Long Road Home (10 page)

The trees along Front Street had greened up, and perky-faced purple-and-yellow pansies tumbled over the flower boxes below the store windows.

“Harry and Hank are still playing checkers,” he murmured as they passed Harry’s Barber Shop, where the barber and hardware owner were seated outside on a wooden bench with the board between them.

“Some things never change. They’ve been doing that nearly every day for as long as I can remember.”

In the winters, when she’d go to town with her dad, she’d see them through the window, playing next to the woodstove that Harry had once used for heat. After an errant spark had nearly burned down the shop—and risked setting the entire block of wooden buildings on fire, he’d given in to the county fire marshal and switched to electric.

While many things stayed the same, the New Chance, which had been gutted by a fire last fall, was nothing like the tumbling-down restaurant Rachel Hathaway had bought, sight unseen, while living back east with her young son.

“The steer’s gone,” Sawyer said as he pulled into the parking lot. The fiberglass steer on the roof of the New Chance Café had, for many years, been a River’s Bend landmark.

“It was one of the first things to go. But Rachel saved it and put it in the backyard of their rental house. Then they took it to your brother’s when they moved in with him. Cooper’s been using it to teach Scott to rope.”

“Never too young to learn.”

Which was true enough. But the missing steer was just yet more proof that the planet hadn’t stopped spinning during all those years he’d been away.

10

“I
T DOESN’T LOOK
like the same place,” he said as they walked in the door. The entry had been widened, and although Sawyer wasn’t a gardener, he figured the skylight must provide sun for whatever kind of potted pine tree sat next to the hostess stand.

“In a way, the fire proved a blessing in disguise. Since the place was left a gut job, Rachel was able to design her dream restaurant.”

“She definitely pulled it off.” Cooper had shared the story of how the entire town had pitched in, not only to ensure residents would continue to have a restaurant but to help a young widow and her son settle into the community.

“Hey, Austin.” Janine Walker, who was behind the hostess stand, greeted them with the megawatt smile she used to flash to folks in the bleachers during her cheerleader days. “It’s good to have you back home, Sawyer.”

“It’s good to be back,” he said for the ten-gazillionth time over the past week.

“Heather and Tom are already here. They reserved a booth so you guys can have some privacy.”

The smile turned a bit sly, Sawyer thought. As if she knew about Heather’s matchmaking scheme. Then again, maybe she was just remembering that July summer night they’d shared a kiss atop the Ferris wheel at the county fair when they were both trying to make someone else jealous.

Which had worked for her when Dave Ellingson had come crawling back to her after a fling with a fellow counselor while at the Presbyterian church camp at Crescent Lake. Meanwhile, if Austin had even noticed him dating Janine for that two-week period, apparently it hadn’t bothered her, because she’d never said a word.

For as long as he could remember, the New Chance had been a westernized version of any small town’s greasy spoon. It had been dark and dingy, and the menu, while not actually offering up a side of ptomaine as locals had long joked, had done nothing to stimulate any appetites.

Rachel had opened up what he remembered to be a smoke-stained popcorn ceiling to the high rafters, which highlighted antique embossed copper tiles. The old log walls, which had undoubtedly been embedded with decades of nicotine going back to when smoking was allowed, had been covered with sheetrock and painted a warm gold that enhanced framed paintings celebrating the town’s western heritage.

Heads swiveled toward them as they wound their way past the hand-carved bar from an 1800s Gold Rush brothel Sawyer knew Mitzi had unearthed in a Jacksonville antique shop.

“I think we’re now number one on the gossip hit parade,” Austin murmured as they passed the open kitchen, where meats grilled on open flames and stews bubbled away on the stove.

“They’re looking at you.” Who wouldn’t? The pertinent question was what the hell was wrong with the men of River’s Bend that they’d let Austin Merrill get away all these years?

She shook her head. “You’d think I’d never worn a skirt before.”

“I like it.” He refrained from saying that he’d never seen her wear a skirt like that before. The clunk of his heels against the original tongue-and-groove wood floor Rachel had uncovered beneath the peeling old avocado-green linoleum was a familiar, distinctive sound that combat boots had never replaced. Like the rushing Black Bear River and the soft lowing of cattle at sundown, that clunk was another welcome sound of home.

“You’re here!” Heather jumped up from a back booth snuggled next to a beehive fireplace. She tackle-hugged Austin, then Sawyer. “What fun to have the gang back together again!”

After hugging her back, Sawyer shared a half guy hug with Tom. “Good luck,” his friend murmured as the women leaned back, checked one another out, and complimented each other on their outfits.

Which, in Austin’s case, had been a major surprise. Sawyer had known she was leggy from the way she’d started to spout like a weed back in fourth grade. And later, all those years swimming in the natural hole at the river’s bend that had given the town its name had caused his adolescent hormone-driven body all kinds of misery. But he’d forgotten that those strong, slender legs went all the way up to her neck. And he’d never, that he could remember, seen them in a skirt that short.

When his pheromone-hammered brain had imagined unbuttoning those flat metal jean buttons down the front of the skirt, he’d slammed the vision shut, afraid Buck, still being a guy himself despite his health problems, might be able to read his mind.

From the way her father’s wiry gray brows had dived toward a nose that had been broken on more than one occasion during his rodeoing days, Sawyer knew he’d been busted.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Austin said as she slid into the booth. The skirt scooted up a bit, causing a lightning bolt of heat to shoot below Sawyer’s belt.

“We just got here,” Heather assured her.

“What’ll you have?” Tom asked as a waitress in black jeans and a starched white shirt arrived with her pencil and pad ready.

Sawyer glanced over at Austin, realizing that he had no idea what she liked. It was odd how, in some ways, being with her felt like just yesterday, while a Grand Canyon-size chasm had opened between those days and now.

“I’ll have a margarita, please,” she said, smiling up at the waitress, whom he belatedly recognized as having gone steady with Ryan during most of his brother’s sophomore year of high school. “Frozen. With salt.”

“A Bud Light for me.” Despite what he’d been told about Rachel’s home-style cooking, given her background catering to the East Coast’s one percent, Sawyer wondered if she carried anything but pricey artisan craft brew.

The waitress didn’t bat an eye. “A frozen margarita with salt and every cowboy’s label of choice,” she said, sounding resigned as she wrote the order down. The beer, like the boot clunk, was a basic part of life. Just like you wouldn’t catch a cowboy wearing designer jeans or pimping up a pickup.

“Thanks, Laci,” he said, after they’d all agreed to order what Heather assured him was the café’s signature spinach and artichoke dip with grilled flatbread and tri-color tortilla chip appetizer.

She’d just slipped the pad into the pocket of her short black apron and looked up, seeming surprised. “You remembered me.”

“Sure. I always thought you were too good for Ry,” he said as more memories had filtered through the fog of years. There’d been a time when the two teenage lovebirds had looked as if they might actually be getting serious. Which might have been too young, but not unusual in small towns, where everyone knew everyone and people tended to pair up early.

Then their mother had died of ovarian cancer, and Ryan, who’d always planned to be the first astronaut from Oregon, had changed direction, instead focusing every atom of his attention toward becoming a doctor.

“I’m not sure about that. I always knew that I wanted to get married and have kids, while Ryan had other, bigger plans. Especially after . . .”

Her voice drifted off, as she realized that the topic of their mother dying wasn’t a topic conducive for a fun evening.

“He’s always been single focused,” Sawyer agreed, wanting to help her out.

“Which worked out well. For both of us. He became a doctor like he was determined to do, and I settled down and had three kids with Garrett Henley. Who, by the way, brews that cold-filtered, no preservatives or additives, made with four different kinds of malt Rogue Rodeo Red Ale you didn’t order.”

“Well, hell,” Sawyer said, flashing her a grin that pulled at the muscles in his face and felt decidedly rusty. “Why don’t you change my order and I’ll give it a shot.”

She tossed a grin right back at him. “You won’t be sorry.”

Although the café was nearly filled, she was back in a couple minutes with a margarita the size of a swimming pool and a stubby brown bottle with a bucking bronc on the label. Because he knew Ryan’s old flame was waiting, Sawyer tipped the bottle back and swallowed.

“This is good stuff.” It was. Robust, complex, but satisfying.

“Of course it is. That’s why Rachel stocks it. She also likes that it’s natural, which makes it good for you. In moderation.”

He took another taste. “You and Garrett had better get ready for your simple life to amp up,” he said. “Because this brew could take off.”

“From your lips. We’ve got kids to send to college down the road.” She laid down four tan menus with dark brown script, which were a long way from the yellowed, laminated, food-stained plastic Johnny Mott had used forever. “Take your time. The booth’s booked for you guys as long as you want it tonight.”

“Small towns,” Tom said as they watched her walk over to a table across the room.

“My favorite kind,” Heather said. “I enjoyed living in Corvallis when we were in school, but although it’s a nice college town, and Portland was fun to visit, it never felt like home.

“So.” She blew out a breath. “Because this is a special occasion and it’s been so long since we’ve all been together, I brought a memory book to share.”

She pulled out a small blue photo album embellished with the family name and dates on the front in a calligraphy Austin remembered her teaching herself back in middle school. She’d always been the creative one of the two of them. Give Heather Campbell a glue gun, tape, and some cardboard and the woman could probably build a house. “Of course you both remember this day.”

“Best day of my life,” Tom said.

She dimpled prettily. “And isn’t that exactly what you’re supposed to say?”

“We look so young,” Austin murmured, looking down at the wedding photo. So filled with hopes and dreams of happily-ever-afters. Which Heather and Tom had managed to achieve, despite marrying right after their freshman year of college.

She was standing next to Heather, holding a smaller version of the bride’s pastel bouquet created from hydrangeas, roses, and peonies. Although the flowers had come from Tom’s mother’s garden, they’d managed to talk Heather into allowing Lily Sullivan, who owned Blossoms, the local florist shop, to arrange the bouquets. As Mrs. Campbell had wisely pointed out, even Wonder Woman had her limits.

Lexi O’Halloran, the other bridesmaid, who’d arrived for the wedding from Nevada with blue hair and a pink toolbox filled with mysterious pots, tubes, and brushes, had pulled Austin’s hair into a tidy figure-eight knot at the back of her neck. She’d also insisted on painting all their faces, which had made Austin nervous, given that Lexi had spent the past two years glamorizing showgirls in Vegas. Yet, somehow, although the hair stylist/makeup artist had put enough gunk on to spackle a barn, she’d magically made Austin look just like a better, sexier, almost hot version of herself.

Sawyer, wearing a white rosebud in the lapel of the dark suit he’d bought for high school graduation, was standing in the best man spot beside a beaming Tom, who looked like a kid who’d just had Christmas arrive six months early. Standing next to Sawyer was Brody Ames, another lifelong friend.

“We were mere babies,” Heather agreed. “I was a baby having a baby.” She reached over and laced her fingers with her husband’s. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Me, neither.”

Tom lifted their joined hands to his lips in a moment so intimate Austin looked away, only to have her gaze clash with Sawyer’s. His eyes were shuttered, revealing nothing, while she feared that everything she’d ever felt for him, was
still
feeling, was flashing for everyone in the New Chance to see.

“And, not that I’m tooting my own horn or anything,” Heather said with a laugh, breaking the suspended moment, “but after two kids and a dozen years, I can still fit in the dress.”

“You were, and still are, gorgeous,” Austin said. “And I’ll be eternally grateful that you didn’t make me dress like Annie Oakley.”

Instead of going for western wedding attire, which tended to be popular in ranching country, Heather had worn a floaty, snowy cloud of tulle over an eight-month baby bump. She had, unsurprisingly, made the dress herself, and somehow, despite a rapidly approaching due date, she’d even managed to bead the bodice during finals week. She was wearing the simple pearl necklace and earrings that her mother had worn at
her
wedding.

The blue bridesmaids’ sleeveless sheaths they’d found on a day trip across the mountains to Shirley’s Bridal was simple and classic and, atypical for many bride’s attendant dresses Austin had since worn, suitable for wearing after the wedding.

“Since I only expect to get married once, I decided I deserved something princessy,” Heather said. “Like you and I always dreamed of wearing when we’d play wedding.” Belatedly realizing how that lighthearted comment might sound, given Austin’s quickie marriage and divorce, she winced. “I’m sorry.”