Before they could continue the conversation, Ben returned. “I’m sorry for the interruption. That call was from Matilda Matheson, an elderly lady who has a trunk full of memorabilia in her attic. She would like to make a donation, if we’re interested.”
“Is she bringing it in today?” Juliet asked.
“Oh, no. Tildy has arthritis and doesn’t venture far from her house. And even if that weren’t the case, she can’t donate anything until her niece takes time to climb into the attic and go through the trunk.”
“What’s in it?” Juliet asked, obviously interested.
“Tildy can’t remember,” Ben said, with a chuckle. “Bless her heart.”
Eager to get back to the discussion of the gold mine, Mark asked, “So who do you think is the legal owner of the Queen of Hearts?”
“Most of the rumors don’t amount to much. And even if Crazy Red ran off with the deed, the old archives ought to prove that the title wasn’t ever transferred properly. So I have to believe the mine was handed down to Caleb. And from what I understand, he’s hired a lawyer to defend his claim.”
Caleb certainly had the money to put up a legal fight for the land.
“Of course,” Ben added, “Some of the old-timers would like to see Caleb Douglas get his comeuppance. But as far as the Thunder Canyon Historical Society and the museum go, we appreciate his generosity in helping us preserve our early history.”
Mark and Juliet completed the tour, but instead of finding answers, Mark was left with more questions.
But one thing was true. Roy Canfield, the editor of the Nugget had been right. The real story revolved around the deed of the old gold mine.
And Mark planned to find out who really owned the Queen of Hearts.
“Do you mind if we stop at Super Save Mart on the way home?” Juliet asked.
“No. Not at all.” Mark pulled out of the museum parking lot onto Elk, then turned south on Pine.
Juliet planned her speech carefully, trying to maneuver the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “Your parents sound like nice people.”
“I suppose so.” His eyes remained focused on the road.
“Maybe we should pay them a visit. Marissa and I could go with you. I think it would be a nice outing.”
“Not today.”
She slid a glance at him, saw that same hardened expression he’d worn when Gladys discussed his parents. But Juliet wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. To push when necessary. “Maybe another day, then.”
He didn’t answer, and she realized he wouldn’t commit. And that he had no intention of discussing his family situation with her.
Juliet was trying to be sensitive to his feelings. She really was. But his stubborn side was frustrating her to no end.
“I’ve never bowled,” she said. “But it sounds like a lot of fun, especially in a league called the Gutter Busters. Maybe we could go watch some Wednesday. Or even play a game or two.”
“I used to bowl once in a while,” Mark said. “But I play golf now, whenever I get a chance. And the pro who gave me some pointers said the bowling was affecting my swing.”
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to prod him further or throw something at him. But she let it go.
For now.
Moments later, they parked in front of the grocery store. This time, Mark carried the baby, while Juliet filled the cart with things she needed to prepare a special dinner. She didn’t know about Mark, but she was getting sick and tired of The Hitching Post meals. And even if she weren’t, she didn’t like him paying for everything.
She hadn’t made a list, so they wandered from aisle to aisle, picking up pinto beans, rice and tortillas.
In the produce section, she selected tomatoes, green chilies, cilantro and onion. And in dairy, she grabbed a half gallon of milk, sour cream and a bag of Monterey Jack cheese.
As they neared the butcher case, a woman wearing an oversize black sweatshirt with a sunflower appliqué gasped and placed a hand on her chest.
Was something wrong?
The woman’s gaze had locked on Mark’s, and subsequently, so did Juliet’s.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Hi, Mark.”
Juliet froze, a package of chicken breasts gripped in her hand. She studied mother and son, saw their tension-filled stances, felt the awkwardness. And it broke her heart. The reunion should have been exciting, something worthy of a hug, a bright-eyed smile.
“I…uh…was hoping you’d come by the motel,” Mrs. Anderson said. “We’ve missed you. We both have.”
“I’ve been busy.”
The woman’s eyes dropped to the bundle of pink flannel Mark held. Then she glanced at Juliet, a hundred questions in her gaze.
“This is my friend,” Mark said. “Juliet Rivera.”
“How do you do?” The woman reached out a hand. Her eyes begged for answers, for more of an explanation, for something Mark wasn’t providing her. But she remained silent. Watery eyes told Juliet she was hurting, but not because Mark’s presence had disturbed her.
“This is Juliet’s baby,” Mark said. But he didn’t unwrap Marissa. Didn’t reveal her sweet face.
Juliet stepped forward and withdrew the edge of the pink flannel blanket. “Her name is Marissa. And she’s a week old today.”
Mark’s mother smiled, sentiment glistening in her eyes. “What a precious baby.”
“She certainly is. Thank you.” Juliet should have been pleased that Mark had introduced them, but she suspected he’d merely meant to avoid any of the questions that hung in the air.
How have you been?
Why haven’t you called?
When will we see you again?
“I was just picking up things to make a special dinner to celebrate Marissa’s birth,” Juliet said. “Do you like Mexican food, Mrs. Anderson?”
“Yes, I do.” The woman’s green eyes grew wide and bounced from Mark to Juliet and back again. “My husband and I don’t get a chance to eat it very often, especially when it’s homemade. Having been brought up in Texas, we miss a good Mexican-style meal.”
“Then maybe you’d like to join us for dinner,” Juliet said.
Mark tensed.
“Why…” The woman paused, then looked at Mark as though wanting him to second the invitation.
He held his tongue.
Juliet wanted to kick him in the shins. Couldn’t he see the woman was hurting? Maybe more than he was?
“My husband isn’t feeling well,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Perhaps another time.”
“Of course.” Juliet offered her a sincere smile, which was far more than her son had offered.
As Mrs. Anderson turned to leave, Juliet stopped her. “Wait, please.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a slip of paper and a pen, then jotted down her telephone number. “Let me know when your husband is feeling better.”
The woman took the paper, holding it close. In that moment, Juliet knew they’d all been hurt. Deeply. And by something she didn’t understand. Something that needed to be fixed.
“Well, I’d better get back