Easter In Dry Creek

“I can’t take your job under false premises—” Clay started, suspecting the rancher would be happy to end this charade, too. He likely hadn’t wanted to make the offer in the first place. “So if you plan—”

“Hush,” the older man whispered. Then he turned and gave a worried glance at something behind the door. “We can talk later.” The man’s voice returned to normal. “You’ll want breakfast first. Right?”

Before Clay could answer, he heard a feminine gasp.

“Allie?” Clay whispered as he turned to the side. The main part of the kitchen was filled with shadows, but he’d know the sound of her voice anywhere.

In the darkness, he saw her. She stood off to the side by the refrigerator with a beat-up metal spatula braced in her arms like it was a sword and she was a warrior queen ready to defend her kingdom. She used to love to pretend at games like that. Garden rakes became horses. Leaves made a tiara. She’d told him once that she had wanted to be an actress when she was little. Of course, that was before she fell in love with horses. Then all she wanted was to work on this ranch for the rest of her life.

Clay wished he had a pencil in hand so he could sketch her. A thin glow of morning light was coming through the window, and it outlined her in gold. Her posture showed her outrage and her resolve. She wasn’t looking at him, though. Instead, her eyes were fastened on her father.

“I’m not cooking for him,” she announced as she jabbed the long-handled spatula in Clay’s general direction. It was a dismissive gesture. Then she crossed her arms, letting the metal implement stick out.

Well, Clay thought, trying to hide his smile, at least someone in Dry Creek believed in telling the truth as she saw it. He should be upset, but he couldn’t take his gaze off Allie. She’d always fascinated him. Gradually, however, as he studied her, he realized the young teen he’d known was all grown up. The girlish lines of her face were gone, and she had the sleekness of a sophisticated young woman even in the faded apron she wore tied around her denim jeans. Her auburn hair was thick and as unruly as he remembered, although she’d tried to pull it into some order and knot it at the back of her neck. The pink in her cheeks was no doubt due to the cold that had come in from the opened door, but it made her look impassioned.

“I don’t need to eat.” Clay spoke mildly, and then he swallowed. This new Allie made him feel self-conscious. He wished he had taken time to get a haircut before he left the prison. “I do have something to say, however—”

“It’ll do no good to say you are sorry,” Allie interrupted as she stepped closer and stood in the light of the open door. She gave him a withering look. “Words won’t make one bit of difference to Mark. And you should close the door.”

“Sorry,” Clay said as he reached behind him and did so. “But I wasn’t going to apologize.”

No one answered, and the tension in the room jumped higher. Clay figured a new haircut wouldn’t have made him look much better.

“Now, Allie,” Mr. Nelson finally said. “Clay’s a guest in this house. And, of course, he’s going to eat. Your mother wouldn’t send anyone away hungry. You know that.”

Allie turned to Clay, and he felt the air leave his lungs. She’d changed again. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose was the same, but her green eyes blazed. They showed the same fury that had consumed her at the trial. He had hoped the years would have softened her toward him.

“I’ll make you some toast and you can be on your way,” she finally said.

“I have no quarrel with you,” he answered quietly. He missed the girl who had been his friend. “Never did.”

“Nobody here is quarreling,” Mr. Nelson said firmly as he frowned at Allie. “We know how to be civil.”

Clay snuck another peak at Allie. The fire was gone from her eyes, but he did not like the bleakness that replaced it.

“I just want to explain,” Clay said then. There was so much he wanted to say to Allie, and this might be his only chance to say anything. But he had to be wise.

“You okay these days?” he asked.

She didn’t even blink.

He figured that all he could speak of was that night. “I should have convinced Mark to go back to the ranch earlier that night. But the robbery—it wasn’t my doing. That bottle of tequila wasn’t mine. I didn’t know Mark had it with him. I was driving. It was dark inside the cab of the pickup. I thought he was still drinking his bottle of beer. We each had one. And I was pumping fuel into the pickup when he took the rifle off the rack behind us and went into the gas station. I didn’t even see him at first. I had no idea what he planned.”

“Are you saying Mark was the one at fault?” The fire in her eyes came back. Her voice was clipped as she faced Clay squarely. “That you didn’t know anything about it?”

“I’m not saying he was at fault—” Clay stopped, unsure how to proceed. He didn’t need an apology for the way anyone had treated him. He didn’t want her to think that. He wanted her to believe him because she trusted him to tell the truth. Her opinion of him mattered, and he’d fight for it.

“It’s cowardly to blame Mark when he can’t even defend himself,” she said, her voice low and intense. “I know Mark, and I know he wouldn’t plan any robbery. It had to be you. I thought all those years in prison would have taught you to tell the truth if nothing else.”

Clay studied Allie’s face. She was barely holding on to her tears. He knew how that felt.

“I already knew how to tell the truth,” he said softly. “I had barely stepped inside the place when the rifle went off. Mark and the station clerk were already struggling with each other when I saw them—I told everyone that at the trial. That’s why all they could charge me with was being an accessory to the crime.”

Clay saw the battle inside Allie. She never liked fighting with anyone, but he could see she was determined to blast him away from here. At least her anger seemed to have pushed back her tears. He could take the hit if it made her feel better.

“You were judged guilty,” she said firmly. Her eyes flashed. “Everyone agreed. I don’t understand how you can stand there and pretend to be innocent.”

“I have no choice.” Clay hoped his face didn’t show his defeat. The two of them would never be friends again. Maybe they never had been. “I have to stand here and tell you what happened if I want you to know the truth. I’m sorry if you can’t accept it.”

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat as though he was going to speak. Clay held up his hand and looked at the older man. “I know my parole is tied to this job. If it doesn’t work out, you can call someone and they will contact the local sheriff—I’m assuming Carl Wall is the one here. Anyway, since the pickup is yours, I have to leave it here. The sheriff will see that I get back to prison. Thanks, too, for having the vehicle sent over. You can decide.”

Mr. Nelson was silent.

“You just got here,” the rancher finally mumbled, looking uncomfortable.

Clay nodded. He still wasn’t sure why he’d been asked to come, but he wasn’t going to stay if it was a problem. He’d learned his lesson about making sure he was wanted before he stayed anyplace.

“Everybody knows—” Allie started to say. She stopped when Clay looked at her.

“Everybody doesn’t know as much as they think they do,” he finally said.

She didn’t answer. It was so quiet in the kitchen that Clay thought he could hear the cat inside his coat purring. The heater in the pickup he’d driven over hadn’t worked very well, and the tabby was likely content just to be out of the cold. Clay sometimes wished he could be satisfied with the small victories in life like that. A good dinner. A moment’s comfort. They should be enough. Instead, he wanted people, especially Allie, to know who he was. And no one could claim to know Clay West if they thought he was a liar. He probably shouldn’t care, but he did.

“Do they still ask people in the church to stand up and say what’s wrong in their lives?” he asked. That was the only way he knew to address everyone in the area. He wouldn’t need to stay for the sermon.

“You mean for prayers?” Allie sounded surprised. Then her eyes slid over him suspiciously. “You want to ask us to pray for you?”

“The church will be happy to pray for you,” Mr. Nelson said as he waved the magazine in the air. “Everyone has read about you here. The hardware store got in a dozen copies. The ranchers are all talking about you as they sit around that stove in the middle of the store. You remember that stove? You’re practically famous there.”

Clay felt a sudden desire to sit down, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

He never should have done that interview for the Montana Artist Journal. Allie was looking at him skeptically.

“That reporter exaggerated,” Clay said. “I’m no Charlie Russell in the making—except for maybe that we both like to roam. I sketch faces and scenes. Simple pencil drawings. That’s all.” He’d had offers from a couple of magazines to print his prison sketches and had even gotten an art agent out of the deal, but Clay saw no reason to mention that. “And I’m not interested in anyone praying for me. I just want to set the record straight on what happened that night with Mark. I want the facts known.”

One of the few things Clay remembered from his early life was his father urging him to always tell the truth. Both his parents had died soon after that in a car accident. Clay clung to that piece of advice because it was all he had left of his family. He wanted to feel that he belonged to them no matter where he went.

Allie looked at him. “I won’t have you saying bad things about Mark.”

Clay studied her. She no longer seemed to be as angry, but she was wary.

“I’ll just tell what happened.” Clay paused before continuing. “That’s all I’m aiming for. And, after that, if you still don’t want me here, I will go back. I can’t make people believe me. I didn’t have high hopes coming here anyway. I can even stay somewhere else tonight. Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Does Mrs. Hargrove still rent out that room above her garage?”

The older woman had been the only one to stand up for him at his trial, and he counted her as a friend. She had sent him cards every birthday and Christmas while he had been locked up. He’d done his best to send her cards in return. Usually he enclosed a few sketches; over time he’d sent her a dozen Dry Creek scenes. The café. The hardware store. Every main building, except for the church. He’d never managed a sketch of that. He wouldn’t mind spending a couple of nights in her rental room before he headed back to prison. He had sold enough pencil portraits to other prisoners over the years to have a tidy sum in a savings account. He could pay for the room easily.

“Mrs. Hargrove?” Allie asked, frowning. “I’m sure the parole board doesn’t want you speaking out and giving good people like her a hard time. She’s having trouble with her feet these days.”

“The parole board sent me here.” Clay felt guilty that he hadn’t known about the aches in the older woman’s feet. “They had to figure I’d talk to someone. Besides, I can even help Mrs. Hargrove out some if I’m at her place. It could be a good thing. She probably needs logs for that woodstove of hers. The winter is going on long this year. I could get her all set with more firewood. Some kindling, too. She’d like that.”

“The board probably doesn’t realize the harm you could do here.” Allie turned to face her father again, and Clay couldn’t see her expression. “But we know.”

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat, eyeing his daughter. “Don’t look at me that way. We’re not sending him away.”

“Why not?” Clay asked softly. Father and daughter both turned to him in concern. He had to admit he was a little taken aback himself, but nothing was ever gained by dodging the truth. He spoke to Mr. Nelson. “When I saw you last, you were determined to make me suffer for what happened. I remember what you said. ‘Let him rot in that black hole of a place. We don’t want him back here.’ So I’m asking straight out, what’s changed?”

The rancher paled at Clay’s words. “I suppose you want an apology from me, too, now?”

Clay shook his head impatiently. “I just want a plainspoken answer. Why am I here?”

Mr. Nelson stood there thinking for a minute.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” the older man finally said. “I said awful things to you and about you. No Christian should say such things.”

“People say a lot of things they shouldn’t,” Clay said. “Christian or not.”

Allie started to say something, but her father held up a hand to stop her. “He has a right to ask what’s going on.”

Everyone was silent. Clay watched as the older man debated something.

“I’m doing this for Mark,” Mr. Nelson finally admitted, his voice thick with emotion. The rancher continued speaking, his eyes on Clay. “I didn’t want to ask you, but I finally realized we need you. There’s no one else.”

Clay saw defeat in the other man’s eyes. Clay had been in prison long enough to recognize the look on a man’s face when he had no choice except the bitter one in front of him. The man was finally being honest.

“But you still blame me?” Clay asked. He wanted things to be clear.

The older man didn’t answer.

“Will you help us anyway?” Mr. Nelson finally asked.

“I don’t see how I—” Clay began to politely refuse the request. There were worse things than being locked up in a cell. Being around people who didn’t trust him was one of them. He’d be free on his own terms in two years. He could wait.

Allie had been silent, but now she sputtered indignantly a moment until she found words. “Mark would be the last person to want him here to help.”

Anger scorched the air.

Clay tried not to wince. “I should leave.”

He decided he’d call Sheriff Wall himself if he had to. If it warmed up outside, he could hitchhike back to prison. He had more sketches to do there anyway.

Clay waited for Allie to turn around, but she kept facing her father with her back stiff enough to make her displeasure clear.

“Please don’t look at me that way,” Mr. Nelson said to her. “We have no choice. Mark wants to see Clay. Mark has always looked on him as a brother.”

* * *

Allie jerked sideways. She could barely believe her ears. “What?”

Allie turned to look, and Clay seemed as stunned as she was. His eyes were wide and his jaw slack.

“They’re not brothers,” Allie swiveled and told her father crisply, ignoring Clay’s question. She needed to put a stop to this nonsense. She hadn’t been to see Mark for several months, but she hadn’t heard him mention Clay before that. Of course, it was only recently that her brother was able to speak very complicated thoughts. And her father said Mark had improved since she’d seen him last.

Finally, she turned back to Clay. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know what went on between the two of you, but a brother doesn’t do their brother harm.”

Clay smiled grimly. “Believe me, I wish I’d tried to stop things. But I didn’t know what he was planning to do that night. I certainly never meant for him to end up like he did. I worry about him just like you do.”

Allie had watched Clay as he spoke. He wasn’t lying. It didn’t mean he was telling the complete truth, though. Maybe that was the way he thought it had happened, she told herself. He could have set everything in motion and then wished later that he had pulled back.

“I know you didn’t mean for Mark to end up in a coma.” Allie could give him that much. And she knew Mark liked Clay; her brother had spent many of his evenings out in the bunkhouse since that was where Clay slept. They’d sit at one of the tables and play checkers. Their father hadn’t liked it, but no one had stopped it.

Allie supposed it was money that had prompted Clay to plan that robbery. She had always thought that when he turned eighteen, he’d just stay on as a regular ranch hand. But maybe he was worried about his future. Then again maybe all he wanted was more beer to drink and he hadn’t known how else to get it.

Clay hadn’t responded to her, and she looked up at him. Lord, what do I do? she prayed.

Her father was right. She needed to be kinder to Clay. She wished she had known he needed more money; she could have turned over her allowance. After all, he hadn’t had the advantage of having parents to raise him as she had. If the parole board was sending him back to where the crime had been committed, they must have their reasons.

Clay met her eyes, but his expression didn’t soften. He certainly didn’t act like someone who needed her charity.

“I still don’t see what I can do for Mark, though,” Clay finally said. She could hear the skepticism in his voice as he eyed her father. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what to do about a coma. I don’t believe in miracles, and I don’t pray. God would never grant a request from me. I’m not a faith healer. There’s not one thing I can do but say I am sorry that Mark is hurting.”

Allie couldn’t believe he was not going to at least pretend to help them. Not when it meant he’d be out of prison. She remembered now how stubborn he’d always been.

In the silence, her father spoke to her. “Mark told me a few weeks ago that he asked Clay to help him with the Easter sunrise processional.”

She heard Clay gasp, but she focused on her father. He spoke slowly and deliberately, like he wanted a certain response from her. “You remember how Mark had been talking to everyone about that processional before the accident?”

“I do,” Allie acknowledged as she reached over and put a hand on her father’s arm. The poor man had aged two decades in the last four years. She was concerned about him. He carried a burden that never seemed to leave him. At least she was distracted from their family problems by working long shifts at her job.

“I doubt Mark means for you to worry,” she said to her father.

“That’s what he says,” her father agreed. “And I know he doesn’t know so much time has passed.”

“I can’t believe Mark is communicating,” Clay said.

Allie suddenly realized that Clay still had that sheepskin coat wrapped around him. It had been cold outside, and she wasn’t sure the heater in that old pickup worked very well. He must have been frozen when he stepped inside the kitchen.

When her father didn’t answer, Clay turned toward her.

Allie nodded. Clay’s eyes widened.

“So what, does he blink his eyes at you?” Clay asked her. “You know, the old ‘once for yes and twice for no’ kind of a thing?” He kept looking at her, but she gestured to her father, suggesting he was the one to answer. Clay turned to him. “I’ve heard of things like that—people pointing to letters in the alphabet. Is that the kind of thing Mark is doing?”

“Oh, no,” her father said as he shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

Allie could see the excitement leave Clay’s face again. He was disappointed.

“Then what is it?” Clay asked.

No one answered. Allie wasn’t sure what kind of a deal the prison officials had made with her father, but it would have to be canceled. They didn’t need someone around asking probing questions about Mark. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay a ranch hand. And, there was no need for one anyway. The corrals and barn were empty. There were enough repairs to keep a man busy for months, but that work would have to wait.

“We don’t talk much about Mark,” her father finally said. “The doctors say to keep it quiet.”

“You’re going to have to tell me,” Clay said then, his voice insistent. “You brought me all the way over here. And I’m not going anywhere until I understand what’s going on with Mark.”

Allie could have told her father that this would happen. But they couldn’t protect Mark if they told everyone all there was to know about his condition.

Clay looked at her.

“My father knows more about it than I do,” Allie said. She’d leave it up to him to walk through this minefield.

“But you can tell him better than me,” her father protested, looking over at her in alarm.

She shook her head. She wasn’t the one who had invited Clay here; it was her father. She was tired of being the one who handled the problems in the family, especially when they were not of her making. She should go check on Jeremy anyway. She had heard the closet door open in the far bedroom some time ago. The boy was likely back there playing with those plastic horses of his. It wouldn’t hurt if she stayed out here a bit, though, and saw how much her father was willing to share with Clay.

“One of you better tell me,” Clay said.

He looked at her, pale blue eyes searching hers for answers. He wasn’t afraid to push for what he wanted to know. A muscle along his jaw tightened, and she knew he’d not be discouraged.

“It’s not my place to say,” she finally managed to tell him.

She wondered if Clay had any idea how complicated life had become in the Nelson family since the day of that attempted robbery. There were many times since then when she wished Clay was still around so she could talk to him about the problems she had. He’d always seemed so steady in his advice. The truth was that she had relied on him more than Mark and certainly more than her father. Her brother had refused to acknowledge any issues in their family. Her father, when he was drinking, had been no help as he had often been the source of her concern.

After her mother died, Allie felt like she was the one in charge of keeping the family together. So far, she hadn’t done very well.

Allie didn’t like being on the spot again, because one look at Clay’s eyes and she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with some half-truth that she would tell him, hoping to satisfy his questions.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clay said to her softly then. “Your father will tell me.”

Allie could only hope that would be true.

Chapter Three

The kitchen was gaining light, Clay noticed as he stood there in the silent room. The clock read seven o’clock. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched since he left here four years ago. The same beige paint was on the walls, and the windowsills were a chipped white. He had noticed a nail by the refrigerator. It held last year’s calendar, and it didn’t appear like the months on it had even been changed.

“Tell me about Mark,” Clay finally asked again as he turned his attention to the older man. “If he doesn’t make some hand motions, how does it work?”

Clay figured the rancher must be imagining some kind of response from his son. The signs of depression were all over this kitchen. Even in prison, the officials became concerned when something as simple as a calendar wasn’t kept updated. Clay guessed Mr. Nelson was telling himself he knew what Mark thought. It was like people who decided their cat was an opera fan because the animal sat there and purred when a song was being sung. He supposed it was very human to imagine that one could know the thoughts of a being who couldn’t communicate.

Mr. Nelson didn’t say anything. Allie, on the other hand, was standing there with a blank look on her face that was so uncharacteristic of her that Clay suspected she was unwilling to tip anyone off to her father’s strange beliefs. Maybe she was embarrassed.

“I know it’s been hard,” Clay said, trying not to let his disappointment show. He might be having those flights of fancy, too, if he was father to someone in a coma. But desperate hope could mess with a man’s mind; no one knew that better than men who had spent time behind bars.

“Oh, no, Mark is talking,” Mr. Nelson said with strength in his voice. He seemed to have understood what Clay was thinking. “It’s not easy. He has to come up with the words, and it’s slow. But he’s talking.”

“He says actual words?”

Mr. Nelson nodded. “More now than when he started.”

Clay looked at the man for a long moment. Then he turned to Allie. She nodded, as well. It was a wooden nod, like something was holding her back, but she did confirm the words.