My Dearest Cal (17 page)

“If only it were that simple.”

“It’s only as complicated as you make it.”

“Then it’s damned complicated.” He regarded the house warily before finally sighing heavily. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

He clung to her hand as they crossed the yard. It
was impossible to tell if he was holding on for moral support or simply because he feared she’d turn tail at the last minute and leave him alone to face his grandmother. His footsteps slowed as they neared the porch. At the steps, though, he squared his shoulders, gave her a smile that was sheer bravado and crossed the porch. When he rang the bell, they could hear the chimes sounding throughout the house.

It seemed to take forever before they heard any movement from within. The curtain over the leaded glass in the door was pushed aside, then fluttered back into place and the door swung open.

Marilou had expected some tiny, frail woman only barely able to leave her deathbed, but the woman who faced them was anything but tiny or frail. Stern-faced, her hair still thick and black and laced with threads of gray, she carried herself with incredible dignity. There was no way of telling from her expression what emotions were raging inside. Only her hand, curved around a carved, ivory-handled walking stick, gave away any hint of infirmity or distress. It trembled visibly as her gaze swept swiftly and indifferently over Marilou and settled avidly on her grandson.

“Cal,” she said at once, without the slightest evidence of surprise or doubt. “You’ve come home.”

Chapter Eleven

C
al faced the tall, reed-thin woman in the doorway and felt years of his life slide away. There was no doubt at all that this was his grandmother. From the almost coal-black hair and exotic features to the snapping blue eyes and imperious bearing, she looked exactly like his mother. For one lightning-swift instant, she’d appeared taken aback to find two strangers on her doorstep, but she recovered quickly.

When she spoke his name, he couldn’t mistake the note of certainty and triumph in her voice. It was as if she’d been expecting him. The tension that had been coiled inside him wound tighter. Every finely honed instinct told him this had been a setup. She had stacked the deck, dealt the cards, then waited to come out a winner.

“Come in, boy,” she ordered, still ignoring Marilou as if she were no more than a pesky nuisance. Her attitude annoyed the dickens out of him, but Marilou was apparently far too caught up in observing the byplay to be insulted.

“Don’t just stand there,” his grandmother badgered. “We’re wasting heat.”

Cal felt caught between furious indignation and admiration for her audacity. He wasn’t sure exactly what sort of reception he’d expected, but this definitely wasn’t it. He had been fooled by the frail handwriting and conciliatory tone, just as she’d expected him to be. Caroline Whitfield McDonald was obviously still very much in command, not only of all her faculties, but apparently—to her mind, anyway—of all she surveyed.

Something continued to puzzle him, though. How had she recognized him so readily? Had those detectives she’d hired sent her pictures? The possibility of such an invasion of his privacy unnerved him. Only a woman whose heart was made of steel would resort to such tactics. Now, as she stood aside, proud and dignified, waiting for them to enter, he remained rooted to the spot on the porch, leery of taking another step until he had some answers.

“What is it, boy?” she demanded.

“How did you know?” he said finally.

As his cool, curious gaze raked over her, a glimmer of a smile touched her thin lips. “There’s nothing uncanny about it, boy. Come. I’ll show you.”

She ushered them into a parlor, where a fire blazed.
She waved Marilou toward a chair. Then, after crossing to the grand piano that filled an incredibly large bay window, she picked up a silver-framed photograph and wordlessly handed it to him.

Cal’s fingers trembled as he touched the cool metal frame. Aware of his grandmother and Marilou watching him expectantly, it took everything in him to actually look at the picture. When he did, he realized at once what she had seen in his face: his grandfather’s features, the same dusky complexion, black hair and unexpectedly clear blue eyes. In the wedding picture in which his grandmother wore pristine satin and lace that flowed to the ground in luxurious folds, his grandfather looked uncomfortable in a tuxedo, the stern angles of his face softened as he stared lovingly at his beautiful bride.

Despite his wariness, Cal couldn’t help smiling as he carefully placed the picture back among the dozens that were arranged haphazardly on the piano. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, beginning to relax his guard ever so slightly. “I see what you mean.”

“Look at the others, if you like.”

He shook his head, deliberately not lingering on the snapshots and portraits of his mother. He couldn’t help noticing, though, that there was no picture from his parents’ wedding. Had they been forced to elope? How odd that he’d never known that, that he’d apparently never asked the questions most children did about how their parents met, about family ties and wedding albums.

“Sit, then,” his grandmother insisted, grabbing a
bell and ringing it as she settled herself in an antique rocker beside the fire. An old Mexican woman, her face a road map of wrinkles, appeared at once. Her sharp, brown-eyed gaze studied Cal and Marilou, and her face at once broke into a delighted smile.

“Porfin
,
”
she murmured fervently. “At last.”

“Indeed,” his grandmother said. Then, “Tea, Elena.” She looked Marilou up and down. “And cake. She looks as though she could do with a little meat on her bones.”

Marilou flushed, but remained silent, obviously intent on doing her part to make sure this reunion ran smoothly. His grandmother was staring hard at him. “You’d probably rather have a drink,” she said, “but I don’t keep the stuff, not after the way your grandfather drank himself into an early grave.”

“I thought you said you’d driven him away.”

“There’s more than one way for a man to run. He hid in a bottle. Maybe he figured that way he’d make life hell for both of us.”

Though regret flashed briefly in her eyes, her tone was all self-righteous indignation and harsh judgment. He wondered fleetingly if she’d always been this hard, this uncompromising.

“Tea will be fine,” he said at last, unable to take his eyes off the woman who reminded him so much of his mother. Unwanted memories were flooding back, along with all of the pain. Right this instant he resented the hell out of Marilou for having forced him to come, and he hated his grandmother and all she stood for.

“What’re you staring at, boy?” she demanded, when Elena had retreated. “Were you expecting to find me with one foot in my grave?”

“Your letter did say you were dying,” he retorted calmly, unwilling to admit the direction in which his thoughts had actually strayed.

“We all do.”

Instantly suspicious, he felt Marilou stiffen beside him as well. “But you’re not ill?” he said, his glance toward Marilou meant to convey I-told-you-so.

His grandmother thumped her cane impatiently. “Of course I’m ill. I’m eighty years old. I’m tired. I can’t keep up with things the way I used to. My bones ache from autumn right through spring. The doctor says my heart’s failing. The old fool. What else would it be doing at my age?” Her gaze narrowed. “Is that why you’re here? Did you come to pay your last respects? Don’t expect to dance on my grave too soon.”

Cal realized then that despite his natural caution, he had been touched by Marilou’s eternal optimism. In some secret part of himself he had dared to harbor one scant hope for a real relationship. It withered irrevocably under her cutting tone and the admission that she’d deliberately tricked him into coming. Stunned to discover how much it hurt, he got to his feet and grabbed his coat. “We’re out of here. This was a mistake. Come on, Marilou.”

“No,” she said softly, her gaze fastened on his grandmother.

He stood where he was and regarded her incredulously. “What is wrong with you? You can see for

yourself that the letter was some damned ruse to drag me here. This isn’t
Little House on the Prairie
, dammit. Not every family melodrama has a happy ending. Can’t you see that yet?”

He glowered at his grandmother, who sat rigidly, listening to his tirade with no hint of emotion. Her apparent indifference kept him going. “She’s just a scheming old woman who’s used to getting her way, and we’ve played straight into her hands.”

Marilou shook her head. “That’s not the way it is, is it?” she said pointedly to his grandmother.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, girl,” the old woman said, but her shoulders suddenly weren’t quite as stiff as they had been, and her tone lacked starch. Cal saw that her gnarled hands were knotted together tensely in her lap.

Marilou shook her head impatiently. “You two! I have never met two people more obviously cut from the same cloth. You’re both stubborn as mules. Can’t either one of you just admit that you need each other?”

“What makes you think that?” his grandmother demanded. “I’ve gotten along for all these years…”

“So have I,” Cal insisted.

“Terrific,” Marilou said, obviously beginning to warm up to the fight. Her words dripped sarcasm. “You’ve gotten along. Is that enough?” She turned to his grandmother. “If so, why did you write that letter?”

“I needed to get some things off my chest. That’s all.”

“You wanted him to come,” Marilou contradicted.

“No, she
expected
me to come,” Cal muttered in disgust. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ve learned not to expect anything,” his grandmother retorted, glaring at him. “Not from family.”

“Ditto.” Cal scowled right back at her.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Marilou said. “I am going into the kitchen to help Elena with the tea. When I come back, I expect you two to be behaving like civilized adults instead of a couple of spoiled brats.”

When she’d stalked out of the room, Cal felt suddenly bereft. Though she seemed to take some perverse pleasure in needling him, Marilou had at least served as a buffer. Now he was left with his grandmother all alone. He would have preferred facing something easy, like a firing squad.

She simply sat there waiting, dressed all in black as if she were all ready for a funeral. He wondered how many years she’d worn the drab mourning outfits. Had it begun when his grandfather died? Had she settled permanently into the role of bereaved widow out of some sense of guilt, guilt which had only been compounded when his mother ran off? He was still trying to figure out what made her tick, when he realized she’d spoken.

“What?”

“She’s an outspoken little thing, isn’t she?” his grandmother said with grudging admiration. “Where’d you find her?”

“Actually she found me. Your letter went astray. She saw that I got it.”

“I suppose I ought to thank her, then.”

“Frankly I’d prefer to strangle her.”

“You sleeping with her?”

He flushed angrily and began to pace. “That’s none of your business, old woman.”

“It is if you’re going to be staying under my roof. There is certain behavior I don’t tolerate. I don’t care how old-fashioned that makes me.”

“Who the hell said anything about staying here?”

“Well, where else would you stay?”

“We have a room in Cheyenne.”

“That’s too far away.”

“So, you’re actually admitting that you wanted me here,” he said, managing a wry grin.

She waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. “Oh, for pity’s sake, of course I did.”

“Then why couldn’t you just say that?”

“For the same reason you didn’t want to come, I expect. For all that we’re family, we don’t know each other. I find it difficult enough to trust folks I do know.”

“Same here,” he admitted reluctantly.

Piercing eyes regarded him intently. “You planning on sticking around long enough for us to get to know each other?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Everything in me tells me to take off.”

“Whitfields are not cowards.”

“My name is Rivers, grandmother. Have you conveniently forgotten my father?”

“You’re still a Whitfield, through and through.
You might move on a bit too readily, but you’ve got gumption that your daddy never had.”

“How the hell would you know that? You said in your letter you ran him off before you ever had a chance to know him.”

“He chose to go, and he talked your mother into running with him. A real man would have stayed right here and proved me wrong.”

“A real man would never have let you dominate him, and I doubt you’d have tolerated that for very long. You’re a bully, Grandmother. I’ve known you less than an hour and I can see that.”

“Because you know all about bullying and getting your own way. I’d say we’re evenly matched. You have to admit that makes the prospect of sticking around into an almost irresistible challenge for a man like you.”

Cal suddenly caught the glint of amusement in her eyes and found yet more of the tension sliding away. He chuckled. “I do like a challenge,” he admitted.

His grandmother nodded toward the kitchen. “That one’s a challenge, too, isn’t she?”

“You could say that,” he admitted ruefully.

It would have been wrong to describe the sound she made as flat-out laughter, but it was probably the closest the sour old thing had come in years. “Then I’d say you have your hands full, boy. You can’t let a couple of women get the best of you now, can you?”

He laughed at that. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

“Good. You’ll take the room at the end of the hall. She can have the one next to me.”

“Then you’d damn well better be a heavy sleeper,” he taunted.

“We’ll just see about that. Now go on in the kitchen and drink your tea, then go get your things. I’ll see you at dinner.” She struggled to her feet. “I think I’d better have a nap now.”

For the first time he detected a slight unsteadiness before she determinedly straightened her back and marched off, leaving him to ponder how she’d managed to shanghai him into doing exactly what she’d wanted him to do. He wondered how Marilou was going to react to the news that they were moving in.