Return to Oak Valley
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 2002 by Shirlee Busbee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design by Diane Luger
Cover illustration by Ben Perini
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First eBook Edition: December 2002
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Contents
SHE TOOK A DEEP BREATH AND HALF SWUNG AROUND TO FACE HIM.
SHE TOOK A DEEP BREATH AND HALF SWUNG AROUND TO FACE HIM.
Oh, God, she thought helplessly as she stared at him. I'm in big trouble. He looked so right lounging against the pillows of her bed, his hands behind his head and that mocking smile on his lips, the half-shuttered eyes full of sensual promise.
“We have to talk,” she said levelly, holding on to her churning emotions by a thread.
“No, we don't,” Sloan said. Before she realized it, she was caught and dragged across the bed. “Talking,” he muttered against her mouth, “always seems to get us into trouble. But never this. Never this.”
His lips took hers in a kiss that sent her senses spinning….
“A satisfying read.”
—Publishers Weekly
on
Swear by the Moon
Please turn to the back of this book for a preview of Shirlee Busbee's new novel,
Coming Home.
Also by Shirlee Busbee
Lovers Forever
A Heart for the Taking
Love Be Mine
For Love Alone
At Long Last
Swear by the Moon
This is long overdue, but I've been saving it for a special occasion. To JAY ACTON, my longtime, long-suffering agent—one of the best around.
The concept was yours and without your insight and persistence the book would never have happened.
Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you!
And, per usual, HOWARD, the man who makes my life fun and full of adventure—even some adventures I could do without!
I'd like to thank the following individuals, in no particular order, for graciously taking the time out of their busy days to patiently answer my questions. Any mistakes are, of course, my own.
Leonard LaCasse, Attorney at Law; Norm Vroman, Mendocino County District Attorney; Dr. Lovejoy, Mendocino Medical Group; Dr. Lee, Kaiser Permanente; Bill Baker, Covelo Volunteer Fire Department; “Linda”, Willits sub-station Mendocino Sheriff's Department; Maja Reid, Bank of America and last, but not least, my dear friend and fellow horse lover, Sandy Reimer. If I forgot anybody—forgive me. Please.
W
hen she reached the turnout at Inspiration Point overlooking Oak Valley, Shelly pulled to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. Utter silence fell. Having lived most of her adult life in New Orleans, with all its constant bustle and city noise, it was the sort of silence she had not heard in years…seventeen years to be exact.
She sat there in her new dark gray Bronco and let the silence seep into her consciousness, feeling her tense muscles ease and her jangled nerves calm. The Bronco was shrouded in silence and darkness, the gleam of stars overhead and the beckoning glitter of the few lights on the valley floor the only break in the blackness of the night.
She had chosen to return at night, even knowing that the narrow two-lane road to St. Galen's, the only town in Oak Valley, was nearly thirty miles of twisting, twining curves that required careful concentration even in daylight, but even more so after dark. At night the curves leaped out at one; deer, skunks, raccoons, and the occasional bear or bobcat could appear suddenly in the headlights, and in some places, a small scattering, and not so small scattering, of rocks could litter the blacktop, making the drive interesting, if not downright hazardous.
Smiling to herself, she reached for the cherry-colored sweater that lay on the seat next to her. The road to St. Galen's was probably one of the main reasons Oak Valley had not grown much in the 150 years or so since the first white man had stumbled across it. Once she had taken pleasure in the very perversity of the road, calling it, as did others, their long driveway home, but during her years away, she had forgotten just how curving and narrow it could be.
A mistake
, she thought wryly,
I'd not make again. From now on, kiddo, daylight will be the best time to travel in and out of the valley.
Stepping out from the warmth of the Bronco, she caught her breath at the sharp chill of the night. She'd also forgotten just how cold it could be in the mountains of northern California—even in mid March.
Arms wrapped around her slender body, she walked to the edge of the turnout and stared down at the valley. She had chosen to return at night, as much because she had not wanted to see the changes over a decade and a half had wrought, as she had not wanted to face the stares and curiosity of the inhabitants. Looking at the occasional twinkle of light below her, she sighed. The next few weeks were going to be difficult. With her brother's death so recent and tragic, once her presence in the valley became common knowledge, there would be many kindhearted souls coming to call to express their sympathy. She grimaced. Her return, after so many years away, was also bound to bring to her doorstep quite a few not-so-kindhearted callers.
Counting the residents of St. Galen's and a surrounding radius of thirty or forty miles, there were probably only about five thousand people who inhabited that vast space of mountains and forest. Which, she admitted, could be a good thing—just about everybody knew everyone else, and in many cases, were related, even if distantly, to each other. The valley was quick to rally around neighbors and friends in need or trouble and, considering Oak Valley's isolation, that meant just about everyone helped everyone else. Her lips twisted. Except in a few notable exceptions, such as her family, the Grangers, and their longtime opponents, or enemies if you really wanted the unvarnished truth, the Ballingers. Which brought her to one of the worst things about such a small, tight-knit community—everyone knew your business, bad or good, and the valley could be, upon occasion, rife with gossip and speculation. If there was animosity between certain factions, it was a sure bet everyone knew about it and would be quick to share news of the latest clash between the principals with their nearest crony, embroidering the tale just a tad for a little added interest. Which was a good way in such a small community to keep controversy smoldering and ensuring that some feuds, as in the case of her family and the Ballingers, lasted for generations. And as for keeping anything private…. Shelly snorted. You didn't dare sneeze at the north end of the valley before someone at the south end immediately sang out, “God bless you!”
It was going to take some getting used to, she thought ruefully. Not that she had been without relatives, friends, and acquaintances while she had lived in New Orleans, but that had been different. New Orleans was so huge and sprawling, so full of a constant ebb and flow of tourists, and strangers just passing through, that keeping your privacy was easy. In Oak Valley, where practically everyone had known you since birth…and your mother…and your father, and all of
their
relatives back to when Christ had the croup, well, it made things sticky. Worse, if at the tender age of seven, you had gone skinny-dipping with the present fire chief, one of the current resident deputy sheriffs, and the owner of the biggest grocery store in town, it would be kind of tricky to remain aloof. She grinned. Yeah, it would be hard to pretend that they all hadn't seen you bare-ass naked—and knowing her three compatriots in youthful mischief, unless they had changed a great deal, they weren't about to let her forget it.
Shelly started as the stillness of the night was broken by a cacophony of shrill yips and howls. It came from the foothills across the valley from her, and she recognized the sound immediately. A delighted smile crossed her face. Coyotes! So they hadn't been able to wipe them all out, she thought with satisfaction, in spite of all the poison, traps, and dynamiting of dens that had been done over the years. She supposed that if she were a sheep rancher and/or had a flock of chickens, she wouldn't be quite so pleased to hear their call, but for someone used to the muted roar of city life, it was a thrill to hear that chorus peal forth through the quiet night. To her amusement, every dog in the valley immediately answered the coyotes' song. Listening to the yelping canine choir, she grinned. There were going to be a lot of irate owners in the morning, complaining about the damned coyotes last night setting off Ole Blue or Jesse or Traveler.
She had thought that after her years away from the valley and its ways it would be impossible to return to the place of her birth. She had feared that everything would seem foreign and strange, boring and dull—especially after nearly two decades of living in one of the most glamorous cities in the world. Yet as she stood looking down at the occasional blinking light, the clean, cool night air brushing against her cheeks, she was amazed at how right it felt to be here. She was astonished at how eager she was suddenly to see the valley, to rediscover familiar haunts and meet old friends again and discover the changes that had occurred in their lives during her absence. But if there was eagerness within her, there was also anguish, for it was death that had caused her to leave behind New Orleans and return to Oak Valley.
Grief swept through her as she thought about the real reason that had brought her home after all these years. Standing here on this cool March night overlooking the valley, she could feel the same sensation of disbelief and pain that had knifed through her when she had gotten the telephone call from the family attorney, Michael Sawyer, two and a half weeks ago, telling her of Josh's death. A suicide.
She and Josh had been close—as close as siblings could be with a fifteen-year gap in their ages. A child born late in the life of her parents, Shelly had lost both of them at an early age and had few clear memories of them. It had been Josh who had stepped into their father's shoes when Stanley Granger, at fifty-five, had overturned his jeep while searching for some cattle and had been killed instantly. She had been seven at the time, and it was Josh who became the dominant male in her life. Her mother, Catherine, had died just as she had been entering her teens, and it had been Josh who had been left to deal with all the mood swings and gyrating hormones of that age. Shelly smiled wistfully. He had done very well, even if half the time he had been bewildered by the demands of the girl-woman growing up before his very eyes.
A raw sense of loss swept through her again.
I should have come home
, she berated herself, feeling the sting of tears.
I should have visited him, instead of allowing telephone calls and his vacations with me to suffice. I should have
—She let out a shaky breath, knowing that beating herself up over the past wouldn't change a thing.
At least, she reminded herself, she didn't have a funeral to face and all the attention, some of it kind, some of it not, that a formal service would have entailed. Josh had made arrangements for his cremation years ago, with the request that his ashes be spread over the valley from Pomo Ridge—the highest of the long, curving arm of foothills that surrounded the valley on the west. He had not wanted any sort of public service to mark his passing—much like her father, who had often vented his loathing of funerals and funeral homes. While a part of her had rebelled against Josh's wishes, she had heard his pungent comments on funerals enough times to know that it would be unfair of her to go against his express desires when he was no longer around to enforce them. Following the instructions he had left with the family lawyer seemed to be the last favor she could do for him.