Private Sins Read online

  ‘You’re fishing.’ Sophie sliced onions with a lethal-looking knife. ‘No one else gives Val nice presents. Charlie keeps a tight rein on Edna’s budget and Clyde never has anything to spare. I gave her the fridge and the washer. Bonuses, you know, after a good season? I believe in rewarding merit and that girl works hard.’

  ‘I could see that.’ Val was hardly a girl, but then, to Sophie… ‘I thought she looked drawn.’

  ‘She’d had a long day.’ There was a pregnant silence. Miss Pink fidgeted with the salad dressing, the onions sizzled in the pan. They were self-conscious but neither spoke until Sophie sighed heavily and slammed a lid on the pan. ‘There. Half an hour?’ She avoided Miss Pink’s eye. ‘A drink?’ The tone was bright and artificial; she’d already had a couple of whiskies. Miss Pink had scarcely touched hers.

  They sat at an open window, in the shade because this side of the apartment faced south. They looked over the shadowed street below, over the town and the foothills to the snowfields that were now flushed rosy in the last of the sunshine. Between them, on a coffee table with a surface of Mexican tiles, stood a bottle of Talisker, the level dropping.

  ‘Are you as attached to your nephew?’ Miss Pink asked, continuing the conversation.

  ‘Not so much. Clyde’s close to his mother, closer than Val is.’ She was a little drunk. ‘Val… me… horses: there’s a rapport, a bond.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Relaxed by her ride, stimulated by sips of single malt, Miss Pink probed cautiously. ‘Val isn’t a people-person,’ she mused. ‘That kind of woman doesn’t marry. Shouldn’t marry. Like me. Like you.’

  ‘How right you are.’ Sophie forgot that Miss Pink did enjoy people. ‘But she’s found her feet now,’ she added earnestly. ‘Very self-sufficient girl — independent.’ Her mind took a leap. ‘Pity about Sam. You have to meet him.’

  ‘And there’s the daughter.’ It was a murmur only.

  ‘You won’t see her.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  There was silence. Miss Pink’s head came round, relinquishing the view. Before that gently demanding gaze Sophie swallowed and glared. ‘You’ll hear it some time. There’s always someone around will make mischief. Like Charlie. Better to hear it from me. Jen left home. Ten years back. Without a word to a soul.’

  ‘Why would she do a thing like that?’

  ‘How do I know? How does anyone know how a girl’s mind works? I mean, if her mother has no idea?’

  ‘No idea at all?’

  Sophie’s eyes slid sideways. ‘Well, I told you, that Paul Skinner…’

  Miss Pink sipped her drink, saddened but not astonished. Stepfathers and nubile girls: a volatile mixture.

  ‘She was only seventeen!’ Sophie cried. ‘Can you believe that? The child he should have protected — he was her substitute daddy, for heaven’s sakes!’

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Val. Her mother.’

  Sophie stared at her. ‘I’ve drunk too much.’ She looked surly. Regretting the disclosures?

  ‘Forget it. Why don’t we eat now?’ Miss Pink was good at finding escape routes.

  ‘Shoot, the chicken!’ Sophie leaped to her feet and rushed to the stove. When she returned she’d taken a grip on herself and sat down with care. ‘What I said, implying a relationship between those two, is what I think could have happened.’ She held Miss Pink’s eye. ‘I don’t know anything. No one knows. Jen hasn’t contacted any of us since she left. Ten years, Melinda, and not a word!’ Her voice had risen again.

  Miss Pink had been thinking. ‘Then how do you know —’ She left it there but Sophie smiled grimly and finished it for her.

  ‘That she’s alive? Because her father — Sam — had this guy working for him around the time she left: Bret Ryan, and Bret and Jen, they had a thing going, just a boy and girl romance, but after she went away she wrote to him, although she didn’t say why she’d left home. At least, that was Bret’s story. He said he didn’t know anything was wrong and he just happened to mention to Sam that he’d heard from Jen — who was in Texas — and Sam, of course, told Val and asked her why Jen had left. The girl was fond of her father but she never told him she was leaving either. And she never contacted him. It was as if she wanted a complete break with everyone from around here.’

  ‘Except this friend — Bret.’

  ‘And she only wrote once to him — he said — but there was an address. Val went straight there: to Dallas, it was. Found the place, a cheap rooming house, but Jen had stayed only a week or two and moved on. No forwarding address. Val never found her.’

  ‘Is it possible she kept in touch with her stepfather?’

  Sophie’s face hardened. ‘He told Val he had no idea where she was.’

  ‘What does he think happened?’

  ‘The family don’t discuss it.’ Sophie looked out at the sky, now awash with the afterglow. ‘Except Val and me.’ She added carefully, ‘One has the impression that other people think there’s something behind it, like a quarrel.’

  ‘Between mother and daughter? It would have to be a sensational quarrel to keep the girl away for ten years.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You see why I think Skinner’s involved, although I’d never suggest that to Val. And now, this is the crunch: a friend of Sam’s saw Jen in Irving last week, looking at saddles. He wasn’t sure it was her — so long since he’d seen her — but the clerk in the store told him yes, it was Jen Jardine. Poor Val is distraught. She only learned this last evening. Sam called her and we discussed what we should do. That’s why I didn’t have time to change before I met you at the airport. It’s why Val is beside herself at the moment, not knowing what to do for the best, afraid I’ll take matters into my own hands, go and look for her, maybe antagonise her. You heard her back there at the ranch. Sam says to stay put — Val and me — and he’ll try to pick up her trail, but discreetly. I guess he thinks he can get through to her, whereas Val…’

  ‘Whereas Val could have been the cause of her leaving in the first place?’

  ‘You mean because of Skinner. You’re thinking along the same lines as me. You’re suggesting they fought? Over Skinner?’ Sophie shook her head vehemently. ‘No way. There were other women, and Val was glad to be rid of the guy.’

  ‘Jen might not have known that. And if she thought her behaviour was the cause of her mother’s marriage breaking up the girl could have left partly out of guilt, but also because she was frightened of Val’s reaction if she ever discovered that there was a relationship between her daughter and her husband.’

  ‘You could be right.’ Sophie sighed heavily. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’

  Miss Pink’s shoulders slumped but she rallied. ‘She came back; that’s a good sign. You said her father is trying to find her; perhaps you should leave it to him.’

  Sophie glowered. ‘Just so long as someone doesn’t drive her away again before Sam can make contact.’

  2

  Sophie’s mood seemed to harden with the new day. She announced that she was going to buy horses as arranged, come what may, so they’d be riding and they’d have a proper breakfast in the restaurant downstairs. Miss Pink accepted that there were to be no more confidences — at least for the present — and made no reference to the previous evening. In any event the food was good and the ambience intriguing; she had no wish to spoil any of it with discussion of other people’s domestic problems.

  She finished her eggs Benedict and looked around her with approval. ‘This place must have an interesting history,’ she observed.

  Sophie had been absorbed in thought but she responded, if a trifle stiffly at first. ‘The Kramers kept its character intact. The Rothbury’s one of Ballard’s oldest buildings; as a hotel it was famous in the Twenties. You have to meet Russell and Pat; he’s a sweet guy. He’ll fix shelving, unblock a drain, drive you to the airport, nothing’s too much trouble. Pat’s all right,’ she added quickly, ‘but always preoccupied with
the business; that’s to be expected, she runs the office — and virtually everything else. Russell says he’s the maintenance man.’

  ‘What’s their background? Are they ranch people?’

  ‘Bless you, no! I can’t imagine Russell… high culture, that’s him: opera, ballet, you name it. Imagine, in Ballard! They — he flew to New York last winter for Rigoletto at the Met. Pat’, she added softly, ‘used to wait tables here.’

  Miss Pink recalled music lovers whom she’d encountered in the sticks and, chatting animatedly, they returned to the apartment. In the top corridor Sophie paused at an open door. ‘Hi, Russell,’ she called. ‘You working on Shirl’s carpet? My neighbour’s away,’ she told Miss Pink. ‘He’s shampooing her carpet.’

  A large, plump man appeared, beaming. He wore granny spectacles, stone-washed jeans and a work shirt. ‘Meet my house guest,’ Sophie said, introducing them.

  Miss Pink shook hands, her eyes straying, listening to a clarinet. ‘Mozart,’ Russell told her. ‘It’s the tenant’s stereo. Lovely tone, isn’t it?’ He turned to Sophie. ‘And what’s the programme for today?’

  ‘We’ll see Val and Clyde off first of all. They’re going to take the big loop through the Quartz Range and back by way of Black Canyon; they’re aiming to clear the trail ready for the first pack-trip. Then we’re visiting with Charlie; I need to buy a couple of his animals if we can meet on a price.’

  ‘Such an enterprising lady,’ Russell told Miss Pink. ‘May one ask what you do, ma’am? I guess you’re no more retired than any of us.’ Gallantly suggesting they were all of an age when she might give him twenty years.

  She confessed that she wrote Gothic novels and the occasional travel book.

  ‘Oh my!’ His shoulders sagged. ‘And all I can boast is I supervise an apartment building in a cow town. Former cow town,’ he amended quickly.

  ‘And a restaurant that’s celebrated throughout the county,’ Sophie put in.

  ‘Delicious breakfast,’ Miss Pink assured him.

  He smiled and spread his hands. ‘My wife engages the staff. The chef was her choice.’ He turned to Sophie. ‘How is Val?’

  Their eyes locked. ‘Sam’s looking after things while she’s away,’ Sophie said. ‘He’s a good, steady guy.’

  ‘Of course. Did you say Clyde’s going too? How long will they be gone?’

  ‘Only three days.’

  Miss Pink sensed a hidden agenda behind this exchange. His eyes glazed momentarily, then his attention came back. ‘I’m keeping you, ladies. Have a good day. Buy some wild horses.’

  *

  ‘Would you have liked to join this trip into the back country?’ Sophie asked as they drove out of town. ‘We could have gone along. Although they’ll be working: clearing the trail of fallen trees, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I love the idea, but sleeping rough, washing in the creeks? Perhaps not. This kind of day is a nice compromise: a ride, good food, sophisticated company, a comfortable bed at the end of it… most of all, no mosquitoes. I’m too old for mosquitoes. I’ll settle for day rides.’

  ‘You did say sophisticated company?’

  Miss Pink looked wary. ‘We are eating at Glenaffric this evening?’

  ‘Just my little joke. But I’m afraid it’ll be ranch food.’

  And the company? She saw that she might need to lower her standards but she consoled herself with the knowledge, culled from long experience, that simple company was likely to be more intriguing than refined. But ranch food? Perhaps after a day on a horse she could eat like one.

  *

  The scene at the old homestead was the authentic West; but for the pick-up in the yard it could have looked the same a hundred years ago except that Val was wearing blue jeans. She was saddling a horse outside the barn where other horses were hitched to the rail and a young man was tying a load on a mule. There was equipment on a tarp on the ground: a zinc food box, felling axes, a saw, ropes, bedding rolls. It looked chaotic. Miss Pink knew it wasn’t. In a short time it would all be sorted, and animals and people would be gone. She felt a little wistful.

  The man finished with the mule and turned. He was a handsome fellow, a red bandanna at his throat, an old Stetson pushed back, a feather dangling from the brim. His eyes were pale in the dark face — a lined face — he wasn’t young at all, just well-preserved. He must be at least forty but he moved like a cat. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, he was an exciting image: the archetypical range rider in fringed chaps and spurs.

  ‘My nephew,’ Sophie was saying. ‘Clyde, come here and meet Melinda. I’m sorry we’re late; we got held up by Russell.’

  ‘And —?’ The pale eyes assessed Miss Pink. She detected a certain wariness, not unexpected in a macho cowboy meeting an old lady, a foreigner at that and an unknown quantity.

  ‘Just talking,’ Sophie said airily. ‘You know Russell.’

  ‘Enough said. Can you give me a hand over here?’

  They moved away, leaving Miss Pink feeling superfluous. Sensibly, she stayed by the Cherokee where she was out of the way. She looked for Val and saw her tightening the hitch on a second mule’s pack, not calmly but snatching at it, flushed, her eyes blazing at a man standing on the other side of the beast. At that moment Val came round its rear and confronted the fellow, obviously furious. She gestured, a chopping motion, said something and stamped away. The man glanced about self-consciously. He was around fifty, small and dark, his clothes suggesting a ranch hand. He threw a glance after Val and his lips moved. Miss Pink was reminded of a vicious dog attacking from behind.

  The sun was climbing. She collected her hat and camera, and started to circulate, keeping well clear of hindquarters. The fellow who had roused Val’s fury was mounting a piebald horse. There was a bedding roll behind the saddle, a rifle in its scabbard. He was staring straight at the camera as Miss Pink took his picture, using the zoom, and then she saw his legs lift as he dug in the spurs. The horse spun round and leaped away, almost trampling the little black-and-white cat — would have done so had it not streaked for a fence just in time. The rider shouted wildly as he galloped down the drive.

  Val had dashed over and picked up the cat, fondling it while her eyes followed the rider. Her brother joined her but they were too far away for Miss Pink to catch what was said.

  *

  ‘Who was the fellow who rushed off in such a state?’

  They were watching Val and Clyde ride away, each leading a pack-mule.

  ‘That was Erik Byer, one of Charlie’s hands. He thought he was riding out with Val but no way would she have him along. She’s got no time for the guy, pushing himself forward like that. He didn’t ask, he told her he was joining the party — and then he had the cheek to argue with her!’ Sophie was incensed. ‘This is the second time; he tried it yesterday when she took the dudes out and she turned him down flat.’

  ‘What’s his problem?’

  ‘He’s unpredictable. Apart from bad manners — and the dudes are paying customers remember — he goes fully armed: pistol and rifle. And Val allows no firearms on pack-trips, except her own.’

  ‘Val carries a gun?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Don’t look at me like that. It’s for the bears. Grizzlies, Melinda. They come into camp after food; the gun’s to scare them off, not to kill them.’ Sophie looked down the track where the riders had disappeared. ‘And then that Byer, he made a play for Val: eyes on the main chance, like Skinner. Fortune hunters. She saw Byer off, though. I can’t stand him, he gives me the creeps. Anyway, who needs him? Val’s a strong woman; you don’t need more than two guys to clear the trail.’

  ‘How does Clyde come to be working for Val? I thought he worked for his father.’

  ‘It’s Friday. He can be spared from Glenaffric for one day and tomorrow he’d be off for the weekend. Besides, he’s not working for Val only; the back-country trails have to be cleared for hunters too. Charlie’s a great sportsman.’ Was it her imagination or did Miss Pink detect a certain irony in that
last statement?

  They went into the cabin and, told to look around, Miss Pink inspected the living-room, which she had spared only a glance yesterday. It was as functional as the rest of the house: a wood-burning stove, sagging armchairs, an old-fashioned desk — and an electric typewriter. There was no television set but there was a radio and a telephone. The radio would be essential; in this kind of country you listened to the weather forecasts.

  ‘Val doesn’t indulge herself,’ Miss Pink said as they drank coffee on the porch.

  ‘She’d be content to live in a bunk-house.’

  ‘The long winter evenings must be a bore.’

  ‘Not at all. If you have horses there’s always tack to mend and there’s the logistics for next season: new routes to be worked out, accommodations to be booked in town, all that. And she’s not a recluse; she comes to see me, visits with Clyde… she keeps busy.’ The words hung in the air. She hadn’t mentioned Val’s parents. She went on quickly, ‘We’ll saddle up and ride; we’ll keep in the shade where we can, it’s going to be a warm day.’

  ‘I was thinking that when the others left.’

  ‘They’re going high: a big loop to the south; they’ll be in the forest till they reach the tree-line, then they’ll have a breeze off the snow.’

  When only a few horses were needed the whole herd was brought in to the corrals. After saddling Sophie’s grey and the Arab they put the remaining animals back in their pasture and took the trail to Bear Creek, a fine stream that was bridged about half a mile below the ranch. Here there was a stone house with a shingled roof: Erik Byer’s home. ‘The cellar floods when the creek’s in spate.’ Sophie was laconic. ‘Makes the rest of the house damp. Women wouldn’t put up with it but bachelors aren’t bothered. Anyway, Charlie’s not about to build a new house just because a cellar floods. Every cent has to work for Charlie; he’ll not spend unless he sees a return for his outlay. I can tell you, it’s going to be a pain haggling over those horses.’