The Long Road Home

“If it ain’t yours, it ain’t nobody’s.”

Nora’s face lightened.

“I suspect my niece was rude.”

Nora pinkened. It was obvious that straight talk was a Johnston trait. “Not rude, exactly. Maybe just honest.”

“What’d she say?”

“Let’s just say she has her doubts about my sticking around.” Nora looked around the room, and once again May spotted the uncertainty. “You can tell her this for me, though. I’m going to give it my best effort.”

May smiled, remembering the berry bushes.

“Glad to hear it. Well,” she said turning from the windows and taking a step forward. “I’d best be going before it gets too dark.” It took several plodding steps for her to cross the big room and several more to descend the steps to her car. She stopped at the door to catch her breath.

“Come down and visit sometime. I’m that blue-and-white trailer ’cross from Seth’s. We’ll have some coffee and we can plan a garden. Nothing like a garden to make a home permanent, I always say. That pasture up here would be perfect. Get some manure, some hay, throw some black plastic over it and wait till spring. Then we’ll put in the seeds. Put some perennials in, too. Nice showy ones, like hollyhock, rosy daisies, and lilies. They’ll give you pleasure and make you feel more at home way up here.”

Her eyes softened when she saw the eagerness in Nora’s expression. “Come on down, honey, and we’ll talk.”

Their eyes met and searched out what that innocuous invitation might mean to each of them.

To Nora, it meant a mentor. Someone who’d show her the ropes, the tricks of a woman living alone in the mountains. She was also deeply grateful to May for her first real welcome. No warnings, no threats. This invitation was as ingenuous and warm as the woman who extended it.

To May, it meant she’d found a possible ally in her campaign to heal Esther. God works in mysterious ways, she thought. Maybe he sent a MacKenzie to heal a wound a MacKenzie started.

“I will come, soon. I promise.” Nora fairly beamed.

Nora waved good-bye to May and watched the older woman rumble down the mountain out of view.

The nighthawk cried and Nora entered her home just as the sun set and a deep blue blanket covered the mountains.

7

NORA WOKE TO THE persistent cry of a finch outside her window. She yawned wide then allowed a sleepy smile to cross her face as she listened to the chirps. It seemed birds were to be her only friends up here.

Bringing her knees to her chest, she looked out the far window at the morning sky. The sun shone over the fog-laden mountains, the cool green rusting to orange red. On the grass, frost sparkled like diamonds as it caught shards of the morning light. She sighed and stretched her toes against the crisp old cotton sheets. The mountain had worked its magic. Observing the power of the surrounding nature, her problems seemed somehow lessened.

Nora peered at her bedroom. This was her favorite room. Like Heidi’s mountain loft, the ceiling was all angles that pitched dramatically beside long windows. Her big double bed, laden with down, was tucked in under one angle, making it cozy in the vast room. The other three fireplaces in the house were large and angular. Here, the fireplace was small, rosy bricked, and arched. A feminine touch in a masculine house. Everything about this room was charming rather than imposing; more a Swiss chalet in the mountains than a castle in the sky.

She slipped from her warm bed and walked to the window, opening it just a crack to let in the morning. The air was crisp, even cold, and carried the faint scent of pine. How she loved this view of the valley. The Danby mountain range rolled rather than jutted upward, so instead of a majestic feeling, the view was pastoral, calming. Across this valley she could see a red barn and silo, and black-and-white cows grazing in the vertical field. It reminded her of her childhood home in Wisconsin.

How long had it been since she felt this peaceful?

Three years. Yet she remembered, like yesterday, the evening she’d driven up here to surprise Mike, hoping to patch up a particularly nasty quarrel. In the backseat she’d packed a bottle of French brut champagne and a box of Belgian chocolates, very dark. She’d even brought a new nightgown of peach silk, the blatantly sexy kind that Mike liked but embarrassed her.

That warm June night three years ago, Nora had been determined to save her marriage. She had dreamed that maybe on this land that they had walked together, at this house that they had happily designed and worked on together, he’d remember, notice her, perhaps love her once again.

That dream fizzled as abruptly as the uncorked champagne. A surprise was what she had planned, and it was exactly what she got when she found Mike in the arms of another woman. In their home. In their bed.

He never even said hello. She never said good-bye.

Neither had ever returned. It was as though this house represented all that they once had valued and lost—or perhaps thrown away. This house that was filled with their heartiest laughs, their silliest dreams, their most precious confessions, and beloved possessions stood as a barren monument to their failed marriage.

She couldn’t come back—until now. And now she never wanted to leave.

Nora shivered and wrapped her arms tighter across her thin cotton gown. The cool air was moist and laden with dew. She leaned her head against the windowpane. Its touch was icy and seemed to pierce a third eye into the middle of her forehead. Dear God, she prayed as she closed the other two tightly, help me to forget. Help me to get past my anger and let me heal.

From the valley she heard the broken call of sheep, then from the road came the faint sound of crunching gravel. She craned her neck to peer at the winding drive, and soon she saw the figure of C.W. emerge from the tunnel of foliage. He was trudging up the hill at a steady pace. Gasping, she quickly checked the time: nine o’clock already. She wasn’t even dressed—this was hardly the impression she wanted to give.

Nora rushed across the cold plank floor to the antique cherry dresser and pulled open the heavy drawers. They creaked as they revealed their treasure of old sweaters and rolled wool socks. Most of them dated from her college days. She grabbed a pair of faded jeans and an old handknit sweater, scowling at the two small holes in the sleeve. Buy mothballs, she told herself as she pulled it over her head.

On her way to the bathroom, she slipped her feet into worn loafers and peeked out the window. He was almost at the house now. She splashed freezing tap water on her face and ran a brush through her thick hair, wincing when she grazed the purpling bump along her hairline. With a groan of frustration she set down the brush and in minutes, braided her hair with practiced hands. A final check in the mirror reflected an aura of organization.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she told herself as she flicked off the light.

She reached the kitchen as C.W. walked in. His tall frame filled the doorway as he scraped his muddy boots upon the mat. In the morning light, his handsome features were staggering. Perhaps it was the layers of shirts and jacket he wore against the changing fall temperatures that gave him a broad profile. Yet underneath the layers she guessed the muscles were as solid as the mountain. Instinctively her hand went to smooth her hair.

Nora always liked the look of a man in jeans. Men in well-tailored suits evoked an image of an intellectual power. Wealth. Theirs was a seductive lure, the hint of romantic dinners and intimate talk.

Men in jeans evoked the image of a physical power. Raw and earthy. Like the jeans, they were tough, rugged—roughriders. C.W.’s jeans stretched taut from hip to hip, and she could follow the curved line of his thigh muscle up to the groin.

He straightened, stretching his shoulders wide, and met her gaze. Nora blushed and looked down, wildly wondering if he’d caught her perusal.

“Glad to see that you’re on your feet,” he said. “I was worried about you and wanted to be sure you’re all right.” His voice was low and he spoke with deliberate slowness.

“I’m perfectly all right. Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine, really.” She felt ridiculous, stammering like a schoolgirl and rubbing her hands.

In contrast, C.W. seemed relaxed, leaning against the doorframe and barely concealing his amusement. This was her house, she told herself. Why was she on edge? She leaned against the refrigerator to appear equally casual, but immediately felt self-conscious and righted herself.

An awkward silence fell between them. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. She tapped her foot, looked out the window, felt a blush creeping up her neck. Then, not able to withstand the silence or his watchful gaze any longer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Thank you for leaving the coffee this morning. At least, I assume it was you.” She laughed, then felt childish.

He straightened and headed for the hot coffee. “It was nothing.” Hand on the pot, he asked, “Mind if I have some?”

“Not at all. It’s your coffee, after all. Oh, and thank you for the fire, too,” she added, walking in its direction. She stuck out her hands and made a show of warming them over the heat. “It was very thoughtful.”

“No problem,” he answered between gulps, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You’ll have to keep that thing stoked up, not only for yourself but so the pipes don’t freeze. That would be a real mess. And expensive.”

Nora made another mental note.

“If you’re cold, why don’t you just turn on the heat up here?”

“Because it costs a fortune to heat this white elephant with electric heat.”

C.W. raised an eyebrow. Why would the expense bother her now, after all these years? MacKenzie should have left her set for life. Well set. What was going on here? His suspicions tingled but he dismissed them. For all he knew, she was one of those tightwads who was always flicking off lights and squeezing a penny, not because they didn’t have one, but because they were terrified of losing one.

C.W. looked over at Nora as she warmed her hands. No, she didn’t look like the penny-pinching type. She was, in fact, his type. Simple, natural; a beauty so assertive it did not require a fashion statement. If she fattened up a bit, she’d fill out those jeans nicely, he thought. She had one of those bodies that looked great in jeans. Her thighs were long and her hips were small and firm. Soft mounds rose and fell under her baggy sweater, and beneath all that wool was the slender form that he had felt the day before. Knowing it was there, beneath all the layers, added to her quiet seductiveness. Even her feet were small and tucked in scuffed loafers. Where had she been all those years in New York? He’d have remembered her.