Memories: A Husband to Remember\New Year's Daddy (Hqn) (31 page)

Gritting his teeth, he carried in two boxes, then returned for four more sacks, which he set in the living room. He paused once to knock on Bryan’s door and let himself in. While the beat of some grunge band was throbbing through the room, Bryan was lying on his back lifting weights.

His son slid a glance his way when he turned the volume of the stereo down several decibels.

“Hey!” Bryan complained.

“You’re going to go deaf with this so loud.”

“Who gives a rip?” Bryan was still giving him the cold shoulder and hoping to back Travis into a corner of guilt so that he’d break down and let him spend some of the holidays in Seattle.

“We’ve got company.”

Bryan tried hard to keep his gaze flat and his expression bored, but he couldn’t quite hide the curiosity that rose to the surface.

“Ronni Walsh and her daughter.”

“The
three-year-old
you told me about?” Bryan pulled a face and pushed the weights off his chest.

“Actually, I think she’s four.”

“No difference. Still a little kid.” He lowered the bar.

Travis wasn’t going to argue with him. “Just put on a clean shirt, wash your hands and come into the kitchen. Ronni brought dinner.”

“Why?”

“I asked her to help us decorate the house.”

“Oh pleeease, Travis. You didn’t.” Again he lifted the bar and weights away from his body, his muscles straining.

“I did and it’s going to be fun.”

“Yeah, a blast,” Bryan grumbled.

“I’ll see you in five minutes,” Travis said and closed the door behind him. He could only hope that Bryan’s appetite, which had been phenomenal of late, would force him to comply so that they wouldn’t have to get into another one of their knock-down-and-drag-out arguments.

Delicious aromas drifted from the kitchen and as Travis pushed open the swinging doors, he found Ronni tossing a salad and Amy standing on a chair beside her. The table was already set. Two candles were already lit and dripping wax down the sides of old wine bottles. The flames reflected in dozens of flickering lights upon the mullioned windows surrounding the table.

“I
hate
cucumbers,” the little girl was saying.

Ronni wasn’t intimidated. “Too bad, I like ’em.”

“And I
hate
tomatoes.”

“Not tomatoes. These are red peppers, and they’re good for you.”

“Then I
hate
red peppers.”

“Fine, pick around them.”

“I
hate
salad.”

“I know, I know, but I don’t really care. You’re going to eat some, anyway.” Ronni blew her bangs out of her eyes but looked up when the door creaked shut. With an exasperated smile, she said, “We’re in a negative mood tonight. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to it. Negativity seems to be a way of life around here these days. Remember, I told you it doesn’t get any better.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” She sprinkled an oil-and-vinegar dressing over the salad greens and he was taken with how natural it seemed for her to be bustling around the kitchen. “I assume Bryan’s joining us?”

“He is if he doesn’t want to be grounded for the rest of his life.”

“I’m here,” Bryan announced as he hitched himself through the swinging doors and scowled at the crowded room.

“Good. How’re you feeling?” Ronni asked.

“Compared to what?”

“Well, compared to, ‘Gee, I feel great, I think I could run a marathon,’ that’s a ten—”

He snorted derisively.

“Or ‘I feel so crummy—like I’ve been run over by a steam roller and I think I’ll curl up and die,’ that’s a zero.”

“About a minus six, okay?” he grumbled and Travis felt the familiar tensing of his jaw.

Ronni’s eyes glittered merrily. “Funny, you don’t look near death’s door, but then it’s been said that looks can be deceiving. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come over and exercise my horses, but, if you’re too sore—”

“Horses?” Bryan’s head snapped up.

“Mmm. Quarter horses. Loose Change—we call her Lucy—and Sam,” she said and Travis noticed the boy’s bored expression changed slightly. “Amy and I ride them whenever we get the chance, but it would be nice if someone came over on a regular basis. It doesn’t have to be right away, we’re doing fine, but in the spring when your knee’s healed and the doctor says it’s okay, it would help me out.”

Bryan glanced at his father, then rolled out his lower lip as if he didn’t really care. “It’s up to you,” Travis said.

“I’d pay you, of course.” She shot Travis a knowing look. “You could ride them around the lake over here, if your dad doesn’t mind.”

“Fine with me,” Travis said. “As long as the doctor agrees.” He could barely believe the transformation in his son. Try as he might, Bryan couldn’t hide his interest. Somehow, Ronni had known how to get through to the kid when no one else—teachers, school counselors and certainly not he—could pierce Bryan’s emotional armor.

Ronni screwed the cap back on the vinegar bottle. “We’ve got time, just think about it. Now, Amy, why don’t you show Bryan what we brought?”

The little girl scrambled off her chair and rushed to the refrigerator where she found a bottle of sparkling cider and hoisted it proudly into the air over her head.

Ronni placed the salad bowl on the table between the two candles. “We usually save this for special occasions like birthdays, Christmas and New Year’s, but I figured this was close enough since it’s the holiday season.”

“You like it?” Amy asked the teenager, her eyes round with anticipation.

“It’s okay.” A dismissive shoulder raised.

“Let’s open it,” Ronni suggested. “Bryan, why don’t you do the honors? And Travis, I brought a bottle of Chianti, it’s—”

“Got it,” Travis said, spying the green bottle resting on the counter and scrambling through the top drawer where he thought he’d placed his corkscrew. He pushed aside spatulas, spoons, a potato peeler and a wire whisk before he located the opener. “Here we go.” As Ronni placed the pan of lasagna and a basket of garlic bread on the table, he poured them each a glass. “It looks great,” he said and she grinned under the compliment.

“Let’s just hope it tastes as good as it looks!”

She didn’t have to worry. Everyone appeared to be hungry, and by the time the dishes were carried to the sink, most of the food had been devoured. Even Bryan, though trying to maintain an image of being cool and disdainful, ate as if he hadn’t seen food in a week. When they were finished, some of the tension had eased and Amy seemed to have forgotten that the house was supposed to be haunted and inhabited by all manner of creepy-crawlies.

“Bryan and I will tackle the dishes,” Travis announced and the boy didn’t bother hiding his shocked look.

“Women’s work,” he grumbled.

“You think so?” Ronni asked, amused.

“In Seattle, we had a maid—”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, kid, but we’re not in Kansas...er, Washington anymore.”

“What?” Bryan looked at his father as if he thought Travis had lost his mind.

“An old joke, comes from the movie
The Wizard Of Oz,
I think. Never mind, you’re too young, but the point is, as many of us males have learned rather painfully over the past twenty years or so, there is no such thing as women’s work versus men’s.”

“There should be,” Bryan argued.

Travis picked up his dish and carried it to the sink. “Okay, I’ll grant you that men and women are different, physically, mentally and emotionally, and there have been some heated debates on the subject, lots of tempers flared, but I believe deep in my heart that men, if they wanted to, could clean the dinner dishes just as well as their wives. If only someone would give them the chance,” he said.

His son rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, Travis. But maybe they don’t want to.”

Ronni couldn’t leave it alone. “Okay, okay, you two, bring out the white flags and declare a truce. Tonight I’m going to do you a favor, Bryan. Since you’re on crutches, I’ll cut you a break. You show Amy around and I’ll handle the pots and pans.” She glanced at Travis, half expecting him to argue with her, but this time he held his tongue, and Bryan, after looking at Amy and sizing her up, made good his escape, moving out of the kitchen faster than any person on crutches should. Amy, realizing she was about to be dumped, hurried after him.

“If he thinks he can outrun her, he’s got another think coming,” Ronni said fondly.

“Where did you learn to handle teenage boys?” Travis asked, studying her so intently that she wanted to squirm.

“I gave ski lessons for years. Dealt with all kinds.” She carried the plates and stacked them in the sink. “You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”

Deep furrows etched the skin between his eyebrows and he glanced at the door to the kitchen, still swinging slightly. “You know, there was a time I thought I could do anything. Didn’t matter what it was. Form a company, hit a baseball, climb Mount Everest if I wanted to. I guess I was a little full of myself.” Smiling in self-mockery, he shook his head and closed his eyes. “Damn but I was wrong. I never realized how trying teenagers could be.”

“You’ll work it out,” she predicted, turning on the faucets and listening as the old pipes squeaked and groaned.

“I hope you’re right,” he said, unconvinced.

The phone rang and Travis snatched the receiver. After a short pause, he grimaced, glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. “What time is it over there?” he demanded, then said, “I don’t think I even want to know.” He paused and listened, all the while his fingers clenching the receiver in a death grip. “No, no, he’s fine, Sylvia. Better every day. I told him to call...oh, please, don’t cry.”

Ronni recognized Travis’s ex-wife’s name and wished there was a way she could graciously back out of the room. She didn’t need to be a part of the emotional turmoil that was suddenly reeling through the room like a tornado.

“Pull yourself together, okay? I’ll get him. Hang on.”

All the animation had left his face. Turning on the heel of his boot, Travis stormed through the swinging doors and within minutes Bryan hobbled back through the room. His lips were pursed and his jaw tight. Before he could pick up the receiver, Ronni decided she didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private conversation. Turning off the taps and grabbing a towel for her hands in one swift motion, she pushed open the swinging doors with her hips and nearly collided with Travis striding back to the kitchen.

“Oh...look, maybe this is a bad time. Amy and I can come back later.”

“No!” he nearly yelled, then let out his breath slowly. Touching her lightly on the arm, he said, “It’s just Sylvia. She’s into theatrics, and right now she’s ticked at me because I haven’t called her every day with a progress report on Bryan.”

“At least she cares—”

He cut her off with a look that silently called her a fool. “When it’s convenient, that’s when Sylvia cares.” He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then, seeming to think better of it, snapped his teeth together. “Forget the dishes, I’ll handle them later. Let’s start in on the rest of the project.”

“Okay, uh, I guess we should begin with a tree. You said that you and Bryan went out looking for one, but that—”

“It was a bust. A major bust. We ate dinner and by the time we were finished, it was too late. The lot was closed. Which was just as well, considering both of our moods.”

“Uncle Vic will help you,” Amy said.

One of Travis’s dark eyebrows quirked. “Who’s Uncle Vic?”

“My sister’s husband. He works at a lot in downtown Cascadia for a couple of his friends.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go.” He started for his jacket just as Bryan appeared in the doorway. His face was red, his gaze distant as he leaned on his crutches.

“I think you’d better call Mom in the morning, Travis,” he said, biting his lower lip.

“Why?”

Bryan’s jaw tightened in a younger whisker-free imitation of his father’s. “Because she wants me to come to France.”

“What? For the holidays?” Travis muttered something under his breath. “That woman doesn’t know what she wants.”

“No, Travis,” he said and his voice quivered slightly. “You’re wrong. I think this time she’s serious. She says she wants me to come and live with her. And not just for a few weeks. She’s talking about marrying Jean Pierre and she wants me to move in with them. Permanently.”

Chapter Six

“D
AMN
THAT
WOMAN
,”
Travis said, shoving one hand through his already-rumpled hair. “Why can’t she make up her mind?” Then as if suddenly realizing he had an audience, he shook his head. “She’s going to marry Jean Pierre?”

“What’s it to you?” Bryan wondered.

“Nothing. Nothing. She can marry whomever she pleases, but when it affects you, then I care.”

Bryan’s fingers clenched nervously over the smooth metal of his crutches. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“You
want
to live with your mother?” Travis demanded, pinning his son with a gaze that would make a grown man shudder. “In Paris?”

With the aid of his crutches, Bryan stood his ground and elevated his chin. “Don’t know.”

“You don’t even speak the language.”

“Couldn’t be much worse than here,” the boy said, his eyes slitting in anger. “You won’t even let me go up and see my friends, so what does it matter if I live in Podunk, Oregon, or Paris, France?”

“I told you Martin could come visit.”

“That’s not what I asked for, though, was it?” Bryan threw a scathing look around the room and started for the door. “Mom said to call her tomorrow and let her know what I want to do.”

“She wasn’t going to talk to me?”

“She’s ticked at you,” Bryan yelled over his shoulder.

“Why?”

“Because of these.” He lifted one crutch. “She thinks that if you were keeping better track of me, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Travis’s neck burned red with rage but he didn’t answer, and Ronni, feeling like an outsider, said, “Maybe Amy and I should come back another time.”

“No!” Travis was vehement. “Bryan, we’ll talk about this later, okay?” When the boy didn’t reply, Travis repeated, “Okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Okay,” he agreed, obviously none too pleased as he managed his way across the room to stand at the tall windows and stare outside at the serene waters of the lake. His shoulders were slumped and Ronni’s heart went out to the boy. Though both parents loved him, he was obviously torn and missed his mother. The rebellion he aimed so pointedly at his father was in direct response to Travis’s authority, though Bryan probably didn’t realize it.

“Okay, so what now?” He motioned to the boxes and sacks and Ronni tried to turn her attention away from Sylvia—the mystery woman who lived half a world away from her son and ex-husband—to tackle the job at hand, a job she now wished she hadn’t started. She and Amy didn’t belong here in this tense room, intruding on a family with problems they needed to solve between themselves.

“I thought you didn’t have a tree, from what you’d said at the ski lodge, but I didn’t pick one out for you.” She began unpacking the sacks and boxes. “I think choosing the tree is a personal decision.”

“Who cares?” Bryan said from the corner of his mouth. “It’s just a stupid tree.”

“It’s not stupid!” Amy planted her little fists on her hips.

“Of course it’s not,” Travis said. “Bryan—”

“So let’s go down to the lot,” Ronni cut in, trying to forestall an argument that seemed ready to explode again between father and son. “I told Vic we’d stop by, so he’s expecting us.”

“Can’t I just stay here?” Bryan complained. “It’s such a hassle with the crutches and everyone stares at me.”

Travis looked about to disagree, but didn’t. “Yeah, fine. Whatever,” he said.

She saw the father, frustration etched across his features, and the son, a look of defiance across his, and her heart went out to them both.

* * *

They drove into town in Travis’s Jeep. Cascadia was deep in the throes of Christmas. Nativity scenes were on display at both churches, lighted candy canes were supported by lampposts and the D & E Christmas Tree Lot was doing a banner business. Cars and trucks were wedged into the few parking spaces surrounding the rows of trees. Colored lights, suspended around the perimeter of the lot, bounced in the wind, and the smell of fresh-cut cedar and pine mingled with the tantalizing scents of coffee and cinnamon. Everyone who walked onto the lot was given a free cup of coffee or spiced cider and entire families strolled through the rows of newly-hewn trees while sipping from paper cups.

Vic, in his plaid jacket and hunter’s cap, was ready to haul the chosen tree, chop off any unwanted branches and bind it to a car, or offer advice to potential customers. He was a big, rugged man, blond and blue-eyed, evidence of his Danish ancestry. He’d been raised in Molalla, a small logging community in the foothills of the mountains, and had moved to Cascadia when he was in high school. He’d worked in the sawmill from the time he was seventeen until recently when the local mill had shut down and he’d been forced to look for another means to support his family. Reduced to scavenging for odd jobs, his once-carefree face had begun to line and weather, his honey-gold hair showed strands of gray.

“Ronni!” He spied her and clapped her on the back. “I was beginning to think that you’d stood me up.”

“No way.”

Amy scampered through the trees and Vic caught her, spinning her off her feet. “How’s my favorite niece?” he said and she giggled. It didn’t matter to her that he had no other nieces, Victor Pederson was the only father figure she’d ever known. He plopped her back to the ground and said, “I think I’ve got just the animal you want.”

“A Christmas tree isn’t an animal!” Amy said, giggling again.

“Isn’t it? Well, I guess you’re right.” After quick introductions, Vic showed them a fourteen-foot noble fir, so large it was propped against the side of the next building—a vacant warehouse. “If you want this one, I’ll tie it to the back of the pickup and bring it over,” he offered. “No delivery charge.”

Travis gave a curt nod. “Can’t beat a deal like that. How about a stand? You sell ’em?”

“Absolutely!” Vic said. “Over here.” In a lean-to tent he showed a couple of different styles of tree stands that could support a large tree. Within minutes, the decision was made and the men shook hands. “I’m off in half an hour. I’ll bring tree, stand, the whole ball of wax, over to the Johnson place then.”

“Can I ride with you?” Amy asked, clinging to her uncle and showing him her dimples.

Victor was easy. “You bet, pumpkin. If it’s okay with your ma.”

Ronni wasn’t convinced. Amy, if the mood struck her, could be more than a handful and Victor was already busy. “You sure you want her?”

“Heck, yes, I’m sure. When do I ever get a little girl to spoil?”

“All right,” Ronni said, caving in to her daughter’s wishes yet again. “But Amy, you be good, do just what Uncle Vic says.”

“I will,” she called brightly as she dashed off through the rows of trees propped against lines of sawhorses.

“She’ll probably get you fired,” Ronni said worriedly.

“Not a chance. Delmer and Edwin think I’m the god of Christmas-tree sales.” Laughing, he adjusted the brim of his hunting hat. “Now, don’t worry about Amy-gal. She and I will get along just fine.”

Ronni believed him and secretly prayed that Shelly’s unborn baby was a little girl for Vic to spoil and love. Travis paid for the tree and shook Victor’s hand once more. He helped Ronni into the Jeep, then climbed behind the wheel.

“Seems like a nice guy.”

“Vic? Yeah, he is,” she agreed as the Jeep lunged forward, rocking over potholes in the old, cracked pavement. She tried not to think about the fact that she was alone with Travis, or that his knee was only inches from hers and his hand on the gearshift knob was near enough that his fingers could easily graze her thigh. She shifted slightly, huddling closer to the passenger door even though she told herself she wasn’t intimidated, that just because he was more purely animal male than she’d been around in a long time, she had no reason for the nest of butterflies that seemed to roll and flutter in her stomach.

The silence stretched between them and she blocked her mind to his scent, a mixture of soap and leather, and refused to notice the way his lips compressed in a sexy, blade-thin line. She didn’t want to be reminded of how starkly male he was. He was a complicated man, she decided, and right now she didn’t need or want any complications in her life.

“What do you do when you’re not rescuing idiots who get lost on the mountain?” he asked, shifting down to take a corner as the streetlight changed from green to amber. They passed the old theater building, built like a World War II Quonset hut and now boarded over. “You have some kind of shop on your property, don’t you?”

“It’s a warehouse, really. A few years ago, I started advertising in some magazines about items unique to Oregon—items I sold through mail order. I got a handful of orders, found some new inventory, advertised again and each year I sold a little more.”

“More what?”

A service station, its lights dimmed for the night, flashed by and then they were on the outskirts of town where the once-thriving sawmill was now shut down. The gates of the fence were chained and padlocked shut and a single tall security lamp gave off an eerie blue glow. Her brother-in-law had spent most of his adult life working at this very mill and now it seemed, with the restrictions on old-growth timber, environmental concerns and forest depletion, the sawmill would never reopen. And Victor would take Shelly and the boys and move away.

She realized then that Travis was waiting for an answer. “Oh. What do I sell?” she said, shaking away her case of melancholy. “A little of this and that, odds and ends that I think are difficult to find anywhere else. Myrtle wood, that’s big here and hard to get in other places. And specialty jams and jellies made from native fruits. Books on Oregon. Some Native American art—mainly from Northwest tribes, jewelry, handcrafted pieces, even chain-saw sculpture and kits for tying fishing flies indigenous to Oregon. It’s all kind of a hodgepodge. Some of the Christmas decorations I brought over are last year’s stock.”

“Sounds like a big operation.”

“Bigger by the year. I hired my sister to do the secretarial stuff and handle some of the orders and when it really gets busy, I call a temporary agency in Portland. It’s not a huge operation by any means, but it’s grown so that I make enough money to support myself and Amy without having to worry too much.”

“But you’re still part of the ski patrol and search-and-rescue team?” The town had given way to the forest and only a few lights from hidden cabins sparkled warmly through the thick stands of fir and hemlock.

“Have been for a long time,” she admitted, looking out the window and touching the fogging glass with a finger. She wondered how much she should tell him, or if she should bother explaining at all.

“You must love it.”

Sighing, she glanced over to him and his gaze touched hers for just an instant. Even though she knew little about him, she sensed that he was trustworthy, a man who cared. “My husband, Hank, was killed on Mount Echo nearly four years ago—a few months after Amy was born.”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t know.”

A pang of the same old sadness stole into her heart and she felt as if the temperature in the Jeep had dropped twenty degrees.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, God, so am I,” she admitted. “So am I.” She focused past the front end of the car and the dual splashes of light offered by the headlights. “He and a partner, Rick, were up on the ridge, setting off charges to make the mountain avalanche-safe before the runs were opened. But something went wrong. A charge went off early, though no one can tell me why. Hank and Rick tried to outrace the snow but Hank’s bindings failed. It didn’t really matter anyway; Hank and Rick were both killed, buried in the snow.” She shuddered at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he said as if he meant it.

“It’s not your fault.”

He wheeled into the long tree-lined driveway of the old lodge. “It sounds like it was no one’s fault, that it was a freak accident.”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes a second, trying to dispel the horrid image of Hank, her beloved Hank, caught in the rage and terror of thousands of pounds of snow.

“There’s something else,” he said as if reading her mind. They passed through the open gate to the lodge. Snow was beginning to fall again, sticking to the windshield before melting. Through the trees, from the windows of the lodge, soft, golden patches of light welcomed them.

“Hank shouldn’t have died that day,” she said, her throat closing.

“Of course he shouldn’t have.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, feeling that painful gnawing in her insides, that raw scraping of guilt. “I mean, he wasn’t supposed to be on duty that morning.” She rubbed a drop of condensation from the window as he parked in front of a dilapidated garage. Swallowing hard, she said, “It was my shift. I was the one that was supposed to be up there that day.”

She felt rather than saw him move, and when his hand reached forward and his finger hooked beneath her jaw, she didn’t fight him, just turned her head to look into dark, caring eyes. “You’ve been blaming yourself,” he said, shaking his head, his breath whispering across her face.

“No, not just myself. I spread the blame around.”

“But deep inside, you think you were at fault.”

“Yes.”

“And do you also think you should have been the one to die?”

She nodded, feeling the heat of his curled finger on the soft skin near her chin.

“You can’t beat yourself up over an accident you couldn’t have prevented.” Travis stared at her long and hard. “I didn’t know your husband, but I’m willing to bet that he wouldn’t have traded places with you.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried not to think of Hank or the pain.

“Let it go,” Travis advised, and when she opened her eyes, his face was nearly touching hers and the fog clouding the inside glass of the idling Jeep seemed to cut them off from the rest of the world. His fingers slid around her neck to her nape and with just a little pressure, he drew her close. “It’s over, Ronni.” His eyes searched her face. “He’s gone and he wouldn’t have wanted you to shroud yourself in guilt and grief forever.”

His words were a soft balm on her old scarred wounds. “What do you know about it?” she asked, her voice hoarse.