By the time they reached the town barn, it was already beginning to fill up with everybody who had waited a whole month to enjoy the much loved and familiar pastime. The whole place was buzzing with excitement and Katie, much to her own annoyance, was sure she could feel it.

  “Sure is a popular event, huh?” Clay said loudly in her ear as they walked along side-by-side behind Charlotte and Marlon.

  “Probably because it’s one of the only events, Clay.” She laughed and shrugged. “Nothing much changes.”

  “I don’t think I ever came to the barn dance before I left to join the army.”

  “No, I don’t think you did,” Katie said, trying to picture an eighteen-year-old Clay, the most taciturn and surly of young men, enjoying himself at the town dance.

  “What are you laughing at?” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.

  “I was just trying to imagine you as a young man of eighteen actually enjoying himself.”

  “I guess I was a real pain to be around back then.” His smile was a little chagrined but otherwise comfortable and easy.

  “I don’t know, I suppose so if I look back at those days. But when I was just a little girl, I don’t think I found you much of a pain,” Katie said honestly. “I was a bit more determined back then.”

  “So, I guess you find me a pain now?”

  “Maybe a little, but I doubt that’s your fault.” Katie looked over to her mother who was now in deep conversation with Trinity Goodman, with their respective husbands striking up a little talk of their own. “You’ve been a real help on the farm if I’m honest,” she continued, not wanting their conversation to become too deep too soon.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Yes, please,” she said and the two began to make their way to the punchbowls. “Just a fruit one please, Clay.”

  “No strong liquor for you, then?”

  “I just don’t like it,” she said simply.

  As Clay turned his attention to the punchbowls, Katie looked idly about the barn. Bo and Christie Henderson appeared in her view almost without warning. They were some yards away, and something about seeing them there so suddenly was a little surprising. Maybe it was because she had forgotten all about them while in conversation with Clay. She certainly hadn’t been as vigilant as she ordinarily would have in the circumstances.

  But the sight of them had given her a jolt to the stomach and she wished she had been on-point, as she always was, so that she would have been better prepared. Of course, the moment Christie Henderson set eyes on her she did as she always did; she gripped her husband’s hand and moved closer to him.

  What on earth did Christie think Katie was going to do after all these years? Did she really think that Katie would slide on over there and do what she could to take her man back? Not for all the world would Katie ever entertain the idea of Bo Henderson again. Of course, like the rest of the town, Christie assumed that a twenty-seven-year-old Katie must surely be pining for the man who ought to have been her husband. That was what she had been trying to explain to her mother; that was what nobody understood. She wasn’t hiding from her old heartbreak; it was the humiliation of such a public rejection. The truth was, even if she had been waiting at the altar for a man she didn’t love at all, the humiliation would have been the same. It would have been just as hard to shake.

  “Is that him?” Clay said, appearing suddenly with their drinks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m guessing that the woman who is peering over at you with mistrust is the same woman who married that fool, Bo Henderson,” Clay said, surprising her; for him to know Bo’s name must surely mean that he had done a little digging.

  “Yes, that’s Christie Henderson,” Katie said, wishing that Clay hadn’t noticed any of it.

  Why was there no end to this? Even Clay had to get in on the humiliation.

  “She looks a little jumpy,” Clay said with a laugh, holding out his arm for her to take. “Maybe because she knows she couldn’t trust that husband of hers to stray ten feet beyond the porch without his eyes wandering.”

  “You’re picking up an awful lot from a simple glance, Clay,” Katie said and sighed, taking his arm for there was nothing else she could do. “Either that or you’re just making it up.”

  “Does it matter either way?”

  “I suppose not,” she said and could feel his rumbling laughter rather than hear it.

  She had taken his arm and he pulled her in a little close so that she was almost leaning against him as they walked. Everything seemed to be happening without her input and, before she knew it, Clay was walking her along in the direction of Bo and Christie. When she realized that he meant to parade her past them, she wanted to object. However, it would have been obvious to Christie, who was still eyeing her surreptitiously, and Katie knew that she would simply have to weather the storm, so to speak.

  “What did you do that for?” Katie asked waspishly some moments after they had passed the pair and made their way back in the direction of their respective parents.

  “Why shouldn’t you hold your head up, Katie? Would you rather hide in a corner for the rest of the night?”

  “Who said anything about hiding?” she asked, feeling her annoyance rise and shaking her arm free from his in demonstrable protest.

  “Is there anything in this world that you wouldn’t find some way to be angry at me for? I ask only out of interest,” he replied and she could see the rise and fall of his shoulders and knew that he was stifling laughter.

  “You’re just poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong is all, Clay. I think the two of us would get along much better if we stuck to the subject of farming.”

  “There’s more to life than farming, Katie,” he said, staring right into her face in a way which made her forget her anger for just a moment.

  She was certain he had looked just that way in the moments before he had attempted to reach for her. Surely, he would not attempt it again.

  “I’m sure there is, Clay, I am just not in the mood to talk about any of it now.”

  “Do you still love him?” he asked, almost flooring her with his directness.

  “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” Katie said, completely exasperated.

  “So, you do, then?”

  “No, I don’t.” Katie was pleased that her tone was not one of pointless objection. “And I am glad, now, not to be married to Bo. It just doesn’t make it any easier though, does it? When half the town is waiting for you to blush and look ashamed as you remember how you were rejected in front of everybody, how are you supposed to enjoy yourself?”

  “By ignoring it.”

  “Oh, simple as that, is it?” It was Katie’s turn fix him with a fierce glare.

  She realized that it was so much easier to stare at Clay when she was angry with him. The rest of the time he was simply too distracting, especially since she was fighting harder and harder against the growing attraction for him.

  Maybe that was what had kept her mind off Bo and Christie, at least before she had set eyes on them, at any rate. Clay had certainly put in a little effort for the evening, with thick black trousers, white shirt, and a black waistcoat. He didn’t wear a hat like so many others, for it seemed that he could leave the farm behind. As for the rest of the men in the barn, Katie thought that one could easily pick out their occupation even in their mode of dress for a night of dancing. But Clay Horton was not quite so easy to read; not in any respect.

  “If you concentrated on something else, yes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Come on, let’s dance,” he said and held out his hand.

  “I don’t dance, Clay,” Katie said, stoically keeping her own arms by her sides.

  “You don’t want to, or you don’t know how to?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Then, you can actually dance, can you?” he asked, a lazy grin spreading across his handsome face.

  “Of course, I can dance,” Katie said defensively.

  “You see, I don’t quite believe that.” Clay’s expression changed again, this time into something a little more mischievous.

  “You can believe it or not, I don’t care.”

  “You do care, you’re defensive.”

  “I’m going to find somebody else to talk to.”

  “No, stay with me,” he said and finally reached out to grasp her hand. “Dance with me,” he said, pulling her toward him.

  Katie’s heartbeat began to quicken when she realized that she could feel a little warmth coming from his body; he really had pulled her in close.

  “I do know how to dance, Clay, I just don’t want to.”

  “No, no,” he said and slowly shook his head, still grinning. “I still don’t believe you. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to prove it.” And with that he hastily pulled her towards the dancefloor.

  Before she had a moment to object, Katie Clements was spinning. Clay had taken her in his arms and was propelling her around the dancefloor, carefully avoiding the little groups of country dancers and keeping Katie all to himself.

  As they made their way, Katie realized that Clay was a very good dancer indeed. She remembered what a good dancer she’d been when she still found pleasure in such things.

  “So, you were telling the truth,” he said directly into her ear as he continued to twirl her this way and that. “You really can dance.” When he chuckled, she could feel it in her own bones.

  “You’re impossible,” Katie said finally. It was all she could think to say.

  “Good.” He was looking into her eyes again.

  As they continued to dance by themselves, Katie was vaguely aware of the group they were dancing around. She let her eyes stray and could see Christie Henderson, her face intent and a little drawn, peering at her husband who was now standing opposite another lady in the formation. The dance had moved on and a little group had made the first of their changes in partners.

  Maybe Clay was right; perhaps Christie Henderson couldn’t trust Bo at all. If she couldn’t, it was certainly going to be a long dance for her.

  “What are you laughing at?” Clay asked, planting his hand firmly in the small of her back as they continued to dance.

  “I was just thinking it’s going to be a long night for Christie Henderson.”

  “Forget about Christie Henderson,” Clay said and twirled her clear across the dancefloor until she could no longer see hide nor hair of the two people who had once broken her heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Some days later, Clay smirked to himself as he made his way toward the wide wooden doors of the saloon bar. Though he wasn’t one to frequent a saloon, he had a purpose today for visiting one. Or, at least he thought he did.

  Sitting down with his father the night before, he’d asked exactly how much they were paid for the produce of the farm. It felt awkward, wrong, and absolutely none of his business, and yet he couldn’t move forward without the information. In moving forward, Clay would find a way to be closer to the father he had essentially walked out on so many years before.

  He still felt guilty about leaving them all to handle it for so long; guilty about the way he had left, and guilty about the years of worry he had undoubtedly handed to his father. And not just his father, but to Charlotte also.

  The guilt he felt for the way he had treated his father’s wife was easily as intense as that for the way he had treated his father. He remembered well how he had shunned Charlotte all those years ago, how he had been so determined not to have an ounce of caring for her. If only he’d been smart enough to explain it all to them at the time, instead of waiting eighteen years and wondering how on earth he could begin to tell them about it now.

  But if Clay had learned anything in all the years trailing from place to place, fighting for what he believed in and losing friends along the way, it had been the art of introspection. He never wanted to be that young man again; he never wanted to be at the mercy of unexplored feelings of dread and loss. No, Clay wanted to keep on top of it all, to never stop looking inward for the answers, for he knew that they were all found there. It was the same for everyone; only in quiet stillness could the truth be found.

  And in just such a moment of quiet stillness, Clay had realized that he needed to feel like he belonged. His father and Charlotte had done nothing to make him feel otherwise, and he knew it was his own sense of guilt and the long-held wish he had done things differently was holding him back. He could only belong by his own doing—and nobody else’s. Not even that firecracker, Katie, who could lull him into a sense of security one moment with her easy talk and, in the next, scowl at him and push him away.

  And if he hadn’t been the very same once upon a time, he might have thought a little less of her for it. But Clay knew that pain and loss could become a habit—it had been his own habit for a long time, after all. It was such a habit, however, that rendered each day as painful as the last, never allowing true healing to take place. That was where Katie was, and he knew it as he had been there, himself.

  So, Clay had decided that nothing better than heading forward would bring about that self-induced feeling of belonging. He had decided to act upon the feelings of disquiet he’d felt when Katie had told him how produce prices had gone down of late. In a time where the local economy was good, why was it that farmers could no longer command good prices for their goods? It was a thought which had hovered on the outer edges of his mind for weeks, but one he had not particularly studied, thinking it to be none of his business.

  But if he was ever going to belong, then the farm and everything that happened on it would have to become his business.

  “What can I get you?” The gruff bartender raised one eyebrow.

  “Just a beer, please,” Clay said and smiled, settling himself down on a high-legged stool at the bar.

  The saloon bar was chock full of the very people he wanted to speak to. He wondered if they would talk to him immediately, or if he would have to wait until they’d done a little bit more drinking and their suspicions, and therefore their defenses, were down.

  He sipped his beer slowly, not wanting to find himself in the same state as everybody else. He needed to be smart; he needed to keep his wits about him.

  In the end, he struck up an easy conversation with another man at the bar. The man’s companion had just staggered away, leaving him there all alone just as Clay was.

  “He likes a drink, your buddy?” Clay said with a chuckle and was pleased when the man chuckled likewise.

  “Likes it a little too much I reckon,” the man said, his red cheeks and watery eyes suggesting that he was not far behind himself. “But he knows when to stop. I guess that’s all anybody can ask of a man, isn’t it?”

  “I reckon so,” Clay said and took another determinedly small gulp of his beer.

  “New in town, are you? Don’t reckon I’ve seen you before,” the man said and openly studied Clay.

  The wonders of alcohol; ordinary manners just flew right out of the window.

  “Clay Horton,” Clay said and stuck out his hand.

  “Horton? You’d be Marlon’s boy, wouldn’t you?” The man gripped his hand with bear-like strength.

  Clay winced; he’d known soldiers with less ambient strength than that.

  “That’s right.” Clay’s wince softened into a smile.

  “Jed,” The man said, introducing himself. “Jed Davies.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “So, what’s your business, Jed? Rancher?” Clay asked, not wanting to guess him as a farmer immediately.

  He knew it was ridiculous, avoiding suspicion over something so simple, but Clay suddenly became acutely aware of just how much he wanted this to work, just how much he wanted to help his family.

  “No, I’m a farmer,” Jed said and swallowed down the last of his liquor.

  “Another whiskey?” Clay asked amiably, hurriedly gulping down his own drink and raising his eyebrows at the bartender.

  “Thanks,” Jed said and nodded. “So, you’re going to be staying, are you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You were a soldier, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m done with that now.”

  “Oh, farming for you, is it?” As soon the bartender set down Jed’s whiskey, he reached for it.

  “I don’t know, maybe. I’m not sure yet how much money is in it. And I reckon I’m all right at the physical stuff, it’s the rest of it, you know?” The time had come for Clay to be as nonchalant as possible. “I mean, I don’t even know how much a sack of potatoes goes for.” He laughed self-deprecatingly and shrugged.

  “All that will come easy enough,” Jed said and chuckled. “As long as you can put your back into the hard work, that’s the main thing. No good knowing the price of a cabbage if you don’t have the sense to grow one, right?” Jed laughed all the harder, clearly appreciating his own joke.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Clay said and raised his glass.

  Maybe he was going to have to oil Jed Davies a little more before he got to the information he wanted.

  In the end, it had taken three more whiskeys for Clay to find out just what all the other farmers in town were getting for their produce. Just as he had suspected, it was a good deal more than his father was getting for his.

  A sense of injustice bubbled up within him and, leaving his new-found friend to nurse yet one more whiskey, Clay clapped him hard on the shoulder and bid him a good night. He didn’t need to stay longer; he didn’t need to speak to all the other farmers to know that the only person who was being short-changed in town was Marlon Horton.

  He needed to walk it off, not the beer, but the bile. There had to be a reason that the buyers were offering a lower price to his father and, despite the light fog of alcohol, Clay was certain that he knew exactly what that was. It was the sort of game, self-serving game, that he had rarely witnessed in the Army. There, people worked together, they had to. Every man relied on the man next to him, trusted him with his life.

  For a moment, he wondered how a man like Kirby Thornhill would have fared in the Army; not well, he figured, for everybody would have picked him out as a selfish man from the very beginning. Army men might not always be the smartest, but they had an instinct about such things.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10