Brenda Novak - When Snow Falls

But his fear of getting involved in another bad relationship was quickly being offset by the downside of his current situation. He was tired of living with his father and sleeping alone. He hadn’t had sex with anyone since Deborah Hinz, the woman who’d come from Sacramento to sell him energy-conversation lighting for the exterior of the station eighteen months ago. Even that hadn’t been as enjoyable as it should’ve been. He’d thought there might be some potential there when she’d asked to meet him at a bar not far from where she lived. But when he woke up and realized he’d drunk too much and gone home with her, he beat a hasty retreat. Then he bought the lights she’d been hoping to sell him, even though his father insisted they could find them cheaper, to make up for not wanting to see her again.

“I just need to go to Sacramento or the Bay area more often,” he said, and hoped he was right, that getting out and meeting new people would fill the void.

His father’s voice was barely audible; he’d stuck his head into the refrigerator to get something out. “How will you meet someone in Sac or anywhere else? At a nightclub?”

“I guess I could join a church group, but doing it for the wrong reasons seems a bit deceptive, don’t you think?” The Lakers scored from at least five feet behind the three-point line. “Nice shot,” he muttered, and rewound the DVR so he could take another look at that bucket.

“You don’t need to leave Whiskey Creek,” his father said. “There are plenty of nice women right here.”

Martin didn’t want to lose both of his kids to other locations. “Like who?”

“Eve Harmon! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

He glanced over to see his father salting two pieces of fish, which he could smell from where he sat in the living room. “You want me to date one of Gail’s friends?”

“What’s so bad about that?”

He had to explain? “If things don’t work out, loyalty would force Gail to side with me, since I’m her brother, which could cost her one of her closest friends. That’s not fair.”

His father arranged the fish on the broiler and slid it into the oven. “You’re overthinking it.”

“How ironic.”

Apparently satisfied that he’d started dinner, Martin came to the living room doorway. “What’s ironic?”

Joe shot him a crooked grin. “Most dads tell their sons not to think with their dicks. Sounds like you’re saying just the opposite.”

“Most dads are talking to young boys. You’re thirty-six.”

“I left home once—and learned my lesson. Now you’re never getting rid of me.”

His father must’ve known he was only joking because he didn’t comment. He leaned against the wall, watching the game while they talked. “It’s time to get back in the saddle.”

“I’m not sure I’m willing to listen to your advice in this area, Dad.” He took a pull of his beer. “It’s a bit too much ‘do what I say and not what I do,’ don’t you think?”

When his father made no comment, Joe saluted him with the can. “You have nothing to say to that?”

“I guess you got me,” he replied, and went back into the kitchen.

With a chuckle, Joe shook his head. His father didn’t lose an argument very often. And he never acknowledged it when he did. “Listen, you can relax, okay? I’m fine. Quit worrying.”

“There has to be someone you find attractive,” his dad called back.

Cheyenne Christensen came to mind. But only because he hadn’t been able to forget her since he’d bumped into her at the grocery store earlier, he told himself. He’d known she was going through hell. It had to be hard watching a parent succumb to cancer. But she’d seemed more on edge than usual....

“You think Anita Christensen’s going to die soon?” he asked.

“Where’d that come from?” His father was digging around in the freezer. They were probably going to have frozen peas with the fish—a healthy enough choice but not a particularly exciting one. Predictable, boring, safe. That seemed to be the story of his life these days.

“I saw Cheyenne at Nature’s Way,” he explained. “When I picked up the milk and eggs.”

“What’d she have to say?”

Joe cursed when the Lakers went on a 6-0 run. “Not much. Just that she was fine.”

“So Anita’s hanging on.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Joe!” The surprise and reproof in his father’s voice demanded an explanation, if not a retraction.

“It doesn’t sound good to say it,” Joe admitted. “But Cheyenne and her sister would be better off.”

The stove ticked until a burner lit with the soft, distinctive poof of gas. Sure enough, Martin was putting some peas on to boil.

“Since when have you become so interested in the Christensen girls?” his father asked.

“I’m not,” Joe replied, but that wasn’t entirely true. Presley had never appealed to him. Physically, she was okay, even with all those tattoos. But she had a mouth more suited to a sailor and eyes that gazed out on the world with bitterness and suspicion. If there’d been a few warning signs he’d overlooked with Suzie, Presley came with neon flashers.

But there’d always been something about Cheyenne. His eyes followed her whenever they passed on the street. He couldn’t help turning around to catch a second glimpse of her when she came into the station. And this morning…he’d felt so protective when those tears welled up.

“Glad to hear it,” his father said. “Eve would be a much better bet.”

Joe propped his elbows on his knees. “What’s wrong with Cheyenne?”

“She’s had a hard life. If anyone has the right to carry excess baggage, it would be her. Just look at her sister.”

The way his father automatically dismissed Cheyenne bothered Joe. “She’s done well, considering what she’s been through. Like you said, it’s Presley who’s out of control. She propositioned me at the Sexy Sadie Saloon a few weeks ago.”

“How does a woman do that these days?”

“She said for twenty bucks she’d take me in the girls’ restroom and ‘blow my mind.’”

“I take it you declined.”

“I did—and that didn’t embarrass her in the slightest. She told me to go to hell and started scanning the bar for her next mark.”

“See what I mean?”

“Presley isn’t Chey,” Joe argued.

“Doesn’t matter. You marry the girl, you marry the family.”

He understood that concept only too well. But he was feeling contrary enough that his father’s disapproval pushed him further into Cheyenne’s camp. “It wouldn’t hurt to befriend her.”

“You’ve never paid much attention to her before.”

“She belongs to Gail’s group. And I’ve been busy.”

His father motioned at the clock. “You’re not busy tonight. Maybe after dinner you should take a bottle of wine and head over there.”

“Maybe I will.”

“She could probably use some company.”

“No doubt,” he said, rising to the challenge. But once he caught sight of his father’s grin, he realized that Martin had been manipulating him the whole time. “You think you’re so clever,” he complained.

“It’s not hard to lead someone right where they want to go,” he said with a laugh. Then he nearly drove Joe crazy whistling as he finished making dinner.

* * *

No one ever came to the house, unless it was one of J. T. Amos’s sons, looking for Presley. Sometimes Presley partied with them down at their place, which was a rambler along the river half a mile away. Since it was nearly eight o’clock on a Saturday night, Cheyenne felt confident it had to be one of them—confident enough that she wasn’t the least concerned about her appearance. She’d already scrubbed her face so she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She wasn’t wearing shoes, either—just a pair of holey jeans with a sweatshirt. She’d stand behind the door, tell Dylan, Aaron, Grady, Rodney or Mack that Presley was out for the evening, and be done with it.