Return to Oak Valley Page 2

  Ignoring the stab of pain, she grabbed her purse and the smaller of several suitcases she had brought with her. Locking the Bronco, she slowly walked up the wide, stone-lined gravel walkway that led to the front of the house.

  Now that she was actually here, exhaustion claimed her. During the time since she had learned of Josh's death, and knew she would be returning to Oak Valley indefinitely, she had been run ragged. There had been a multitude of tasks to perform; notification of her apartment manager, the utility company, and then packing and selling her furniture and larger belongings. Saying good-bye to all her relatives and the friends she had made in New Orleans had been the hardest part—especially their sympathy as she coped with the horror of Josh's suicide. Being an artist of some repute, there had been no employer to worry about—although several of her friends had wondered about her decision to sell her furniture and give up her apartment. Surely, Roman had asked, concern in his emerald eyes, you will come back to New Orleans after you have seen to Josh's affairs? She had hunched a shoulder, unable to answer him. Seated in the first-class section of the plane for the flight to San Francisco, her gaze fixed on the disappearing runway below her, Shelly finally admitted that she had known the answer to his question, had known the answer from the moment she had learned of Josh's death. No, she wasn't coming back to New Orleans—no matter what she found in Oak Valley, no matter how painful her return might be. She took a deep breath. She was returning to Oak Valley for good. Returning home to stay after seventeen years away. She could not have explained it—it was simply something she felt she needed to do—even if everyone thought she was peculiar for doing so. She could live with peculiar, she thought, as she pushed open the door to Josh's house and stepped inside—right now, all she wanted was a bed.

  Shutting the heavy oak door with its stained-glass window behind her, she headed for the wide staircase that dominated the large entry hall. Josh had sent her the architect's plans and had told her a lot about the house so, despite never having stepped foot in the place, she knew exactly where everything was situated.

  A mixture of guilt and longing swept though her again as she pushed open the door to the main guest room on the second floor. Josh had told her all about it, his pleasure in the then-new house almost palpable. We should have been doing this together, she admitted with a lump in her throat, tears welling up in her eyes. She bit her lip, assailed by remorse, not even seeing the room in front of her.

  What a selfish little bitch she had been, she thought, not to have come home even once during all these years. It didn't matter that she and her brother had talked almost weekly on the phone, or that Josh had flown to New Orleans to share most holidays and vacations with her…and to gamble, she thought wryly, remembering his passion for the turn of a card. He would have made a great Regency buck, with his love for every kind of game of chance.

  She was lost in thought for several moments, remembering Josh laughing when he had had a particularly good night and his cheerful insouciance when he lost. “Next time,” he'd murmur, his green eyes twinkling. “You wait and see—next time the story will be different.”

  Josh had been such an optimist and had had such a joy for life that it was hard to believe that he was gone. Dead. Bleakly, she wondered if Josh would still be alive had she faced her own demons and come back. If she had been here, would she have seen the signs of depression? Would she have realized that he was suicidal? Could she have prevented him from taking his own life? She had been asking herself those bitter questions ever since the news of his death had been relayed to her. There had been no real reason for her not to have come home before now—even if only briefly from time to time. Other than that she had been a coward, whispered a sly voice.

  She dashed away a tear. Enough. She was home now, and even if Josh was not at her side, she could still appreciate the pleasure he had taken in his home.

  The room in which she stood was gorgeous—huge and airy, one whole end a wall of glass that extended from the open wooden beams of the ceiling to the floor; in the middle, a pair of sliding doors led to a small, partially covered balcony beyond. Through the glass she could see an iron table and chairs sitting outside on the balcony.

  The oatmeal-colored carpet muffled her steps as she walked farther into the room, her gaze touching the furniture Josh had chosen—she remembered his excitement at its arrival and his delight in how the room had all come together. “Wait till you see it, kiddo, you're gonna love it,” he'd said during one of their marathon phone conversations. “I even picked out a four-poster for it.” He laughed. “Hell, honey, I'm turning into a damned interior decorator! If I start walking with a mince, punch me.”

  His words playing in her memory, she glanced at the cherrywood four-poster bed with a canopy of soft peach netting that sat against the far wall; a pair of matching night tables with brass lamps had been placed on either side of it. She remembered him talking about those, too—and the small sofa near the glass sliding door done up in a wild print of orange poppies and blue lupine.

  Setting her suitcase down near the door, she noticed for the first time the two sets of doors at the opposite end of the room. One, she discovered, was a walk-in closet with recessed cupboard and drawers and enough room to hold a wedding reception. The other door opened into a bathroom that was large enough for a family of twelve. Or thereabouts, she thought with a smile.

  Too tired to unpack, she picked up her suitcase and walked to the closet. After pulling out the few things she would need, she left the suitcase on the floor and wandered into the bathroom. A few minutes later, her teeth brushed, her face washed, and wearing a pair of yellow shorty pajamas, she climbed into bed.

  Shelly had thought she would fall immediately to sleep, but she discovered that she was too restless, too wired after the long drive and the anxious anticipation of finally returning to the valley. Her lips curved. She had wanted to return alone, and by heaven, she had! Now she wished that she hadn't been so adamant about it. Having someone to talk to wouldn't have been such a bad thing.

  After tossing and turning for several minutes, she gave up and slipped out of bed. Hoping that Maria had had the forethought to stock the refrigerator, she padded down the stairs, flipping on lights as she went.

  Pushing open the swinging door that led to the kitchen, she turned on the light and stared around her. The kitchen was charming, large and spacious; the gold-flecked toffee-colored tiled countertops were a pleasing contrast to the pale oak cabinets that lined two walls. The floor was wild—a Mexican tile that, oddly enough, went very well with the rest of the kitchen, the copper-bottomed pans hanging over the island in the center of the room adding another splash of color. She smiled wistfully when she spied the fireplace insert at the far end of the kitchen. Josh had so loved his fire-places—the kitchen in the old house had had a fireplace in which she and Josh had popped corn over the leaping flames at Christmastime.

  She blinked back tears at the memory and walked over to the huge built-in oak-fronted refrigerator. Someone, probably Maria, had been thoughtful enough to stock it with necessities. Taking a carton of milk from the refrigerator's cavernous interior, she found a glass in one of the cupboards. A few minutes later, having fumbled her way through the various choices of the gleaming black microwave on the counter, she was wandering through the house, sipping her glass of warm milk.

  Eventually she made her way into Josh's den/office. It was a masculine room, the walls covered in knotty pine, the floor in a hunter green carpet. Heavy, comfortable chairs in russet leather were arranged in front of the black-marble-fronted fireplace insert; a long plaid couch was set under one of the windows, and at the far end of the room was a large rolltop desk made of oak. Bookshelves and windows were interspersed along the remaining walls of the room; a pair of glass doors, she knew, led to a private patio.

  The chairs she recognized. They had been in the family for as long as she could remember—family gossip said that they had come with Jeb Granger when he had left N
ew Orleans after the end of the Civil War. She had been thrilled when Josh had told her they had been among the few things saved from the fire that had destroyed the old house.

  Her hand caressed the soft leather, obviously reupholstered, and as she looked closely at the wooden legs, she could make out the faint signs of charring the refinishers had not been able to obliterate. Sinking down into one of the chairs, she stared blankly into space.

  It seemed impossible that Josh was dead. Her brain knew that he was dead, but her heart was still having trouble accepting that he was actually gone. He would have turned fifty in April, she had teased him about the big five-oh, but as far as she knew he had been in excellent health, which made his death all the more senseless. Why, she wondered for the hundredth time since Michael Sawyer had called with the devastating news of Josh's death, had he killed himself? She was positive that there had been no hint, nothing that would have alerted her to the fact that he was depressed, that he planned to kill himself when she had last spoken to him. She hesitated. Except, now that she considered it, for those few odd comments at the beginning of their conversation…She shook her head. She was just being fanciful—trying to read something into nothing. He had sounded, she decided firmly, his usual cheerful self, and mostly they had talked about what a great time they'd had together in February during Mardi Gras when he'd flown out to visit. The phone call had ended with his promise to call her the following week. And three days later, he had ridden to Pomo Ridge on his favorite horse and shot himself in the old family hunting shack.

  Her breath caught, pain knifing through her. Thinking of her laughing, pleasure-loving brother, it seemed inconceivable that Josh had killed himself. But if he hadn't killed himself…She frowned. Did she really think that he hadn't killed himself? The coroner's report had stated clearly that his death had not been accidental—one didn't accidentally shoot oneself in the temple. So that left what? Murder? Had someone else placed the pistol at his temple and pulled the trigger? A shudder went through her. The notion of Josh being murdered was just as hard to accept as the idea that he had killed himself. Everyone loved Josh! Her mouth twisted. Except, of course, the Ballingers.

  The warm milk was having the effect she had hoped for, and, yawning, she finally made it upstairs to bed. Snuggled in bed, she let her thoughts drift, forcing her mind away from Josh. It was weird to be lying here with no screaming sirens, no honking horns or the sound of swishing, screeching tires on pavement to disturb the silence. And the darkness! It was complete, only the stars winking in the sky overhead splintering the blackness. There were no streetlights, no flashing neon signs, and no headlights spearing through the darkness to disrupt the black velvet cloak of night. She'd forgotten that. The utter lack of light was almost unnerving, but she stilled the impulse to turn on a lamp. The lack of sound, too, was strange and, at first, it bothered her, the only noises she heard just the natural creak and squeak of the house. As the minutes passed, the night and the silence began its magic, just as it had when she was a child—she'd forgotten that, too. Oh, how she had missed the soft quiet, the soothing dark, and she suddenly wondered how she had stood all the blaring noise, the constant bustle and glaring light that was New Orleans. This, she thought drowsily, is where I belong. This is my home. My roots.

  It wasn't something she could explain. She had been away from home for a long, long time and though she had told herself there was nothing in Oak Valley for her, there had always been a faint persistent longing to see the valley again. To see if it was as lovely as she remembered—the sky as blue, the creeks and streams as crystal clear and the trees as green. She'd been aware of a growing need to see if the people were as friendly and dear as her memories of them. And to learn if others were as treacherous as she remembered. Even before Josh's death, she'd touched once or twice on the idea of coming back to Oak Valley. A frown marred her forehead. Now that she thought of it, Josh had not seemed thrilled at the notion. He had not precisely discouraged her, but he hadn't encouraged her either.

  So why was she back? Especially now when there was no real reason to return? She had a good life in New Orleans. She was successful, and she had friends and a family, albeit distant, who lived there. Her closest, dearest relative was dead. Mike Sawyer would see to it that the Granger holdings in Oak Valley were properly handled. Looking at it logically, except to spread Josh's ashes, she could not think of one reason why she was here. Except that I want to be, she finally admitted. I have wanted to come back home ever since I left. And she realized something else rather disturbing: It was Josh's death that had finally allowed her to return. All these years away, while she had been telling herself how much she loved New Orleans, how happy she was with her career and friends, she had been merely marking time, waiting for the moment she could return. There had been, she admitted, a part of her that had lain dormant like a daffodil waiting for spring to arrive. Had she been waiting for the sweet warmth of the sun, the return to Oak Valley, before bursting out of the cold ground and into life again? Her lips twisted. Well, since she seemed to think she was a damned flower, was spring really just around the corner? Or was winter still lurking in the wings? She shook her head. One thing was sure: She'd soon find out.

  Chapter Two

  Long after Shelly Granger's Bronco had disappeared from view, the driver of the vehicle that had disturbed her sat there staring at the darkness, his hands clenching the steering wheel as if it were the only thing between him and annihilation. He was a handsome man even though his features were not conventionally handsome. His nose was too big, his mouth too wide, the chin stubborn and the amber-gold eyes beneath a pair of winged black brows had been known to stop a man in his tracks at ten yards. There was nothing open and friendly about his face, the features hard and controlled, and yet it was a face that most people trusted and had, to date, never found their trust misplaced—twisted perhaps, but never misplaced. At the moment that face wore an expression that would not have engendered trust in anyone; in fact, anyone seeing that expression would have crossed the street and given him a wide berth. His size and build alone would have given most people pause; he stood six-foot-four in his bare feet, and his wide shoulders and muscled forearms made one instantly think of a steel worker and not the business executive he was. He fit the word brawny to perfection—muscular, strong, powerful.

  Several more minutes passed as he stared in the direction of Shelly's disappearing taillights, then he took a deep breath and guided the big silver-and-black Suburban into the turnout so recently vacated by Shelly and turned off the ignition. He sat there frozen, his gaze blank. Then he shook his head. Shelly Granger. Christ on a mule! Shelly was the last person he ever expected to see—or wanted to see.

  Levering his long body out of the vehicle, Sloan Ballinger walked to the edge of the overlook and stared down at the vast darkness of the valley floor. The twinkling lights that signaled habitation were sparse and widespread, except for the cluster of lights that marked the town of St. Galen's near the north end of the valley. From the location of the lights strung out along the lone road that cut through the middle of the valley, he could recite the names of all who lived there, for how many generations, the acreage and what was raised; sheep, cattle, horses, pears, hay, or alfalfa…and who was a newcomer or weekender and who wasn't. It was one of the blessings, or curses, of having been born and raised in the valley—as well as having ancestors that were among the first white people to settle the area.

  His lips thinned. The Grangers had arrived first, followed within a year or two by the Ballingers—and they'd been at each other's throats ever since, he thought grimly. He reached for the pack of cigarettes that used to rest in his left-hand pocket and made a face when his fingers found nothing but empty space. He'd quit smoking ten years ago and generally didn't miss it, but sometimes he still automatically reached for a cigarette. Mostly from habit, he admitted, and mostly in times of stress. He shook his head. Who'd have thought that seeing Shelly Granger's face after seventeen
years, he'd recognize her in an instant and would feel as if he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. Jesus! He'd damn near kill for a cigarette about now.

  She had changed in seventeen years—they all had, he conceded, thinking of the sprinkling of silver throughout his own thick thatch of black hair and the faint sun creases that radiated from the corners of his eyes—but she hadn't changed much. Her hair was still a wild, curly, tawny mane that framed those high cheekbones and stubborn chin, her skin looked just as honey-hued and smooth as he remembered. His mouth tightened—and probably felt just as silky as it had been when she'd been eighteen. He hadn't been able to see the color of her eyes, but he remembered them. Oh, yeah, he remembered them all right; the way they could gleam like emeralds or freeze over, making them look like frosty green glass. Very frosty green glass. Yeah, he remembered. There wasn't much about Shelly that he didn't re-member—or that bastard, Josh. His attitude toward Josh was that the world was a better place without him in it. A lot better.

  He snorted. You'd think that after 150 or so years of living side by side that the Ballingers and Grangers would have come to some sort of meeting of the ways. A bitter laugh came from him. Might happen, but he wouldn't put money on it.

  The two families had been feuding since York Ballinger and his younger brother, Sebastian, had arrived in Oak Valley in 1867, after the Civil War. Almost immediately they had begun to carve out an empire—which had inevitably led to the locking of horns with Jeb Granger, who had settled with the surviving members of his family in the valley the previous year. York had been a major in the Union Army and Jeb Granger had held the same rank…in the Confederate Army. The scars and bitterness instilled in each man during the War Between the States had been too recent, too deep for either man to put aside, and predictably it had led to trouble. Right from the git-go they'd tangled over right-of-ways and water rights, and in the ensuing years, the families had squabbled over timber grants, cattle vs. sheep…You name it, they'd argued over it. It wasn't long before the pattern was set, and everyone in Oak Valley and for fifty miles around knew that if a Granger was for it, a Ballinger would be against it…or vice versa. Sloan's expression grew bleaker as he thought of Shelly and their aborted affair. And, of course, they'd fought over women now and then.