Down from the Mountain. Barbara Gale
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maybe thirty. Grief-stricken, if the deep lines around her mouth were any indication. But when she raised her head in welcome, it seemed to him that, through the haze of the late-day sun, a burnished halo surrounded her face, and he felt an odd stirring. She had touched something so long buried that he couldn’t put a name to it, but he must have sighed because although her glance fell on him, she took a quick step back.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he apologized as he reached the top stair, his dark eyes searching as they scanned her pale face. Black, sooty lashes made a natural frame for the young woman’s troubled eyes. Green eyes, very nearly luminescent. Uncanny how they almost looked right through you.
It was his face, of course, or rather, the road map it had become, compliments of a drunk driver twenty long years ago, that scared her. It always happened, and in just this way. One look at his scars, the little girls clammed up, and whoever this woman was, she was certainly no different, the way she looked every which way but. He watched her fidget, her flushed face an easy read as she searched for words. Embarrassment was a common response from strangers, though David had never understood it. Shock, yes, even horror and repulsion, he could fathom, but what the hell did people have to be embarrassed about? They were his scars, after all.
Her voice, when she found it, was almost convincing as she denied his accusation. “I’m not frightened,” she protested. “That is, unless you’re not who I think you are. But you are David Hartwell, aren’t you?”
He bowed his head in mock salute although he was careful to keep his voice polite. “Yes, ma’am. The prodigal son returned home.”
“I’m so glad. We’ve been expecting you every day since— Well, ever since your father passed away. Welcome home, Mr. Hartwell, though I am very sorry to greet you under the circumstance.”
David said nothing as she stood aside to let him pass, his face unreadable as he stepped past the threshold of his childhood home for the first time in more than a decade. Probably as big as his entire cabin back in New York, was his first thought as he surveyed the vestibule. But how John loved the finer things in life. Certainly it was reflected in the design of his home. Quiet colors, subtle lines, but everything realized in a way that could only be called palatial—the long refectory table, the gilt mirror above it, the fresh flowers gracing it. Why, the table was probably three hundred years old, the mirror was definitely Louis XIV, and the flowers were…orchids! What in heaven’s name had John meant, coming to live in Montana and building such a house?
“Not much changed that I can see,” David observed ruefully as he maneuvered his duffel bag past the young woman’s slight figure.
She was curious, but her mouth quirked with humor. “You don’t think so? John liked to shop but he hated change, so everything he bought stayed where it landed. Oh, now and then the odd piece was moved, but overall, I’d say you’re probably right,” she agreed brightly. “Of course, he had a very keen eye.”
“No disastrous purchases?” David asked, openly amused. “Not once? Never?”
The young woman laughed and he admired the sparkle in her eyes, even if it was fleeting. “If you only knew how he researched every purchase!”
“Like this was his private museum?”
“John Hartwell was downright obsessed! I teased him about it all the time and everyone told him that he should have been a curator, but he always said that if he’d have been a curator, he wouldn’t have been able to afford his expensive taste! He was an authority on Flemish art, you know. Museums from all over the world called him every day and they always deferred to his opinion! All yours, now,” she said with a vague sweep of her hand.
Amused but unmoved, David shook his head. “This stuff would be very out of place where I live. Best contact the local museum.”
“Oh! I thought— Well, that’s your decision, of course,” she said, the light leaving her eyes. “I’ll be glad to help you, whatever you decide.”
“Now, ma’am, please don’t let’s get all sentimental,” David frowned. “They’re just antiques. There’s no real buried treasure here.”
Although David spoke courteously, beneath his polite manners the young woman was sorry to hear an underlying tone of impatience. She had hoped… It would have been nice for John’s son to have shown an interest in preserving his father’s collection. No matter how small, it was a museum quality assemblage. But what she hoped didn’t matter. She couldn’t blame him for his lack of interest, even if it weighed heavily on her heart.
“You’re right,” she agreed softly, trying to hide her disappointment. “It’s just a bunch of antiques. But still, John would have wanted you to claim something for yourself. He has some beautiful figurines in the library that might interest you.”
“Look, ma’am, how about you pick something out for me? You seem to be pretty well-acquainted with his collection.”
“Me? Oh, no, I couldn’t do that!”
“Yes, you could.”
“No, I couldn’t, really,” she insisted firmly. “It’s too personal a decision.”
“You think I’m behaving boorishly.” David sighed, sensing that her strong conviction was a part of her character. “I had hoped my dad had made arrangements for his collection. He knew I wasn’t interested in antiques.”
“Maybe he had some idea that you’d think differently, once you returned to Montana. He loved Montana and he thought you did, too. He always believed you would return, on a permanent basis. Maybe that’s why he made no plans. Maybe he was waiting for you.”
David countered coldly, angry at the wave of guilt that flooded him. “He shouldn’t have been waiting, and well he knew it.”
Her face clouded with confusion. “But John said you had unfinished business here.”
“I did once, but that was a long time ago and things have changed since then. Once I left—once I made the break—I couldn’t bring myself to return. My dad knew that.”
“But you’re here now.”
“A little late, don’t you think, for whatever he intended?”
“Late for the funeral, perhaps,” she agreed softly. “But not too late to return home. Like I said, John always believed you would, one day.”
“As I said, I’m too late,” David reminded her, weary of their argument. But noting the shadow of sorrow in her eyes, he was sorry to have been so abrupt. Although they had no history to claim, it was nothing short of rude to behave so badly. It wasn’t her fault if she had no idea of the extent of his grief. And his regrets were legion.
“Look here, ma’am,” David said, his voice carefully neutral. “I don’t mean to come off coldhearted, but I’m not too good with words. I guess I’m still a little shell-shocked at how fast everything is happening, but I did love my father and I’d be grateful if you’d cut me some slack.”
The young woman turned away. It was clear that John’s son would not be consoled. “Of course, Mr. Hartwell, I can do that,” she said quietly.
“And please call me David, my friends call me David and— Oh, hey, don’t do that!” David begged, horrified to see a tear roll down her cheek. “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings!”
“He was good to me, you know,” she explained as she brushed away her tears.
“No, I don’t know, though I guessed as much. I don’t know who you are, remember?”
“We were friends, John and I.”
We were friends. Was that her idea of an introduction? Once again David was struck by the unreal quality of the situation, how changed everything seemed but was not, the presence of this stranger, how she refused to meet his eyes. Unless…
He stepped to one side. She didn’t