Dakota Home

  “All right,” Calla agreed with a reluctant sigh. All she’d done since she arrived was housework. Sometimes she felt more like Willie’s maid than his daughter.

  She took the garbage pail from the kitchen and collected the empty beer and soda cans, along with the discarded fast-food containers. They hadn’t eaten a sit-down dinner even once. Usually he gave her a few bucks and let her fend for herself.

  “Damn, did you see that?” he asked, and pointed at the television screen with his beer can.

  Sports. Never in all her life had she known anyone who could watch sports twenty-four hours a day. Currently it was baseball, but Calla had never had much interest in the game.

  “I was thinking of calling home,” she mentioned casually.

  “Call home?” he exploded, spraying her with a mouthful of beer. “Not here you won’t.”

  “Why not?” she demanded, disgustedly wiping beer and spittle from her sleeve. Why shouldn’t she call home? It was a perfectly reasonable request.

  “I don’t have long distance.”

  “You called my grandfather the night I arrived,” she challenged.

  “Yeah—I phoned collect.”

  He’d called collect! Calla thought she’d be sick to her stomach. This was not turning out the way she’d assumed it would. Looking at the man who’d fathered her, she found it hard to believe that anyone like Willie Stern could ever have been married to her mother.

  When she’d been younger, Calla had pressed Sarah for information about her father. She remembered her mother telling her that Willie played in a weekend band, how popular he was. What she hadn’t said was that he had no talent, no ambition and absolutely no persistence. He hadn’t played with the band in years.

  He was personable enough, she supposed, but seven-year-old Stevie Wyatt had a longer attention span than he did. She’d be talking, telling him something she considered important, and his focus would slowly wander back to the television set. Calla hated that she had to compete with a stupid 32-inch screen to talk to him.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to call your mother, anyway,” Willie muttered.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” If he could phone collect, then so could she. It wasn’t what she wanted to do, but she knew her mother would gladly pay the charges.

  “Well, your mother and me had a falling-out recently.”

  “Over what?” It was a stupid question, because the answer was obvious.

  “You!” he shouted. “What else? I told her if you’re going to live with me, she should pay child support.”

  Although her mother had never actually said as much, Calla knew that she’d rarely, if ever, received anything in the way of support.

  “Did you know she tried to garnishee my wages once?” His tone was affronted. “She went to the state, put them up to it.” He chuckled. “I took care of that. Quit my job.”

  “So, what did my mother say when you asked her for support?” This ought to be interesting.

  “What did she say?” he repeated, his eyes still on the screen. “I didn’t know old Sarah had ever learned those kinds of words.” He laughed with crude humor.

  Calla could well imagine what her mother had told him. For the first time in weeks…months…she found herself smiling.

  Once she’d dealt with the garbage, Calla collected the discarded clothes and lugged them to her father’s bedroom, where she dumped them on the unmade bed. She didn’t know how long it’d been since anyone had changed the sheets.

  Three times since she’d arrived, he’d had women sleep over. Three different women. Calla couldn’t help wondering if the three of them knew about each other, then decided they probably did. They didn’t look the type to care.

  “I’m leaving now,” Calla said. She stared pointedly at him. If she was supposed to disappear for the evening, she was going to need money.

  “Whatever.” Oblivious, he finished the beer and tossed it onto the vinyl chair on the opposite side of the room.

  “I’m going to need cash,” she reminded him.

  Frowning, he stood, reached inside his hip pocket and removed his wallet. “Here. Buy yourself some dinner.” He handed her a ten-dollar bill. “And remember, spend the night with a friend, all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m gonna need your room tonight.”

  “But my things are in there. That’s my room.”

  “Hey, don’t get mouthy with me. No one’s going to take your precious things.”

  Calla wasn’t sure she could believe that, but she didn’t have any choice.

  “See ya, kid.”

  “Right,” she muttered on her way out the door.

  She caught a bus at the nearby stop, then transferred to another. She’d figured out how to get around by public transit and she was proud of that.

  The mall, when she stepped inside, was full of people. In fact, there were more people inside this one mall than she’d seen in her entire life. She made her way through the crowds to the food court. She passed a bank of telephones and as she glanced at them, a flash of homesickness went through her.

  But Willie was right; she shouldn’t call her mother. True, her father wasn’t anything like she’d hoped or expected, but he was her father. Besides, it was early yet. Things might improve. If she phoned Buffalo Valley now, her mother might get the impression she wanted to move back home, and she didn’t. Especially if Dennis was going to be living in their house. Okay, so the situation with her dad was far from ideal. Calla knew her mother would be shocked if she learned the truth of her circumstances. Shocked, too, when she discovered that she’d had her nose and her lip pierced—a gift from her father. As soon as she could afford the sixty-five bucks, she was getting her tongue done, too. For the first time in her entire life, Calla didn’t have someone breathing down her neck, setting rules, telling her what to do. She could come and go as she pleased. The freedom was exhilarating. And everything would be better once school started again and she made new friends.

  No, the last thing she wanted was to come home defeated, her tail between her legs. A loser. So her father wasn’t exactly the dad on The Brady Bunch. Big deal. She could live with that.

  Setting her backpack on the floor, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Most days when she was in the mall, she spent time either at the food court or the bookstore.

  “Hi.”

  It was the girl she’d met a week earlier.

  “Hi,” Calla said, not wanting to seem too eager. “How’s it going?”

  The other girl shrugged. “I wondered if I’d see you again.”

  “I’ve been around.” She didn’t think the other girl had given her name, so she said, “I’m Calla.”

  “Morgan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Morgan.”

  The other girl sat down across from her. “A bunch of us are getting together and going to a movie. Wanna come?”

  “What movie?”

  She mentioned one Calla hadn’t heard of before, but that didn’t really matter. Morgan had the potential of becoming a friend, and at the moment, Calla needed one. If everything worked out, maybe she could even spend the night with her.

  “So, whaddya say?” Morgan asked.

  A movie sounded great, but she wasn’t sure she had enough cash, after paying for the bus and buying a cheese-buger and a Coke. “All I’ve got is a few bucks.” She didn’t want to mention that in Buffalo Valley the theater only charged two dollars—but then, most of the movies were already on video.

  “That’s enough for a matinee. Besides, if you don’t have the money, we could find a way to sneak you in.”

  “Cool.” That was a word her father used a lot.

  “Come meet my friends,” Morgan invited.

  They walked over to where two boys were standing. Waiting, watching them. “This is Calla,” she said. “She’s coming with us.”

  “She got money?” the first boy asked Morgan.

  Morgan nodded. “Calla, this is
Chet and Bill.”

  They weren’t bad-looking although Chet appeared to have an acne problem. It would be great to make friends. This was exactly what Calla had been hoping would happen.

  “Give Bill your money,” Morgan instructed.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s buying the tickets for us.”

  “I can buy my own ticket.”

  “But if they see you, they won’t believe you’re under twelve.”

  Calla looked from one to the other. “I need money to get home.”

  Chet held out his hand. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll drive you.”

  He didn’t look old enough to drive, but he was the cuter of the two, so she reluctantly removed the five-dollar bill from her jeans pocket. That left her with a couple of quarters.

  “Okay.” Chet gave her a thumbs-up. “You guys wait here.”

  The two boys disappeared around the corner.

  Calla and Morgan chatted for several seconds. “Damn, I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Morgan said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Calla told her.

  “Better stay here. Chet and Bill will be back any minute and they won’t know where we are. When the mall’s this crowded, it’s easy to get lost. Besides, we don’t want to waste time trying to find one another.”

  “Yes, but…” Calla hesitated.

  “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  “Sure…go ahead,” Calla said. “When Chet and Bill get back, we’ll wait here for you.”

  Morgan walked quickly across the food court toward the restrooms. Just before she reached the doors, she turned and grinned at Calla.

  Calla grinned back.

  Then Morgan gave her a little wave and raced out the exit door. Calla watched in disbelief. At first she didn’t understand. There weren’t any restrooms outside the mall. A minute later, she realized what had happened. She’d just been scammed out of her last five dollars.

  Five lousy bucks. They’d done it out of pure meanness, too. Calla hadn’t known anyone could be so cruel.

  Heath Quantrill had attended Buffalo Bob and Merrily’s wedding, along with just about everyone in Buffalo Valley. As a member of the town council it was expected of him. He’d been happy to provide champagne, but he hadn’t been in much of a mood for wedding festivities. He’d arrived late, sat at the back of the church and only intended to make a token appearance at the reception.

  Instead, he’d ended up spending hours there, most of them with Rachel Fischer. They’d danced almost every dance, and when he’d escorted her home, she’d shocked him by turning in his arms and kissing him.

  She’d kissed him. A kiss that was so damned potent he had trouble maintaining his balance afterward. Then, ever so sweetly, she’d smiled—and quietly let herself inside the house.

  If he hadn’t been stunned into speechlessness, Heath would have followed her, and in fact wished he had. The woman sent a message faster than e-mail. Instead, he’d remained on her porch, breathless, excited…and dumbfounded.

  In the two weeks since the wedding, Heath had played it cool. At the beginning of their relationship he’d practically done cartwheels in an effort to get Rachel Fischer’s attention. In response, she’d stomped all over his ego. Well, turnabout was fair play. He hadn’t seen or talked to Rachel since the day of the wedding and after that kiss, had confidently expected her to call him.

  She hadn’t.

  Rachel drove him insane. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted her. Never been treated the way she treated him. Other women fell all over themselves to impress him. Not Rachel Fischer.

  Business at the Buffalo Valley branch had picked up considerably, and Heath wanted to extend the bank’s hours; he planned to discuss it with his grandmother the next time they met. Lately, he’d been working overtime the three days he drove in from Grand Forks. He figured they needed to hire some additional staff.

  Sitting at his desk, he signed the last of a stack of letters and glanced at his watch. The bank would be closing in forty-five minutes, and he still had two or three hours’ worth of work piled on his desk.

  At almost seven, he was finally finished—and very hungry. In the past, he’d frequently gone to Rachel’s restaurant for dinner. Briefly he thought about doing so again, but changed his mind. This time he wanted her to come to him. She was the one who’d broken their last date, after all.

  As he strolled down Main Street to the 3 OF A KIND, he passed the corner of Lincoln Avenue…and heard his name being called.

  “Mr. Quantrill.”

  Heath looked in all directions, but saw no one.

  “Mr. Quantrill!”

  Heath turned around. Still nothing.

  “Up here.” The cry was louder now.

  Staring up into the leaves of a large oak, he saw Mark Fischer, Rachel’s son, clinging to a thick branch, six or seven feet above.

  “What are you doing up there?” he asked, recalling his own tree-climbing adventures as a boy.

  “I climbed up here, but I can’t get down. I’m afraid I’ll fall.”

  Heath could see that Mark had worked himself into a state of near-panic.

  “I’ve been here for hours,” Mark said, and his voice caught on a sob. “No one’s come by at all.”

  “I did,” he said reassuringly. Everyone in the neighborhood would be at supper, which explained why no one had seen him. “Now hold on, I’m coming up and we’ll get you down in a jiffy.” He’d probably been trapped less than half an hour, but Heath knew how long that time could seem to a kid in his predicament.

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Mark told him as Heath assessed the tree. He hadn’t climbed one in years, but he’d been good at it as a boy. He should be able to do this without undue risk to his physical well-being or his dignity. Too bad about the shoes, though.

  Removing his suit jacket, Heath tossed it aside and reached up to grab the closest limb. With his feet braced against the trunk, he pulled himself up to the first level. It wasn’t as easy as he remembered.

  “I’m almost there,” Heath reassured the boy. He felt his shoes scrape against the bark as he maneuvered his way to the next limb. Just one more now…Damn, he’d torn his pants. Ah, finally. A good solid branch.

  “Okay, give me your hands,” he said, prepared to help Mark onto his branch.

  Mark hesitated and then flung himself toward Heath. As soon as Heath had him, Mark wrapped his arms around his neck and clung tightly. Rachel’s son trusted him—trusted him completely—and he felt a distinct rush of pleasure as he realized that.

  “Mark! Mark, where are you?”

  Heath heard the frantic edge in Rachel’s voice. He peered through the branches and saw her across the street. She was walking down the sidewalk, searching, her steps filled with urgency.

  “He’s up here,” Heath shouted, knowing his voice would carry farther than the boy’s.

  “Heath?” Rachel sprinted across the street and stood directly below.

  “She’s going to be real mad,” Mark whispered.

  “You want me to say something?” Heath asked.

  Mark considered the offer, then shook his head. “I’ll take my punishment like a man.” He lowered his voice as he said it and Heath grinned. He’d always liked Mark. It was the boy’s mother who gave him problems.

  “What are you two doing up there?” she demanded, staring up at them.

  “What does it look like?” he called down, as though tree-climbing was how he generally spent his spare time.

  “Mark?”

  “It’s my fault, Mom. I got stuck and Mr. Quantrill came up and got me.”

  “Heath, you climbed up there to rescue Mark? You could have been hurt!” She sounded incredulous.

  “Hey, I used to be quite good at this,” he said as he carefully approached the next limb. His shirt snagged on a small, sharp branch and he winced. He made it to the lowest branch, then lowered Mark to his mother’s waiting arms. Taking a minute to catch his breath, h
e leaped down himself, landing in a crouch.

  Mark stood in front of his mother, her hands on his shoulders. Brushing the dirt from his palms, Heath smiled. Damn, but it was good to see her again.

  “Thanks, Mr. Quantrill,” Mark said, glancing shyly at Heath and then his mother.

  Heath forced his eyes away from Rachel long enough to acknowledge the boy’s gratitude. “No problem.”

  “It won’t happen again—right?” Rachel asked her son emphatically.

  Mark shrugged. “I was looking for a place to build a clubhouse.”

  “I had one as a kid,” Heath said.

  “You did?”

  If Heath had announced he’d walked on the moon, he couldn’t have gotten a more profound look of awe from the boy.

  “Run over to see Mrs. Betts,” Rachel told her son. “I need to talk to Mr. Quantrill.”

  “Okay.” Eager to escape, the boy dashed off.

  “You have something to say to me?” Heath asked, thinking he’d gladly climb trees—and suffer the resulting damage—if that was all it took to get Rachel’s attention.

  She nodded and crossed her arms. Eyes wide, she studied his disheveled hair, ripped shirt, ruined shoes. “Oh, no! Look at you…I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said briskly. “Nothing serious. Now, what did you want to tell me?”

  She bit her lip. “I haven’t heard from you.”

  “I’ve been busy….” He stopped himself from reminding her that she hadn’t sought him out, either.

  Rachel glanced down the street, then met his eyes. “Is it too late for us, Heath?”

  He admired the way she got directly to the point.

  “Because if it is,” she continued, “then I’d appreciate knowing now before I make an even bigger fool of myself over you.”

  She’d made a fool of herself? Somehow he’d missed that. As far as he could see, he was the one who came off like an idiot with his Neanderthal routine.

  “It’s Kate Butler, isn’t it?”

  “No.” All at once, the pretense he’d maintained for the past few weeks was too much. Taking hold of her shoulders, he stared at her intently. “Rachel, listen, I’m crazy about you. I have been for months. Almost a year. As long as I’ve known you, in fact. The day I ran into you at my grandmother’s with Kate—”