Rogue's Revenge (2 page)

“Mom, I…”

“Enough. I don’t want us to quarrel today of all days. We have to concentrate on carrying out your grandfather’s last wishes.”

She glanced over at her daughter, whose tears brimmed as she shook her head and replied, “I’m sorry. It’s just that everything about today is turning out all wrong.”

“You mean Heath.” Myra blinked and focused her attention on the road.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom. As if I cared about a piece of street trash Gramps rescued simply to get his mother as housekeeper after Gram died. He should have found some other lady for the job and left Heath Oakes where he belongs…in prison.”

“I don’t know what the man did to inspire you with such hatred, but just for today let’s leave the past alone and focus on the chore ahead.” Her mother’s words brooked no room for further discussion.

Forty-five minutes later, Myra pulled the car onto the shoulder of the narrow country road. Headed down a rutted, impassable-looking trail that led into the bush on the right was a dirty, dented relic that must once have been a farm tractor. Jack Adams’ coffin lay strapped to the wooden trailer hitched to it. Heath Oakes glanced up from checking the straps that held it in place and touched his hat brim in Myra’s direction. The undertaker was not present.

“Mom, this is insane.” Allison whirled on her mother. “You can’t believe the three of us are going to take Gramps’ remains down this road with that…thing and bury his coffin?”

“Allison.” Myra placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “This was his last wish. It’s the least I can do. I wasn’t exactly the best of daughters.”

“He never believed that for a minute.” Allison couldn’t bear the remorse in her mother’s voice and expression. “He loved you. He never blamed you for marrying Dad and moving away.”

“And how often did I visit him?” Myra jerked the key from the ignition. “I was so busy with my family and with fundraising, I rarely visited him. Even after your grandmother died, even when I should have known how lost and lonely he must have been without her. If it hadn’t been for Heath and Ella Oakes…”

“He did
them
the kindness!”
How could a clever woman like her mother be so blind to the reality of the situation!
“Ella Oakes was a destitute widow with no job, no place to live, and a convicted criminal for a son when Gramps took her in. Who else would have done that? And let’s not forget her jailbird offspring was alone with Gramps when he died…”

“That’s quite enough!” Myra Armstrong met her daughter’s blazing green-eyed defiance with an unfaltering emerald one. “Heath and his mother saved your grandfather from loneliness and despair after your grandmother died. They did what you and I, his daughter and granddaughter, should have done. Don’t make any more ridiculous innuendoes. Go tell Heath we’ll be with him directly. I want to change my footwear.”

“But, Mom…”

“Go.”

Allison heaved an exasperated sigh and climbed out of the car. The Oakes had completely finessed Myra Armstrong.

The wet chip-sealed road made walking in high heels a balancing act. By the time she reached Heath, her temper hadn’t improved.

“My mother’s coming,” she muttered. “She’s changing her shoes.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to do the same.” He paused in checking the straps and glanced down at her black pumps. “You and your mother will have to walk. There’s no room for passengers.”

“I don’t have anything even remotely suitable for trekking through the sea of mud that trail appears to be. I had no idea we’d be indulging in this kind of expedition when we left Toronto.”

“There’s a pair of rubber boots in the back of my Jeep.” He gave the restraints another jerk. “They’ll be a bit big, but they’ll be better than those things you’re wearing.”

The sharp retort brewing in her throat died as her mother came striding up to them, feet encased in Wellingtons.

“Ready?” Myra drew a deep breath and pulled back her shoulders.

“As soon as Ms. Armstrong gets herself appropriately shod.” He looked down at the older woman, his tone and outlook softening.

“Oh, darling, I forgot to tell you to bring boots.” Her mother stared down at her daughter’s feet.

“I’ve told her I have boots in the back of my Jeep she can borrow.” He gave the coffin a light slap, as if he were patting the man inside on the back. A corner of his mouth twitched in a grin. “Remembering the good times,” he said softly.

Good God, the man can put on an act. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was sincere.

“Well, then.” Myra turned to her daughter with a what-are-you-waiting-for look. “Get those boots.”

Allison shot Heath Oakes what she hoped was a withering look before she swung away and tottered off toward the Jeep. Her attempt at hauteur failed as one of her heels caught in the loose rocks and she had to scramble to keep her balance.

She imagined him smirking behind her back. She’d be glad when all this was over, the will had been read, and her mother, who would inherit her father’s holdings, could send him packing.

Pulling a pair of mud-spattered rubber boots—at a glance, several sizes too large—from the Jeep’s cluttered cargo space, she jerked off her pumps, and flung the shoes that had cost her several hundred dollars into the back of the dirty vehicle.

I’ll convince Mom to dismiss him, come hell or high water, the minute she’s in possession of the Chance.
We’ll see how cocky he is when he’s out on his backside!

With the boots flopping a couple of inches from her heels, she stomped back to the tractor and the waiting couple. She caught a glint of wicked amusement flickering in Heath’s golden brown eyes. Prickling annoyance flooded through her veins. A black, short-skirted, designer-original suit did not coordinate with filthy, gargantuan Wellingtons.

“Are you ready, Heath?” Myra looked up at the man on the tractor.

“Ready when you are, Mrs. Armstrong.”

“Then let’s away.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He leaned forward and turned a switch. The motor sputtered, then roared to life. He flashed a triumphant grin down on Myra. Focusing his attention on the trail ahead, he put his hand over the gearshift and forced it into drive. All but unseating its driver, the old tractor leaped forward.

“Ride ’em, cowboy,” Allison sniggered.

“Allison, really!” Her mother’s rebuke reminded her of the solemnity of the occasion.

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

Heedless of her taunt, Heath got the vehicle under control. As it began to jolt its way down the trail, he settled it into a slow plod through the ruts of spring-softened ground. Myra and Allison fell in behind it, skirting the wake when possible, walking gingerly through the mud when it wasn’t.

The mile-long trek to the burial site seemed interminable. Rankled to the core, Allison trudged along beside her apparently undaunted mother. Twice the cloying mud brought her up short and she would have fallen except for Myra’s hand grasping her arm.

“Mom, I can’t believe Gramps expected us to do this,” she muttered. “This trail is awful.”

“Heath’s managing, darling.” Myra paused to indicate the tractor and trailer slogging and lurching down the trail ahead of them. “And so am I. Gramps would have expected you to have appropriate footwear…and a bit of perseverance.”

“Mom…” Allison started to protest, but her mother had set off again, following the dirty, roaring vehicle, head held high in her wide-brimmed hat, spatters of mud on the Italian leather coat that looked entirely out of place above filthy farm boots. Her mother was one amazing woman. She shook her head and followed.

A half hour later they emerged into a meadow carpeted with the dry, dead grasses left over from winter. In the mist, it was a dull brown expanse surrounded by walls of dark brooding spruce and solemn white pine. Somewhere several yards ahead, obscured by the fog, the river thundered past, swollen with the freshet of melting mountain snows. Allison visualized its dangerous, swollen torrent. She remembered another springtime years earlier, when a gangly teenage boy had dared her to canoe its length with him. His challenge had earned her the only dressing down she could ever recall getting from her grandfather.

The tractor’s revving and roaring brought her back to the moment. Allison saw Heath backing its trailer up to a freshly dug grave beside a stone monument. She heaved a sigh.
Soon, soon this will be over, and we’ll be on our way back to Toronto.

He parked with the back of the trailer at the lip of the yawning hole, cut the motor, and climbed down as Myra joined him.

“We made it.” Her mother put a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Heath.”

“Thanks aren’t necessary, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Definitely. Allison, come over here, please.”

While the two women stood side by side next to the trailer, Heath released the restraining straps, pulled out a pin to allow the trailer to tilt, and let the coffin slide into the grave. It stopped with a dull bump.

A sharp sob escaped Myra Armstrong, but she waved away Allison’s attempt to put an arm around her. Allison backed off and waited. She knew she’d forever remember the image of her mother, dressed in black, standing beside the open grave, head bent, eyes closed.

Heath, who’d been standing to one side, reached for a shovel stuck in the mound of earth beside the grave.

“Wait…please. I want to say a few words before you…” Allison’s heart ached at her mother’s request.

He nodded and stepped back.

“Come, Allison.” Holding out a hand, Myra Armstrong moved to stand on the brink of the grave. She paused and closed her eyes. Allison saw tears trickle from beneath the closed lids and slide down her mother’s cheeks.

“Join us, Heath,” she startled Allison by requesting as she held out her other hand.

“Yes, ma’am.” Heath pulled off his hat.

“Let us pray.” Holding both their hands, she bowed her head. “Dear Lord, please welcome Jack Adams as he welcomed all those who came to his door. Give him a place in eternity as beautiful as this land he loved, and let him share it with the woman who was his best friend and soul mate. Amen.”

“Amen.” Heath’s voice edging on a croak outraged Allison.
Damn, he’s good at pretending he really gives a rat’s behind!

“Dad,” Myra startled her daughter by continuing while she held their hands. “Your wishes will be carried out. I’ll see to it. Rest in peace.”

As if in answer, a robin in a nearby burgeoning birch tree burst into song.

She released their hands and nodded to Heath. “You can begin.”

He pulled off his coat and was about to drop it to the ground with his hat, but Myra reached out to take them.

“Thanks,” he said. Their gazes met. Allison saw an empathy flash between them.
What is going on here?

Heath pulled the shovel from the pile of earth beside the grave. The harsh sound of the first clump of dirt hitting the coffin in the misty hush of the meadow cracked the restraint she’d been mastering all day. He was really gone.

“Gramps,” she whispered. “Oh, Grampie.”

“Come along, darling.” Myra put her arm around her shoulders. “We’ll take a walk down to the river and let Heath do his work.”

Allison paused a moment to look at the man shoveling earth into the grave, feet braced, lean muscular body moving mechanically, easily, it appeared, through the heavy task. His lips were hard set in a grim line, a tick worked in his jaw.

Two-faced bum, putting on an act for my mother
.
Well, he’s not fooling me
.

She started around the excavation toward the river. At the granite monument, she stopped.

“Maud Adams. Grandma. I didn’t know she was buried here.”

“She died in December of that year, you’ll remember.” Myra touched the stone. “You, your Dad, and I came for the funeral. The ground was frozen, so burial had to be delayed until spring. When the time arrived, your father had several serious cases he couldn’t leave, and you were deep in some kind of business merger. I came down alone. After cutting through mountains of red tape, Dad and Ethan Jarvis, the undertaker, had arranged for it to be here. At that time your grandfather had the monument erected and arrangements made to be placed beside her when his time came. Now come along,” she urged as Allison felt her eyes fill with tears. “Gramps hated crying women. He never knew what to do with them.”

Allison followed her mother away from the gravesites and across the sloping field. When they reached the river, they paused. The torrent thundering past reminded Allison of her tall, barrel-chested grandfather with his thick mane of white hair and booming laugh. He’d had a wonderful tenor voice and often entertained his guests at the Lodge from a repertoire that included everything from show tunes to country-western. Allison had especially enjoyed the times he’d sung “Annie’s Song” to her grandmother, who often accompanied him on her acoustic guitar.

What a pair they’d been. Until Gram had been diagnosed with cancer and died slowly before Jack Adams’ helpless, desperate eyes.

He’d never sung again. He’d remained jovial with his guests, always appeared happy when he visited Allison and her parents in Ottawa, but he’d never again radiated the overwhelming
joie de vivre
that had once been a nimbus around him.

Was that what love meant? A song bursting in your heart when you had it and silence when it was gone? She’d never know. Her heart had been turned to stone years ago by the man shoveling earth into her grandfather’s grave.

“You’re cold.” Myra put an arm about her daughter and hugged her to her side. “Heath must be finished. We can head back. Dad wouldn’t want any of us to catch pneumonia.”

“I would have dressed more appropriately if you’d told me these plans.” Cold and tiredness brought testiness into Allison’s tone.

“I was afraid you’d protest and, frankly, my darling, in the past day and a half since Dad died, I wouldn’t have had the strength to argue with you. Especially since your father had several critically ill patients and couldn’t come with us. Gramps would have understood his not attending the funeral under those conditions, but you know how I rely on your father’s strength at times like this. I need you to be with me, physically and emotionally.”