A Montana Homecoming

Laurel would be better off if she couldn’t remember Calhoun’s place. Or his barn.

“Your wife doesn’t run Tiff’s anymore?” For all of Laurel’s childhood, her mother had been employed as a maid at the bed-and-breakfast operated by Beau’s second wife, Holly.

“She passed away some time ago,” Beau said quietly.

Laurel pressed her hand to her chest, dismayed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Her conversation—if one could call it that—with Shane hadn’t gotten to such matters. And she hadn’t talked with anyone else in town since she’d arrived.

“No reason you would, child,” he assured gently. “But she’d be pleased as punch to see you back in Lucius. Hadley took over running Tiff’s after we lost her mother, but she got married not long ago to Dane Rutherford, and now Evie’s trying her organized little hand at it.”

Laurel paused at the name. “Dane Rutherford?”

Beau grinned, his eyes brightening again with amusement. “The Dane Rutherford. Didn’t they have newspapers where you lived? Sure did make the news around these parts.”

“I’ll bet,” Laurel murmured. The Rutherford name was as familiar as Rockefeller and Kennedy. She shook her head, amazed. Hadley was a few years younger than Laurel and had always had her nose in a book. How on earth had she met someone like Dane Rutherford? “Well…wow.”

“He puts his pants on one leg at a time, too,” Beau assured mildly. “So far he seems good enough for my Hadley. And then there’s Shane, of course. He’s the sheriff, if you can believe it.”

Her face felt a little hot. They stepped aside to let a woman bearing a flat of daisies pass. “I know. He told me my father started going to church.”

“You’ve talked to Shane?” Beau was obviously surprised.

“He stopped by the house yesterday.” And surprised her greatly by not coming by that morning as threatened.

“He didn’t mention that when I saw him this morning at the hospital.”

Her nerves jangled. “Hospital?”

“Nasty three-car accident on the south side of town. Aside from handling the reports and such, he’s friends with one of the women who got hit. He’s probably still there.”

Even as relief that Shane was at the hospital in his official capacity doused her nerves, an odd sense she couldn’t quite identify took its place. “I hope she’s all right.” Shane obviously hadn’t been as unsettled by their encounter as she had been, or he’d have mentioned it to his father.

“Fortunately, no one was seriously injured,” Beau said, mercifully oblivious to Laurel’s undeniable sense of…what? Pique? Disappointment? Relief? “Now, what about you? Your father said once that you’d become a teacher.”

Laurel nodded. In a way she was as surprised that her father had told anyone anything about her as she was that he’d evidently found religion. “Elementary education. I, um, I’ve been at a school in Denver—Clover Elementary—teaching third grade.”

“Surprised you’re not teaching music.”

She shook her head. She hadn’t sung in public since the day her mother died.

Fortunately, Beau let that topic lie as he surveyed the items in her cart. “Looks like you’re planning on exercising your elbows a bit.”

“I’m staying at Dad’s place. It needs some work.” He probably knew that.

“Well, if you decide you prefer staying elsewhere, you just give Evie a call. I know she can come up with a room for you at Tiff’s that would be comfortable.”

Whether or not she could, Laurel wouldn’t be able to afford it. Not even if Tiff’s room rates hadn’t budged a dime in the past decade. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Beau’s smile was ever kind, as if he’d divined her thoughts perfectly. “It’s good to have you back, Laurel. Everything is going to be fine.” He hugged her shoulder. “Now. We’ll need to talk about the service for your father sooner or later, but I can see you’re plenty busy and I’m on my way over to the hospital for my afternoon visitations. You just let me know when you’re ready to talk about it, and I’m at your disposal. In the meantime, though, you can still call me if you need anything at all.”

Why it was so much easier to take that advice from Beau than it was from his son, Laurel didn’t know. But where she’d bristled at Shane’s command, she was touched now by Beau’s concern, and she gave him a hug back. “I will. Thank you.”

He gave her a little wink and headed down the wide aisle.

Laurel finished loading up her cart. She appreciated Beau’s matter-of-factness about her father’s service. Her father had died nearly a week ago. The attorney who’d contacted her had informed her that the funeral home would simply wait for instructions from her. The only rush for a funeral and burial would be whatever rush Laurel felt.

And she didn’t really know what she felt.

So she concentrated on the immediate reality.

Her father’s house was a pigsty. And she needed to clean away the mess left by years of neglect before she could begin to figure out what repairs the structure needed. Then maybe she’d consult a real estate agent.

She made her purchases and headed back to her father’s home. On Main Street she passed the busy-looking garage and auto-body shop that undoubtedly was the one Beau had mentioned Stu ran.

The sheriff’s office was a little ways up the road. She didn’t allow herself much more than a glance that told her the brick-fronted building hadn’t changed during her absence.

She passed the Luscious Lucius, which used to serve up the best breakfasts she’d ever had, and which—judging by the cars parked in front of it—was still doing a fine business for lunch.

A little further, beyond the businesses, she passed Tiff’s. The enormous Victorian house looked just as distinctive as it always had, its sharp angles softened by curlicues and lace. The colors hadn’t changed, either, over the years; still an eye-popping combination of pink and green.

It seemed hard to believe that Beau’s wife was gone now. That Evie was running it. Laurel’s memories of Evie were of a light-hearted blond beauty more interested in winning the county science fair than helping with her stepmother’s business.

At her father’s house she parked in the cracked driveway bordered by overgrown weeds, yellow grass and bare dirt. There was no point in trying to enter the small, detached garage that sat next to the square house. It was filled to the rafters with about a million years of old newspapers and other junk. Her father’s rusting pickup truck was parked in the center of it all, and since there was nothing under the hood but cobwebs and yawning space, the pickup wasn’t going anywhere.

She unloaded her trunk, dumping everything on the porch next to the front door and nearly tripped over the cat that appeared out of nowhere. The animal yowled and streaked around the side of the house.

Probably belonged to the owner of the lovely rambling house built high on the hill behind her father’s. The house certainly hadn’t been there when Laurel was growing up, and as far as Laurel could determine, it was the only thing new in this area.

She eyed the worn, tired house where she’d grown up. A person would have to be desperate to buy it in its current state when there was an entirely new and modern development on the other side of Lucius.

A person might have to be desperate to stay in it.

She pushed aside the thought. She wasn’t desperate. She was just…at loose ends.

After unloading the trunk, Laurel went inside the house, stepping over the porch steps. She’d already made the mistake of stepping too firmly on one. It had creaked ominously. The treads would definitely have to be replaced before some unwary soul went right through them.

How had her father lived here this way? As if he’d just given up on having any sort of decent home a long time ago?

She grabbed the box of trash bags she’d purchased and went inside. She’d start upstairs and work her way down.

It was a nice, sensible plan, and just having a plan made her feel better.

She went up the narrow staircase and paused at the first closed door. Her parents’ bedroom. She hadn’t gone in there yet. She started to reach for the iron knob. But her stomach clenched, and she curled her fingers into a fist, lowering her hand.

Later. She could clean out that room later.

She went into the only other bedroom. Her own. The narrow bed still had the afghan her grandmother had given her for her eighth birthday, folded neatly at the foot. The ancient student desk where she’d done her homework still stood beneath the single window that overlooked the front yard.

Nothing had changed since she’d been a girl. Yet everything here—as in the rest of the house—was covered with the thick layer of years of neglect.