Return to Oak Valley (34 page)

A man in his fifties stood in the doorway breathing hard. He wore stained jeans and a faded blue T-shirt with the words “Eat shit and die” written in white letters across the front; there was a dirty gray baseball cap on his head, and his weathered face bristled with a salt-and-pepper beard. His gaze swiftly scanned the inside of the room.

“Holy shit, Danny,” he roared when he found the deputy, “where the hell have you been? I've been lookin' all over the damn town for you. You gotta get over to Mary Wagner's place right away. That goddamn Buffalo of the Indians is tearing up the whole north end of the valley. The son of a bitch tore down old Mrs. Finch's fence, ripped Nora Allen's wash off the line, and shit in the church driveway. You get your ass out there now and shoot the motherfucker!”

Shelly looked at M.J. “Does memory fail me, or is that ‘Profane’ Deegan?”

M.J. grinned. “You got it. Wanna go watch the show?”

Chapter Sixteen

L
ike floodwater shooting through a glory hole, they exploded from the restaurant, Danny and Jeb leading the pack, Shelly and M.J. following behind. There was a mad scramble into the various vehicles, then, with siren shrieking, Danny headed the procession out of town.

“Does this happen often?” Shelly asked, as they tore down the state highway in swift pursuit.

M.J. nodded. “A lot lately. Most of the time everyone forgets about the buffalo herd the Indians own, but recently there's a young bull that's been walking through fences like they're made of butter. And when he gets out, he goes where he wants. He isn't vicious or anything like that, he just wanders around walking under, over, and
through
anything in his path.” She grimaced. “He's caused considerable damage to property, and folks are getting tired of it—especially the whites. Tempers are short and bad feelings between whites and Indians are rising. A half dozen men have threatened to shoot the bull, which only enrages the Indians.”

Shelly shook her head. “It seems so weird to hear those words ‘whites’ and ‘Indians.’ Makes me feel like I've stepped back in time 150 years.”

“Well, yeah, I know what you mean, but I suspect that it's used commonly anywhere within twenty miles of any reservation—here or in Texas, New Mexico—you name it. It just seems weird to you because you've been gone for so long.”

Even without Danny's screaming siren to guide them, it wasn't hard to find the site of the bull's latest infractions. Five miles and a couple of turns later Shelly pulled the Bronco to a stop and parked on the grassy side of the road. The narrow road was clogged with haphazardly parked vehicles and men, women, children, and dogs were roaming in and out: the air was punctuated with the sound of laughter and the murmur of voices. No one seemed worried or afraid; there was almost a carnival air about the scene.

“Looks like half the valley is here,” Shelly commented as she climbed from the Bronco.

“Well, you know St. Galen's,” M.J. said with a grin. “It takes so little to amuse us.”

Shelly laughed.

As they walked down the road, they saw signs of recent carnage. A white picket fence looked like a pile of kindling, and a rope clothesline, still bravely waving the wash that had been hung on it, was draped over bushes and sagging barbed-wire fences. As they approached the crowd, they could hear the sound of whistles and the snap of a whip and a moment later caught sight of several people on horseback. Shelly recognized Acey, Nick, Tom Smith, Vivian Adams—Sally's mother—and Rob Fenwick, another cattle rancher in the area. Through breaks in the crowd, she saw the darting forms of a pair of black-and-white cow dogs that were helping the horseback riders herd the recalcitrant bull toward his pasture. Nick spotted her and flashed a smile.

The whole affair became anticlimactic. Surrounded by horsemen, harassed by the nipping dogs, the bull trotted down the road and almost meekly went into the pasture he had left such a short time ago to wreak havoc. A cheer went up from the watching spectators as the massive bull, his short black horns gleaming in the sunlight, ambled through the gate. Excitement over, the crowd began to disperse.

Their task done, Nick and Acey and the others were busy loading up their horses in the various trailers—it wasn't a time to stand around and talk. Shelly waved a good-bye when Acey looked up, and she and M.J. strolled toward the Bronco.

At the side of the road, Danny and Jeb were in conversation with three or four Indians. It was obvious the Indians did not like what they were being told. Their expressions were angry, voices were raised, and there was some wild gesticulating. Time and again, Danny and Jeb appeared to calm them down, only for the temperature to rise once more.

“Come on,” M.J. said, “I've got to get back to the store, and the excitement is over anyway.”

Jerking her head in the direction of the Indians, Shelly said, “I don't know. Looks to me like those guys would like to punch out somebody.”

“Yeah, well, I don't want it to be me. Besides, Danny and Jeb know how to calm down tempers—they've had a lot of experience in that department. And they have plenty of backup—look over there, Mingo and Rick are waiting by the trucks.”

Reluctantly Shelly agreed, and a few minutes later was turning the Bronco around and heading back to town. After dropping M.J. off at the store and making plans to meet for lunch again soon, she drove home.

When she arrived home Maria was just leaving.

“Did you have a nice lunch?” Maria asked, standing by the side of her red compact truck.

“Yes, indeed,” Shelly replied, smiling. “Had some excitement, too—a buffalo bull got out and was terrorizing the neighborhood at the north end of the valley. Nick and Acey and some others showed up and got him safely back in his field.”

“That bull was loose again?” At Shelly's nod, she added, “If they'd fix the fences, they wouldn't have this problem, but you can't tell them anything. I know one thing, though, something's going to have to be done because if it isn't, somebody is going to get hurt or some hothead is going to stop making
threats
and shoot that animal—and then we'll really be in the soup.”

Shelly nodded again and made a face. If the bull
was
shot, the Indians would be furious and the whites would be righteous—not a good situation.

On Thursday, Shelly finally contacted the art gallery in San Francisco that had been recommended to her. It was a pleasant conversation; the owner, Samuel Lowenthall, had seen and knew of her work. He was eager to hang some of her landscapes in his gallery. They discussed the possibility of a show in the future. Shelly was flattered. She made arrangements to UPS overnight the letter of introduction from the gallery owner she had worked with in New Orleans, and they set a date to meet for lunch and for her to bring in her portfolio of recent work.

Hanging up the phone, Shelly made a face. Her recent output had been damn little, but she still had two canvases that she had brought with her from New Orleans and she had just about completed another painting. Going up the stairs toward her studio, she scolded herself.
You're going to have to concentrate, my girl, get your mind off of Josh, cattle, Nick…and Sloan.

Nick's situation troubled her. He needed closure. He needed proof, and she just didn't see how they were ever going to be able to
prove
that Josh had been his father. Her doubts about his parentage had been settled long ago, and she knew in her heart her DNA would show they were indeed relatives. She believed that he was her brother's son, and if right now she was relying on little more than intuition, so what? She believed. Maria was no help. Whenever the subject was broached, and Shelly had tried her hand at it a time or two, Maria's friendly face closed up, her lips flattened, and she'd turn away. Maria simply would
not
discuss it. Ashamed? Shelly wondered. Didn't she realize what her silence was doing to her son? And yet, even if Maria said, yes, yes, it's true, Josh is Nick's father, it wouldn't solve the problem. It would help. But Josh's DNA, she thought bitterly, would have given them a concrete answer—and they had cremated Josh, cremating his precious DNA with him.

She struggled with all sorts of schemes and scenarios but couldn't see a solution. At least not today, she told herself, and tomorrow was another day. One thing was clear though—she'd have to talk to someone knowledgeable about DNA testing. Maybe they could point her in a different direction.

That afternoon she drove into town and picked up her mail. There was a letter from Mike Sawyer in the box, and she read it before she even pulled away from the post office. Sawyer was following her instructions and attempting to break the lease with Milo Scott. He'd had, he informed her in his letter, a recent meeting with Mr. Scott, but he could not say that there had been much progress. Mr. Scott's position was that he had signed a valid lease, and that he did not want to break it. Mr. Scott had, however, indicated that for a price, he might consider giving up the lease. Mr. Sawyer feared that the price Mr. Scott would demand to break the lease would be high. It might be better if she allowed the lease to stand.

Shelly snorted. Better for whom? Folding the letter, she put it back in the envelope and returned home. It was just after 2:00 P.M., and she took a chance and called the lawyer's office. Sawyer was in.

After some polite chitchat, Shelly said bluntly, “I want that lease broken—and if we have to go to court to do it, then we will. I'd be willing to pay him a nominal sum—something in the range of what he paid for the lease in the first place, but I'm not going to be held up.”

“Well, I can't tell you what to do, but I would
advise
you to just let sleeping dogs lie and leave the lease alone. Mr. Scott doesn't want to give it up, and I can't see him doing so without ample compensation—and a fight.”

“It's just not that simple,” Shelly said, “Mr. Scott is a reputed drug dealer in this area. I can't prove it, but I'm fairly certain that he intends to, or may have already, planted marijuana on that acreage. I don't want to run the risk of running afoul of the forfeiture laws should he do so. Besides,” she added, inspired, “I intend to run several head of cattle on that land this summer, and if Mr. Scott
did
plant an illegal crop, my cows would probably eat it or trample it—he runs the risk of having his crop destroyed. He'd lose money. Look…tell him I'll pay him double the pittance he paid Josh for the lease in the first place—but not one penny more. Talk to him.”

Grumbling and not holding out hope for any success, Mike Sawyer agreed.

Friday morning, she woke with a curious mixture of excitement and unease curling in her belly. Tonight was her date with Sloan, and she couldn't decide whether she was acting like a fool or a woman in love. Her mouth twisted. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

The day passed. At times it dragged, other times the hours flashed by. She'd tried to paint, but thoughts of Sloan kept breaking her concentration, and by early afternoon, she gave up.

She wasted more time than the situation warranted trying to decide what to wear. Dinner in Ukiah. Nothing too dressy, yet she didn't want to wear jeans and a blouse. After agonizing over her closet for far longer than she should have, she finally decided on a simple sheath sewn out of a silky copper-and-bronze-colored fabric. The scoop neck and fitted three-quarter sleeves made the garment look almost medieval, but the flirty flip of the hem just at her knees was pure twenty-first century. A pair of stylish mid-heeled shoes in rusty suede, a short bolero-style jacket that nearly matched the bronze color in her dress, pearls around her neck and at her ears, and a small green fabric purse completed her attire.

Uncertainly she eyed herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She'd washed her hair earlier, and it waved around her shoulders like a tawny cloud of spun gold. A coppery red lipstick was on her mouth and the bronze-and-green eye shadow she wore made her eyes look big and mysterious. Was she overdressed? Underdressed? She bit her lip. Maybe she should dump the pearls? She touched the single strand of pearls. No. They were all right. She was fussing too much.

A touch of White Diamonds cologne, and she was ready. She took a deep breath, ran a nervous hand over her hair, and went downstairs. She paced the big living room, reminding herself over and over again, that hey! It was
only
a date…with the only man she had ever loved—the man who had broken her heart and played her for a fool.

When Sloan drove up five minutes later, a ball of butterflies seemed to have lodged in her stomach. The sight of him bounding up the steps looking unbelievably handsome in dark slacks, a long-sleeved mauve-and-burgundy-patterned shirt, and a close-fitting black leather vest made her forget about the butterflies and concentrate on making her heart behave. It was leaping in her chest like a frog on a hot rock.

She opened the door and smiled at him. He stopped as if he had run into a brick wall, his expression stunned. He swallowed. Stared. Stared some more. “Do you realize,” he finally said in a husky, almost reverent tone, “that this is the first time I've ever seen you in anything other than jeans of some sort? You look gorgeous!” He patted the region of his heart, a killer smile on his lips. “You should warn a guy—my heart's beating so fast and hard, I'm afraid I'm gonna have a heart attack.”

Shelly laughed, delighted. She ran a teasing finger over the knot of the black-and-burgundy-striped tie he was wearing. “That makes two of us. You look quite, quite handsome, Mr. Ballinger.”

His eyes darkened, his gaze fixed on her mouth. “I think you'd better hold the compliments—without much encouragement, I'll have you on the floor and that lovely dress of yours up around your waist.”

Shelly's heart leaped, and a flash of pure carnal longing streaked through her. Uh-oh, she was in trouble. Maybe going out with him tonight wasn't such a good idea, after all. Well, she'd known that from the git-go, she reminded herself grimly, and despite appearances to the contrary, where he was concerned she did
not
have ball-bearing heels. She just had to prove it to herself.