Larkspur Road (3 page)

Mia knew her love of quilting came directly from Gram. Her grandmother had been quilting since she was a young girl and each of her quilts was gorgeous. They graced every bed and some of the walls in the little house on Larkspur Road where Mia had grown up.

She’d moved back there from Butte in order to live with Gram during the last fragile years of Gram’s life, after her own parents were gone, after her divorce from Peter Clancy.

Her favorite room was the small den that had become her grandmother’s sewing studio. Gram had spent nearly all of her time there, measuring and cutting and sewing or doing meticulous embroidery and appliqué.

These days Mia often found herself glancing over at the faded butterfly quilt that hung on the sewing studio’s wall as she worked on quilts of her own. That well-used quilt
with its graceful checkerboard blocks and carefully stitched appliqué had won her grandmother an award at her very first quilt show at the age of nineteen.

Merely gazing at the beautifully precise squares, each one artistically connected to the whole, made her feel almost as if Gram were there beside her, peering over her shoulder with her reading glasses pushed up on her nose, smiling. Pleased.

Pleased that Mia had returned to quilting. And to Bits and Pieces.

For a while after her grandmother’s death, Mia had given up quilting. She’d told everyone that during the school year she was too busy with her teaching, but eventually she’d admitted the truth to herself.

It hurt too much to attend the monthly meetings without Gram, to see all of the women who’d been Gram’s friends and
not
see her grandmother’s delicate, heart-shaped face, her spry figure, her silver-gray hair when she glanced around the room.

She’d rejoined only last year—seeking out the connection again and spurred on by the approach of the annual Bits and Pieces quilt show.

Always held in mid-July, the exhibition was combined with an ice cream social and quilt raffles, all of which served as a fund-raiser for local charities. This summer all of the proceeds would be distributed to the Loving Arms shelter for abused women and children.

The school year at Lonesome Way Middle School had ended just the day before, and now Mia had the luxury of several months ahead without the need to think about fifth-grade lesson plans or essays that needed grading. Without having to devote hours of time to marking up English quizzes with a red pen.

That meant an entire summer to devote to quilting—completing her own Starry Night quilt and a special square for the Bits and Pieces community quilt to be raffled off at
the exhibition. She’d have plenty of time to do all that and tend her garden, plus hunt up the perfect birthday card for Tommy, her best friend’s husband—Lissie was throwing him a birthday bash at the Double Cross Bar and Grill.

With the early morning air cool against her skin, the heat from the mug felt good, warming her palms as she shivered slightly in her pale gray hoodie and sweatpants. Beside her, Samson stirred and nestled closer, plopping his furry chin on her thigh.

“Sleepyhead,” she murmured and stroked his ears absently.

She’d rescued the tiny gray and white mutt a few months back, after seeing a ramshackle Ford truck stop twenty feet in front of her on Old Cedar Road in the midst of a snowstorm. The driver had tossed a small dog out into the icy road and then roared off.

Mia had braked immediately, shaking with rage, and had scooped up the scrawny little guy and set him on the passenger seat of her Jeep.

The dog had slowly crawled onto her lap and looked up into her eyes with absolute trust. And won her heart.

A quick examination by Doc Weatherby revealed the mutt had no tags, no chip.

Which probably meant no friends and no home.

“What do you want to do with him?” the vet asked after giving the tiny bundle of fur a thorough checkup. “Want to drop him over at the shelter or should I do it later today?”

Mia had picked him up and held him close. The dog weighed no more than ten pounds, tops.

“I’d better keep him. We’re in desperate need of a guard dog on Larkspur Road.”

Doc Weatherby laughed.

As if understanding her words, Samson had tentatively overcome his shaking nervousness to lick her cheek.

“You sure?” the vet asked. “You haven’t had a dog since Reckless died.” He’d helped her put Reckless to sleep eight
years before, and Mia had thought she’d never get over the grief.

“Then I guess it’s time, isn’t it?” she’d countered softly.

The truth was, she’d taken one look into the abandoned mutt’s beautiful lonely eyes and guessed fate had put her on Old Cedar Road for a reason that day.

“Relax, big guy,” she’d whispered. “You’re not going anywhere except home with me.”

Now Samson’s head flew up as Mia’s across-the-street neighbor Ellis Stone pulled up into her driveway, parked her old Dodge van, and got out, waving at Mia in the swing.

“Morning, Mia!”

“Morning, Ellis.”

Ellis’s husband had passed away last year. She was fifty-five and a nurse who worked the night shift at the hospital. Ellis had more energy than anyone Mia knew. She came home at seven every morning, slept until two, then babysat her eleven-year-old twin grandsons, walked vigorously for an hour around the neighborhood, did her shopping and baking, and managed most days to write an online blog for her book club, which met every other week.

To Mia’s surprise, instead of letting herself into her trim little house as usual, no doubt to fall into bed, Ellis strode toward her. Samson’s tail began to thump against the wood of the swing.

“Something I thought you should know.” Ellis padded up the neat, flower-bedecked walkway toward the porch, weariness creasing her high forehead beneath her short-cropped rust-colored hair. A songbird chirped in Mia’s dogwood tree, and from the next block came the faint sound of a dog barking.

Mia recognized that deep bark. It was Zeke’s dog, Bounty. Her heart twisted a little at the familiar low, hoarse sound of her ex-fiancé’s German shepherd–boxer mix. Sheriff’s deputy Zeke Mueller lived only one block away. He’d rebounded with surprising speed after she broke off their
engagement less than a year ago—and now he and his new wife of four months were expecting triplets.

So much for “You’re the only woman I’ll ever love.” Zeke’s exact words when he proposed.

Peter Clancy, her ex-husband, had said nearly the same thing a week before he cleaned out their joint bank account and disappeared without so much as a “Nice knowing you.” Now he only called when he was two steps ahead of the bill collectors and desperate for a loan.

As if.

In high school, Travis had told her more times than she could ever count that she was the only girl for him. Ever.

The promises of a man are as meaningless as the ramblings of a fortune cookie.
So Mia’s mother had frequently reminded her.

According to her mother, ever since Gram’s good luck wedding quilt had been destroyed in a fire weeks before her nuptials to Henry Clayton, the women in Mia’s family had been cursed with bad luck when it came to love.

The quilt had been sewn by Mia’s grandmother’s great-grandmother in 1902 and passed down from contented mothers to joyfully-in-love daughters ever since. But after it went up in flames, the tradition of long-lasting marital bliss had seemed to go up in smoke as well.

Not only had Henry run off with a barmaid when Mia’s mother was a little girl, never to be seen again, but Mia’s father had frequently cheated, and her mother had time and again taken him back. Each time, she’d vowed never to let the man set foot inside the house again, and each time, she’d allowed him to return on the “condition” of a fresh start.

“I’m sorry for this news,” Ellis continued, her words yanking Mia back to the present with a start. “But your aunt was brought in to the hospital last night.”

“Winona?” Mia swung her legs to the ground, her amber eyes locking on Ellis’s face.

Sensing something was up, Samson lifted his furry head.

“She’s not…She’s all right, isn’t she?”

“Oh, she’s not dead, that’s for sure. Everyone in town knows Winny Pruitt’s too mean to die.” The instant the words came out of her mouth, Ellis looked abashed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make a joke of it. She
is
your aunt, after all.”

Not that anyone can tell,
Mia thought. Everyone knew Mia’s great-aunt—her grandmother’s sister—wanted nothing to do with any member of her family.

Nor, for that matter, with anyone in Lonesome Way. The woman was the town loner, a self-imposed hermit. She kept to herself, rarely speaking to another soul, except for her neighbor, Abner Floyd, whose dilapidated farm bordered her cabin.

Winny was an enigma. On the few occasions when Mia had spotted her aunt in town over the past years and greeted her, Gram’s younger sister had nodded brusquely, her eyes as cold as mountain snow. Then she’d turned away without uttering a word.

She did the same with everyone in Lonesome Way and most people had stopped bothering to try to speak to her on the rare occasion when she ventured into town for groceries or supplies.

Mia had no idea what had caused Gram and Winny to stop speaking to each other years ago, since even up until the day she died, Gram had refused to discuss it.

All Mia knew was that Winny had never come to a single Sunday dinner or Fourth of July barbecue, had never exchanged a birthday card or even a phone call with Gram as far back as Mia and her own older sister, Samantha, could remember.

Aunt Winny hadn’t even come to Gram’s funeral. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise because she hadn’t come to the graveyard service for Mia’s parents several years before that either, after their car spun out in the worst blizzard of the decade.

“What’s wrong with Winny? Is she sick?”

Mia knew she wasn’t under any obligation to feel concern for her great-aunt—after all, it was Winny who’d made the decision to part ways with her family and she’d rigidly stuck to it. But it had always disappointed her that even when she’d made overtures—inviting her aunt to dinner or driving out to her cabin on Sweetwater Road to bring her a Christmas gift the year after Gram died—her aunt had stonily refused to open her door, much less even a fraction of her heart, to her only remaining family.

Whatever had happened between Gram and her sister when they were younger had caused a permanent rift, and all of Mia’s overtures had been summarily rejected.

“Seems she tripped over a loose board on her front porch. Had a pretty nasty fall—sprained her foot real bad. She’ll be using a cane for a while. Wasn’t none too happy about it either,” Ellis added with an arch of her eyebrows. “She nearly snapped Doc Grantham’s head off when he told her she’d need that cane for at least three or four weeks. She’s lucky it wasn’t any more serious—she could have broken a hip or an arm—or worse.”

“Thanks for telling me, Ellis.” Mia jumped to her feet, her coffee mug gripped in one hand as she set Samson down on the porch with the other.

“I know that look.” Ellis studied her. “You’re thinking about going out to Sweetwater Road, trying to tend to her, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “You have a big heart, Mia, but that old woman is a lost cause if I ever saw one. She’s never shown a flicker of interest in you or Samantha—or your dear mother either, rest her soul. You’re wasting your sympathy on her.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Uh-huh. So why do I still think you’re planning to check up on her?”

“Call me crazy.” Mia grinned. Ellis knew her too well. “She’s family, Ellis, whether she likes it or not. And she’s out there miles from town in the middle of nowhere. All alone.”

“Honey, by now, Winona Pruitt’s plenty used to being alone.” Ellis’s sharp hazel eyes bored into Mia’s face. Then a wry smile touched the corners of her lips.

“You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you? You’re going to Sweetwater Road to check on her.”

“I’ll take her some supper—just for tonight. Then I’m done. Believe me, I know she wants nothing to do with me or Samantha.”

Her sister, Sam, lived in Butte with her daughter, Brittany, and a brand-new husband, and Winny had no interest in any of them either.

“In your own way, you’re as stubborn as your grandmother was, you know that?” The nurse spoke fondly. “And as Winny, too, I suppose.”

“Ellis, you don’t have any clue what started it all, do you?”

“You mean the feud?” Ellis waved a dismissive hand. “It was all before my time. Far back as I can remember, I’d heard Winny was on the outs with your grandmother and your parents, just about everyone. I don’t recall anyone ever saying what brought it all on. Which is strange, considering folks here pretty much know everybody’s business and don’t mind talking about it.”

“Even my mom didn’t know. Gram never would tell her, not during all the years Winny was gone or after she came back.”

Ellis patted Samson’s head. “Well, now, remember, some old things are like graves—best left undisturbed.” She nodded meaningfully. “You want to bring your aunt some supper, go right ahead. But don’t be surprised if she refuses to poke her head out the screen door. She didn’t say a decent word to Doc Grantham the whole time she was in the ER—didn’t do more than grunt and curse when he examined her foot. She’s a tough bird, that one.”

But even a bird needs to eat,
Mia thought.

So half an hour later, after showering, pulling on her
Wranglers, a pale blue tank top, and sandals, then twisting her blond hair into a loose knot atop her head, she headed for the kitchen. First she poured Samson’s kibble into a bowl and freshened his water, then she washed her hands and turned her attention to her fridge.

It wasn’t as if she was going to any trouble. She had half of a roast chicken left from the previous night’s supper, so she merely wrapped it in tinfoil, then nuked a potato in the microwave while tossing together a quick salad of greens, carrots, peppers, and tomatoes.

There. Done.

So don’t start yelling at me from your grave, Gram,
she thought as she stuffed everything into a wicker basket, grabbed a hoodie, and carried Winny’s supper out to her car.
You may not have liked your sister, but you wouldn’t want her to starve to death out there on Sweetwater Road, would you?