Big Sky Mountain Part 12

But Walker was already shaking his head. Being a local, he knew as well as anybody which properties were for sale, what kind of shape they were in, and approximately what they'd cost to buy, restore and maintain-and he'd asked specifically about the house on Rodeo Road. "She wants to be in town," he said. Then a frown creased his tanned forehead. "Is there some reason why you don't want to show your house just yet?"

"No, no," Kendra said, "it's nothing like that. We can head over there right now if you want. It's just that-" She stopped in the middle of the sentence because she couldn't think of a diplomatic way to go on.

"Show business people are sometimes unreliable," Walker finished for her. The frown had smoothed away and he was grinning again. "I remember that rock band a few years back-the ones who built a pseudo haunted house, trashed the Grange Hall in Three Trees one night when they were partying and then nearly burned down a state forest, conducting some kind of crazy ritual. But it wouldn't be fair to hold that against everybody who sings and plays a guitar to earn a paycheck, would it?"

Kendra let out a long breath, shook her head no. Walker was right-that wouldn't be fair-and besides, hadn't he said this woman wanted to raise her children in a small town? That gave her at least one thing in common with Kendra herself, and with most of her friends, too.

Parable had its problems, like any community, but the crime rate was low, people knew each other and down-to-earth values were still important there. In a very real sense, Parable was a family. And it was cousin to Three Trees.

The two towns were rivals in many ways, but when trouble came to one or the other, they stood up to it shoulder to shoulder.

"If you have time," she reiterated, "I can show you through the house right now."

"That would be great," Walker said, rising from his chair. "I was there a few times when I was a kid, for parties and the like, but I don't remember too many of the details."

Kendra stood, too, simultaneously reaching for her purse and Daisy's leash. She blushed a little, imagining the state of the Volvo's interior. Pre-Madison and pre-dog, she'd kept her vehicles immaculate, as a courtesy to her clients, but now...

"I'm afraid my car needs vacuuming. The dog..."

Walker laughed. "Given my line of work," he said, "I'm not squeamish about a little dog hair. Matter of fact, I have three of the motley critters myself. But I'll take my own rig because I've got some other places to go to this morning, after we're through at your place."

Kendra nodded, clipped on Daisy's leash and indicated that she'd be leaving by the back way, so she'd need to lock up behind Walker after he stepped outside.

"Meet you over there," he said, and went out.

She nodded and locked the door between them.

Daisy paused for a pee break in the parking lot, and then Kendra and the retriever climbed into the Volvo and headed for Rodeo Road for the second time that morning.

"AT THIS RATE," Hutch grumbled good-naturedly, surveying the meal Opal had just set before him-a late lunch or an early supper, depending on your perspective, "I'll be too fat to ride in the rodeo, even though it's only a few days away."

Opal laughed. "Oh, stop your fussing and sit down and eat," she ordered.

She'd been busy-had the ironing board set up in the middle of the kitchen, and she must have washed and pressed every s.h.i.+rt he owned because she'd evidently been hard at it all day. Except, of course, for when she took time out to build the meat loaf she'd just set down in front of him. The main dish was accompanied by creamed peas and mashed potatoes drowning in gravy; and just looking at all that food, woman-cooked and from scratch, too, made his mouth water and his stomach growl.

But he didn't sit, because Opal was still standing.

With a little sigh and a sparkle of flattered comprehension in her eyes, she took the chair indicated and nodded for him to follow suit.

He did, but he was still uncomfortable. "Aren't you going to join me?" he asked, troubled to notice that she hadn't set a place for herself.

Opal's chuckle was warm and vibrant, vaguely reminiscent of the gospel music she loved to belt out when she thought she was alone. "I can't eat like a cowboy," she answered. "Be the size of a house in no time if I do."

Hutch was fresh out of self-restraint. He was simply too hungry, and the food looked and smelled too good. He took up his knife and fork and dug in. After complimenting Opal on her cooking-by comparison to years of eating his own burnt sacrifices or his dad's similar efforts, it seemed miraculous they survived-he asked about Joslyn and the baby.

"They're doing just fine," Opal said with satisfaction. Her gaze followed his fork from his plate to his mouth and she smiled like she might be enjoying the meal vicariously. "Dana-that's Joslyn's mother, you remember-is a born grandma, and so is Callie Barlow. Between the two of them, Slade, Shea and of course the little mama herself, I was purely in the way."

"I doubt that," Hutch observed. Opal, it seemed to him, was more than an ordinary human being, she was a living archetype, a wise woman, an earth mother.

And d.a.m.ned if he wasn't going all greeting-card philosophical in his old age.

"I like to go where I'm needed," she said lightly.

Hutch chuckled. "So now I'm some kind of-case?" he asked, figuring he was probably that and a lot more.

Opal's gaze softened. "Your mama was a good friend to me when I first came to Parable to work for old Mrs. Rossiter," she said, very quietly. "Least I can do to return the favor is make sure her only boy doesn't go around half-starved and looking like a homeless person."

That time, he laughed. "I look like a homeless person?" he countered, at once amused and mildly indignant. Living on this same land all his life, like several generations of Carmodys before him, letting the dirt soak up his blood and sweat and tears, he figured he was about as unhomeless as it was possible to be.

"Not exactly," Opal said thoughtfully, and in all seriousness, going by her expression and her tone. "A wifeless person would be a better way of putting it."

Hutch sobered. Opal hadn't said much about the near-miss wedding, but he knew it was on her mind. h.e.l.l, it was on everybody's mind, and he wished something big would happen so people would have something else to obsess about.

An earthquake, maybe.

Possibly the Second Coming.

Or at least a local lottery winner.

"You figure a wife is the answer to all my problems?" he asked moderately, setting down his fork.

"Just most of them," Opal clarified with a mischievous grin. "But here's what I'm not saying, Hutch-I'm not saying that you should have gone ahead and married Brylee Parrish. Marriage is hard enough when both partners want it with all their hearts. When one doesn't, there's no making it work. So by my reckoning, you definitely did the right thing by putting a stop to things, although your timing could have been better."

Hutch relaxed, picked up his fork again. "I tried to tell Brylee beforehand," he said. He'd long since stopped explaining this to most people, but Opal wasn't "most people." "She wouldn't listen."

Opal sighed. "She's headstrong, that girl," she reflected. "Her and Walker's mama was like that, you know. Folks used to say you could tell a Parrish, but you couldn't tell them much."

Hutch went right on eating. "Is there anybody within fifty miles of here whose mama you didn't know?" he teased between bites. He was ravenous, he realized, and slowing down was an effort. Keep one foot on the floor, son, he remembered his dad saying, whenever he'd shown a little too much eagerness at the table.

"I don't know a lot of the new people," she said, "nor their kinfolks, neither. But I knew your mother, sure enough, and she certainly did love her boy. It broke her heart when she got sick, knowing she'd have to leave you to grow up with just your daddy."

Hutch's throat tightened slightly, making the next swallow an effort. He'd been just twelve years old when his mother died of cancer, and although he'd definitely grieved her loss, he'd also learned fairly quickly that the old man believed in letting the dead bury the dead. John Carmody had rarely spoken of his late wife after the funeral, and he hadn't encouraged Hutch to talk about her, either. In fact, he'd put away all the pictures of her and given away her personal possessions almost before she was cold in the grave.

So Hutch had set her on a shelf in a dusty corner of his mind and tried not to think about the hole she'd left in his life when she was torn away.

"Dad wasn't the best when it came to parenting," Hutch commented belatedly, thinking back. "But he wasn't the worst, either."

Opal's usually gentle face seemed to tighten a little, around her mouth especially. "John Carmody was just plain selfish," she decreed with absolute conviction but no particular rancor. To her, the remark amounted to an observation, not a judgment. "Long as he got what he wanted, he didn't reckon anything else mattered."

Hutch was a little surprised by the bluntness of Opal's statement, though he couldn't think why he should have been. She was one of the most direct people he'd ever known-and he considered the trait a positive one, at least in her. There were those, of course, who used what they liked to call "honesty" as an excuse to be mean, but Opal wasn't like that.

He opened his mouth to reply, couldn't think what to say, and closed it again.

Opal smiled and reached across the table to lay a hand briefly on his right forearm. "I had no business saying that, Hutch," she told him, "and I'm sorry."

Hutch found his voice, but it came out gruff. "Don't be," he said. "I like a reminder every once in a while that I'm not the only one who thought my father was an a.s.shole."

This time it was Opal who was taken aback. "Hutch Carmody," she finally managed to sputter, "I'll thank you not to use that kind of language in my presence again, particularly in reference to the departed."

"Sorry," he said, and the word was still a little rough around the edges.

"We can either talk about your daddy and your mama," Opal said presently, "or we can drop the whole subject. It's up to you."

His hunger-for food, at least-a.s.suaged, Hutch pushed his mostly empty plate away and met Opal's gaze. "Obviously," he said mildly, "you've got something to say. So go ahead and say it."

"I'm not sure what kind of father Mr. Carmody was," she began, "but I know he wasn't up for any awards as a husband."

Offering no response, Hutch rested his forearms on the tabletop and settled in for some serious listening.

When she went on, Opal seemed to be picking up in the middle of some rambling thought. "Oh, I know he wasn't actually married to your mother when he got involved with Callie Barlow, but she had his engagement ring on her finger, all right, and the date had been set."

Hutch guessed the apple didn't fall far from the tree, as the old saying went. He hadn't cheated on Brylee, but he'd done the next worst thing by breaking up with her at their wedding with half the county looking on.

"That was hard for Mom," he said. "She never really got over it, as far as I could tell."

Opal nodded. "She was fragile in some ways," she replied.

Hutch felt the sting of chagrin. He'd loved his mother, but he'd always thought of her as weak, too, and maybe even a mite on the foolish side. She'd gone right ahead and married the old man, after all, knowing that he'd not only betrayed her trust, but fathered a child by another woman.

A child-Slade Barlow-who would grow up practically under her nose and bear such a resemblance to John Carmody that there could be no doubt of his paternity.

"I guess she liked to think the whole thing was Callie's fault," Hutch reasoned, "and Dad was just an innocent victim."

"Some victim," Opal scoffed, but sadly. "He wanted Callie and he went after her. She was young and naive, and he was good-looking and a real smooth talker when he wanted to be. I think Callie really believed he loved her-and it was a brave thing she did, barely grown herself and raising Slade all by herself in a place the size of Parable."

Hutch recalled his encounter with Callie at the hospital, how happy she was about the new baby, her grandson. And his heart, long-since hardened against the woman, softened a little more. "I reckon most people are doing the best they can with whatever cards they were dealt," he said. "Callie included."

"It's a shame," Opal said after a long and thoughtful pause, "that you and Slade grew up at odds. Why your daddy never acknowledged him as his son is more than I can fathom. It just doesn't make any sense, the two of them looking so much alike and all."

Hutch considered what he was about to say for a long moment before he actually came out with it. Opal knew everybody's business, but she didn't carry tales, so he could trust her. And he didn't want to sound as if he felt sorry for himself, because he knew that, for all of it, he was one of the lucky ones. "When it was just Dad and me," he finally replied, "n.o.body else around, he used to tell me he wished I'd been the one born on the wrong side of the blanket instead of Slade. I guess by Dad's reckoning, Callie got the better end of the deal."

Opal didn't respond immediately, not verbally anyway, but her eyes flashed with temper and then narrowed. "Slade is a fine man-Callie did a good job bringing him up and no sensible person would claim otherwise-but he's no better and no worse than you are, Hutch."

Hutch just smiled at that, albeit a bit sadly. Sure, he wished his dad had shown some pride in him, just once, but there was no point in dwelling on things that couldn't be changed. To his mind, the only way to set the matter right was to be a different kind of father himself, when the time came.

He pushed back his chair, stood up and slowly carried his plate and silverware to the sink.

Opal was right there beside him, in a heartbeat, elbowing him aside even as she took the utensils out of his hand. "I'll do that," she said. "You go on and do whatever it is you do in the evenings."

Hutch smiled. "I was thinking I might head into town," he said. "See what's happening at the Boot Scoot."

"I'll tell you what's happening at that run-down old bar," Opal said, with mock disapproval. "Folks are wasting good time and good money, swilling liquor and listening to songs about being in prison and their mama's bad luck and how their old dog got run over when their wife left them in a hurry."

"Why, Opal," Hutch teased cheerfully, "does that mean you don't want to go along as my date?"

"You just hush," Opal scolded, snapping at him with a dish towel and then giving a laugh. "And mind you don't drink too much beer."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

AFTER TAKING A quick shower and putting on clean clothes, Hutch traveled a round-about road to get to the Boot Scoot Tavern that night-a place he had no real interest in going to-and the meandering trail led him right past Kendra Shepherd's brightly lit rental house.

In simpler times, he wouldn't have needed a reason to knock on Kendra's door at pretty much any hour of the day or night, but things had certainly changed between them, and not just because she had a daughter now. Not even because he'd almost married Brylee Parrish and Kendra had married Sir Jeffrey, as Hutch privately thought of the man-when he was in a charitable frame of mind, that is.

No, there was more to it.

The whole time he'd known Kendra, she'd coveted that monster of a house over on Rodeo Road. As a kid, she'd haunted it like a small and wistful ghost, Joslyn's pale shadow. As a grown-up, she'd found herself a prince with the means to buy the place for her and after the divorce she'd held on to it, rattling around in it all alone for several years, like a lone plug of buckshot in the bottom of a fifty-gallon drum.

Now all of a sudden, she'd moved into modest digs, rented from Maggie Landers, opened a storefront office to sell real estate out of and switched rides from a sw.a.n.ky sports car to a Volvo, for G.o.d's sake.

What did all of that mean-beyond, of course, the fact that she was now a mother? Did it, in fact, mean anything? Women were strange and magnificent creatures, in Hutch's opinion, their workings mysterious, often even to themselves, never mind some hapless man like him.

Kendra had, except for staying put in Parable, turned her entire life upside down, changed practically everything.

Was that a good omen-or a bad one?

Hutch wanted an answer to that question far more than he wanted a draft beer, but since he could get the latter for a couple of bucks and the former might just cost him a chunk of his pride, he kept going until he pulled into the gravel-and-dirt parking lot next to the Boot Scoot.

The front doors of that never-painted Quonset hut, a relic of World War II, stood open to the evening breeze, and light and sound spilled and tumbled out into the thickening twilight-he heard laughter, tw.a.n.gy music rocking from the jukebox, the distinctive click of pool b.a.l.l.s at the break.

With a smile and a shake of his head, Hutch shut off the headlights, cranked off the truck's trusty engine, pushed open the door and got out. The soles of his boots crunched in the gravel when he landed, and he shut the truck door behind him, then headed for the entrance.

Once the place would have been blue with s.h.i.+fting billows of cigarette smoke, hazy and acrid, but now it was illegal to light up in a public building, though the smell of burning tobacco-and occasionally something else-was still noticeable even out in the open air. He caught the down-at-the-heels Montana-tavern scent of the sawdust covering the floor as he entered, stale sweat overridden by colognes of both the male and female persuasions, and he felt that peculiar brand of personal loneliness that drove folks to the Boot Scoot when they had better things to be doing elsewhere.

Hutch nodded to a few friends as he approached the bar and then ordered a beer.

Two or three couples were dancing to the wails of the jukebox-he thought of Opal's description of the tavern and smiled at its accuracy-but most of the action seemed to center around the two pool tables at the far end of the long room.

Hutch's beer was drawn from a spigot and brought to him; he paid for it, picked up the mug in one hand and made his way toward the pool tables. By the weekend, when the rodeo and other Independence Day celebrations would be in full swing, the crowds would be so thick in here, at least at night, that just getting from one side of the tavern to the other would be like swimming through chest-deep mud of the variety Montanans call "gumbo."

Finding a place to stand without b.u.mping elbows with anybody, Hutch watched the proceedings. Deputy Treat McQuillan, off duty and out of uniform but still clearly marked as a cop by his old-fas.h.i.+oned buzz haircut, watched sourly, pool cue in hand, while another player basically ran the table, plunking ball after ball into the appropriate pocket.

Never a gracious loser, McQuillan reddened steadily throughout, and when the bloodbath was over, he turned on one heel, rammed his cue stick back into the wall-rack with a sharp motion of one scrawny arm and stormed off.

A few of the good old boys, mostly farmers and ranchers Hutch had known since the last Ice Age, shook their heads in tolerant disgust and then ignored McQuillan, as most people tended to do. Getting along with him was just too d.a.m.n much work and consequently the number of friends he could claim usually hovered somewhere around zero.

For some reason Hutch couldn't put his finger on-beyond a p.r.i.c.kle at the nape of his neck-he was strangely uneasy and getting more so by the moment. He watched the deputy shoulder his way toward the bar, evidently impervious to the good-natured jos.h.i.+ng of the people he pa.s.sed.

Hutch had never liked McQuillan, and he certainly wasn't in the minority on that score, but in that moment he found himself feeling a little sorry for the man, if no less watchful. The very air had a zip in it, a sure sign that something was about to go down, and it probably wasn't good.