Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Homecoming - Pamela Nissen - Страница 9

When Ivy glimpsed her father’s ranch anchoring the long and winding lane, she willed herself to relax. But her heart—it was beating right through her chest. She’d figured she’d be nervous returning home after all these years, but the trepidation that threatened to loosen her tightly wound control caught her completely off guard.

Especially after she’d discovered that her father’s health apparently wasn’t as tenuous as Violet had inferred. She didn’t think that the woman was given to telling tales, so why had the letter sounded so urgent? From the way Mrs. Duncan had reacted, it seemed that her father wasn’t heading to his grave, after all.

The thought of him suffering had nearly broken Ivy’s heart in New York. She’d rushed back to Boulder right away. But was she needed here after all?

Struggling to ward off the chill and raw emotion quivering her body, she clutched the wool blanket Zach had stubbornly insisted on wrapping around her shoulders.

While he steered the wagon down the lane, she inched her gaze over the broad expanse of well-maintained buildings and new barbed-wire fencing that hemmed in plentiful

acres of grazing land. The homestead looked good, probably better than she remembered.

Being here now and seeing the ranch, smelling the familiar scents of hay and cattle and the beginnings of fall, she could almost feel the memories struggling to escape from where she’d buried them deep inside her heart. Memories of a carefree childhood spent scampering behind her daddy as he took care of the chores, of learning to ride her first pony with him at her side, of swinging from the rope he’d looped around an enduring arm extending from one of the Ponderosa pines.

There’d been a time when she’d envisioned working alongside her father into his old age, but once her mama had taken ill, he’d changed. Her father’s adoring focus had shifted to a desperate, almost frantic search for some kind of medical help. The more time that ticked by without a cure, the more agitated he’d become. The ranch had been his only solace, and along with tending to her mama, he’d poured himself into making it the best and most respected in the region even when it seemed he could do nothing to help his wife.

Warding off the gloom of that memory, she dragged in a long breath of crisp late-September air, seasoned with the musky scent of drying foliage. She had a hard time believing that she was actually here, days away from New York, and years away from life as she’d known back east. Six years ago, she’d vowed never to return to Boulder—not after her father had sent her away with such cruel finality.

Her father had blamed her for her mama’s death—surely he’d never forgive her.

And she felt horribly responsible. Alone, she’d carried guilt’s heavy burden for the past six years, wondering if she’d ever be able to forgive herself. As desperate as she sometimes felt to climb to God’s open arms of love and acceptance, she felt stuck in a deep hole of guilt and shame.

When the wagon lurched to the side, she was jerked from her painful thoughts. She grabbed hold of the thick wood seat, steadying herself as Zach guided the team off the path to avoid a big tortoiseshell tomcat, intent on maintaining his sunny spot in the middle of the lane. Tortoiseshell cat …?

“Shakespeare?” She scrambled to peer over the side of the wagon. The big cat’s eyes squeezed shut and his ears twitched in her direction.

“That’s him,” Zach confirmed with a cluck of his tongue. “He thinks he owns the p-p-place.”

“Oh, my. He’s grown so much.” She wrenched around in her seat, tears stinging the backs of her eyes seeing how Shakespeare had grown into the noble looking tomcat he was now. “He was just an undernourished litter runt that Mama and I bottle fed. He was nowhere near this big when I left.”

After Zach eased the wagon to a stop just beyond the furry road block, he swung down from the seat and crossed to where the cat lay, content as could be. The delicate state of her heart grew even more fragile when Zach appeared a moment later, holding out the enormous cat for her.

“Shakespeare,” she cooed, pulling her arms from the blanket and hugging him close. She burrowed her face into his thick, sleek fur. “You’re absolutely enormous. What have they been feeding you?”

“An egg every d-d-day, beef fat—and Lord knows what else.” Zach pulled himself up to his seat, settled the blanket around her shoulders again then sent the wagon lurching forward. “Your father sees to Sh-Shakespeare’s feeding.”

Her father had never shown Shakespeare one bit of interest in the past. That he had obviously spoiled her kitty tugged at her heartstrings.

The cat’s loud purr and the way he stretched to touch the tip of his pink nose to hers was almost her undoing.

But she couldn’t afford to weaken. Not now. She was already over half unraveled and she hadn’t even set foot inside the house.

Sitting a little straighter in her seat, she drew her focus toward the house as she gently raked her fingers through Shakespeare’s soft fur. Although this place had been home for the first seventeen years of her life, it could never be home again.

There’d been too many changes in her life. And likely too many changes in her father’s life, as well.

Like Zach being her father’s foreman …

When Zach slowed the wagon to a halt at the edge of the yard, she snagged a look at him from the corner of her vision. The sure way he handled the reins, his hands, large and work worn and yet so very gentle, had caught her attention off and on throughout the trip. The noticeable way his arm muscles bunched beneath his shirt as he swung down from the wagon captured her focus all the more. She didn’t know if she’d ever forget the warm feel of his comforting touch.

A million questions had streamed through Ivy’s mind during the silence-saturated wagon ride home. The foremost being, when had Zach changed into the solid and confident man he was now?

While he crossed in front of the horses, her focus flitted to his manly jawline. How was it that a feature so strong and sure looking could fumble so with the English language? She recalled the agonizing way he’d struggled through school, the relentless way the teacher had chastised him for refusing to stand and recite his lessons, the harsh way he’d been laughed at by some of the schoolchildren. And, to her shame, the cowardly way she’d giggled right along with them—at times.

Diverting her focus from his steadfast gaze as he approached her side of the wagon, she struggled to tug her composure back into place. But when he carefully lifted the cat down then circled her waist with his large and calloused hands, she couldn’t seem to maintain a coherent thought. His touch, the lingering feel of his hands around her waist, gave her a heady feeling, even after he set her feet on the ground. A very real and unwanted quiver worked its way straight up her spine.

She’d seen what sickness and death had done to her parents, and had decided that loving just wasn’t worth the pain. She’d been so careful to guard her heart when it came to men, but felt that resolve already slipping from her unrelenting grip. She didn’t need anything or anyone tying her down here in Boulder. Certainly not Zach Drake.

“Here we are,” he voiced, his words coming slow. His throat visibly convulsed as though he’d just swallowed one gigantic bug.

“Home….” Gathering in a steadying breath, she took in her surroundings.

“Has it ch-changed much?” He reached over the wagon bed and grabbed two of her four valises.

She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying to keep from trembling as she slid her gaze around the homestead. “It looks better than I remember.”

When he set the back of his hand featherlight to her cheek, she nearly startled.

“You’re cold,” he said, his voice low, his gaze direct.

“I’m quite comfortable.” She turned her head from his debilitating touch. In truth, the weighted chill of mud drying on her garments had seeped clear though to her bones and she didn’t know if she’d ever warm up, but she wasn’t about to let this man direct her steps like she had no fortitude about her.

He gently pressed a hand to the middle of her back, guiding her to the front steps as he cleared his throat. “We need to get you inside so you c-can change into something warm and d-d-dry.”

Drawing her mouth into a grim line, she forced one foot in front of the other when all she really wanted to do was to dig her heels in deep, delaying going inside until she was good and ready. And not a minute before.

Being home after so long was far more difficult than she’d ever imagined, and the control she’d embraced as her nearest and dearest friend for the past six years had exacted an outright betrayal, leaving her stranded back at the mercantile.

Regardless of Zach’s tender show of good manners, she shrugged out of his reach, hurrying across the grass-sprinkled ground. She came to an abrupt stop, glancing at the second-story windows, suspended half-open, the same delicate white curtains she remembered her mama stitching years ago, hanging inside, whispering about in the breeze as though to welcome her home.

“Is something the matter?”

For a brief second, she almost wished that Zach would pull her into his arms and ease away her fears and uncertainties.

What was she thinking?

“No. Of course there’s nothing wrong.” Ivy hugged her arms to her chest, fracturing small chunks of dried mud from her garment, just like the crusty shell that had started breaking from her heart the moment she’d arrived in Boulder. “I’m just struggling to understand what, exactly, Violet meant by her desperate language regarding my father. Quite honestly, I was under the impression that he was very ill.”

“He’s not a mmmman to show weakness, but I have caught him feeling poorly a couple of t-t-times.” His jaw visibly tensed. “Maybe Violet has been witness to more.”

Stepping up to the yawning porch that stretched in a lazy fashion at the front of the house, she tentatively padded over to the corner where the old porch swing hung.

“Your father sits there sometimes, after a long hard d-d-day.” His voice was low and laden with certain respect. “It’s a p-perfect place to see the sunset.”

Reaching from beneath the blanket, she ran her fingers over the weathered wood. Gave the swing a soft push. The familiar, faint creaking beckoned memories. She couldn’t even begin to count the times when her father would sit here and snuggle her close on crisp fall days. Like today.

“I’m surprised it’s still here, after all of these years,” she whispered, picturing her father sitting there reading to her from many a book or telling her a fascinating tale of honor, love, bravery. She’d developed a deep appreciation for literature because of him.

Zach cleared his throat, easing her from the memory. And for some very tangible reason, having him standing there, right beside her, gave her a solid sense of comfort.

“I d-d-did a little repair work on it a few months ago,” he forced out, the strained and determined way he worked to speak piercing her heart. “It’s as good as new.”

She swallowed past the emotion clogging her throat.

She’d wept a spring-flooded river of tears right on this swing when her father had announced that he was sending her to school in New York. Despite her protests and her insistence on staying, he’d stubbornly, almost angrily, ignored her request, saying that he knew what was best for her. The startling sting of that on the heels of her mama passing, and the blame he had cast Ivy’s way, had been indelibly written on her heart. No matter how much she’d prayed, it seemed the guilt only grew deeper and wider.

Pulling her hand from beneath the blanket, she willed herself to stay strong. She’d stick around for a while and make the best of the situation. When the time was right she’d return to New York, where she’d left behind friends, and the assistant editor position that was awaiting her at The Sentinel, and Neal—a gentleman she’d gone on several grand outings with.

“I’ll see you inside then g-get the rest of your things,” Zach said, easing her back to the moment. “Violet will have dinner ready shortly.”

She could do this. Surely after six years, her father would be pleased to see her.

Wouldn’t he?

The few letters he’d written over the years had been short and to the point, and after a time she’d found it easier to author the same kind of correspondence. He’d kept her bank account stuffed full, but he’d never once come to visit, nor had he suggested that she travel home for a stay.

She was very likely the last person he ever wanted to see.

At the moment, Ivy was grossly unsure of herself. She’d learned to live with her guilt, and had spent the past years abiding to every aspect of life with the tightest of reins. She’d been successful, and had flourished with strength and perseverance she didn’t even know she possessed. She couldn’t allow her fears and misgivings and guilt to override her good sense—not when she’d come so far.

“Let’s g-go inside, Ivy. Your father will want to see you.” When Zach gently grasped her arms and began directing her toward the front door, Ivy wrenched free from his touch, and from his misguided statement.

She pinned him with an admonishing glare, and from the way his brow creased in confusion, she knew she’d overreacted. But she was scared to death that if she softened to the comfort of his strong and sure presence, she’d crumble in the face of her guilt, losing the woman she’d become in order to survive.

Scared even more that, if she denied herself the comfort she yearned for, the comfort she found in his touch, she’d never make it through this homecoming.