“I suppose I’ll see you in the morning,” Lilly said.
“Where would I go? I’ll be here,” he returned. “I don’t have a horse to visit.” And then he winked at her.
It was dusk by the time she got there; with the mountains to the east and west and the sun beaming across the stable and pastures, it looked like a movie set, an idyllic setting for anyone who loved animals and the outdoors. She saw Blue out in the far pasture with Annie’s mares. She assumed they’d all been fed and turned out; Nathaniel and Clay operated on a very strict feeding schedule to avoid digestive problems.
She was going to take a shortcut through the stable to the pasture, but before she got very far she heard music and stopped. It was the high, haunting, magical Native American flute, the kind she’d heard many times at celebrations and ceremonies and programs for tourists. Soft and pleasant, sometimes eerie, the rhythm slow. Lilting.
She walked through the stable and saw that Clay was perched on the top rail of the fence surrounding the pasture, facing away from the stable, playing the flute in the dusk. His silhouette cast a long shadow and the music he made caused her to quiver low in her belly. He’d been working all day so his hair was braided and hung down his back. He wore the hat with the feather. His fingers worked the flute while his pursed lips rested on the mouthpiece. Rawhide ties and beads hung down from the end of the instrument.
She leaned against the opened doors, her hands behind her back. He didn’t notice her; he was completely at peace. The melody was no doubt something from his childhood, perhaps his grandfather’s childhood. And it was flawlessly done, as though he’d been playing that particular piece for many years. Perhaps many lifetimes.
Lilly had spent so much energy fighting the old ways, but by degrees she was being reunited with her roots and she couldn’t deny a feeling of coming home. Clay was bringing her comfort by way of reunion and familiarity every day, in so many small but significant ways.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, allowing herself to be seduced by the melody, so ghostly and captivating. She could almost see the men of her community in their Native garb, moving to the flute’s music, the women swaying. She was lost in her own fantasy for a long time, and then the music stopped. She opened her eyes to find Clay walking toward her.
When he reached her, he put a finger under her chin and lifted it so he could place a light kiss on her lips.
“That was very beautiful, Clay,” she said.
“My father’s instrument. He taught me and I find it soothing.”
“Music is such a big part of our relationship—the opera and now this. But I can’t think of a way you can seduce me with the flute and make love to me at the same time.”
His smile was teasing. “I like the music we make together whether there’s music or not.”
“Have the horses been taken care of?”
He nodded. “Annie and Nathaniel are out for a few hours, so we have to stay here. There’s a pizza in their oven for us. Then we can grab a shower and I have plans for you. If you can stay, that is?”
“And go home later?” she asked.
“Stay the night,” he said. “We’ll get up early, feed the horses, go for a ride.”
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes, Clay.”
“You don’t need a change. I’ll give you a T-shirt to sleep in. Or maybe I can keep you warm, myself. You can wear the same jeans in the morning, can’t you?”
“What if Annie or Nate comes to your room?”
“Lilly, with your Jeep parked by my truck, they’d know to knock! If there’s an emergency, we can get up and help.”
She thought about this and then smiled dreamily. “What kind of pizza?”
“Half pepperoni and sausage, half pineapple and double cheese.”
“You cater to me,” she said with a smile. “That’s good. You’re very well trained.”
“Do you have any idea how spectacular my life is when you’re happy?” he asked.
“I must be quite the Hopi princess—it pleases me that you want to please me.”
“I’m very hungry.”
“Then let’s eat,” she said.
“And after that we can get to what I’m really hungry for.”
There were only two people in Jack’s Bar even though it was that time of day when the regulars usually gathered. Mel had stopped in before going home to the children and Mike Valenzuela, Jack’s brother-in-law, had just come by for a beer.
It was easy for family and friends to see Jack Sheridan being jovial and teasing—it was his natural state. What was difficult for his friends and family to see was him being morose. Sad. Disappointed. Jack wasn’t a guy who felt sorry for himself, so that kind of unhappiness was difficult to take. And he was under the weather emotionally because a pretty significant portion of his town, his friends, neighbors and regulars at the bar, were distancing themselves—all because Jack wouldn’t provide information about the substance of the Virgin River Trust, and he wasn’t willing to turn it over to townsfolk for their personal use.
“Maybe I was wrong,” he said to Mike and Mel. “Mel and Preacher were right—I shouldn’t have held a meeting, shouldn’t have opened up the whole thing for discussion. I didn’t know Hope that well, but I know she wouldn’t start writing checks to clear equity loans and second mortgages.”
“It’s water over the dam,” Mike said. “They’ll get over it.”
“Or not,” Jack said.
“They’ll get over it or have to drive a long way for a beer and good food. This is the only game in town, this bar.”
“Ron and Connie used to eat here once, twice a week. Harv doesn’t have breakfast here anymore. Haven’t had any traffic from the Andersons, Bristols or Fishburns. And out at the estate sale, most people who came just to watch brought their own food and drink even though we’d set up the grills. I think that bothered me more than them not talking to me—that they don’t want what we’re offering as friends.”
Preacher came out of the kitchen just at the end of that comment. He walked up behind the bar next to Jack. “Screw ’em. We need a sign for this town all right, and it needs to say You’ll Catch More Flies With Honey.”
Right then the door opened and Walt Booth came in. After a round of greetings, the general was up at the bar and without being asked, Jack served him up a beer. Right behind him the door opened again and Nathaniel and Annie came in.
“What are you two doing here?” Jack asked.
“We heard there was plenty of open seating,” Nate said with a smile as they took their places at the bar.
“Oh, so that’s it,” Jack said. “Everyone is feeling sorry for Jack? I hate that worse than not being talked to!”
“They’ll all be back, Jack,” Walt said. “They’re acting like a bunch of kids.”
“Let’s see how far old Ron gets when he gets sick of fish and wants some leftover brisket,” Preacher said. “Or how about when Hugh pulls up in that big old dually he’d like Jack to pay off for him, hops up to the bar and wants to run a tab for his boilermaker and dinner?”
That brought a slight grin to Jack’s face. He tilted his head toward Preacher. “Always makes me feel better when Preacher’s ticked off,” he said. He put a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Did you hear about Preacher’s dinner party?”
“Huh?” Mike said. “What’s that?”
“Aw, it was just one of those things,” Preacher said, looking down shyly.
“Preacher met himself a five-star chef from San Francisco at the sale. She was staying out at Luke’s cabins with some of her girlfriends on their way home from Vancouver, and Preacher opened up the bar so they could taste some of his favorite dishes.”
“How’d you rate?” Mike asked.
He stood a bit taller. “I’d say she was impressed. She gave me a few tips, too. Little ginger in the beans, a sprinkle of thyme on the roasted vegetables. And she offered to come back and cook up her special soup and show me her rhubarb
pie, which she says is good. Mine’s always sour, no matter what I do. She said just try ’em and if they’re not way better than the recipes I’m using, no hard feelings.” He grinned. “I don’t think another cook has ever eaten here.”
“How’d the girlfriends like your food?” Mike asked.
“They were all groaning and holding their stuffed bellies when they left. I set ’em up right at the counter in the kitchen and kept it coming till they begged me to stop.” He sniffed the air, lifted his chin and said, “I think it’s fair to say I knocked their socks off.”
The men laughed at him, but Preacher took it in stride. Truthfully, nothing could have made him more proud than to have a real cook admire his work.
“How are things at the cabins, General?” Jack asked. “And how’s Colin getting along?”
“Luke’s been there with him almost a week and he’s coming back in a couple of days. Colin is doing better. Boy took a heavy crash and a lot of broken bones are hard to heal. Their mother, Maureen, is there now. George is with her. Luke says Colin can be discharged within the week, but he’ll be transported to a wounded warriors support center at Fort Benning, where he’s currently serving. Luke’s a little nervous about leaving Colin in Maureen’s hands—she and George aren’t strong enough or experienced enough to take care of a big man like that who’s in an arm cast and a whole bunch of bandages. Luke wants to make sure the arrangements for his transport are complete—guys from his unit will make sure he’s taken care of.” He chuckled. “And Colin is begging Luke to throw him out a ten-story window rather than leave him at his mother’s mercy.”
“But he’s going to recover?”
“So they say.” Walt shrugged. “You know how that goes—a lot of it’s up to him. He needs physical therapy. He has to build strength. You know what Luke says he complains about the most? The elbow! He’s got screws in his elbow and it’s driving him crazy.”
“And Shelby and the baby?”
“Oh, they’re getting along fine. I go out there every morning and stay till dinner. Sometimes Muriel comes out and eats with us. Cabins are going to fill up next week—hunting season.”
“The bar might see some action, too, when the hunters come.”
“So you’re not going to go broke while the town is in a snit?” Nate asked.
“Nah, we got hunters and fishermen,” Jack said. “But I’ll tell you what—if these folks don’t get over themselves real quick, they might find they’re just not so welcome here. Doesn’t make you want to be the good neighbor, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s going to pass real soon,” Mel said, lifting her beer.
Nate leaned an elbow on the bar and peered at Mel. “Is your business suffering, since you’re consorting with the executor?”
She shook her head. “Couple of the old boys are a little put out that Jack didn’t open up Hope’s trust for them, but for the most part the women are fine with things the way they are. It’s not that many of the guys, really—just seems like a lot to Jack—he’s not used to being viewed as the bad guy. By anyone.”
“Because I’m not,” he said emphatically.
“Of course you’re not, darling,” she said. “But you just can’t please all the people all the time. It’s such a thankless job to be in charge of anything, isn’t it?”
“I liked it best when I was in charge of this little space back here,” Jack said, throwing his arms wide, indicating the area behind the bar. “I don’t even have many opinions about what goes on in the kitchen.”
“Very wise,” Preacher said.
Suddenly there was a slight vibration, a distant and faint rumble, and the bottles on the shelf behind the bar clinked up against each other. It lasted only a few seconds, during which time everyone was stone still and silent, experiencing it.
“That was either the biggest rock slide we’ve ever had around here, or an earthquake,” Jack said when it had passed.
And Mel, who had lived many years in Los Angeles before coming to Virgin River, said, “It was an earthquake, I believe. But thankfully not much of one.”
Thirteen
When Lilly was lying in Clay’s arms, flesh to flesh, with nothing heavier than a sigh between them, it was a time made precious by more than just physical intimacy.
It was still early evening. They’d had their dinner, showered and climbed into bed together.
“Tell me something from your childhood on the reservation. Something I couldn’t guess—like the happiest day of your life.”
“I could say it was the day I had Gabe, but the truth is I didn’t know that was a happy day until he was a little older and I could get some sleep. It was probably the day my father told me the new stud colt was mine to break, to raise and ride. He’s still on the Tahoma ranch, almost to the end of his breeding days, but not quite. A handsome blue roan. He taught me everything I know about a stallion’s temperament and drive. There were lots of horses on the ranch, but he was mine.”
“Are a lot of your happiest days from your life back on the family ranch?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed, nodding. “We worked hard, played hard.”
“Tell me the most terrified you’ve ever been in your life,” she said.
He thought for a moment. “When I was real little, about ten, I went into a pasture I’d been told to stay out of. I was with a couple of my cousins, but they were older, faster. We were supposed to stay away from this old bull, but we figured he was too old to give us much game. Turned out he was pretty fast. One second he was lying there, looking like he was asleep, and the next second he was charging me.”
“What about your cousins?” she asked.
“You know that old joke about the two campers who come upon a bear—I don’t have to outrun the bear, I just have to outrun you? They took off, left me for the bull. I scrambled up a tree. He butted the trunk a few times and almost shook me out, but he got bored and went back to lie down. I sat up in that tree for hours. It was almost dark when my dad came for me. He walked into that pasture like he had all day. He was carrying a pitchfork, but he didn’t seem worried about anything. He looked up into the tree and said, ‘Get down here.’ I tried to warn him about the bull, but he insisted. Well, I was coming down, very slowly and carefully, and right then the old bull got up and kind of wandered over toward us. When he was standing about six feet away, my dad turned toward him, made eye contact with him and just stared him down, and the damn bull lay down. And my dad took me by the hand and walked me out of the pasture.”
“Just like that?” Lilly asked.
He nodded. “He said, ‘Weren’t you told to stay out of that pasture?’ and I asked, ‘What did you do?’ He just looked straight ahead and said, ‘That’s an old bull. Mean, but old. He wouldn’t have known what to do with you if he caught you. I just wanted to make sure. We sort of came to an agreement—when he didn’t charge me, we made our peace.’ And so I asked him why he brought the pitchfork and he said, ‘Just in case he didn’t listen to reason.’” And then Clay laughed.
Lilly didn’t laugh. “Did your father talk to animals, too? Did you get it from him?”
“I don’t know what I have, Lilly, or where I got it. I get feelings from animals, like if they’re in pain or afraid. All I got from that bull was that he was mad. Territorial and pissed off. But the things my dad seemed to always have were confidence and understanding. I don’t think I’ve ever had his kind of confidence. He took a pitchfork into that field—my hundred-and-eighty-pound father—and he faced off with a twenty-five-hundred-pound bull. He walked slow and easy, kept himself between me and the bull, and somehow with just his self-possession he let the bull think he could kill him with the pitchfork if they didn’t come to terms.” He shook his head in wonder.
“What?”
“When we got home, all he said was, “Next time you can stay in the tree until you’re old and gray.”
“No punishment?”
“There was rarely a real punishment at our hous
e. Disappointment was punishment enough. Discontinued praise was punishment. I lived to please my parents. And sometimes I resented that and rebelled, but not for long. The Tahomas are strong and very proud. They’re influential. If I rebelled I got over it fast. They were always there for me.”
“When were they there for you?”
“Well, you know all about Gabe’s sudden appearance. They rallied for that boy, for me. My father gathered his brothers and his lawyer and they went to town to meet the maternal grandparents of my unborn child. He didn’t carry a pitchfork, he carried a leather binder containing a photocopy of some adoption law the lawyer had given him. The whole ordeal didn’t take long, but once I had Gabe home there was a definite chill in the air around me and a distinct reluctance to help me with my son—I had to take my medicine. I think Gabe was six months old before my parents finally lightened up. I knew they were disappointed in me, but at the same time they didn’t want Gabe to suffer any lack of affection because of me, so we had to make peace. Then there was…”
His voice fell off and she jiggled him.
“What? Then there was what?”
He took a deep breath. “There was a time when I was following rodeos as a farrier. I was about twenty-three, on a job in Houston, and I got jumped by a bunch of cowboys. I don’t know who they were—I don’t think they were competing. They were drunk and mean and looking for trouble—they sneaked up on me, cut off my braid. They had a good advantage and I fought back, but I didn’t do much damage. I was pretty whipped by the time someone broke it up. They said I was a crazy, drunk Indian who attacked them and the police threw me in jail. I gave my father’s number just before I passed out cold in a jail cell.” He shook his head. “As far as I know, the police never even detained the cowboys.”
“Oh, Clay…”
“It took my father and uncles about twelve hours to get there. My father asked one question of the police. Did you test his blood? The deputy said, ‘Sir, we have a rodeo in town. By the time we could get to that, too many hours had passed for an accurate blood-alcohol level. But the boy passed out.’ And my father, who carried his leather folder, calmly asked the deputy if he thought I’d cut off my own hair. Then he explained that it had been twelve hours—they could do the blood test immediately and if there had been enough alcohol in me to have caused me to pass out, at least trace amounts would show up. But if nothing showed up, they’d know I was unconscious from the beating and they were at fault for taking me to jail instead of to the emergency room—that would open up an interesting dialogue with the courts. He said, ‘Either do a blood test or release him to us now.’ And they let me go. I had a concussion. And this,” he said, running a finger along a faint scar under his eye on his cheekbone.