“You making bacon with them eggs?” Her father’s querulous voice floated down the hallway and interrupted her thoughts. “Jeremy and I like bacon with our eggs. Three slices for me.”
She looked up but saw no one. Her nephew and her father were still in the back bedroom.
Allie turned to face the hallway. She heard the giggle of her three-year-old nephew and the creak of the springs on her father’s bed, which meant that the little boy no doubt raced his plastic horse across the edge of his grandfather’s mattress.
Jeremy was bringing joy to this old house, even if they saw him only once in a while. He and his mother lived in Idaho, and this was the first time that she had left Jeremy here alone. Allie had asked for time off from work so she could be here to help watch over him.
“The doctor said you can’t have more than a small slice of bacon,” Allie called to her father. She’d spoken on the phone with the doctor last week. “Your cholesterol is too high.”
Actually, the specialist had said her father should have an aspirin every morning and start eating turkey bacon, but Allie was taking things slowly. Her father refused to consider eating what he called fake bacon. She was stretching the doctor’s advice by giving him a small piece of the real stuff and two eggs.
It wasn’t until she started back to the sink and passed the smaller window in the kitchen that she glanced out toward the barn and stopped midstride. She hadn’t seen that pickup sitting there when she had arrived late yesterday. The pickup was usually parked behind the barn. She didn’t know why her father kept the old thing after what happened with it that awful night when Mark had been shot. The pickup was practically falling apart, the red paint faded to mauve except on the dented bumper where the bare metal showed through in a long scratch.
She twisted her neck to get a full view of the yard. Sure enough, a man was walking toward the house.
“Company coming,” Allie called as she stood back. Her father must have lent the vehicle to a neighbor and the man was bringing it back. “Best get your robe on.”
She picked up the long metal spatula that was lying on the counter. Whoever the man was he had most likely eaten breakfast already, but she didn’t want to turn anyone away without some hospitality. Having company in this house was as rare as a party these days. She’d toast slices of the whole-grain bread she’d brought with her from Jackson Hole and pull down the crock of honey to go with it. The coffee was already brewing. She’d also get started on new eggs. Her father would want some even if the other man didn’t.
She was pleased to know one of the neighbors had felt free to ask her father for the loan of his old pickup. Ever since Mark had been hurt, her father had stopped going to church services. He said it was because he had to rush to make it to the nursing home before visiting hours closed, but she knew, even though Clay West was clearly the one at fault, her father felt the whole family had been shamed that night. He’d been avoiding everyone since then. He had plenty of time to visit Mark after church.
Allie heard a sound and turned.
“Who is it?” her father asked. He was peeking out a door off the hallway. “I hope it’s not Mrs. Hargrove. I’m not presentable. She said she might come by.”
Allie would rather the visitor be the sweet older woman. She was the traditional Sunday school teacher for children of Jeremy’s age, and Allie thought it was time her nephew joined the class, at least when he was staying with her and her father.
“It looks like a man, so your robe will be fine.”
“Does he have on an old sheepskin coat?”
“How’d you know?” she asked as she twirled to stare. Those coats were no longer common. Everyone preferred puffy jackets in neon or pastel colors. For one thing, they were washable, and there wasn’t a dry cleaner this side of Miles City.
“I’ll put my overalls on.” Her father turned without answering her. “I sent Jeremy to his room to get dressed.”
Allie stepped over and opened the main door. No one had taken its screen off last fall, and the latch had gotten damp and rusted even more. There were enough things that needed doing in this old house that she could spend a month here instead of the two weeks she’d arranged to take off from her job.
Flakes of snow blew toward the house, sticking to the screen door, but she made no move to wipe them off. Allie shivered from the cold, and her breath was coming out in white puffs. It was difficult to identify the man walking toward the house because he had his head down. The leather coat flapped around his legs. The garment was half-open, and a gray plaid shirt covered his chest. He held one of his arms like he was holding something inside his coat. Worn denim jeans fit his long legs, and cowboy boots sank into the snow.
The morning was overcast, and a burst of wind blew the snow around. The man lifted his face, and suddenly a glimmer of sun came out.
Allie couldn’t believe her eyes. It was like her thoughts had conjured up her worst nightmare.
“Clay?” she whispered even though no one could hear her.
His shoulders were broader than she remembered, but she’d recognize his stride anywhere. He was always prepared to take on the world, and it showed in the way he moved. Confident to the point of arrogance. He reminded her of her father in that way.
Clay’s dark Stetson left his face in shadows. She couldn’t see his black hair or his piercing blue eyes, but it was him all right.
He suddenly stopped midway to the house and stared at the open door. Surely the darkness in the house meant he wouldn’t be able to see her clearly enough to know who she was. But he stared as though he could see through the screen and recognize her. He’d always been able to make her feel that he could look right down to her soul. It was those eyes of his.
Of course, that was nonsense, she told herself as she stepped back then, and instinctively slammed the door closed. He had ordinary eyes even if they were a startling icy blue.
“What’re you doing that for?” her father asked, grumbling as he limped across the kitchen floor in his slippers. “We got company.”
“It’s Clay West,” Allie said, leaning back against the door.
“Well, so what?” her father asked, his chin up like he was ready to argue. He held a rolled-up magazine in his hand.
“Clay West,” she repeated. “You remember—he’s the foster kid who lived here. He’s the reason Mark is where he is today.”
“You don’t need to tell me who he is,” her father said. “I was here.”
“I was, too,” Allie protested. She still remembered the night the sheriff had come to their door after midnight. Mark was already in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Clay sat in the back of the sheriff’s car, handcuffed and silent. He never looked up at her.
The sheriff told Allie her brother had been drunk on tequila, but she assured the officer that Mark had never taken a drink of hard liquor in his life. She would know if he had, she’d explained. She was a year younger than Mark, but she’d always been more responsible than he was. As her mother lay dying, she had asked Allie to watch over Mark and make sure he didn’t start drinking alcohol. The family was unusually susceptible, she’d said. Mark might have gotten the beer that night, but the empty tequila bottle found in the pickup had to belong to Clay. Allie didn’t know why Clay’s alcohol blood level wasn’t that high, but she knew that the tequila had to belong to him.
Allie’s father reached for the door handle. “Clay’s probably hungry. He’ll want some bacon with his eggs. He’s my new ranch hand. And they say he’s an artist—sort of like Charlie Russell.”
Her father waved the magazine at her.
Allie wondered if