Читать книгу Wind River Ranch - Jackie Merritt - Страница 9

Two

At 8:00 a.m. Dena was on her way back to Winston. Using one of the ranch cars, she drove the familiar road, thankful that it was sparsely traveled, as her mind was too overloaded to concentrate on anything but the sudden tragic turn of her life.

She felt rocky from lack of sleep and because she hadn’t been able to eat more than a few bites of toast this morning. She knew what she was doing to herself. Even people without medical training knew that one shouldn’t stop sleeping and eating because of a shock. But that’s what people with a heart did, wasn’t it? The kind of shock she had received, the nightmare she was living through, all but disabled a person. Certainly it destroyed normal routines and habits, and only God knew how and when she was going to regain her usual sensibilities.

Dena harbored an impossible wish: that she could avoid Wmston altogether. But it was where Dr. Worth’s office was located, and Nettie had told Dena that the doctor had to see her posthaste. Dena was certain she knew why—that question of an autopsy.

The funeral home was also in Winston. If Dena had the power to eliminate one day from her life, this would be it. There were others that had caused an enormous amount of trouble and grief, but none to compare with what today demanded of her.

Dr. Worth had been the Colby family physician for as long as Dena could remember, and Nettie had said that his office was still in the same place it had always been. Once Dena reached the town limits, it took only a few minutes to get there. There was a small parking strip next to the building, and she pulled into a space and turned off the ignition. Panic rose in her throat. She didn’t want to do this. Neither did she want to visit the funeral home after talking to Dr. Worth and plan her father’s burial. How did one converse coherently and with a reasonable amount of intelligence about such things?

Tears welled and she wiped them away with a tissue. Then, drawing a deep breath, she took her purse and got out of the car. She had phoned Dr. Worth at his home this morning and he had told her to meet him at his office at eight-thirty. She was right on time.

With every cell in her body throbbing like a toothache, she walked to the side door of the building—another of Dr. Worth’s instructions—and rang the bell. The door opened almost at once. Dr. Worth gave her a quiet smile. “Hello, Dena. Come in.”

“Hello, Doctor,” she whispered hoarsely.

He led her to his personal office and sat her in a chair near his desk. Even through the haze of pain clouding her mind, Dena realized that Dr. Worth had aged since she’d last seen him. She was thinking about the changes time wrought on everyone and everything when Dr. Worth spoke.

“I understand you’re a nurse now,” he said, seating himself at his desk.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll have a better understanding of what we must discuss.”

“You want to do an autopsy.”

“No, I have to know if you want an autopsy.”

Dena swallowed the lump in her throat. “The ranch foreman said you diagnosed the cause of Dad’s death as a cerebral hemorrhage.”

“I did, and I still believe my initial diagnosis. But if you have any doubts...”

“Was there any chance of foul play?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Simon died quite naturally. It’s just that sometimes family members are driven to know the exact and precise cause of death.”

“I don’t feel that way, Doctor. Unless there is good reason for an autopsy, I don’t want it.”

Dr. Worth nodded approvingly. “I’m glad to hear that. Dena, you have to know how sorry I am about Simon’s death. How are you holding up?”

Dena turned her face away. “Not...well,” she said in an unsteady voice.

“You look drawn and exhausted, but that’s to be expected, I suppose, when you flew all night to get here. Are you eating?”

“Not...much,” she whispered.

Dr. Worth eyed her thoughtfully. “One of life’s most traumatic experiences is the death of a loved one. There’s a hole in the world that wasn’t there before, an emptiness within oneself, and the memories we carry of that person seem to bombard us with cruel clarity. We tend to feel guilty over every disagreement with that person and any event where we think we might have done things differently.”

“I could have done things differently, Doctor.”

“But the problems you and Simon had are long in the past, Dena,” Dr. Worth said gently. “You must try not to dwell on what happened so many years ago.”

Dena’s eyes dropped to her hands on her lap. She could tell the good doctor that nothing had changed during those years, that she had tried and tried to reconcile with her father and he had died without forgiving her. She could talk for an hour about the letters she’d written and the phone calls she’d made, but what good would it do?

All she said was, “I’ll try, Doctor.”

“Good,” he replied, appearing satisfied that his little pep talk had worked.

Dena rose from her chair. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Dr. Worth. Thank you for seeing me.” She started for the door, then something occurred to her and she stopped and turned. “Was Dad getting regular checkups, Doctor?” “Simon rarely showed his face in this office, Dena. Essentially he was a very healthy man.”

“Then he wasn’t on any medication that you know of?” There were some drugs that could wreak havoc with the circulatory system, and if Simon was taking any kind of medication, she wanted to know what it was.

“If he was, he didn’t get it from me. Dena, try to take comfort from the swiftness of Simon’s death. He died too young, but the way he went was much better than a long, lingering illness.”

Dena hated remarks like that, even though she knew Dr. Worth was still attempting to ease her pain and there was even some truth in what he’d said.

But suddenly she couldn’t talk about her father’s death a second longer. “Thank you for your time, Doctor,” she repeated and hurried out.

In her car it occurred to her then that she might run into someone she knew while in Winston, a thought that nearly brought on a fit of hysteria. Holding her hand to her throat, she took several deep breaths and told herself to calm down. She might as well face the fact that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of avoiding people’s sympathy during her week in the area.

Or could she? Where was it written that she had to have a public service for her father? She could confine the sad event to—Groaning, she put her head in her hands. Nettie would be appalled. Dena could see herself and Nettie standing alone in the cemetery, listening to a prayer administered by...who? A minister? Someone from the funeral home? Oh, what a pitiful picture, she thought with a fresh gush of tears. And it would be an improper, insulting rite for a man of Simon Colby’s stature. She was being selfish again, thinking of herself and the discomfort of a public display of grief.

Wiping her eyes, she put on dark glasses and forced herself to start the car. She would go to the funeral home and then get out of Winston. And if she ran into a dozen acquaintances—unlikely but possible—with vulturelike words of sympathy and only partially concealed expressions of morbid curiosity, she would handle it.

She had no choice.

That night Dena was able to eat dinner and to talk to Nettie without choking on her own words, probably because she felt so head-to-foot numb. It was even possible to walk through the house, remember her father and not fall apart. When she went to bed she was able to sleep, and any troubling dreams she had during those hours vanished when she awoke.

Ry thought she seemed unnaturally calm, not at all like the tense, jumpy, crushed woman he had picked up at the airport.

In truth, he didn’t see all that much of her, as he took his meals with the men and slept in the bunkhouse. But once he spotted her walking outside, and when a load of barbed wire and posts were delivered the afternoon just before the day of the funeral, he took the invoice from the driver of the truck and went into the house. Nettie was in the kitchen with flour up to her elbows, kneading a large batch of bread dough. Nettie had always taken pride in the good meals she served Simon and his men, and her pragmatic attitude was that people had to eat whether she was grieving or not. She looked up as Ry walked in.

“I need to talk to Dena, Nettie.” Nettie was a little bit of a woman, spry as a spring robin and much stronger than she looked. Ry estimated her age around sixty, but she could be ten years older or younger. Age, either his or hers, was not something they had discussed.

“I think she’s in the living room,” Nettie told him.

“Thanks.” Ry left and headed for the living room. From the doorway he saw Dena seated in a chair and staring blankly into space. Her vacant expression bothered him, and he wondered what, exactly, was going through her mind to cause it. Of course it had everything to do with Simon’s death, he knew that, but weren’t tears and sobs better than such concentrated stillness? Was she deliberately holding her emotions in check? That didn’t seem very healthy to Ry.

But who was he to judge Dena’s method of dealing with grief? Everyone on the ranch was affected by Simon’s death, in one way or another. The men were unnaturally subdued, working without the wisecracks and tomfoolery they often engaged in. Nettie was carrying on in spite of her sorrow, and he had willingly taken over the operation of the ranch for the time being. Taken Simon’s place, actually, although he felt certain that Dena would resent that concept should anyone voice it.

Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say any such thing to Dena, but he did have to interrupt her present revene. The invoice in his hand demanded a decision he didn’t feel he should make.

“Dena?” he said.

Slowly her head came around. Her look of total disinterest struck him as one containing a question—who is this man walking into my father’s living room? In truth she’d been miles into the past, thinking of her mother and envisioning how much differently things would have turned out had Opal lived.

She blinked, as though coming awake, and said, “Yes?”

Ry entered the room and walked over to her. “Dena, do you have the authority to sign checks for the ranch?”

She blinked again. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Ry frowned. She seemed a million miles away and was speaking very slowly. Actually she seemed so withdrawn from reality that he started worrying about her. For certain he didn’t like bothering her with business at a time like this, but he had no choice.

“I have an invoice here that’s marked C.O.D.,” he said, “and someone has to write a check for $1,254.33. My name’s not on the checking account. I was wondering if yours is.”

Lines appeared in Dena’s forehead. Why ever would he think such a thing? “Of course it’s not,” she said, becoming slightly more alert. She paused to think about the amount of the check he needed and ended up speaking a bit suspiciously. “What did you buy for twelve hundred dollars?”

That hint of suspicion in her voice didn’t sit right with Ry. Grief stricken or not, Dena had no right to intimate that he was anything but a hundred percent honest, which he was. His face hardened and so did his voice. “I didn’t buy anything. Simon ordered barbed wire and posts to cross-fence one of the big pastures. The material has just been delivered, and the driver is waiting for payment.”

His defensive tone startled Dena. Good Lord, couldn’t she say anything to him without having her head bitten off? He’d done the same thing during the drive from the airport. What had she said then to cause such a reaction? Her head was aching and she couldn’t remember the incident clearly.

But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t have mustered any genuine anger today if her life depended on it, especially not over something like this. “Ry, you’re the foreman. You handle it, please.”

“How?”

“I really don’t care,” she said listlessly.

Ry could hardly believe his ears. “You don’t care. Dena, do you have any idea how many decisions have to be made nearly every day about something on this ranch? Do you care about that? Let me go one step further. Do you care about the ranch at all?”

Did she? It wasn’t a question Dena had spent any time pondering. She’d grown up on this ranch, but did it mean anything to her? Should it mean something to her?

She didn’t like that Ry Hardin had just brought to light a brand-new aspect of this ordeal.

“Just so you know,” he said flatly, “this isn’t the only situation where someone’s going to have to write checks. I think you should do something about that.”

“Like what?” She was truly puzzled by his attitude.

“Get your name on the checking account.”

“And how do I accomplish that? Simply walk into the bank and tell someone I want access to my father’s money?” Dena shook her head. “They’d either laugh me out of the bank or call the sheriff.”

Ry looked at her for a long moment. “Call Simon’s lawyer.”

“I didn’t know he had one.”

“Well, he did. His name is John Chandler.” Remembering the hell she was living through, Ry spoke with less tension. “Dena, hasn’t it occurred to you that Simon probably left the ranch to you?”

It took a second for that unlikely idea to sink in, and when it finally did she retorted, “Don’t make me laugh.”

Ry felt thunderstruck. “Well, who else would he leave it to?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Dena waved her hand. She’d had enough of this conversation. In fact, she wanted to sink back into the hole Ry’s appearance had pulled her out of. “Please go away. I don’t want to talk about any of this.”

“What you should be saying is that you don’t want to face any of this.” Ry shook his head. “I think you’re in for one very big surprise, lady.” Turning on his heel, he walked out.

“Oh, just shut up,” Dena muttered wearily, but Ry was already gone and didn’t hear her. It was just as well, she thought, although she was not going to put up with Ry Hardin or anyone else badgering her about the ranch. She was here for one week, and several days of that week were already over. The funeral was set for tomorrow. Someone had put an obituary in the newspaper announcing the time and place, so there would undoubtedly be a horde of people there.

But it would be her final agony. After tomorrow she could start returning to normal.

Dena laid her head back and looked at the ceiling. What was going to happen to the ranch? Did Ry really care or was he just concerned about his job?

She clenched her hands into fists. Damn him for giving her another worry, another reason to weep and feel helpless.

Outside, Ry walked back to the trucker. “There’s no one to sign a check, so I can’t pay you today. I could call your company and arrange a later payment, or you could take the wire and posts back to Lander.”

The man shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. What d’ya wanna do?”

Ry thought for a moment. Why was he so shook about this? About Dena’s disinterested attitude? To hell with it. If she didn’t care what happened to her father’s ranch, why should he? He probably wouldn’t be here to put in that new fence, anyway.

“Take ’em back,” he said, and gave the man the invoice. “If and when things ever get straightened out around here, we’ll order again.”

The man got into his truck and drove away.

There were two rooms in the house that Dena had been deliberately ignoring, her father’s bedroom and his office. The mere thought of entering Simon’s bedroom gave her cold chills. It was Nettie who had gone in and chosen the clothing for Simon’s burial, and it was Ry who had delivered them to Andrews Funeral Home. Dena appreciated their consideration. Nettie’s, she understood. Ry was a different matter. Ry bothered Dena in a strange way, one she couldn’t quite put her finger on. When she thought of him, that is, which wasn’t often. In fact, she was discovering that she was able to blank out her mind on many subjects. Maybe that was what overwhelming grief did to a person, she thought. If something was too painful to think about, you simply bury it so deep in your psyche it stayed buried.

Still, Ry’s comments about the checking account and having to pay bills and such had penetrated the soothing fog Dena preferred over saber-sharp reality at the present, and she geared herself up for a look at ranch records. It was not something her father had ever invited her to do, but she had to concede the fact of her age before she’d left the ranch, and also the dissension that had existed between her and Simon.

A shiver rippled up her spine as she opened the office door and stepped in. The room was as drab as she remembered. Dull, dark paneling on the walls. Worn carpet. It was depressing. Old furniture, a musty odor. For that matter, the entire house was drab. Because of Nettie it was clean, but Dena was positive no one had done any interior painting or even changed the placement of one piece of furniture since she’d left the ranch at eighteen years of age.

To be painfully accurate, nothing had been changed or improved since her mother’s death. Opal had been a natural-born homemaker, and everything in this old house that was now dull, nicked, snagged and all but ready for the junk pile had been bright and pretty and warmly inviting while she lived.

When Opal became ill, Simon had hired Nettie to take over the housekeeping and the preparation of meals for the ranch hands. Nettie had fit in at once. She and Opal had become close friends, and Nettie had suffered as much as Dena and Simon over Opal’s courageous battle with cancer.

And then it was over and nothing had ever been the same. Dena swallowed hard. She could fall apart so easily, and she would if she let herself dwell on the past. The present was difficult enough to deal with; dredging up her mother’s long illness and death was inviting disaster.

She shut the door behind her and walked over to the ancient desk Simon had used. There was a stack of ranching journals on one corner, a cup containing an assortment of pens and pencils about dead center, and some papers and file folders on the opposite corner. Dena sat in the old leather chair behind the desk and started to cry.

“Damn,” she whispered. She hadn’t come in here to cry. How was the human body able to produce as many tears as she had shed since her arrival home and Nettie’s emotional welcome? She carried a pocketful of tissues, because even while blocking out what she could of the emotional trauma caused by her father’s untimely death, tears would suddenly overwhelm her.

Taking one out, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she drew a deep breath and began opening drawers. In the bottom right-hand drawer she found a checkbook. Lifting it to the desk, she opened it. Seeing Simon’s handwriting caused more tears, and this time she let them flow. If only she’d seen this wonderful scrawl in replies to the dozens of letters she had written him over the years. How could he have been so hard as to protect and maintain a vow of silence where his only child was concerned, especially when she had tried so hard to atone for her rebellious behavior? Surely he had heard about her and Tommy’s divorce, and her departure from Winston.

But maybe he had also heard the lies that the Hogan clan had viciously spread far and wide about her.

Sighing helplessly, Dena again pulled out a tissue. Her stilldamp eyes widened in surprise when she read the amount of money in this checking account—over sixty thousand dollars. Well, there was certainly enough money to pay any bills that might come up, and to handle the men’s payroll for an extended period.

But it was in the bank and no one could sign checks. Maybe she had better call that lawyer, as Ry had suggested in a rather overbearing manner. Her hackles rose for a few moments. How dare Ry Hardin treat her as some kind of idiot child? Just who did he think he was?

Mumbling to herself about Ry being no more than an employee and acting like lord of the manor, Dena looked for and found her father’s personal telephone directory. She flipped pages until she saw John Chandler’s name and number, then reached for the phone and placed a call. After two rings a male voice came on the line.

“Hello. This is John Chandler. As I notified all my current clients of my vacation before I closed shop for two weeks, you must be unaware of my schedule. I will be back in the office on the fifteenth, so please either leave a message at the beep so I may return your call at that time, or call me again. Thanks for your patience.”

The message startled Dena so much that she hung up rather than identifying herself for John Chandler’s recorder. The man was on vacation and obviously not aware of Simon’s death. The fifteenth, Dena mused, glancing at the calendar on the wall. Four days away. Maybe she would still be here, maybe not.

But did she dare leave without solving the checkbook dilemma? Someone had to be given access to ranch money. The men couldn’t work without pay, nor could the ranch function without supplies.

She sat back in her father’s chair, stunned by the responsibility suddenly thrust upon her. She should not have to deal with this on top of her father’s death.

But the problem was not going to vanish just because she wished it would.

What on earth was she going to do?

Frowning, she wondered if anyone knew where John Chandler had gone for his vacation. Was it possible that he’d gone nowhere and was merely resting at home?

No, if he was in the area he would have heard about Simon.

Wait a minute. If Ry knew Simon’s lawyer was a man named Chandler, maybe he knew more—like, for instance, where he’d gone for his vacation. If she discovered the attorney’s location, she wouldn’t hesitate a moment in calling him. She needed legal advice, and the sooner the better.

Before going outside to look for Hardin, Dena went to her bathroom and washed her teary face. There was nothing to do about her puffy eyes except hold a cold, wet washcloth on them for a few minutes. It helped some, but there really was no way to conceal the ravages of so much sorrow. She brushed her hair and applied lipstick. It was the best she could do, and she left it at that.

Then she headed for the kitchen. Nettie was sniffling while she cut up chickens, breaking Dena’s heart all over again. Battling her own raw and wounded emotions, she cleared her throat.

“Nettie, would you have any idea of where I might find Ry?”

“He was looking for you about a half hour ago.”

“He found me and left. This is about something else.”

“Oh. Well, I never have tried to keep track of the men, honey. He could be anywhere on the ranch.”

“All right, thanks.”

Leaving the house through the back door, Dena stopped to look around. To her surprise, she spotted Ry walking into the barn. It looked as if he was carrying a large coil of rope.

Hurrying across the expanse of ground between house and outbuildings, she entered the barn and called, “Mr. Hardin?”

In the tack room Ry heard her and disgustedly shook his head. So he was Mr. Hardin now. What a peculiar woman.

“In here,” he yelled out. He pushed the coil of rope farther back on the shelf, fitting it in between other coils and some gallon containers of harness and leather oil. There were still harnesses hanging on wall hooks from the days when everything done on the ranch was accomplished with teams of horses. And saddles on racks, and bins of old horseshoes and metal parts and leather strapping to repair harnesses. As the tack room occupied a corner of the barn, there were two windows, one in each outside wall. Dust motes danced in the sun’s rays coming in through the east window. Simon obviously had never thrown anything away, and from the day Ry started working on the Wind River Ranch he had itched to clean out this room. At least half of its contents should be hauled to the dump. Some of it, of course, was saleable. But in Ry’s opinion, whatever was not needed in today’s operation should be either sold or discarded.

Dena walked in. Rather, she stepped just inside the doorway and stopped. In the years since she’d left, not one single thing had changed in this room. It was the same as the house, she realized, in need of a thorough going over.

Her gaze moved to Ry, and she suddenly felt accusatory. He was the foreman and certainly could have fit a little tack room cleaning into his work routine. Even if he hadn’t had the ambition to do it himself, he could have assigned the job to one or more of the other men.

“This place could use a good cleaning,” she said flatly.

Ry was in no mood for snide remarks. Rather than agree with her, which he most certainly did, he drawled, “Seems fine to me.”

“Are you saying you don’t see anything that could use some improvement in here?”

Because she sounded sarcastic, Ry took his time in looking around. When he finally brought his gaze back to her, he said, “I’m surprised you care about clutter and dust in here when you don’t give a damn about the overall operation of the ranch. Must be the female in you.”

Dena’s face colored, but she shot back, “A sexist remark if I’ve ever heard one.” Her mind, she realized, was shockingly dull, and for a few moments she couldn’t remember why she was even in the tack room. Why on earth was she standing here and trading insults with this man?

Then it came to her. “The tack room is more your business than mine. Clean it or wallow in the dirt, it’s all the same to me. The only reason I came out here was to find out if you knew where John Chandler went on his vacation.”

“Didn’t know he took one. I’ve only talked to him a couple of times. He’s not my lawyer.”

A dead end. Dena frowned and turned to leave.

“Hey,” Ry called. “If you really want to run him down, you might try calling his secretary. Her name is Sheila Parks. It’s possible she left town, too, but who knows?”

Dena stopped, one eyebrow raised. “Meaning she took her vacation the same time as her boss?”

Ry shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

It did make sense. “I would imagine Ms. Parks is listed in the telephone book.”

“Beats me,” Ry said. “And it’s Mrs. Parks, but I don’t know her husband’s first name. Can’t be that many Parks in the area, though.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Ry didn’t like the way they’d talked to each other about the tack room. There was no earthly reason for them to bicker, and he decided then and there to turn things around. “Dena. I agree with you about cleaning up this place,” he said quietly. “I’ve wanted to do it since I started working here.”

Relief flooded Dena’s system over the drastic change in Ry’s voice and demeanor. The last thing she wanted was to be at odds with anyone right now. “But Dad wouldn’t let you, would he?”

Her perception surprised him, but why should it? If anyone had ever really known Simon Colby, it would be his daughter.

Ry took a step closer to her. “There’s something else I’d like to say. I’m not normally short-tempered, and I’ve snapped at you more than once. I’m sorry for it and it won’t happen again.”

She looked into his dark eyes and felt the sting of tears in her own. Her voice was husky when she spoke. “There’s really no reason for you and me to disagree about anything. I’m sorry I was so sharp-tongued about the condition of this room. If I’d thought at all before sniping at you about it, it never would have happened.”

Ry nodded in understanding. “You’re going through a bad time, and I guess you’re entitled to a little sniping.”

“I’m not sure that even grief entitles a person to treat other people rudely.” She managed a brave little smile that nearly broke Ry’s heart. He had to forcibly stop himself from moving closer to her and pulling her into his arms. Strictly to comfort her, of course.

“See you later,” she said then, and turned and left.

Ry walked to a window and watched her leave the barn and head for the house. Dena Colby aroused a complexity of emotions within him. Was it all because of the tragedy she was having to face more or less by herself, or was there more to it?

He wished he knew the answer to that question, because it suddenly seemed very important.