Stony River (59 page)

She nearly made up her mind to walk home, mentally tracing the route to judge its plausibility in the dark—but when she went to the door plotting the tentative escape, she was shocked to see a cold autumn rain streaming through the bare branches of the maples. She hadn’t even brought a coat. Disgruntled, she gave up the idea and returned to her chair.

When she remarked that she wished the evening was over, Jillian yawned and said she was thinking the same thing—it was almost midnight her time. She thought she could round up the men by telling Ralf she was ready to go. By then the game was over anyway, and the party broke up at Jillian’s request. Willy’s eyes were bright and he was talking louder than normal, but he could tolerate a great deal of liquor without being fully intoxicated. Outside, the others were also surprised to see the rain and remarked on it as unexpected, especially after another day of exceptionally nice weather. Willy hurried Sevana to the car and drove her home with water pooling over the foggy windshield. “Hey,” he said as he pulled over to the curb, “we forgot the book.”

It was true. The whole evening had been ill-spent, wasted. “I’ll get it another time.” The last thing she wanted to do was go back to his house so late, with him still affected by his drinking. He acted on the edge of being unpredictable, and she had no desire to deal with him any further that night.

“All right, I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“Don’t bother, it’s wet out here,” she said—but he was already coming around the car.

“Thanks for going tonight, Sevana.” He draped his arm heavily around her shoulders as he escorted her up the stairs. “It means a lot for me to be with all my friends. Looking at you tonight—you were the prettiest girl in the whole room, do you know that? With your attention-stealing eyes, and the way your face lights up when you smile, and your hair that looks like it’s touched by sunshine even in a dark room…you’d stand out in any crowd. I’ve never known anyone like you, Sevana.” He rambled on in his flattery as they reached the balcony, where Sevana saw, unmistakably, that muddy lug-soled boots had crossed the wet decking. “Someone’s been here,” she said quickly, a bit breathlessly. Joel and Fenn wore boots like that. Not many people in town did. Maybe a rancher from church… She couldn’t think who might be visiting her that late, rainy night.

“Maybe Ryder found out where you lived,” Willy offered supportively.

She was annoyed with him for suggesting it, but at the same time gripped with unease, wondering whom she had missed—or if, as Willy so readily suggested, it was someone she would rather not know about. She had been thinking about Ryder just that evening. Was it only a coincidence? But she put on a calm front as she turned and thanked her escort for the ride home.

But Willy said if Ryder was stalking her, maybe he should make sure he wasn’t waiting for her inside. And in the starless night, with the deserted town-buildings around them and the mist floating through the dead street, Sevana was nervous enough to agree.

Entering the apartment, Willy strode assertively through the rooms looking for Ryder in every shadowy corner. When no such intruder was located, Sevana offered hot chocolate to her gallant defender, and while he drank it, he came up with several inspired suggestions of what they could do with the rest of the night. But though he was of no mind to go, she finally persuaded him she was too tired for further company. As the only gentlemanly option left him, Willy took his leave—but not without a parting comment in the doorway, his eyes guarding her like a jealous possession as he said, “Thanks again for our night out together, Sevana. We’ll do it again soon,”—and kissed her full on the lips before he went down the stairway and into the heavy rain.

Sevana locked the door behind him and sank onto the couch. For as late as it was, she wasn’t tired—that had been a ruse to get rid of Willy. Really, she was keyed up over that patience-trying evening, and worried—no longer about Ryder, but Willy. Willy was getting too fond of her—he was becoming more aggressive. She should have objected when he kissed her that way. She had told him she wanted to keep their friendship where it was, and instead he acted as if he considered them in an established relationship. Of course, he was also half-drunk.

She wondered the reason for the deluge outside. There were even erratic gusts of wind as though some major change was blowing in. Then there was a different sound in the dripping rain—it came from the stairs. Alerted, she leaned forward to listen. Willy was coming back to tell her he wasn’t taking no for an answer, or Ryder had seen Willy drive away and knew she was alone. At least the door was locked. Someone was on the balcony—they were rapping at the entry. On her feet with a pounding heart, she about to steal into the bedroom and lock herself in—when recognizing the voice calling her name, she reversed course with lightning speed and ran to yank the door wide open. Her erstwhile neighbor stood there illumined by the porch light, drops of water glistening on his hair and running down his overcoat.

CHAPTER 41

“Joel!” Despite the bewilderment of seeing him there, a feeling of goodness swept her, a surge of singular, unsummoned joy, to be looking into those dark, smiling eyes again. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” She hastened to bring him in out of the rain.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” he said as he stepped inside. “But do you have a few minutes we could talk? I stopped by earlier, but you weren’t home.”

“You were here?” Remorse pierced her as with a knifepoint. “I’m sorry, Joel,” she said, very sorry indeed. “I just went over to Willy’s for a book, but he wanted to go to the Roadhouse.” Oh, why had she been squandering her time so foolishly, when she could have been with him?

“That’s all right. It gave me a chance to visit David, which I wouldn’t have taken time for otherwise. But you still weren’t home when I came back, so I waited in my truck. Then I saw you come back with Willy, so I waited him out, too.” He didn’t mention he’d had an unblocked view of her door when Willy said goodnight.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized again. “If I’d known you were coming tonight, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.” Then it occurred to her they were still standing in the middle of the room, and he was quite wet. “Let me take your coat.”

“I can’t stay long.” But he perfunctorily unbuttoned his overcoat and handed it to her. He had on a familiar hickory workshirt with the sleeves rolled up, and the same workboots he always wore. His hair was curling in damp strands. “I’ve been working with the sheep,” he said, apologizing for the way he was dressed.

“You look just the way I remember you,” she said happily. As she hung the coat on the back of the door, she caught a whiff of woodsmoke and pine and soap that was crushingly dear and familiar. But while he did look the same, there was a difference in him she could detect. Nothing much—a few traces of weariness in his face, perhaps, as if he hadn’t slept well the night before. But something had changed in his bearing toward her, some subtle thing she could not identify.

Joel had stepped into the room with the weight of an uncertain journey upon him, and all its accompanying demands and urgency; but the sight of the slender girl standing before him in a skirt and embroidered sweater, the soft luster of her hair a harmony of tones darker now from the winter, and her skin as creamy as the petals of the wakerobin flowering in the deep woods in springtime, mysteriously stole away that burden. As last night, it struck him how much older she seemed now, so much more sure of herself. She was even prettier, if that was possible—and her eyes! They were of a vibrant depth one did not often see, perhaps because they mirrored the ability to create beauty that she harbored in her soul. In a single instant, he discovered within himself a great dissatisfaction that he could spend only a few minutes observing those mystical, candlelit eyes, instead of day after day in the meadow as he used to. He purposely directed his gaze around the room. “Pretty nice place.”

“It’s just right for work.” Suddenly she realized the flowers he’d given her were in plain sight on the table—and afraid he would recognize them and think her overly nostalgic for keeping them, she hastened him toward the couch. “Did you have dinner?”

“Yes, an all-out feast at the sheep ranch. The rancher’s wife insisted. I think she misses cooking for her grown children.”

“Can I get you anything now?”

“No, thanks, I’m good.” He stretched out his long legs in front of him.

She perched beside him tentatively, sensing something portentous in this late-night visit—and in the certain knowledge she was about to learn what it was, felt her poise beginning to slip. “Just a minute,” she said, jumping up again. She brought a candle to the coffee table and turned off the overhead light, so they sat in the glow of the single flame. “I bought it so you would feel at home when you came to visit,” she explained unaffectedly.

Joel laughed, liking the fact that she’d thought of him; and didn’t tell her that he regarded his method of illumination not as a matter of atmosphere but only necessity—had even wished for electric lights when the lanternshine was too dull for the finer details of his craft in the long dark of early winter evenings. “I appreciate the thought. And I wish I could stay for a real visit, but I’ve only got a few minutes. You see, Sevana, I’m headed north. I just stopped to say goodbye.”

“North?” She repeated it stupidly, as if she didn’t know what direction that was. “Why?”

“I’m going up to help out my father.”

“To the Yukon?” She was still bewildered by the news. It was the wrong time of year to be heading toward the arctic.

“Yes, up to Mammoth Creek. “Two days ago I got a letter from my father. He needs help, and there’s no time for delay.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, it seems he’s run himself down living on whisky in a cold shack, until I guess he’s in pretty bad shape. He asked me to run his trapline until he was well enough to take it over again. I did some calling around, and found out from the storekeeper that he’s run up such a debt for whisky he’s out of credit. Chilcote—he’s the storekeeper—says he’s not well enough to be by himself, needs somebody to keep him off the firewater until he gets back on his feet.”

“Doesn’t he have friends who can look in on him?” Sevana interjected. “What about that storekeeper? He’s a lot closer than you are.”

“Chilcote’s not going to put himself out for him. You’ve got to understand, Sevana—my father’s not the type of man who has friends.” He shook his head as he considered it. “I’m not sure how it’s all going to work out, exactly. He’s wintering in his claim shack about ten miles from town and there’s no road this time of year. I figure I’ll have to hire a dogsled to get in the things we’ll need to last until spring.”

Sevana knew she should feel compassion for the unfortunate man, but all she felt was the injustice of it burning hot in her again, as she thought of such a father, who—having never done anything to make himself worthy of the title—yet expected his son to come running when he needed help, over countless miles, and with no limit of trouble or expense. “Oh Joel, he’s got no right to ask it of you!” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Nevertheless, he’s my father,” he answered tersely. “To ignore such a request, especially in winter, might cost him his life.”

“What about your sheep?” she objected. “Who’s taking care of them?”

“I—sold them,” he said, looking queer.

She hoped he didn’t mean what she had the sudden, uneasy feeling he did. “But just the ones you were planning to…not all of them—” She was starting to panic. “You didn’t sell
all
of them—did you?”

“I’m afraid so. My father’s got unpaid bills, and I needed money just to make the trip up there and get in supplies.”

No! Sevana felt she couldn’t breathe. Not little Goldthread, whom they had worked so hard to save! He must ever belong to Joel. Not Thistle, who always wanted to be wherever Joel was. It went against everything he’d put into building his flock, to give them up. But she knew how much they meant to him—knew his anguish must be far greater than her own. “I’m sorry, Joel,” she whispered brokenly.

“They’ll be cared for. Mervin Ownbey’s one of the best sheepmen in western Canada.”

Ownbey—Ownbeys’ Sheep Ranch. Instantly she was thinking hard. “That stock truck—” she said slowly, “out at the Roadhouse…was it yours?”

“Mervin let me borrow it so I could bring over all the sheep together.”

“We parked right beside it,” she said in a strained voice, “but I never dreamed…” She lapsed into a despairing silence.

“Mervin’s the one I bought the sheep from in the first place. He’s a good man, looks well after his animals.”

When she didn’t look up or reply, he put a hand over hers on the couch to recapture her attention. “Sevana, I would have had to sell them anyway, or most of them—all but what I could pasture on my own ground,” he told her. “I heard back from the Province. My grazing area has been closed. I did appeal the decision, but I don’t think there’s much chance. These are not the best days to be raising sheep in the mountains.”

Fleetingly Sevana thought of the sun-flooded meadow, the sheer cobalt sky, the sheep scattered over their verdant pasture-ground beneath the icy glaciers. “I can’t imagine you doing anything else, Joel,” she said sadly. “Always to me, you will be a shepherd.”

His dark gaze rested on her thoughtfully. “And always to me, you will be the lighthearted girl with the wonder of the mountains in her eyes.”