A Creed in Stone Creek Part 5

Matt lapsed into his own thoughts, idly patting Zeke's head as they traveled along that curvy country road, toward the ranch. Toward the borrowed tour bus they'd be calling home for a while.

Steven wondered, certainly not for the first time, what Jillie and Zack would think about the way he was raising their son, their only child. Also not for the first time, he reflected that they must have trusted him. Within a month of Matt's birth, they'd drafted a will declaring Steven to be their son's legal guardian, should both of them die or become incapacitated.

It hadn't seemed likely, to say the least, that the two of them wouldn't live well into old age, but neither Jillie nor Zack had any other living relatives, besides their infant son, and Jillie had insisted it was better to be safe than sorry.

He'd do his d.a.m.nedest to keep Matt safe, Steven thought, but he'd always be sorry, too. Much as he loved this little boy, Steven never forgot that the child rightly belonged to his lost parents first.

He slowed for the turn, signaled.

"Will you show me my daddy and mommy's picture again?" Matt asked, when they reached the top of the driveway and Steven stopped the truck and shut off the engine.

"Sure," he said. The word came out sounding hoa.r.s.e.

"I don't want to forget what they look like," Matt said. Then, sadly, "I do, sometimes. Forget, I mean. Almost."

"That's okay, Tex. It happens to the best of us." Steven got out of the truck, walked around behind it, dropped the tailgate and hoisted an eager Zeke to the ground before going on to open Matt's door and unbuckle him from all his gear. "Now that we're going to stay put, we'll unpack that picture you like so much, and you can keep it in your room."

Matt nodded, mercifully distracted by the dog, and the two of them-kid and critter-ran wildly around in the tall gra.s.s for a while, letting off steam.

Steven carried the kibble into the tour bus and stowed it in the little room where the stacking washer and dryer kept a hot-water tank company. He spent the next twenty minutes carrying suitcases and dry goods and a few boxes containing pots and pans from the house to the bus, keeping an eye on Matt and Zeke as they explored.

"Stay away from the barn," Steven ordered. "There are bound to be some rusty nails, and if you step on one, it means a teta.n.u.s shot."

Matt made a face. "No shots!" he decreed, setting his hands on his hips.

Zeke barked happily, as if to back up the a.s.sertion.

Without answering, Steven went inside, filled a bowl with water and brought it outside.

Zeke rushed over, drank noisily until he'd had his fill.

That done, he proceeded to lift his leg against one of the bus tires.

"That's good, isn't it?" Matt asked, observing. "He's going outside. outside."

Steven chuckled. "It's good," he confirmed. "How about some supper?"

Matt liked the idea, and he and Zeke followed Steven back into the bus. Steven opened the kibble sack, and Matt filled a saucepan and set it down on the floor for the dog.

While Zeke crunched and munched, Steven scrubbed his hands and forearms at the sink, plucked a tin of beef ravioli from the stash of groceries he and Matt had brought along on the road trip, used a can opener and scooped two portions out onto plates, shoved the first one into the microwave oven.

"Time to wash up," he told Matt.

"What about the picture of Mommy and Daddy?"

"We'll find it after supper, Tex. A man's got to eat, if he's going to run a ranch."

Matt rushed off to the bathroom; Steven heard water running. Grinned.

By the time Matt returned and took his place at the booth-type table next to the part.i.tion that separated the cab of the bus from the living quarters, Steven was taking the second plate of ravioli out of the oven.

"Ravioli again? Yum!" Matt said, picking up his plastic fork and digging in with obvious relish.

"Yeah," Steven admitted, joining the boy at the table. "It's good."

I might have to expand my culinary repertoire, though, he thought. Couldn't expect the kid to grow up on processed food, even if it was quick and tasty. he thought. Couldn't expect the kid to grow up on processed food, even if it was quick and tasty.

Maybe they'd plant a garden.

Chewing, Steven recalled all the weeding, watering, hoeing and shoveling he'd done every summer when he came home to the ranch in Colorado. Kim, his dad's wife, always grew a lot of vegetables-tomatoes and corn, lettuce and green beans, onions and spuds and a whole slew of other things-freezing and canning the excess.

The work had been never-ending.

Maybe they wouldn't wouldn't plant a garden, he decided. plant a garden, he decided.

Zeke, meanwhile, having finished his kibble, curled up on the rug in front of the door with a big canine sigh, rested his muzzle on his forelegs and closed his eyes for a snooze.

Matt eyed the animal fondly. "Thanks," he said, when he was facing Steven again. "I really wanted a dog."

"I think I knew that," Steven teased. "And you're welcome."

Matt finished his ravioli and pushed his plate away.

Steven added milk milk to a mental grocery list. to a mental grocery list.

"Can Zeke go to day camp with me?" Matt asked, a few minutes later, when Steven was was.h.i.+ng off their plates at the sink.

"No," Steven answered. "Probably not."

Matt looked worried. "What will he do do all day?" all day?"

"He can come to the office with me," Steven heard himself say.

Fatherhood. Maybe, in spite of the ravioli supper, he was getting the hang of it.

CHAPTER FOUR.

VELDA RELAYED THE parole officer's remarks to Melissa, after saying goodbye and shutting the phone. parole officer's remarks to Melissa, after saying goodbye and shutting the phone.

"Byron got out this morning," she said, the cell resting on her lap now, her gaze fixed on something well beyond the winds.h.i.+eld of Melissa's quirky little car. "Just like he was supposed to. He had a ticket back to Stone Creek, and somebody dropped him off at the bus station, right on schedule."

Parked at a stop sign, Melissa didn't move until the driver behind her honked impatiently. Then she made a right, pulled up to the curb and stopped the car. "Maybe he decided to get off in Flagstaff or somewhere," she said. With permission from the authorities, Byron could settle anyplace in the state, after all-except that he would have needed his parole officer's permission to do that.

Color flared in Velda's otherwise pale cheeks. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she snapped, glaring over at Melissa. "If Byron didn't come back to Stone Creek, I mean? That way, you wouldn't have to think about him, now would you? You or anybody else in this c.r.a.ppy town!"

Melissa sighed. "Velda, calm down. I'm only trying to help you figure out what's going on here and find Byron."

But Velda shoved her door open and practically leaped out of the car. "If you really really wanted to help," she accused, "you wouldn't have pushed so hard for my boy to do time!" wanted to help," she accused, "you wouldn't have pushed so hard for my boy to do time!"

"A girl died," Melissa said quietly.

The reminder fell on deaf ears, apparently. Maybe it was just too much for Velda to face, the reality that her only child had caused someone's death.

"Do you know what he did while he was in jail, Melissa?" Velda ranted on, standing on the shady sidewalk and trembling even though it was warm out. "Do you know what Byron Cahill, the horrible criminal, did did every day, while he was locked up?" every day, while he was locked up?"

Melissa swallowed, shook her head, braced for some dreadful prison story.

"He helped train dogs from the shelters to be service animals. Search-and-rescue, seeing-eye dogs, dogs to help deaf people, too. He's a good boy, good boy, dammit!" dammit!"

"Velda," Melissa said, after nodding to acknowledge that Byron Cahill might actually have an admirable side, like just about everybody else on the planet, "let me take you home. Maybe Byron's there. Maybe he caught a ride with somebody instead of getting on the bus, or something like that."

But Velda shook her head. A tear slipped down her right cheek. Then she pivoted on the worn heel of one flip-flop and marched off down the sidewalk, probably headed toward the trailer park where she rented a single-wide, but maybe not.

Melissa, feeling as though she'd aged a decade in the last half hour, watched as Velda's thin frame disappeared into a copse of trees. She hoped Byron would be at home when his mother arrived but, at that point, nothing would have surprised her.

After checking to make sure the way was clear, Melissa pulled back out onto the road, executed a U-turn, and headed for Ashley's B&B.

Mentally, she reviewed her original impressions of young Mr. Cahill. He'd been sixteen when he was convicted and sentenced. Against the advice of his duly appointed public defender, but apparently with his mother's encouragement, Byron had waived a jury trial.

Melissa, in her capacity as prosecutor, and the public defender, a newly minted attorney imported from Flagstaff, had tried to negotiate some kind of deal, but in the end, they couldn't come to an agreement.

The defense wanted probation, with no jail time, and comprehensive substance-abuse treatment in return for a guilty plea. After all, the argument ran, Byron was very young, and he'd never been in any real trouble before.

Melissa had been in favor of the treatment program, but probation wasn't enough. Chavonne Rowan had been young, too. And thanks to Byron Cahill's reckless actions, she wasn't going to get any older. She would never go to college, have a career, fall in love, get married, have children. Naturally, the girl's family was devastated.

Not that Byron's going to jail would bring Chavonne back.

Secretly, Melissa had agonized over the case, but she'd presented a strong, confident face to the public, and even to her own family and close friends. She'd examined her conscience repeatedly, taken her responsibilities to heart, and she had the reputation as a ruthless legal commando to prove it.

Except for those few who knew her through and through-Brad, Olivia, Ashley and one or two close girlfriends-most people probably thought she was a real hard-a.s.s. Even a ballbuster.

And when Melissa allowed herself to think about that, it grieved her.

Sure, she'd wanted an education and a career. She loved the law, complicated as it was, and she loved justice even more. Justice, of course, was an elusive thing, very subjective in some ways, too often more of a concept than a reality, but without the pursuit pursuit of that ideal, where would humanity be? of that ideal, where would humanity be?

She thrust out a sigh. s.h.i.+fted the car and and her mood. She'd done the best she could with the Cahill case. And that had to be good enough. her mood. She'd done the best she could with the Cahill case. And that had to be good enough.

With no reason to hurry home, Melissa decided she might as well stop by the B&B-the octogenarian guests were due in the night before-thereby fulfilling her promise to Ashley. She'd look in on the old folks, make sure they were having a good time. And still breathing, of course.

Five minutes later, she b.u.mped up the driveway next to the s.p.a.cious two-story Victorian house Ashley had turned into the Mountain View Bed and Breakfast several years before.

Ashley.

Melissa felt a stab, missing her twin sister sorely. Although they were different in many ways, Ashley domestic, Melissa anything but; Ashley blond, with a love of cotton print dresses and gossamer skirts, Melissa dark-haired, fond of tailored suits and slacks-they had always been close.

Hurry home, Ash, Melissa thought, as she parked and got out of the car. Melissa thought, as she parked and got out of the car.

A shrill wolf whistle from the front yard of the B&B stopped her in her tracks.

She shaded her eyes with one hand, since the sun was still bright, and spotted an elderly gentleman standing just inside the fence, in the shadow of Ashley's prized lilac bush, wearing white Bermuda shorts, a white polo s.h.i.+rt, white shoes and white knee socks.

"Now that," the old man said, gazing past Melissa to the roadster, "is some some car." He shook his leonine head of snowy hair. "Beautiful. Simply beautiful." car." He shook his leonine head of snowy hair. "Beautiful. Simply beautiful."

Melissa smiled. At least he wasn't a masher. "Thank you," she said, pausing to look back at the car with undiminished admiration. "I like it, too."

"You must be Mrs. McKenzie's sister," the man said, s.h.i.+fting his focus from the car to Melissa.

Mrs. McKenzie, of course, was Ashley. of course, was Ashley.

Melissa was still getting used to that-Ashley married, and a mother. Sometimes, it seemed incredible.

"You must be one of the current guests," she replied, smiling, extending a hand across the picket fence. "Melissa O'Ballivan," she said.

"I'm John P. Winthrop IV," the man replied, with a nod and a very wide-and very white-smile. "But you can call me John."

"How's it going, John?" Melissa asked, thinking she might be able to wrap up this interview quickly and dash off an honest email to Ashley when she got home, a.s.suring her that the B&B was still standing. "Is there anything you or any of the other guests need?"

He beamed. "Well, we can always use another croquet player," he said, making a grand gesture toward the nearby side gate, which led into Ashley's beautifully kept garden of specially cultivated wildflowers.

A teenage boy from the neighborhood did the watering and mowed the lawn, so the flowers, a profusion of reds and blues and pinks and oranges, looked good, if a little weedy here and there.

"I wouldn't be an a.s.set to any self-respecting croquet team," Melissa smiled. She ran two miles every morning, but that was the extent of her athletic efforts. "But I would like to meet your friends."

John P. Winthrop IV rushed to work the latch and swing the gate open. "You look like you could use an ice-cold gla.s.s of lemonade," he said.

Try a shot of whiskey, Melissa thought wryly, recalling the Velda debacle. She hoped Byron Cahill Melissa thought wryly, recalling the Velda debacle. She hoped Byron Cahill had had been waiting when his mother got home. If he'd taken off for parts unknown, he was in all sorts of trouble. been waiting when his mother got home. If he'd taken off for parts unknown, he was in all sorts of trouble.

"Thanks," she said aloud, bringing herself back to the moment. "Lemonade sounds good."

Mr. Winthrop closed the gate and sprinted to catch up to Melissa on the flagstone walk. He seemed pretty agile for a man of advancing years.

Maybe it was the croquet playing.

"There is one thing," he said hastily.

Something in his tone, a sort of mild urgency, made Melissa stop and look up into his kindly and somewhat abashed face.

"We're a little-different, my friends and I," Mr. Winthrop said.

"Different?" Melissa asked, while inside her head, a voice warned, Here we go. Here we go.

Mr. Winthrop cleared his throat. "Mabel should have told your sister in advance, when we booked the rooms," he said. "But we were all counting so on this little getaway and when it turned out we were going to have the whole place to ourselves, well, it all just seemed meant to be-"