

She turned away, went into the parlor, too confused to know what to do next. Her stomach rolled and she thought she might be sick. Time passed as she stood in the middle of the room, powerless to move, unable to think.

“Emma.”

She turned toward Alexander, who stood framed in the archway between the parlor and kitchen. He wore trousers but no shirt. His feet were bare.

“What are you doing home?” he asked again, scowling at her.

Somehow words came out of her mouth. “Mark Thomas’s party is tonight.”

He muttered a curse.

“Who is she?” Emma whispered.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m your wife. It matters to me.”

But did it? Did it really matter who that woman was? It wasn’t as if Emma hadn’t known he’d been unfaithful in the past. Did it matter the name of the strumpet he’d brought into their bed? Was
she
the reason he’d seemed happier of late?