Return to Oak Valley (15 page)

Stacking the last of her canvasses against one wall that Monday afternoon, she glanced around the room, thinking again that Josh couldn't have created a space that would have pleased her more.

The room had been thoughtfully planned, giving her just what she needed, privacy, space, views, light, even cupboards, some countertops, one with a sink in the middle of it, and closets for her supplies. Her eyes lit on the door at the far end of the big open room, and she smiled. Practical Josh—he'd even had a small utilitarian bathroom with a shower installed.

Despite its size and lack of furnishings, it was a welcoming room. The oak floors gleamed warmly in the morning light that poured in from the many windows, the scent of coffee from her coffeemaker on the counter wafted through the air, adding to the sense of welcome. A moment later, mug of coffee in hand, Shelly wandered around the room, touching things, familiarizing herself with her new domain.

A couple of easels had been set up near a pair of windows that overlooked the valley and the green-and-red-plaid couch she'd pilfered from Josh's office sat in lonely splendor in the middle of the big room. Protesting and swearing, Nick had helped her muscle it up the stairs last night. She'd need to see about some recessed lighting and a mini refrigerator—she wasn't hiking up and down two sets of stairs every time she wanted a cold drink or some real cream in her coffee. She eyed the couch. Maybe she'd splurge on a fake fur rug, too. It'd look great in front of the couch.

Sliding open one of the glass doors that led to the small east-facing deck, Shelly stepped outside. Breathing in the cool scent of the woods, she drank her coffee, her thoughts once more sliding to the fifty-thousand-dollar right-of-way. It wasn't her problem, she told herself. And if she were any kind of Granger at all, she'd be dancing with delight at having really stuck it to the Ballingers. Hadn't the two families spent the better part of the last 150 years trying to do just that to each other? And why, she mused, did it all seem so silly to her? Was it because she had moved away so many years ago? Because she hadn't spent the last seventeen years being steeped in the lore and legend of the Granger/ Ballinger feud? She grimaced. If the truth were known, once she had left Oak Valley behind, the last thing she'd wanted to think about had been the Ballingers—especially Sloan.

Shelly closed her eyes, still not wanting to think about Sloan. But it was no use, behind her lids his dark, hard face swam in front of her. It wasn't a face easily forgotten, the rough-hewn features having a memorable attractiveness all their own. When Sloan Ballinger walked into a room, women looked and kept looking; the tough, masculine face with those striking gold eyes and that wide-lipped mouth at once mesmerizing and compelling. It didn't hurt that the body that went with the face was completely and utterly male. Shelly would bet that there wasn't a woman alive whose gaze wouldn't have lingered, even if only for a passing second, on his big, muscular body. Sloan dominated a room just by walking into it, something alive and vital, the promise of something exciting and feral entering with him. Just thinking about him, picturing him walking toward her, that mocking half smile on his lips, sent a flash of warmth spiraling through her, making her remember things she'd sworn to forget.

But Sloan was unforgettable—at least for her, she admitted bleakly. He'd been her first lover and for a precious few months, she'd adored him. To her cost, she'd discovered all too soon that he'd lied to her and betrayed her. She should hate him, some days she did, but to her distress, even when she was certain he was the most loathsome man alive, she still found him fascinating. Which showed just how much of a fool she was! And which, she reminded herself, did not change the fact that he'd paid an outrageous price for the right-of-way. It hadn't been a fair deal. She frowned. Was that why it bothered her? Because it hadn't been a fair deal? Or was it, whispered a sly voice, because taking advantage of Sloan the way Josh had only confirmed the Ballinger opinion that the Grangers were a bunch of thieving, crooked, underhanded bastards. Her mouth twisted. Of course, the Grangers had the same opinion of the Ballingers.

Having lost the desire for her coffee, she tossed the rest of it over the balcony and went inside. She had other things, she reminded herself firmly, to think about than Sloan Ballinger.

Shelly kept busy for several days, continuing to unpack some personal things from the boxes in the shed, handling the details as they came up in connection with Josh's will and generally settling into a new routine. The following week, she considered hosting a small, quiet party on Saturday night, but had hesitated about entertaining so soon after Josh's death. When she'd voiced her concerns to Cleo, Cleo had said, “Hell-all-Friday, girl! You know Josh. He'd have been the first one to tell you to throw a blowout. And it isn't as if he died just last week. Besides, I've got me a brand-new pair of black leather pants I want that Blarney-Stone-kissing Hank O'Hara to see me in. You have that party—and make certain you invite Hank and his sister.”

With Cleo's approval and the support of her skinny-dipping friends from childhood, the ones she'd kept in touch with from New Orleans, Melissa-Jane McGuire, Bobba Neale, and Danny Haskell, the party had been scheduled. They'd been delighted to help organize the party and helped her with the phone invitations. In the end, the small party grew to be a rather large gathering, but the results had been gratifying: her first foray into valley society had been a resounding success. Moving among her guests, old-time residents and some newcomers, Shelly had found it amazing how easily she slipped back into the rhythms of the valley. It was, as she said later to Nick and Acey, both attendees at the party, almost as if she had never been away.

But if she had had a success on one front, she'd had no such luck with resolving her ambivalence about the right-of-way. Even involved in other things, it was there, lurking at the back of her mind. She brooded over it and finally, as April tumbled into May, decided to do something about it.

Mike Sawyer had been adamantly against the plan she came up with to resolve the issue, and Bill Weeks, the family banker, hadn't been thrilled. They'd both been quite clear that her financial status was not the best—which she already knew—the Granger wealth had always been in cattle and land rather than actual hard cash—unlike the Ballingers. But their warnings had fallen on deaf ears and in the end, she'd gotten what she wanted.

She'd considered simply phoning Sloan and telling him what she planned to do, or writing him, that way avoiding a face-to-face confrontation, but neither idea felt right. For reasons she didn't want to examine too closely, she felt compelled to do this particular chore in person.

Dressing that Wednesday morning in the first week of May, it occurred to her that she had only leaped the first hur-dle—the easy one. Nervous, her stomach fluttering, she picked through her closet and wasted a lot more time than the decision deserved on deciding what to wear. Finally wearing white Nike running shoes, a pair of close-fitting blue jeans, and a blue-and-white striped long-sleeve shirt, she looked at herself in the mirror and made a face. She looked so ordinary. But that was the point, wasn't it? This wasn't supposed to be a big deal. She stared some more. Well, maybe some lipstick and eyebrow pencil would help. And some blusher. Oh, and she had that new brown eyeliner….

Fifteen minutes later, hating herself for having taken so much trouble with her appearance, she slammed shut the door to the Bronco and roared out of the driveway. When she hit the valley floor, she took a deep breath. She was really going to do this. She took another deep breath. Really.

The drive seemed all too short, and before she was aware of it, she had turned off the Tilda Road and was bumping along a rough gravel road that snaked into the forest. Not long after that, she was braking and turning off the ignition.

She sat there for several seconds in the large clearing, staring at the cabin, noticing the woodshed, corrals, and other outbuildings behind the cabin.

Her heart thumping, all the reasons why she shouldn't be here churning through her head, she finally grabbed her purse and stepped out of the vehicle.
Maybe
, she thought wildly,
he won't be at home.

Her knock was met with a spate of hysterical barking, and a moment later Sloan opened the door, using his bare foot to hold at bay a small, yapping dog.

He had been braced for a confrontation with Shelly since the moment Jeb had told him she'd found out about the right-of-way. Every time he'd been in town lately, he'd discovered himself glancing warily around for sight of her, ready, he admitted cravenly, to duck and run. Knowing the Grangers, he didn't doubt that she was going to tackle him about the right-of-way and being a Granger, hold it against him for having bought it—even at an exorbitant sum. His mouth tightened. It still rankled that Josh had held the family up that way, but they'd wanted the Grangers out of their hair badly enough to bite the bullet and pay the money.

He'd been certain of two things, though: one, that Josh hadn't told Shelly about selling the right-of-way—there were lots of things that Josh hadn't told Shelly, he thought grimly—and two, that she would be infuriated about it when she found out. He didn't want to fight with her and had avoided town as much as he could. Town had been bad enough, but even in the cabin he'd been on edge—every time the phone rang, he'd approached it like he would a coiled rattlesnake. He'd known that there would be a reaction from her, that sooner or later, they'd lock horns; but what he had never expected was that she would show up on his front porch. OK, technically a deck. He also hadn't expected that the mere sight of her would leave him feeling as if he'd been sucker-punched. Hard. Right in the gut. Or that she'd look so damned tasty, he could have feasted on her for a week—and that would just be an appetizer.

They stared at each other for a tense second before Sloan finally found his voice. After admonishing Pandora to shut up, he said, “Uh, Shelly, hi. Didn't expect to see you out here.”
Oh, brilliant, Sloan
, he thought wryly.
Bowl her over with your witty conversation.

Shelly cleared her throat, wishing that her heartbeat would slow down and that her stomach would return to its normal position and get out of her throat. Standing in front of her in a pair of tight black jeans and a form-fitting yellow-and-green-plaid Western shirt, he looked so, so
masculine
—despite the dish towel he held in one hand and the puffball of a dog he kept from dashing outside with his feet. His black hair was mussed, a lock brushing across his forehead, and she fought to control the impulse to brush it aside and maybe, just maybe, lightly stroke his hard cheek. Her hand fisted at her side to keep it from acting on its own, she forced a smile, and said brightly. “Hi, Sloan. Hope I didn't catch you at an inconvenient time.”

“No, no. I was just, uh, drying dishes,” he muttered. He smiled lopsidedly. “Bachelor household.”

Pandora, ignored long enough, managed to get out from behind Sloan's foot and shot out of the house to sniff excitedly at Shelly's Nikes.

“Pandy, get in here!”

Apparently, Pandora didn't find Shelly's Nikes interesting, because to Sloan's astonishment, she actually obeyed him and trotted back into the house, indifference in every movement.

“Cute dog,” Shelly said.

Sloan smiled, a smile that made Shelly's knees go weak. “She can be—she can also be hell-on-wheels when the mood strikes her.” The subject of Pandora had given him a chance to recover from the shock of Shelly's visit, and, stepping aside, he said, “Come on in. I just put on a pot of coffee—can I offer you a cup?”

“Sure.”

She stood uncertainly in the center of the room while he disappeared into what she assumed was the kitchen. She glanced around the large room, liking the contrast of the cream-colored painted ceiling with the knotty pine walls. A couple of green-and-beige geometric-patterned rugs were thrown across the plain tiled floor, and a river-rock-faced fireplace with a wide oak mantel took up one corner of the room; a long, comfortable looking ox-blood colored leather couch was angled in front of it. To the left of the couch, two dark green recliners were separated by an oak table that held a brass lamp: the remaining surface overflowed with magazines and books, some spilling onto the floor. There was a small oak-furnished dining area behind the couch and a big rolltop desk and a chair against the far wall.

It was an inviting room, and a comfortable one, almost cozy, Shelly thought, trying to focus on something other than the reason she was here. She and Sloan had actually exchanged more than a half dozen words, and they hadn't started arguing yet. That was good. Keeping her fingers in a death grip on her purse, she walked over to one of the many windows. There were no drapes, just blinds that she supposed he lowered at night for privacy. Although, living out here in the middle of nowhere—the nearest resident was probably ten miles away—she doubted that he had any concerns about what the neighbors might or might not see.

The cabin sat on a small rise, and the windows gave wonderful views of the forest and the ascending foothills in the distance. She'd bet in the winter, with the firs dusted with snow, it was breathtaking. From what she could see, it was obvious that Sloan or someone had cleared a huge area around the cabin, leaving the nearest tree more than fifty feet away from any building.
Fire protection
, she thought automatically. Living in the wilderness, fire protection was always a concern, and smart people took seriously the need to keep the brush and trees well away from the structures.

“Here you go,” Sloan said from behind her as he walked back into the room. He walked up to stand beside her, a mug of coffee in each hand. “As I remember, you take yours with a drop of cream. Sorry it's not the real stuff—I opened some condensed milk and used that.”

Surprised that he remembered something so trivial, she smiled. “Thanks, condensed milk is just fine.”

She looked around for a place to lay her purse, and Sloan said, “Just throw it on the couch.”