She sat down on her narrow bed and gave herself up to the flood of memories.
The way he’d looked at her back then, the way no man or boy had ever looked at her before or since. As though this magical thing between them, this thing that had just happened, would go on forever and ever. She’d been half in love, no question. Her girlish, sensitive heart had been terrifically impressed with him. He was the romantic hero of all the novels she’d read in her quiet bookish childhood.
And, then—that horrible evening after her high-school graduation when she’d impulsively bought him at the charity auction. He’d insisted on replacing the money she’d spent, over her protests. She didn’t understand the fine cold anger on his handsome face. He acted like a stranger. Didn’t he want her to “buy” him? Did he think she was chasing him? Didn’t he want to see her again?
Apparently not. The rest of the evening had been a nightmare. They’d spent a very uncomfortable hour or two—at least for her—in the tavern of the Glory Hotel with the friends Lewis had met. Losers and drunken cowboys, every one of them. Phoebe didn’t like beer. He drank several glasses, but before they left, she saw him go up to the hotel bar and purchase something else.
They’d left and, without even consulting her, he’d driven his truck to the town dump. He’d parked right in front of the dump, rather than at the nearby lovers’ lane. By then it was dark. He kissed her, his kisses rough and hard, not at all like the Lewis she remembered. These were a man’s kisses—a frustrated, demanding, powerful man. She was frightened. When she came back to the truck after going out to the bushes to relieve herself, he’d started drinking whatever it was he’d bought at the hotel. Rye whisky, straight out of the bottle. She thought hotels were only allowed to sell beer, off-license. What did she know?
He didn’t offer her any. Not that she would’ve been interested. In fact, he barely spoke to her, just flicked the truck’s lights on once in a while and watched the skunks and possums scatter before switching the lights off again, grinning. Some inner joke, she presumed. It was sick. She didn’t find the scavengers or the spotlight he put them in the least bit amusing. Finally she realized he was too drunk to drive; too drunk to do anything. She considered getting out and hitching a ride back to town, but that meant she’d have to walk to the main road first, at least half a mile in the dark.
When he got out to relieve himself—she noted that he didn’t bother to move more than ten feet away from the pickup door, although he did have the decency to turn around—she slid into the driver’s seat, grabbed the keys out of the ignition and locked the door. Lewis had to make his way around to the passenger door, cursing and staggering.
As soon as he got in, he passed out. Thank heaven. Phoebe had driven him back to the Double O ranch, had opened the passenger door and, with a combination of pushing and pulling, managed to flop him onto the porch at his boss’s place, dead drunk. Then she’d driven his truck back to the Glory Hotel where she’d picked up her car, leaving his keys under the floormat on the driver’s side. Someone would find his vehicle there. Someone would tell him where she’d left it.
Phoebe tucked his T-shirt into the bag with his sneakers and shuddered, remembering. That was the last time she’d seen Lewis Hardin and the last time she’d ever wanted to see him.
Until this afternoon.
Of all places—to show up on the Alberta Queen. She wondered if he’d found his black-haired girlfriend; if he’d managed to carry out his pressing other plans.
She could just imagine what they were.
She set the bag with the sneakers and T-shirt on her bed and turned to stare out the window. There weren’t many people about. Summer school was over. It was the quiet time between summer school and the start of the fall term. She could leave if she wanted. There was nothing really keeping her in the city between this reception today and the beginning of the school year. She’d planned to stay in town, catch up on some reading, do some shopping, go to a few plays.
But suddenly she was homesick. She wanted to see her mother and dad. Even Jill, who was in her last year of high school now and becoming more of a friend than the annoying kid sister she’d always been. And Renee, the youngest. It was her birthday soon. She’d be turning six, Nan and Harry Longquist’s last little one, coming more than ten years after Jill. And Trevor—would he be home? He was in his first year of veterinary college in Saskatoon.
Phoebe made up her mind suddenly. During the summer there weren’t many students in the residence, so it wasn’t as though she was leaving Lindy with a whole lot of extra work. And Lindy planned to go home, too, for a week. To Vegreville, where her family had a big hog-and-grain farm.
Phoebe changed, packed the suitcase Uncle Joe and Aunt Honor had given her for her high-school graduation, left a message for Boyd on his answering machine—she was glad he wasn’t answering his phone—and wrote a note to her roommate. Then she grabbed the bag with Lewis’s clothes and left the apartment.
The next week or so had taken on a whole new aspect. Midsummer. Foals and calves in the fields. Lazy sunny afternoons. Grasshoppers. Picnics. Fresh corn on the cob.
Mostly, though, it was the thought of going home to Swallowbank Farm. The thought of going home to Glory.
PHOEBE WAITED two days before bringing up the subject of the Hardins.
“Fine drying day, isn’t it, honey?” Nan Longquist said with a sunny smile as she brought in a basket of clothes, fresh from the outdoor clothesline. “We’ve had a lovely month so far. I hope the weather holds for harvest.”
Phoebe nodded. Her uncle Joe and her father were out working on the big machines today, making sure everything would be ready when the grain was ripe. She was helping her mother fold laundry. Ironing—after sprinkling and rolling and folding into a plastic bag—would be tomorrow. Nan believed that air-drying clothes was superior to using the dryer, even though with her large family, that meant a lot of pegging out over the years. She still ironed pillowcases and tea towels, just as her own mother had before her. Phoebe thought it was a complete and total waste of time.
“Have you gone to Bearberry Hill lately, Mom? To the Hardins?” Phoebe glanced up from pairing socks.
“No.” Her mother snapped out a tea towel and expertly dampened it and rolled it up. “Catherine told me she saw Mercy in town the other day. Looking like a total disaster, as usual. Needed a haircut something awful.” Nan Longquist shook her head. “I don’t know how those women manage, although I suppose that son of hers must send them money. When he’s not in jail!” she added with a severe look and another shake of her head.
“Oh. I’m sure that was long ago, that jail business,” Phoebe murmured, then stopped. She wasn’t certain she wanted to pursue the subject. She knew her mother didn’t think much of Lewis Hardin. Ever since his conviction for rustling years ago, he’d been persona non grata in the community. Rustling didn’t go over in a farming and ranching community, particularly when the rustler was one of their own.
“I thought I’d drive out and say hello to them this afternoon.”
“Oh?”
“Or tomorrow,” Phoebe added hastily. “There’s no rush.”
“They’d like that, Phoebe,” Nan said, handing her one end of a sheet to fold. “I’ve always thought the world of Mercy, keeping body and soul together, the way she has. Times have been tough, and having a no-good son is no help, that’s for sure. And that Billy’s never been much help. You know, as a girl, she was quite pretty and talented. Oh, yes, she had a lovely singing voice! I remember her well because she went to school with Aunt Dahlia.” Aunt Dahlia was actually Nan Longquist’s cousin.
“I don’t know whatever happened to her. But it doesn’t matter.” Phoebe’s mother frowned, her eyes on the folded sheet. “She’s got a heart of gold, poor foolish thing, she really does. And where would Mercy be without her?”
Most people, Phoebe thought with a smile, had hearts of gold, according to her