State of Rebellion

opposition, at least among the people he knew.

And “Logger,” the code name for the bureau’s man inside the Shasta Brigade, had made no mention of Rawlings in any of his reports. Yet both Nicole’s training and her self-preservation instincts told her to play her cards close to the vest for a while. The only complication to that philosophy was her increasing interest in this new person in her life, and her desire, when she acknowledged it to herself, to hold him close instead.

The exit ramp to State 16 approached, and she slowed, looking for Dan’s Chevy Blazer, which she found parked at the side of the off ramp. She lowered the passenger-side power window and pulled up next to his driver’s side. Strains of the Light Cavalry Overture came from his vehicle. Dan was settled back in his seat, eyes closed, unaware of her approach.

She honked her horn and laughed when he jerked upright, then lowered his window.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “is there a place a girl could find an escort to the local festivities?”

“Boy, are you in luck,” he replied. “It just so happens I’m available.”

“How fortunate.” She smiled.

“Follow me, my lady.” He gestured and drove off ahead, turning west toward the small Madison crossroads, where Nicole parked and locked her car after transferring her overnight bag and sweater into the back of the Blazer.

Seating herself on the passenger side and fastening her seat belt, Nicole started laughing again. “‘Into the valley rode the six hundred,’ or in this case-the two.”

“Aha. Classically literate as well as attractive. That’s a tough combination to beat. Do you like opera as well?” Dan asked.

“Sure,” she replied. “Got any Mick Jagger at the Met?”

Dan smiled, then leaned over and kissed her softly. “No, but if you’ll hum a few bars, I’ll try to pick it up.”

“Why don’t we just talk as we drive,” she said, “and you can fill me in on the history of this beautiful valley.”

“One of my favorite subjects.” Dan pulled out onto the road, again turning west toward Esparto and the beginning of the narrowing of Rumsey Valley. “Between here and Highway 20, you’ll see miles and miles of the reason for the Almond Festival, and, thanks to the weather, all in fabulous bloom at the moment.”

“Yes, I saw the fields as I began to approach the area. It’s beautiful.”

“And so are you,” he said, reaching for her hand as he drove.

Following the highway around the western edge of Esparto, Dan took a detour from the two-lane country road and pulled into a small, well-kept cemetery. He parked the Blazer and exited the car, coming around to open Nicole’s door.

He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Four generations of Rumseys are resting here. My older brother, Tom, who died at birth, is two rows over, and there’s Jack’s plot,” he said, pointing, “next to my grandmother, Ellen. She’s been gone about eight years now. When she died, it took Jack several years to decide to continue living. They were married for over fifty years.”

Nicole walked slowly through the cemetery, stopping occasionally to read the headstones. Dan provided a running narrative, revealing his admiration for his ancestors and the lives they had lived, reciting the stories he had heard so many times from his grandfather. He pulled a few weeds from some of the plots and took one more look around. Then, taking Nicole’s hand, he headed back to the car. As he opened Nicole’s door, he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“In case you were wondering, Susan’s not here,” he said. “Her family came from Sacramento.”

“It crossed my mind,” she said, touching his cheek. “Thank you for telling me.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were walking the almond orchards in the small, rural community of Rumsey as Dan pointed out the fifty acres Jack had given him as a young boy, and which Dan had cultivated over the years.

“You’re looking at the source of my college tuition here, Special Agent Bentley. From the age of ten, I was responsible for these trees and reaped the reward of the harvest. Jack helped me in the early years, but as I grew, he let me handle it myself to find out if I was a farmer or not.”

As they walked, Nicole looked up at the hills running down both sides of the valley, narrowing as they cut northwest toward the canyon, where they came together for the final twelve miles through the gap, following the flow of Rumsey Creek.

“I knew early on that I wasn’t a farmer at heart. But still, I gained a love for the orchards and the rural life Jack has chosen,” Dan said.

Coming to the last row of trees and a small line of brush, Dan took Nicole’s hand and led her down a rough path to a spot on a small bluff overlooking Rumsey Creek.

“I’ve been coming here since I was old enough to remember. My sister taught me to swim over there,” he pointed, “and Jack and I have fished this creek dry, it seems. Not much by way of fish for many years now, except in the upper lakes, back to the west toward Clear Lake.”

“Is your father still working?”

“He retired about a year ago. For much of his career, he was a public administrator, working mostly as a city manager. About fifteen years ago he began to write, publishing a few novels. That’s what he does now-plays golf and writes military and political suspense novels. He was thrilled when I told him about the acceptance of my first novel.”

“Aha. Two public administrators, two novelists-it really is in the blood. ” She smiled.

“I never thought of it that way, but I can see what you mean,” Dan replied.

For the next few minutes, Nicole and Dan sat quietly tossing pebbles into the smooth water below them and watching the river run silently though its course. “Nicole, I had something I wanted to tell you, something that-”

Dan hesitated, hearing sounds coming from the direction of the orchard. With a rustling of branches, Jack Rumsey popped his head through the brush, flashing a big grin when he noticed Nicole.

“So, young’un, up to your old tricks again?”

The mood instantly broken, Dan stood, and Nicole also got to her feet. Dan broke a big smile and put his arm around his grandfather. “Nicole, this venerable old coot is the patriarch of our valley, the scourge of Yolo County, and of course, my grandfather, Jack Rumsey.”

Jack looked at Nicole for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to Dan, then back. Smiling, he said, “Young lady, you look like you’d have more sense than to let this ruffian take you out in the bushes without an escort. He’s not done anything untoward, has he?”

“No. I’m sorry to say he’s been a perfect gentleman. I’m Nicole Bentley, and I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rumsey,” Nicole said, reaching to shake his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Lies, all lies, I can assure you.”

“But it was very good, Mr. Rumsey, really.”

“Like I said, young lady: lies. And call me Jack, if you please. Mr. Rumsey is for old men. So, Daniel, me lad, what brings you to the valley other than the fragrance of love in the air?”

“Don’t skip any opportunity, do you, Jack?”

“Not if I can help it-not at my age, anyway.”

“Well,” Nicole interrupted, “Dan’s been touting the merits of Rumsey Valley during the Almond Festival and the beauty of the blossoms. I thought I’d come up from the Bay Area and take him up on the offer to see it for myself. With a local guide, of course.”

“Better watch him closely, Nicole. Many a young lass has been swept away by the fragrance of the blossoms, said yes to a proposal-decent or otherwise-and found herself married before she realized what hit her, all because these orchards were in full bloom.”

“Grandma included, eh, Granddad?” Dan quipped.

“That, my young grandson, is, as they say, another story for another time.”

“Actually, I was just about to tell Nicole a story of my own, and I’m glad you arrived to participate.”