Coming Home (4 page)

“Just as damn snippy and full of herself as usual. Ordered me off her place.” He sent Sloan a long-suffering look. “I know she's your sister, but damn-it-all, Sloan, I sometimes don't see how you can be related.”

Sloan laughed. “I sometimes wonder myself.” He studied Jeb a moment. The interplay between his sister and Jeb had always provided him with entertainment, ever since high school. They were like wildfire and combustible fuel. Put them together and poof! Explosive.

“So what did she do now that has you all in a temper?” Sloan asked.

“I am not,” Jeb gritted out, “in a temper. I'm just baffled that she just goes right ahead and does exactly what anybody with any sense wouldn't even consider.”

Sloan murmured, “Remember how my dad told her not to ride that big brute of a stallion of his?”

“Yeah…and the very first thing she did once his back was turned was climb on the back of one of the meanest horses I've ever laid eyes on. She was damned lucky she didn't get killed when he bucked her off. Scared your folks to death.” Looking thoughtful, Jeb nodded. “Guess she doesn't take kindly to advice—I'll remember that the next time I have to deal with her.”

“Good luck.”

Sloan started to roll up his window when Jeb asked, “You want help looking for that cow? I could go get a horse and join up with you.”

Sloan shook his head. “Appreciate the offer, but I think the four of us can handle it.” He grimaced. “And if we can't—I'll call you.”

They parted. Hitting the pavement Jeb increased his speed and shortly was turning onto the main drag of St. Galen's. The town of St. Galen's was small and consisted of a string of family-owned businesses and small houses that crowded along either side of the two-lane state highway that cut through the middle of the valley. Even its admirers would admit that St. Galen's wasn't a pretty or a quaint town, it was poor and it was practical. Some of the stores were empty, some needed paint, but Jeb viewed them all with affection. This was his town and he loved every inch of it, even the uneven and cracked sidewalks—where there were sidewalks. To his fond eye, St. Galen's had a charm all its own. Rough and contrary, but appealing in its own down-to-earth-take-me-as-I-am fashion.

He parked his truck in front of Heather-MaryMarie's and not bothering to lock the door, slammed it behind him as he got out. Walking past the oak half barrel filled with pink cosmos and white petunias, he pushed open one of the double-glass doors that led inside the rectangular log building.

Heather-Mary-Marie's was as close to an old-fashioned dry-goods store as one was likely to find in this day and age. A little bit of everything could be found on the shelves, from clothes to plastic funeral wreaths. The store was owned and run these days by Cleo Hale, the granddaughter of the original founder who had named it for his three daughters. Not only did the store sell gifts, cards, Lotto, and clothing, but nearly half the population was in and out of its doors every day. Cleo was as good as any newspaper for being able to impart the latest news—and no censor ever put a lock on her tongue.

Cleo was busy wrapping up a package for a customer when Jeb stepped inside and the tinkle of the bell on the door brought her brilliant red head around. Seeing Jeb, she grinned at him and said, “Go on back to the storeroom. Those shirts I ordered for you are on the shelf to the right just as you enter. Be with you in a sec.”

The customer, Sally Cosby, who worked as a waitress across the street from Heather-Mary-Marie's at The Blue Goose Inn, giggled. Her friendly brown eyes dancing, she said, “Better be careful, Jeb. If I were a good-looking guy like you, don't know if I'd go in the back with Cleo.”

Jeb had known both Cleo and Sally all his life. At sixty-five Cleo was old enough to be his mother, but there was nothing motherly about Cleo, although she did have a daughter from the first of five marriages. Cleo stood six feet tall, and while slim, she had the shoulders of a football player. A pair of gold earrings dangled almost to the top of those broad shoulders and she was wearing her hair in an improbable shade of red and twisted up in a French roll that had gone out of style in the sixties. A purple silk shirt and tight black jeans completed the picture. On anyone else those earrings, those clothes, and that hair would have looked bizarre, but not on Cleo. She had never been a beauty, her features tending toward heavy and plain, but with her big blue eyes, wide smiling mouth, and that torchlight hair, it seemed a perfect fit. Jeb kinda liked the whole picture—even the earrings. And he adored Cleo. She'd been razzing and ragging him for as long as he could remember but she also had one of the kindest hearts he'd ever known. In any crisis in the community, Cleo Hale was one of the first people to react and send out the call for help.

As for Sally, he'd watched her grow up and had danced at her wedding fifteen years ago when she'd married Tim Cosby, a local logger. Sally came from a long-time valley family and was a noted local horsewoman—her thirteen-year-old twin daughters seemed to be following in their mother's footsteps. They already had a reputation for being hell on horseback, as their mother had been at that age, and had ridden half the boys in the valley into the ground. There wasn't much he didn't know about Sally and Cleo—or them about him. There were few secrets in the valley.

Cleo snorted at Sally's comment. “Oh, hell, honey, he's safe—he's too old for me.”

Jeb chuckled, waved a hand in their direction, and ambled to the back of the store. In the storeroom he found the half-dozen shirts Cleo had mentioned. Picking out three of them, all plaids and cowboy fit, he headed back toward the front of the store.

For almost noon on a Thursday, with Sally gone, the store seemed oddly deserted. Plopping the shirts down on the wooden counter, he said, “Things look kinda quiet.”

Cleo nodded, her expression a little glum as she rang up the sale and bagged the three shirts. “It's September, Jeb—after the arrival of the welfare checks. Blackberry Harvest's only a memory. School's in session. Rodeo's over.” She brightened. “Of course, once deer season opens, in a couple of days, the place will get lively again.”

The bell over the door rang and both Cleo and Jeb turned to look. A wiry built man with sandy blond hair stepped inside, saying, “Hey, Cleo, I wanted to talk to you about those socks you …”

Spying Jeb, the newcomer froze. A tight expression crossed his features, and nodding curtly in Jeb's direction, he said, “Jeb. Didn't know you were in here.” He glanced at Cleo. “I'll come back another time.”

“No reason,” Cleo said easily, aware of the tension between the two men. “Jeb was just on his way out.” And to emphasize it, she handed Jeb his bag of shirts.

“Oh, I don't know,” Jeb drawled, taking the bag. “Think I'll go look at those clocks you've got in that case against the wall. Maybe buy one for my kitchen. You go on and help Scott.”

“That's OK,” Scott muttered, “I'll come by later.” And scooted out the door.

Cleo glared at Jeb. “I know Milo Scott's a pain in the butt—I'm not fond of him myself—if you'll remember he's the main suspect in the trashing of myplace a while back. Personally I think he's a mean, sneaky, twisted, little weasel—and that's when I'm feeling kindly toward him, but I've got a business to run and he was a customer on a day that has seen few of those—and you, you wretched creature, drove him off.”

“Oh, lighten up, Cleo, you didn't lose much—he was only going to buy a pair of socks.”

Cleo snorted. “And how do you know that, Mr. Big Britches? He might have bought a whole dozen.”

“A lowlife like Scott? Nah.”

“You know, your prejudice is showing—not an attractive trait for an officer of the law. Aren't you supposed to be objective?”

Jeb grimaced. “You've got me there. I just can't stand the fellow, Cleo. I know he had something to do with Josh's suicide…or
supposed
suicide …” When Cleo would have interrupted, he raised a hand. “OK, forget about Josh. You know that Scott's connected some way with just about every drug deal that goes down in the county and that he's tight with every hippie-type, and some not so hippie-types, out there growing pot in the backyard—or the national forest.”

“And if I turned my nose up at every marijuana grower in the area, I wouldn't have much of a business. Come on, Jeb. Most of those guys are harmless and they're only growing it for their own use.” Jeb shot her a look and she shrugged. “All right, so maybe they sell some to him and so maybe he transports it down to the Bay Area. Big deal.”

“Cleo,” Jeb began patiently—and this was a discussion they'd had many a time—“marijuana is against the law.”

“Like I said, big deal.”

Jeb sighed. “That's the sort of attitude that makes enforcement that much harder.” He didn't want to argue with Cleo—half the time he suspected that she was just jerking his chain. Turning away he muttered, “Never mind. And as for your erstwhile customer—don't worry, he'll be back. It's not as if you've lost the sale forever.” Glancing out the double-glass doors, his eyes narrowed as he watched Milo Scott walk across the street to The Blue Goose. “See, he's just going to Hank's place.”

Cleo followed Jeb's gaze. “And I suppose,” she said dryly, “having driven him away from me, now you're going to go over to Hank's place and lose him a customer.”

Jeb laughed. “No, I'm not going to The Blue Goose. Scott can enjoy his meal in peace. And when he's done, I'm sure he'll come back and buy the damned socks.”
“Hmm, you know that's a funny thing. I know I ordered them for him, and if I recollect correctly they came in last week, at least I think they did, but damned if I can find them.” She smiled slyly at Jeb. “That seems to happen a lot with Scott's orders. I just seem to misplace his stuff all the time. Can't figure it out.”

Smiling, Jeb shook his head and left. Cleo did have her ways and he, for one, didn't want to be on her badside. Climbing into the truck, he tossed his bag on the seat and turning on the ignition backed out of the parking slot. Ten minutes later he was pulling onto the gravel road on the east side of the valley that led to his place. He'd purchased this parcel of land, a hundred sixty acres, a quarter section, with a house and barn in the foothills about five years ago…and it hadn't escaped his attention that with her new purchase he and Roxanne were on opposite sides of the valley.

Figures, he thought, as he pushed open the door to the stone and wood house. Opposites in everything we do. Probably why she irritates me so.

The house was about thirty years old and built in the ubiquitous ranch style with a two-car attached garage. It wasn't big but it did have three bedrooms and two baths and though he had taken a lot of ribbing about a confirmed bachelor like him buying what was clearly a family home, it suited Jeb just fine. He'd turned one bedroom into a weight room, took the master bedroom for himself, and the third bedroom had become a catchall for everything he didn't quite know what to do with. The family room was small, actually just an extension of the kitchen in the rear of the house. The living room in the front was seldom used; in fact, beyond shoving a black leather couch, a couple of lamps, and an old red plaid recliner in it, Jeb hadn't done much with the living room. He spent most of his time, when he was even at the house, in the kitchen/family room and the deck that opened off of it. Walking through the house, he headed right for the re frigerator and pulled out a cold long-necked bottle of Heineken's. Twisting off the cap and tossing it on the dark blue and cream tiled counter, he took a deep, satisfying swallow and wandered outside to the deck.

Even in the speckled shade of the redwood lattice roof, the deck was hot, the valley baking below him, and after a second, he stepped back inside the house. Standing at the glass sliding doors, he took another drink of beer and, stared across at the western foothills that embraced the far side of the valley. Unerringly his gaze settled on the faint outline of Roxanne's rooftop, the sun glinting off the windows of the cabin. Probably only five or six miles as the crow flies separated them, but to Jeb the distance was insurmountable. And why in God's name did she have to buy that place, where every time I look across the valley, the first thing I'll see is her place? He scowled. The truth of the matter was that he could look at miles of forested hillsides without his eyes ever once touching Roxanne's place. But to his everlasting disgust, recently the first place he looked at in the morning and the last thing at night was the A-frame cabin he knew held the infuriating person of Roxanne Ballinger. It was a habit, he decided grimly, that he was going to have to break.

Turning away, he walked over to the refrigerator and a few minutes later was sitting at the heavy oak table in the family room with his feet on the chair opposite him, enjoying a ham, mustard, lettuce, and dill pickle sandwich on whole wheat bread. He learned long ago that he wasn't much of a cook, but he'd alsodiscovered that he didn't like starving. Hence, his cupboards held canned tuna, chili, soup, fruit, and an array of condiments that would have surprised some people. The refrigerator was always stocked with milk, beer, and sandwich makings; his freezer was full of bags of potato chips, pretzels, extra loaves of bread, frozen dinners, and a few steaks for special occasions. Some onions and potatoes were kept in one of the crispers of the refrigerator and he'd been known to feast on a potato nuked in the microwave with chili, cheese, and chopped onion and feel as if he'd slaved over a four-star dinner. Sandwiches were easier.

Taking another bite of his sandwich, he picked up the local paper that had been lying on the table and began to read. It was pretty boring and since he was with the sheriff's department, he already knew all the interesting pieces that hadn't been printed. Reduced to reading the classified ads, the banging on his front door followed by his brother's voice was a welcome diversion.

“I'm in the family room,” he yelled. “Come on back.”

Garbed in a khaki shirt and pants, a man who bore a strong resemblance to Jeb wandered into the room a moment later. Pushing forty, Mingo Delaney wasn't quite as tall as Jeb, or quite as big. They shared the same crop of unruly black hair, the same tawny complexion, and the same knowing black eyes. The ladies in the area were divided as to which one of the Delaney brothers was the handsomest. Mingo had his supporters and Jeb his. One thing was certain; the Delaney brothers were about two of the most attractive single men for miles around. The fact that they came from one of the leading families in the valley—their father was a retired judge—and were both unmarried caused all sorts of excited pleasure in the hearts of every unattached woman under the age of fifty in the county…and maybe, beyond.