Cheryl St.John - Sequins and Spurs

She would never be able to tell her mother she was sorry. She’d missed her last opportunity. While she’d been singing in theaters, eating and sleeping in hotels across the eastern states, her mother and sister had needed her here.

All those years her mother had believed Ruby didn’t love her or care enough to come home—to stay home. But she’d loved Mama. Of course she had loved her.

Tears came then; great racking sobs rose from her belly and her chest heaved.

She hadn’t said goodbye.

Her grief combined with overwhelming guilt and regret until it hurt to breathe. It didn’t seem right to be here with the breaking sun on her face or to hear the sound of birds chirping in the nearby trees when the rest of her family was gone.

Finally, through her tears, Ruby turned her gaze to her sister’s grave. Now that the sky had brightened, the neatly mown grass in this spot and the beds of violets planted at the head of each plot caught her attention.

Never again would she see Pearl’s bright smile. Gone was the person who’d shared her memories of growing up, the sister who shared her father and knew the same pain of loss. Now there was no one to remember him with. No one with the same curly hair or blue eyes. Ruby was alone.

She turned her bleary gaze to the grave marked Margaret May. Buried here was the baby Pearl’s husband had mentioned. Ruby didn’t know if Margaret had died as a newborn or if she’d lived a short while, but in either case, Ruby felt Pearl’s loss now, and it became her own.

The wetness that had soaked through her skirt made her knees ache. Pushing herself to her feet, she studied the dip in the landscape and the trees that outlined what her father had named Deer Hollow, because of the deer that tiptoed from cover to feed in the early morning and late evening. A pair grazed in the valley below her now. The largest one lifted its head to look right at her, obviously finding her no threat, because it went right back to feeding.

A dim memory swirled into perfect clarity. Many years ago she and Pearl had lain here in the grass watching the deer, several of them with fawns. The sisters had looked at each other, marveling in silence. Ruby had admired her sister’s ability to wait and watch, while she herself had itched to creep closer. Her heart ached for that moment. For the years since. That same impatience had led her away, and pride had delayed her return. The land and the house were familiar, but everything else was different. Everything that mattered was gone.

Eventually, Ruby turned and made her way back across the pasture to the house. Making mistakes was nothing new for her. At least this one with Nash Sommerton was fixable. If she hadn’t addled his brains with that skillet.

She walked all the way around to the back door and opened it without pause.

Rather than seeing her sister’s husband tied to a chair, she discovered a pile of splintered wood.

Chapter Three

Nash’s hands had gone numb before he’d had the sense to hobble to his feet and bash the chair against the cast-iron stove.

Mad enough to spit fire, he’d stormed through the house, finding that Ruby was gone. Finally, belly rumbling, he made himself something to eat. He figured as soon as it was daylight, she’d want to prove his story true or false and make her way to the grave markers. He pumped water, lit the stove and put the coffeepot on to boil.

He’d downed two cups before she returned.

Her appearance was startling. The front of her suede skirt was blotched dark. Not only did she look disheveled and exhausted, but her nose and eyes were red and puffy. Her hair looked as though she’d crawled backward though a bramble bush.

“So you’re Ruby.”

At the sound of his voice, she started and turned to where he sat.

“You’re not what I expected.”

She looked toward the coffeepot, shuffled to the cupboard for a cup and poured it half-full. Easing onto a chair at the opposite end of the table, she took a sip and met his eyes. “How did my mother die?”

Her voice was even raspier now.

He drew a breath and released it. “About five years ago the doctor said her heart was weak and that she needed to take life easy. Everything made her tired. She was pretty feeble.” He picked up his cup, but then set it back down. “A Cheyenne woman from nearby made her teas and poultices, and for a spell they seemed to help. At first she’d sit on the porch or in the rocker in the parlor, but eventually she couldn’t go up or down the stairs. She stayed in her room, mostly.”

Ruby kept her focus on the cup in her hand, obviously absorbing his words with great difficulty.

“Pearl took care of her,” he added.

Ruby’s gaze flickered to his momentarily. He could make this easier on her, but he wanted her to know how hard it had been on his wife—on the whole family. He needed Ruby to see how her irresponsibility had been a burden. He didn’t want it to be easy for her.

She stared into her coffee for a long time before raising her eyes. “You said Pearl died before Mama.”

He nodded.

“Who took care of my mother after that?”

“My mother came as often as she could. And Little Bird, the Cheyenne woman I told you about. Between the two of them and some of the ladies from church, we kept her as comfortable as we could.”

Ruby didn’t shed a tear now, but it was plain she’d done plenty of crying before coming back to the house. Her fingers trembled on the handle of the cup, and she quickly moved her hand to her lap.

Had she thought she would come back after all this time and everything would be as she’d left it? “Where were you in April?” he asked.

She appeared to think a moment. “Chicago.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Theater.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Acting?”

She nodded. “Singing.”

He couldn’t imagine that unusual, sandpapery voice of hers lifted in song. “Singing on a stage...in front of people?”

“That’s right.”

“They paid?”

“That’s how singers make a living.” She flattened her hands on the table. “Look, I know I wasn’t here for either of them. I should have come back a long time ago, but...but I didn’t. I sent Mama money every month.”

“You could have visited. Written at least.”

“I sent a couple of letters. I’m not much for writing.”

“Pearl needed help,” he said. “She took care of everyone and the house all by herself till she died.”

“I’m sorry.” Ruby set her mouth in a straight line.

“Sorry doesn’t fix eight years of neglect.”

She stared at her cup. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Did you get letters from your mother?”

“A few, but I never stayed in one place long.”

“Too busy to come visit, were you?”

“I had my reasons.”

“I’ll bet you did.” Stage performers didn’t have the best reputations. Not that he knew the sordid details, but he could imagine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. “I have to get out to the stock. Thanks to you, I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“I’m sorry about that, too,” she said. “And for...” She gestured to his head. “Hitting you with the skillet.”

“You could’ve killed me.” He got up and set his cup near the sink basin, noting for the first time that all the other dirty cups he’d left there were gone. He paused. “What’s your plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have to figure that out.”

“You plannin’ to stay here?”

“This is my home.”

He said nothing. Didn’t look at her again, just walked out the back door and closed it firmly behind him. He felt half-sick at the thought of her being here. He hoped she’d be gone when he came back. He had enough people to take care of, and sufficient worries on his mind already. He didn’t need her adding to his problems.