Her sister laughed. “Wrong.”
“It was Annabelle’s idea,” TJ said quickly. “But I made the call. Too much wine. I’m sorry. Guess you should have come to the bar with us the other night.”
She wanted to scold them both but could only shake her head.
“So how did the call go?” Annabelle asked, looking excited.
“He said he might see me at the Masquerade Dance.”
“Really? That’s great!” Annabelle exchanged a high five with TJ. “I told you it would work.”
“It didn’t work. It’s not like he promised to come back to Whitehorse or attend the dance. He said maybe.” She could see that this didn’t dampen either of her sisters’ spirits or their belief that their call was successful.
“Oh, I hope he comes,” Annabelle said. “It’s so sad. I’m sure his friend Cooper told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Justin’s older brother, Drew. He was killed. Justin found him.”
Drew had already been out of high school by the time Chloe was a freshman, so she’d never really known him. “That’s horrible,” Chloe said and saw from her sister’s expression that there was more. “What?”
“It happened five years ago. Drew’s death was ruled an accident but...” She looked at TJ.
“But what?” Chloe asked.
“Justin was under suspicion,” Annabelle said. Since returning home to Whitehorse, her youngest sister had gotten caught up on all the local gossip thanks to a bunch of nosy elderly neighbors. “No one who knew him thought he’d been involved, but his father...well, I guess he still blames Justin.”
Chloe couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Poor Justin. I had no idea. So much tragedy. Why would his father blame him?”
Annabelle shrugged. “Apparently Bert Calhoun idolized his oldest son. Justin and Drew were often at odds. That day Drew and Justin had an argument. That’s all I know except that Justin left town and hasn’t come back. We’d better get going or we’re going to be late.”
TJ had picked up a newspaper that Chloe had left on a table by the bedroom door, before saying, “I’m surprised you were able to get so much time off from the paper. So you’re staying until after the New Year, right?”
“I thought we were going to be late?” Chloe said. “Let me get showered and dressed.” She shooed them out, but she could tell that TJ wasn’t going to let the subject drop. At some point, Chloe knew she would have to tell them the truth.
* * *
JUSTIN T. CALHOUN leaned back, his boots resting on the large pine stump he used for a footstool, and thought about the phone call. Just hearing Chloe’s voice had brought back the few sweet memories he had of Whitehorse. After everything that had happened, was it any wonder he’d been glad to leave it all behind?
But jumping feetfirst into a marriage to Margie Taylor had been a mistake, he thought as he looked out at the flat, white landscape of North Dakota. He could admit now that he’d been trying to put everything behind him. He’d worked her family ranch during their very short marriage. It hadn’t taken Margie long to realize that his heart wasn’t in it. Not in her or ranching her family’s place. They’d parted as friends and he’d gone to work for another rancher near the Montana–North Dakota border. He hadn’t even considered going home.
And yet the moment he’d heard Chloe Clementine was in trouble, he’d been ready to jump on his trusty steed and ride off to save her. He hadn’t been that man in years and yet, instantly, he’d wanted to be. Because as much as he tried to fool himself, he had unfinished business in Whitehorse.
He stretched out his long denim-clad legs and looked around the small cabin he’d called home for months. It kept the snow out, but that was about all he could say about it. He didn’t mind living modestly. Or at least he never had.
Talking to Chloe had left him restless. It reminded him that once, a long time ago, he’d had dreams. It also made him think about what he’d given up all those years ago. Is this what it took to get him to finally face the past? He thought about their kiss on that winter night, just the two of them with ice crystals floating around them.
“You damn fool,” he said to himself and yet he couldn’t help smiling. He’d always wanted to go to the New Year’s Eve Masquerade Dance in Whitehorse. The idea of showing up and surprising Chloe... Just the thought of seeing her again...
At the sound of a truck approaching, he cursed and stood. He had someone else’s cattle to feed, someone else’s fence to mend. He shoved his worn Stetson down on his head, aware that he needed a haircut. A shave wouldn’t hurt either. But what was the point of even thinking about making a change—let alone trying to go back to what could have been? Chloe didn’t need him. So why had he said that he might show up at the party?
Worse, why was he thinking it was time to make things right?
* * *
AT THE EDGE of town, the wind whipped the new snow, swirling it around the empty cemetery. The huge old pine trees creaked and swayed. His tracks filled behind him as Bert Calhoun made his way to the granite tombstone.
He hated this trek through the cemetery each year. He knew he should come more often, but it was too painful. He felt old, forgotten, his heart as bleak as the winter landscape around him.
His footsteps faltered as he neared his oldest son’s final resting place. A large pine stood like a sentinel over the grave. He read what had been carved into the granite as if the words were carved into his own flesh.
Andrew “Drew” Calhoun
July 4, 1982–December 10, 2013
Bert Calhoun removed his Stetson and squatted down next to the grave, his bad knee aching. The wind whipped at his too-long gray hair and beard. He was glad he was alone on this cold winter day. He kept to the ranch except when forced to come in for supplies. He knew people talked about him. They stared and whispered when they saw him. He could well imagine what they said.
Other than this yearly visit, he couldn’t bring himself to even drive by the cemetery. He never knew what to say to his son. Drew had had so much promise from the time he was born. He was the one Bert had always depended on to take over the ranch and keep the Calhoun name and brand going.
That Drew had been taken from them so soon was still dynamite to his heart. There’d been days when he thought he couldn’t go on breathing at the thought of his oldest son under six feet of dirt. Had there been anyone else to take over the ranch, he would have blessedly taken his own life. Instead, the circumstances of his son’s death had him dying slowly from the pain. It had made him into a tired, bitter old man.
The wind whipped snow past, rocking the metal container holding the faded plastic flowers on the grave next to Drew’s. He looked over at the headstone and felt the weight of his guilt. Pushing to his feet, he moved to his wife’s graveside.
Mary Harris Calhoun
May 11, 1954–December 21, 2002
Losing her so young had made him hold on even tighter to Drew, since Drew resembled her the most. Now he was just glad she hadn’t been around to see what had become of the family she’d loved so much. He knew how disappointed she would be in him. No more than he was in himself.
The promise was on his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. It wasn’t the promise Mary would have wanted to hear. But it was the promise he’d made since Drew’s murder five years ago this month. He would see that their oldest son’s killer was brought to justice—one way or another.
But he hadn’t been able to do even that.
The promise Mary wanted was one he couldn’t even bring himself to utter let alone