Long Road Home (17 page)

“Thank you.” Austin managed a weak smile. “You’ve no idea how glad I am that you moved back home.” She glanced down at her watch. “We’d better get going. If that’s all for now.”

“That’ll do it. If I run into anything we haven’t covered, I’ll call. Also, if you have any questions, you can call any time, day or night.” He handed her a card with his office, cell, and home phone numbers on it.

After thanking him again, she and Sawyer were off on their last mission of the day.

“I guess we’ll have to go to the cemetery first thing tomorrow morning,” she decided. “And why do they need a view lot?”

“Beats me. Maybe so people will have something nice to look at when they visit the graves? Mom’s is under a tree. Dad had a bench put in and used to go sit there a lot in the early years after we lost her.”

“That’s nice. Well, not nice, but, you know.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“How long has this day been?” Austin asked as they headed toward the church and their meeting with Father Cassidy. “It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere.”

“You’re not going to get an argument from me,” he said, thinking he’d kill for a beer—or six—right now.

19

O
UR
L
ADY OF
the River Church was situated on a bluff above Black Bear River. After the original church had burned down due to an unfortunate candle accident in 1910, it had been rebuilt of brick with gray stone accents hauled in by mule. Five years later, a room had been added for the resident priest, along with a barn, no longer standing, for his horse.

Later additions included classrooms for catechism instruction and a meeting hall that served as a wedding reception and funeral luncheon room, along with being a venue for seasonal plays put on by the youth groups. From its position above the river, the steeple bell tower could be seen from nearly everywhere in town.

It didn’t seem right, Austin thought as she and Sawyer walked up the stone steps to the tall double front doors. Father Cassidy had suggested meeting at first in the church itself, so they could talk about casket and flower placement. Which had her thinking back to when she and Heather had come here to discuss the altar wedding flowers and the bouquets on the main aisle ends of all the pews. That had been such a fun and happy day that rather than risk anything Johnny Mott might be serving at the New Chance, she and Heather had driven to Klamath Falls for a celebratory lunch at the Blackbird Bistro.

“I feel just like one of those citified ladies who lunch,” Heather giggled as she unfolded the white damask napkin and put it on her lap, which, as her pregnancy progressed, seemed to be disappearing more and more by the day.

“You deserve it. This may be the last time you get to go out without baby spit-up on your clothes.”

Heather wrinkled her nose in a way that had earned her the nickname of Bunny until she’d decided it was too childish for high school and had returned to her given name. “Thanks for the positive affirmation.”

Austin grinned. “What are best friends for?”

“Are you okay?” Sawyer leaned down to ask.

“I’m fine.” Austin furiously blinked her swimming eyes. “No. I’m not. But at least this is the last stop for today.”

“Until we go back to the ranch and face the kids.”

“And aren’t you just a beacon of positivity?” she asked, once again thinking back on that day.

She’d been so happy for her friend. But she couldn’t deny that a part of her had been envious. Not jealous, she’d assured herself then and did again now. That would suggest that she didn’t want Heather to have a happily-ever-after marriage with the man she loved. What she’d wished then, and yes, dammit, now, was that she could have that same type of relationship. Not with Jace. That had always been a reckless, impossible hookup that she’d allowed to drag on way too long.

But with Sawyer. At the time, she’d wildly hoped that both of them being attendants at the wedding of their close friends might give him some ideas. Like proposing. But after they’d danced their last reception dance, she’d returned home to the ranch. Alone.

The side door that led to the suite of church offices opened, and Father Donovan Cassidy entered the nave. Like most of the residents of River’s Bend—even Cooper, who seldom wore his official sheriff’s uniform—the thirtysomething priest could often be found in jeans, a starched cotton shirt, and boots. That he was wearing black slacks, a black shirt with his white clerical collar, and dress shoes showed how serious he took this meeting.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said. “Phyllis Gardener is coordinating next month’s parish picnic, and there seems to be a problem with the variety of side dishes.”

“We just got here,” Austin said. The priest, usually punctual to a fault, was only three minutes past their meeting time.

“Still, your time is valuable.” He blew out a breath and seemed to be gathering his thoughts as he switched from the mundane of picnic potato salad to the sacramental. “I’m well aware of how many things you have to deal with right now.” He held out his hand to Sawyer. “And as unhappy as this situation is, it’s good to see you back home again safe and sound, Sawyer.”

“It’s good to be back home.”

When the shadow crossed his eyes again, Austin, who was starting to get a handle on the baggage Sawyer had brought home with him, suspected he was thinking of those he’d been in battles with who hadn’t made it home. She still couldn’t quite get past the idea that if only she hadn’t gone along with Heather’s plan for dinner, perhaps none of the sequence of events that had brought them here to Our Lady today would have happened.

“I hear you’re staying at Green Springs,” the priest said.

“In the foreman’s cabin,” Sawyer pointed out for the second time today.

“Good, good. Jack will be needing a man he’s comfortable talking with during this sad time. Earl called from the funeral home after you both left. He said you were thinking of a Monday mass.”

“Is that a problem?” Sawyer asked with an edge to his tone Austin wasn’t accustomed to hearing from him.

“No, of course not.” The priest slipped his hands into the pockets of his black trousers. “Today’s Saturday. You could have the visitation Sunday night. The only problem with a Monday funeral is that you won’t be able to have the obituary posted in the
Register
before the mass. Which may not be important to you, but—”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Austin said. Nor could she remember Earl mentioning it in his list of things she and Sawyer would have to take care of. But, then again, her mind hadn’t been as sharp during that meeting as it might have been.

“Yes, I’d like the obituary printed before the funeral.” That way she wouldn’t have to spend hours this evening and tomorrow calling everyone who might want to attend. Which would also involve repeating the horrible details of the accident over and over again.

She did, she realized suddenly, have to call Lexi. As soon as she got back to the ranch. Just as there was no way she would have missed taking part in Heather’s wedding, she’d want to be here, as well.

“If you move it to Tuesday or even Wednesday, Earl can send the obit to Dan Brewer at the
Register
. The church’s newsletter editor will also put a notice in the Sunday bulletin and post it to our Facebook page.”

“The church has a Facebook page?” Sawyer asked.

“Of course. It’s pretty much a requirement these days,” Donovan Cassidy, who’d married the couple on that lovely June day, said. “I always post my homily there on Sundays for those who, for various reasons, such as the opening day of fishing season, can’t make it to mass.”

After a short discussion of where the caskets would be placed and how many flower arrangements might be expected, which reminded Austin that she needed to ask Earl to mention that, in lieu of flowers, people donate to the local food pantry, where Heather had volunteered two mornings a week, he led them into his office. Once again they refused the offer of coffee or tea, and after going through the basic procedure of the funeral mass, the priest asked if they had any special requests.

“Although eulogies aren’t part of Catholic tradition,” he said, “more parishes and bishops are bending the rules if it helps a family through this difficult time.”

“I’m fine with not having to speak,” Austin said. “Even if I could think of what to say, I’m not sure I could get through it without crying, which wouldn’t be any help to Jack and Sophie.”

“I’m fine with that, too,” Sawyer agreed.

“There is one thing that occurred to me this morning,” Austin said. Had that only been this morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Worried that the priest would think she was totally going outside the centuries-old traditional funeral box, she nevertheless shared a brief idea of a children’s funeral for Jack’s and Sophie’s friends before the actual service.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” he surprised her by saying without a moment’s hesitation. “In fact, my sister Anne had a similar one for our grandmother, who passed last year. My nieces and nephews had been very close to her, and unlike Jack and Sophie, they’d taken part in the dying process by visiting her in the hospital and then the hospice.

“Anne, her husband, Dave, and I could tell that the children received a lot of comfort from being able to have their friends with them in the same way the adults had their friends. And children love rituals. Both the planning and taking part in them help as a distraction from the sadness.”

He turned in his swivel chair and reached to a bookcase behind his desk. “Here are a couple books on the topic to help you get ideas. One that was especially popular with my family was blowing bubbles into the air instead of the more harmful balloons. Also, the deep breathing and exhaling required of blowing bubbles serves as a stress reliever.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Austin said.

“I’m sure you’ll find many helpful ideas, but if you’d like, we’ve been planting trees in the garden park area behind the church in a living memory of those we’ve lost.”

Austin exchanged a look with Sawyer and knew they were once again thinking the same thing. Of Jack climbing the tree at the barbecue welcome home party.

“That’d be cool,” Sawyer said.

“You could take them to The Plant Place to pick out the tree on Sunday or Monday. This being spring, the nursery will have a good selection.”

Austin had been feeling horribly depressed and more than a little overwhelmed after the funeral home and legal meeting. While both Earl and Colton had been patient and helpful, they’d had her feeling a lot like Sisyphus faced with pushing that eternal rock up the mountain.

For the first time, she was feeling optimistic. She couldn’t bring Jack and Sophie’s parents back. But together, she and Sawyer, Winema and her father, and the Murphys could all help make the funeral a more positive experience for the children to look back on.

“I’m feeling better,” she said as they left the church after pausing on the way out to light a candle.

“Yeah, me, too. This, I think we can do.”

“You said ‘we.’”

“I said I’d be here for you.”

“I know. But you’re also dealing with your own situation, and—”

“Which isn’t anywhere near as important as this,” he cut her off. “And I was talking about twenty years ago.”

When he’d passed her that note written in his big, second-grade scrawling print.
Dear Austin, I’m sorry your mom went away. But I’ll always be your friend.

Whatever happened between them, Austin knew that Sawyer Murphy was a man of his word. He’d meant those words then. And he meant them now.

“What would you say, while we’re on a roll, of taking care of the cemetery?”

“We might as well,” Austin agreed, thinking that, despite what he’d said about the tree and the bench, it didn’t seem as if the location really mattered all that much. “That way we’ll be able to concentrate more attention on the kids.”

“Great.” He turned a corner, taking them back to Front Street, where he stopped in front of Blossoms.

“You’re getting your mom flowers,” she guessed.

“Yeah. I haven’t been there since I got back. So, this seems sort of appropriate. Want to come in and help me choose?”

“I’d love to.” Austin realized that, like the candle she’d lit for Tom and Heather, the flowers for his mother were an act of faith that somehow, somewhere, death was not the end but yet another stop on life’s eternal journey.

20

W
HEN THEY GOT
back to the ranch, they discovered that, rather than send over his foreman, Dan Murphy had come himself. He was in the corral with Jack as they drove up. Buck, leaning heavily on two hand-carved wooden canes, was standing by the fence. Seeing a man who’d once been as strong as one of his bulls being so weakened ripped a big piece off Sawyer’s heart.

“Guess what I can do,” Jack said as he ran over to the fence.

“What?” Sawyer asked.

“I can rope a steer.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! Mr. Murphy said you made this dummy steer to practice when you were in high school.”

“I did. It was my year-end project.”

“I wish my school had cool stuff like that.” Jack’s mouth turned down and he scuffed a booted foot in the dirt. “We have to study boring stuff like spelling and arithmetic.”

“Those are important,” Austin felt the need to point out.

“I’m going to be a cowboy and rope and ride in the rodeo,” the seven-year-old argued. “I don’t need to know all that.”

“Sure you do.” Sawyer climbed over the fence, took the branding rope from Jack’s hand, tossed it out, and progressively coiled it with the same muscle memory he’d learned to shoot a rifle with. “If you don’t know how to spell, you’re going to look like a blame fool when you’re filling out your entry forms. And if you think it’s humiliating to land on your butt two seconds into a ride, just think how you’d feel to have the announcer sharing some of your spelling screw-ups over the loudspeaker for everyone in the grandstands to laugh at.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “They’d do that?”