Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  SHARON SALA

  writing as

  DINAH McCALL

  TOUCHSTONE

  Life is precious.

  We live it taking many things for granted, and only after something is lost do we fully realize its value.

  As a person born with sight, I can only imagine the loss I would suffer if it was taken away.

  To never again see a sunset, or a curtain of rain.

  To grow older and yet have no sense of my age.

  To be forever locked in the world as I last saw it.

  To never look upon the faces of my children... or my love.

  So it is with great respect and admiration that I dedicate this book to those who have learned to “see” with their hearts instead of their eyes.

  One

  There were ghosts in the house. Rachel Austin could feel them. She walked through the upstairs, going from dark, empty room to dark, empty room. Remembering. Once this house had been filled with laughter. But that was before, when Daddy was still alive. Before that last rodeo... and that last bull. When he died, the laughter died with him. Afterward her mother, Christine, had died, too. It just took her seven years longer to quit breathing.

  Rachel needed to cry, but there were no tears left in her to shed. Tomorrow was the auction. Tomorrow this house and the eighty acres that Pete and Christine Austin had owned would be overrun with people. By sunset tomorrow it would all be gone.

  Rachel’s footsteps echoed as she moved from the doorway of what had been her parents’ bedroom to the bedroom down the hall. A faint moan drifted through the house. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. It was only the wind blowing through a partially open window.

  She pushed the door open, then walked into her room. She’d never noticed how small it really was. She walked to the single window overlooking the back pasture and stared into the darkness, imagining she could see the lights of Houston Bookout’s home.

  Houston. Just his name made her ache. It seemed that she’d loved him forever. If she closed her eyes and thought real hard, she could still remember the sound of his voice and the feel of his fingers around her wrist when he’d first asked her to dance.

  Seventeen. She’d been seventeen to his twenty-six years. Before the night was over, she’d been wild, crazy in love. Nothing had changed. But that was three years ago. All the while she’d been planning to leave, he’d been waiting for her to grow up.

  Her legs began to tremble as she turned her back on the night. She couldn’t think about Houston right now, or about the fact that he assumed they would marry. There was tomorrow to get through.

  Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood. For years their neighbors had predicted Pete Austin would go broke. That he couldn’t manage a dollar, let alone a small ranch. Basically, they had been right. Every penny he had made he’d put back into rodeo entry fees and travel expenses. Now and then he would put by just enough to keep the bank off their backs. The next bull ride was always going to put him in the money. The next bull ride was always going to be his last.

  Then one day it was. It took Christine Austin seven more years of struggling to pay debts before the bank finally called it quits. But cancer beat the bank to Christine. She died before the foreclosure notice came. Rachel got it, and the bill for her mother’s funeral, on the same day. It had been a long time coming, but tomorrow it would be over. Tomorrow she would also be homeless.

  Suddenly panic struck. She bolted from the room and down the hall, feeling her way in the dark. Then she was at the stairwell and running down the stairs, stumbling once, then again, in an effort to get out of the house.

  But maneuvering on the lower floor was not as easy as it had been upstairs. In preparation for the auction, furniture was all out of place. Tables were piled high with dishes and linens and pictures that had once hung on the walls. Even the painting of the great Native American Sequoyah, her Cherokee mother’s ancestor, was lumped in with everything else to sell.

  The ghosts were closer here, hovering over the tangible artifacts of a life they no longer needed, yet unable to move on because of the daughter they’d left behind.

  Rachel pushed her way past a chair, then two lamps, then the old, battered desk where her mother had sat to pay bills. Shaking, she pushed the screen door open and then moved out to the porch, gasping for air. The need to move beyond the miasma of failure in which she’d been raised was overwhelming. When her feet hit the dry Texas earth, she started to run. Past the split-rail fence separating yard from pasture, toward the barn, then past the broken-down gate hanging on the corral, toward the moon hanging low in the sky.

  Pain was everywhere now. In her legs, in her belly, in her heart, in her mind. Finally she stopped and looked back toward the ranch, to the barn and the

  house and the ghosts.

  Tonight was the end of it all.

  She started to scream.

  Houston Bookout had been driving back and forth from Emery Feed and Seed in Mirage to his ranch for more than twelve years now. He’d started working for Dale Emery at the age of seventeen, putting in a few hours after school and on weekends. Loading fifty-pound sacks of feed for Dale Emery’s customers had put muscles on his body that no fancy gym workout could match. At the age of twenty-one he’d gotten a commercial driver’s license and gone from loading sacks to hauling them. For the last eight years his job had consisted of driving an eighteen-wheeler for Emery Feed and Seed. Although his work was steady, there was no chance of advancement. Except for owning the store, which on a ten-dollar-an-hour paycheck wasn’t going to happen, Houston had reached the apex of his employment opportunity. It was enough money to get by on, but not enough on which to grow.

  By sheer guts and determination he held on to the 160 acres of hardscrabble land on which he’d been raised. In a good year he could run about twenty head of cattle, not counting calves on the tit. In a bad year, like this one, he bought feed to supplement the sparse growth of pasture grass. Even with the discount Dale Emery gave him, it was all he could do to make ends meet.

  But Houston was young and he was strong. And he was so much in love with Rachel Austin that nothing else much mattered. The five-room clapboard house in which he’d been raised was so familiar that he rarely noticed its run-down condition. He fixed what broke, and when it came to luxuries, he did without. It wasn’t by choice. It was just the way it was.

  As he came up on the intersection that led to the Austin place, he had to stop himself from turning right. He knew Rachel would be at the house, getting ready for the auction tomorrow. That she had to lose her home in this way was tough, but it wasn’t as though she had no place to go. She had him, and— thank the good Lord—he had her, too. They’d talked about marriage for a year or so now, and if her mother hadn’t contracted cancer, they might have already married. Once Rachel learned of her mother’s condition, she’d devoted nearly every waking hour to her beloved mother’s care. It had taken a toll. Houston knew it. During the last three months Rachel had changed. The light in her eyes was gone, and so was the ready smile on her face. On the rare times when they’d been together, their lovemaking had seemed desperate. Except for just loving her as hard as he could, Houston didn’t know how to help her find her way back.

  The knowledge that he still needed to do chores kept him from taking the turn. He sped on past the intersection, telling himself that he would call her. It wasn’t until he was almost home that he remembered the phone at the Austin house had already been cut off. He frowned, then told himself that he’d check on her after his work was all done.

  A short while later he pulled into the yard, coming to a stop in a cloud of yellow dust. The blue-heeler lying under the shade tree at the edge of the yard didn’t even look up, l
et alone bark. Houston grinned at the dog as he got out of his truck.

  “Hey, Taco, don’t bother to get up. I’ll let myself in.”

  At the sound of his name, the dog’s tail thumped once.

  Houston’s grin widened. “I’ll wager you thump a different tune when I rattle your pan.”

  Then he unlocked the door and went in. The house smelled dusty and stale, which it was. Between his job and the ranch, cleaning was the last priority on Houston’s list. About once a month he took a mop and a dust rag to the place, whether it needed it or not. Things had been different when his mother was alive. She’d taken pride in making the old hardwood floors gleam, and the house had always smelled of her baking.

  Houston sniffed. The odor of stale grease was strong. Maybe it was time to throw out what was in the skillet and start over. And then he reminded himself that Rachel would be here soon. He sighed. He didn’t want her coming home to this. It looked as if a little housecleaning was in order. The last thing he would have her do was clean up after him. Once they were married, that would be different. This would be her home then. His heart skipped a beat as he edited the thought. Their home. It would be their home.

  He tossed his hat on a hook and headed for the bedroom to change into old clothes, turning on the window air conditioner as he went.

  ***

  Night had come while Houston wasn’t looking. One minute he’d been down on his knees scrubbing at some stains on the kitchen floor, and the next thing he knew, it was dark. He thought of Rachel again, as he had off and on ever since he’d been home, but this time he panicked. She was out there, alone in the dark, in a house that was no longer her own. He tossed his cleaning supplies into the back room, grabbed his hat and pickup keys, and headed out the door. It was five miles from his house to hers. He made it in just under four minutes. Even as he was taking the turn off the highway into the driveway, he knew something was wrong. Her car was still there, but the silhouette of the two-story house was dark. Guilt hit him. To hell with cleaning his house. He should have been here with her.

  He slammed on the brakes and killed the engine, then jumped out on the run, leaving the headlights burning.

  “Rachel!”

  He heard fear in his own voice and took a deep breath, making himself calm. But when she didn’t answer, the fear kicked itself up another notch.

  “Rachel! Where are you?”

  He started toward the house, then something—call it instinct—made him turn. She came toward him out of the darkness, a slender shadow moving through the perimeter of light from his headlamps, then centering itself in the beam. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on this morning, when he’d seen her last: worn-out Levi’s and an old denim shirt. She came toward him without speaking. Fear slid from him, leaving him weak and shaken.

  “Damn it, Cherokee, you scared me to death. Why didn’t you answer me? Better yet, what the hell are you still doing here in the dark?”

  Then he saw her face and knew she was incapable of answering.

  “Jesus.” He opened his arms.

  She walked into them without saying a word and buried her face in the middle of his chest.

  He rocked her where they stood, wrapping his fingers in the thickness of her hair and feeling her body tremble against his.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said softly. “I promise you, girl, it’s going to be all right.”

  She shook her head. “No, Houston. It will never be all right again. It’s gone. Everything is gone. First my father. Then my mother. Now they’re taking my home.”

  He ached for her. “I know, love, I know. But I’m still here. I’ll never leave you.”

  But it was as if he’d never spoken.

  “The land... they always take the land,” she muttered, and dropped to her knees. Silhouetted by the headlights of Houston’s truck, she thrust her hands in the dirt and started to shake.

  Houston knelt beside her. “Rachel...”

  She didn’t blink, staring instead at the way the dust began to trickle through her fingers.

  “How can I give this up? It’s where I was born. It’s where my parents are buried.”

  He didn’t have words to ease her pain.

  She rocked back on her heels and stood abruptly. Fury colored her movements and her words.

  “Everything is over! Over! And all because of money.”

  Houston reached for her, but she spun away. A knot formed in Houston’s gut. He grabbed for her again, and this time when she tried to shake herself free, he tightened his hold.

  “Stop it!” he said sharply, and gripped her by both shoulders. “Look at me, Rachel.”

  She wouldn’t.

  He shook harder. “Damn it! I said look at me!”

  Finally, reluctantly, she met his gaze. She saw concern and anger; to her despair, she saw fear and knew it was because of her. She went limp.

  “Houston.”

  He groaned and pulled her to him. “Damn it, Cherokee, don’t turn away from me, too.”

  She shuddered. Cherokee. She couldn’t deny her heritage any more than she could deny her love for Houston.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Nothing matters but you.”

  He took her by the hand.

  “Wait... my car,” Rachel muttered.

  “Leave it,” he said. “You’re coming home with me.”

  “But the sale. I need to be here by seven.”

  Houston frowned. “I’ll have you here by sunup if it’ll make you happy. But you’re still coming home with me.”

  They made the drive back to his ranch in total silence.

  Rachel felt numb from the inside out until she walked in the front door of Houston’s home. The odors of cleaning solutions and pine-scented furniture polish were startling. She inhaled sharply, and as she did, tears blurred her vision. He’d been cleaning for her. Her anger dimmed as shame swept over her. She turned.

  “Oh, Houston.”

  “Come here, girl. Don’t fight your last friend.”

  She shuddered as his arms went around her. Last friend? If he only knew. He was her best and last friend, and in a couple of days he was going to hate her guts. A sob worked its way up her throat, but she wouldn’t give in. No time to cry. Not when she wanted to remember.

  She tilted her head to look up at him. “Make love to me, Houston. Make me forget.”

  He groaned. “I’ll make love to you, Cherokee— willingly, and as often as you like. But not to forget. You need to remember who loves you and that you’re not alone.”

  She reached for the snaps on his shirt. He grabbed her hands to stop her, then swung her off her feet and into his arms, carrying her down the hall to his bedroom.

  He shouldered his way through the door and then laid her on his bed. Her long black hair spilled out across the old blue quilt like smoke across the sky. Then he pulled off his boots as she kicked off her shoes. Shirts came undone then the jeans were discarded, leaving them naked to each other’s gaze.

  Houston paused for just a moment to look his fill. Even after all this time, her beauty stunned him. Almost six feet tall, she had slender limbs and delicate curves that were enough to make a man mad with want. Her face was exquisite. She’d gotten the best from both of her parents. Smooth brown skin and high cheekbones from her mother, and a refinement to her features from her daddy. But it was her mouth and her eyes that set her apart. Her lips were wide and full, parted slightly, as he crawled onto the bed and straddled her legs. Her green eyes narrowed, giving their natural slant an even more exotic appearance. Houston palmed her breasts, rubbing the nipples between his forefingers and thumbs until they were hard and she was moaning. She closed her eyes and arched into his touch.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” he said sharply.

  Lost in a sensual fog, it was all she could do to obey.

  “You look at me, Cherokee. You haven’t lost everything. You still have me. You
will always have me. No one can take my love away from you. Do you understand me?”

  She heard herself whimper. Oh God, was she making a mistake by leaving?

  Houston’s grip tightened. “Answer me, damn it.”

  Rachel sighed. “I hear you. I understand. Now make love to me before I go mad.”

  She saw his mouth coming toward hers. The promise of passion was there in his eyes, dark and dangerous, pushed to the limits of his own endurance. She moved beneath his touch like a dancer to music. His hands. God, his hands. His mouth left a wet trail from one breast to the other, and then he began to move lower, past her rib cage, lingering on the indentation of her navel until she was moaning aloud. One minute flowed into another and then another, until she thought she might die. She felt his mouth on her legs, then the insides of her thighs. Her blood was on fire. Heat spiraled downward, centering itself at Houston’s touch. And then his hands were beneath her hips and he was lifting her up. His tongue was warm and wet. She arched to meet it, screaming his name.

  Just before daybreak Houston woke up alone. Within seconds of opening his eyes and finding Rachel gone, he was out of bed and reaching for his jeans. He found her, wearing one of his T-shirts and sitting on the front porch step with her chin in her hands, watching the horizon changing from dark to dusty gray.

  He stood in silence, looking at her through the screen door while his heartbeat slowed to normal. Her legs were bare, and her hair lay in tangles across her back. His gut pulled. Last night she’d straddled his body with her hands braced upon his chest and her head bowed, concentrating on the rhythm of the ride. When he came, his hands were fisted in her hair and she was laughing.

  He shuddered. For a woman whose outward countenance was always composed, he could only marvel at the passion she harbored within.

  But he could tell by the set of her shoulders that she wasn’t waiting to watch the sunrise. He thought of the day she had yet to face. The auction. In a way, it was the final funeral of what was left of her past. If he could, he would have willingly suffered her pain. He pushed the door open and stepped outside.