hair, tawny skin tone and those dark, dark eyes. If it wasn’t for your features being a bit delicate and your being tall and slender, there wouldn’t be any evidence that I had a part in creating you. But anyway, it’s your hair and you should do what pleases you.”
“Oh? The whole town probably knows by now that Ben Skeeter doesn’t feel that way about my hair. The nerve of that man to… Oh, don’t get me started.”
“I think that scene in the café was rather sweet,” Jane said.
“Oh, spare me,” Laurel said, getting to her feet. “I’m going to go freshen up so I’ll be ready to head back to work.”
Jane watched her daughter leave the room, marveling yet again at her beauty.
“Oh, Jimmy,” she whispered, “our baby girl is so troubled, so unhappy, and I don’t know what to do to help her.”
As a breathtaking sunset streaked across the sky, Ben strolled along the sidewalk of the main street of town, his last self-appointed duty before ending his shift for the day.
Seven local citizens so far had asked him if he planned to eat dinner at the Windsong Café, something he very rarely did, preferring to prepare something for himself at home after a busy day. He’d also received some smug smiles and raised eyebrows from half a dozen of the shop owners who had made it a point to come to the door of their stores as he’d gone by on his patrol.
Oh, yeah, he thought, the story of the ridiculous scene with Laurel regarding whether or not she should cut her hair had definitely spread like wildfire. There was nothing he could do but say nothing and wait it out until the next bit of juicy gossip took its place.
Ben slowed his step even more as he went past the old-fashioned ice cream parlor.
Man, oh, man, he thought, he and Laurel had spent countless hours in that place eating hot-fudge sundaes and talking about their plans for the future. They had been so young, so sure that everything would go just the way they were laying it out, their hopes and dreams connecting like a jigsaw puzzle that created a fantastic picture.
But then Laurel had decided she wanted more than he could offer, more than his love and the life they were to share in Willow Valley after they were married. Everything had fallen apart as though an invisible hand had reached out and flung the pieces of the puzzle into oblivion.
In the years after she left he’d tried to make a new puzzle, but there were always pieces missing. It was never truly whole again without Laurel in his life. He had learned to go on as things were, slowly but surely, but now Laurel was back and…
Ben stopped suddenly as he looked down to see a boy about five years old staring up at him with wide eyes.
“Hi,” Ben said. “Where’s your mom, kiddo?”
“In that store,” the boy said, pointing to the one next to the ice cream parlor. “Are you a real Indian?”
Ben nodded. “Yep. I’m a Navajo.”
“Wow. Is that a real gun?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. How come you gots a gun instead of a bow and arrow?” the child said.
“Well,” Ben said, smiling, “because my bow and arrow doesn’t fit in this holster I’m wearing. I have to settle for a gun.”
“Wow,” the boy said. “Do you shoot bad guys?”
“Only if I have to,” Ben said. “Are you a bad guy?”
“Me?” the child said, his eyes widening even more. “No. No. I’m good. Honest.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Jacob,” a woman said, hurrying out of the shop, “I told you not to leave the store. Don’t ever do that again.” She looked up at Ben. “I’m terribly sorry. One minute he was there and the next…”
“He’s a real Indian, Mom,” Jacob said. “He shoots bad guys with his gun ’cause his bow and arrow doesn’t fit in that holster thing.”
“Wow,” Ben said, chuckling.
The woman smiled. “Thank you for the patience with my son. I do apologize if he said anything to offend you.”
“Not at all,” Ben said.
“Good,” the mother said. “Come on, Jacob.”
Ben watched as the pair went on down the sidewalk, the mother still lecturing the inquisitive child about staying close to her.
Cute kid, Ben thought, tugging his Stetson lower on his forehead. He and Laurel had talked about the children they’d have. Two for sure, maybe more. Yeah, they’d daydreamed about a lot of things, all part of the life they would share together. What a joke.
“Aw, hell, forget it,” Ben muttered. “It’s time to go home.”
Ben lived in an A-frame house on two acres of wooded land on the edge of town next to the reservation. The house was set well back from the road, and the entire front of the structure was windows, affording a spectacular view of nature’s bounty.
The inside was open and airy with a river-rock fireplace against one wall banked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a half wall dividing the living room from the kitchen, an eating area, small bathroom and laundry room.
The upstairs had a balcony overlooking the downstairs and two large bedrooms with a connecting bath. The second bedroom was an office of sorts, with a computer and more book shelves.
The furniture throughout was big, comfortable and rustic. The gleaming hardwood floors had several large Navajo rugs, and one of Dove Clearwater’s woven creations adorned one wall. Scattered among the multitude of books on the shelves were Navajo pots and baskets, all made by people he knew on the rez.
Ben entered the house from the covered garage that led to the kitchen. He went upstairs, changed into jeans and a faded sweatshirt, locked his gun in the metal box on his closet shelf then headed back to the kitchen to find something for dinner.
A short time later he sat at the table and ate a plate-sized omelet filled with ham chunks, green and red peppers, cheese and onions and topped with a generous serving of hot salsa. A tall glass of ice water stood at the ready above the plate.
After eating, he cleaned the kitchen, then settled into his favorite recliner to watch the evening news on television, which failed to hold his attention.
Laurel had never seen this house, he mused, glancing around. What would she think of it? Would she be able to envision herself living here? Or had he decorated with too much of a guy-thing touch to make her feel at ease? Well, that was easy enough to fix. Add some girl-thing doodads, or whatever, to make it evident that a woman was in residence, too.
He’d drawn endless pictures of this dream house while he and Laurel were still in high school, sharing them all with her. They’d decided together which bedroom would be theirs and…
“Damn it, Skeeter,” Ben said, smacking the arm of the chair. “Why are you going there? Why are you doing this?
