It seemed impossible that Josh was dead. Her brain knew that he was dead, but her heart was still having trouble accepting that he was actually gone. He would have turned fifty in April, she had teased him about the big five-oh, but as far as she knew he had been in excellent health, which made his death all the more senseless. Why, she wondered for the hundredth time since Michael Sawyer had called with the devastating news of Josh's death, had he killed himself? She was positive that there had been no hint, nothing that would have alerted her to the fact that he was depressed, that he planned to kill himself when she had last spoken to him. She hesitated. Except, now that she considered it, for those few odd comments at the beginning of their conversation…She shook her head. She was just being fanciful—trying to read something into nothing. He had sounded, she decided firmly, his usual cheerful self, and mostly they had talked about what a great time they'd had together in February during Mardi Gras when he'd flown out to visit. The phone call had ended with his promise to call her the following week. And three days later, he had ridden to Pomo Ridge on his favorite horse and shot himself in the old family hunting shack.
Her breath caught, pain knifing through her. Thinking of her laughing, pleasure-loving brother, it seemed inconceivable that Josh had killed himself. But if he hadn't killed himself…She frowned. Did she really think that he
hadn't
killed himself? The coroner's report had stated clearly that his death had not been accidental—one didn't accidentally shoot oneself in the temple. So that left what? Murder? Had someone else placed the pistol at his temple and pulled the trigger? A shudder went through her. The notion of Josh being murdered was just as hard to accept as the idea that he had killed himself.
Everyone
loved Josh! Her mouth twisted. Except, of course, the Ballingers.
The warm milk was having the effect she had hoped for, and, yawning, she finally made it upstairs to bed. Snuggled in bed, she let her thoughts drift, forcing her mind away from Josh. It was weird to be lying here with no screaming sirens, no honking horns or the sound of swishing, screeching tires on pavement to disturb the silence. And the darkness! It was complete, only the stars winking in the sky overhead splintering the blackness. There were no streetlights, no flashing neon signs, and no headlights spearing through the darkness to disrupt the black velvet cloak of night. She'd forgotten that. The utter lack of light was almost unnerving, but she stilled the impulse to turn on a lamp. The lack of sound, too, was strange and, at first, it bothered her, the only noises she heard just the natural creak and squeak of the house. As the minutes passed, the night and the silence began its magic, just as it had when she was a child—she'd forgotten that, too. Oh, how she had missed the soft quiet, the soothing dark, and she suddenly wondered how she had stood all the blaring noise, the constant bustle and glaring light that was New Orleans.
This
, she thought drowsily,
is where I belong. This is my home. My roots.
It wasn't something she could explain. She had been away from home for a long, long time and though she had told herself there was nothing in Oak Valley for her, there had always been a faint persistent longing to see the valley again. To see if it was as lovely as she remembered—the sky as blue, the creeks and streams as crystal clear and the trees as green. She'd been aware of a growing need to see if the people were as friendly and dear as her memories of them. And to learn if others were as treacherous as she remembered. Even before Josh's death, she'd touched once or twice on the idea of coming back to Oak Valley. A frown marred her forehead. Now that she thought of it, Josh had not seemed thrilled at the notion. He had not precisely discouraged her, but he hadn't
en
couraged her either.
So why was she back? Especially now when there was no real reason to return? She had a good life in New Orleans. She was successful, and she had friends and a family, albeit distant, who lived there. Her closest, dearest relative was dead. Mike Sawyer would see to it that the Granger holdings in Oak Valley were properly handled. Looking at it logically, except to spread Josh's ashes, she could not think of one reason why she was here. Except that I want to be, she finally admitted. I have wanted to come back home ever since I left. And she realized something else rather disturbing: It was Josh's death that had finally allowed her to return. All these years away, while she had been telling herself how much she loved New Orleans, how happy she was with her career and friends, she had been merely marking time, waiting for the moment she could return. There had been, she admitted, a part of her that had lain dormant like a daffodil waiting for spring to arrive. Had she been waiting for the sweet warmth of the sun, the return to Oak Valley, before bursting out of the cold ground and into life again? Her lips twisted. Well, since she seemed to think she was a damned flower, was spring really just around the corner? Or was winter still lurking in the wings? She shook her head. One thing was sure: She'd soon find out.
L
ong after Shelly Granger's Bronco had disappeared from view, the driver of the vehicle that had disturbed her sat there staring at the darkness, his hands clenching the steering wheel as if it were the only thing between him and annihilation. He was a handsome man even though his features were not conventionally handsome. His nose was too big, his mouth too wide, the chin stubborn and the amber-gold eyes beneath a pair of winged black brows had been known to stop a man in his tracks at ten yards. There was nothing open and friendly about his face, the features hard and controlled, and yet it was a face that most people trusted and had, to date, never found their trust misplaced—twisted perhaps, but never misplaced. At the moment that face wore an expression that would not have engendered trust in anyone; in fact, anyone seeing that expression would have crossed the street and given him a wide berth. His size and build alone would have given most people pause; he stood six-foot-four in his bare feet, and his wide shoulders and muscled forearms made one instantly think of a steel worker and not the business executive he was. He fit the word
brawny
to perfection—muscular, strong, powerful.
Several more minutes passed as he stared in the direction of Shelly's disappearing taillights, then he took a deep breath and guided the big silver-and-black Suburban into the turnout so recently vacated by Shelly and turned off the ignition. He sat there frozen, his gaze blank. Then he shook his head. Shelly Granger. Christ on a mule! Shelly was the last person he ever expected to see—or wanted to see.
Levering his long body out of the vehicle, Sloan Ballinger walked to the edge of the overlook and stared down at the vast darkness of the valley floor. The twinkling lights that signaled habitation were sparse and widespread, except for the cluster of lights that marked the town of St. Galen's near the north end of the valley. From the location of the lights strung out along the lone road that cut through the middle of the valley, he could recite the names of all who lived there, for how many generations, the acreage and what was raised; sheep, cattle, horses, pears, hay, or alfalfa…and who was a newcomer or weekender and who wasn't. It was one of the blessings, or curses, of having been born and raised in the valley—as well as having ancestors that were among the first white people to settle the area.
His lips thinned. The Grangers had arrived first, followed within a year or two by the Ballingers—and they'd been at each other's throats ever since, he thought grimly. He reached for the pack of cigarettes that used to rest in his left-hand pocket and made a face when his fingers found nothing but empty space. He'd quit smoking ten years ago and generally didn't miss it, but sometimes he still automatically reached for a cigarette. Mostly from habit, he admitted, and mostly in times of stress. He shook his head. Who'd have thought that seeing Shelly Granger's face after seventeen years, he'd recognize her in an instant and would feel as if he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. Jesus! He'd damn near kill for a cigarette about now.
She had changed in seventeen years—they all had, he conceded, thinking of the sprinkling of silver throughout his own thick thatch of black hair and the faint sun creases that radiated from the corners of his eyes—but she hadn't changed much. Her hair was still a wild, curly, tawny mane that framed those high cheekbones and stubborn chin, her skin looked just as honey-hued and smooth as he remembered. His mouth tightened—and probably felt just as silky as it had been when she'd been eighteen. He hadn't been able to see the color of her eyes, but he remembered them. Oh, yeah, he remembered them all right; the way they could gleam like emeralds or freeze over, making them look like frosty green glass.
Very
frosty green glass. Yeah, he remembered. There wasn't much about Shelly that he didn't re-member—or that bastard, Josh. His attitude toward Josh was that the world was a better place without him in it. A lot better.
He snorted. You'd think that after 150 or so years of living side by side that the Ballingers and Grangers would have come to some sort of meeting of the ways. A bitter laugh came from him. Might happen, but he wouldn't put money on it.
The two families had been feuding since York Ballinger and his younger brother, Sebastian, had arrived in Oak Valley in 1867, after the Civil War. Almost immediately they had begun to carve out an empire—which had inevitably led to the locking of horns with Jeb Granger, who had settled with the surviving members of his family in the valley the previous year. York had been a major in the Union Army and Jeb Granger had held the same rank…in the Confederate Army. The scars and bitterness instilled in each man during the War Between the States had been too recent, too deep for either man to put aside, and predictably it had led to trouble. Right from the git-go they'd tangled over right-of-ways and water rights, and in the ensuing years, the families had squabbled over timber grants, cattle vs. sheep…You name it, they'd argued over it. It wasn't long before the pattern was set, and everyone in Oak Valley and for fifty miles around knew that if a Granger was for it, a Ballinger would be against it…or vice versa. Sloan's expression grew bleaker as he thought of Shelly and their aborted affair. And, of course, they'd fought over women now and then.
He took a deep breath. So forget about it. So you shared a tumble or two when you were both young and consumed by hormones. That's all it had been, a lustful mating of two young healthy animals, remember? To his everlasting disgust, he did remember—too goddamn well, for his own liking. And, Jesus, he wished he had a cigarette.
The past wasn't something that he dwelled on. Irritated with himself and most especially with his reaction to the mere glimpse of Shelly Granger, Sloan spun on his heels and climbed back into the big Suburban.
The weight of a small warm body landing in his lap immediately softened his bleak expression. A pair of paws hit his chest, and a damp tongue caressed his cheek. His mood lightened, and he grinned down into the luxuriously be-whiskered face of a tiny silver-and-black miniature schnauzer female. Two expressive black eyes regarded him fixedly from beneath a pair of overhanging silver eyebrows.
“OK. OK. I know you're there and anxious for us to reach the cabin,” he muttered, as he ran a hand over her haunches, wondering not for the first time how he had ended up with a bearded and mustached dog no bigger than a cat. Fastidious as a cat, too, and as arrogant and demanding—and downright prissy in the bargain, Sloan admitted with a grin. Pandora was certainly not the sort of dog he had ever thought to own…or the sort of dog he had thought to be owned by!
Away from the boardrooms and offices of Ballinger Development, headquartered in Santa Rosa, Sloan was an avid rider and outdoorsman, his heart firmly lodged in Oak Valley and the sprawling ranch that his many-times-greatgrandfather, York, had first torn from the wilderness. In York's day and for some generations after that, the Ballingers had raised cattle and logged the forests, but in the last fifteen or so, under Sloan's guidance, they had begun to raise horses. Very,
very
expensive horses—American paint horses of impeccable lineage and breathtaking performance abilities—as anyone who had seen them cut cattle could attest. Being a big, athletic man, used to hard, physical work when it was called for and with his rock-carved features, he wouldn't have hesitated to say that his taste in dogs ran to the larger and more robust. If it had been a rottweiler or pit bull sharing the vehicle with him, no one would have thought it strange—least of all Sloan.
It was all Samantha's fault, he thought as he avoided another swipe of the pink tongue, and it had come about a couple of years ago when he had driven up to his youngest sister's house on the outskirts of Novato to wish her a happy trip to Mexico. She was flying down the next day to visit the Mexican branch of the family for an extended stay—her marriage had ended two months previously, and Sloan had thought that it would be a good idea for her to get away for a while. Not only had he stopped by to wish her a good trip, but he'd wanted to be easy in his own mind that she was definitely going to be on the plane tomorrow and hadn't slid back into the blue funk she'd been in since the divorce. She'd looked fine, happier than he had seen her in several months. He was just congratulating himself on his clever engineering of getting her away for a while when he had found himself gingerly holding a tiny black ball of fur.
As a hobby Sam showed and raised miniature schnauzers, specializing in the uncommon black and silvers. Sloan knew that the puppy was out of Sam's favorite bitch, Gemini, a finished champion—he'd been by to admire the litter several times during the past weeks, using the puppies as an excuse to check on Sam's well-being. Not a stupid man, he had felt alarm flags fly all over the place when he looked down at the little creature leaning confidingly against his chest and then across at his sister's expectant features.
“Uh, is there a reason I'm standing here holding this fur-ball? I thought you'd sold all of them.”