Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  “Rachel, are you all right?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.

  She hadn’t answered his question, but he let it slide.

  “You didn’t. I have to deliver a load this morning.”

  She nodded.

  “It won’t take long. I should be at the sale before noon.”

  “You don’t have to come.”

  Her voice was too neutral. Anger surged. “I know that, goddamn it,” he said shortly.

  She stood and faced him, her gaze locked into his. “I’m sorry.”

  Houston’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t know what he wanted worse: to shake her or to kiss that damned solemn expression off her face.

  “Yeah, so am I,” he said.

  Rachel’s gaze dropped first. “I guess I’d better get dressed. You can drop me off at the house on your way into town.”

  She started past him, telling herself she could do this, when Houston stopped her with a touch.

  “I love you, Rachel.”

  Something painful twisted inside her chest. “I love you, too, Houston Bookout. Always have...”

  He smiled then as he chimed in, finishing their special phrase. “Always will.”

  Rachel made herself smile back. At least that wasn’t a lie. She would love this man forever. But love just wasn’t enough.

  “Five, gimme five, five, five, I got five. Who’ll gimme ten, ten, ten, I got ten.”

  The auctioneer paused in the middle of his cry to point to the large stack of linens on the table before him. “Lookee here, people. These here are gen-u-ine antiques. Hand-embroidered, too. Who’ll give me twenty?”

  Rachel gritted her teeth and stared at a hole in the collar of the auctioneer’s shirt, rather than focusing on what he was saying. It wasn’t just a stack of old linens to her. It was what was left of her world. Only it wasn’t hers anymore.

  The auctioneer picked up his cry, whooping with delight as the bid was upped. Rachel looked away.

  A hot gust of wind stirred the dust. She squinted against the stinging blast of grit. Her eyes were filled with tears, but there was no way in hell she’d let them see her cry. Not now. Not ever.

  “Sold to Dave Henry for fifteen dollars!” the auctioneer cried.

  She looked up. Two generations of women had used those linens, and now a man with no wife had just bought them all for fifteen dollars. Her stomach knotted as she saw him sweep them off the table and under his arms. He was coming her way now, a look of triumph on his face.

  “Make good rags,” Henry said as he passed by.

  The words were like a kick in the gut, but her expression never changed. It occurred to her then why her father had never liked Dave Henry. She met the man’s gaze without flinching. He was the first to look away.

  Bea Dailey began bidding on a pair of quilts. When the auctioneer unfolded one to exhibit the pattern, a wave of pain nearly sent her to her knees. The last time that quilt had been used was when she’d laid out her mother’s body. Rachel swayed where she stood.

  Oh God, I need help. I can’t do this alone.

  She lifted her chin, bracing herself for a new wave of pain, and felt a hand on her shoulder, then on the back of her neck. Then she felt the hard, unyielding bulk of a man against her back. She should have known he would come. She turned.

  “Houston.”

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He could see the pain on her face as clearly as if she’d been bleeding. Far too much of Rachel Austin’s life had been devoted to people in the throes of death. Today what was left of her world was dying, and he could tell by the way she was measuring each breath that she was trying hard not to die along with it.

  He put a hand to the side of her face. For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of his sympathy and leaned against the callused palm as if it were the softest of pillows.

  “I love you,” he said softly.

  She sighed, then turned back to the sale. It was her obligation to witness the passing, an act of respect— just as she had done when she’d stayed up all night with her mother’s body.

  When she turned away without answering, Houston frowned. Then he threaded his fingers through hers and gave them a squeeze. For a moment he thought she would pull away from even that. But she hesitated and the moment was lost. They stood together in the shade of the old clapboard house, watching strangers counting the worth of her world in dollars and cents.

  As the auctioneer held up a hurricane lamp, Rachel tuned out the shouts and yells of the bidders and gave herself permission to think about Houston instead. Except for the fact that he was almost as penniless as her daddy had been before he died, he was everything she’d ever wanted in a man. And therein lay the root of her pain. She loved Houston Bookout to the depths of her soul, but tomorrow she was leaving Mirage and never coming back. The thought of staying in this dry, dusty town and dying by bits and pieces, as her mother had done, was too frightening to consider.

  The auctioneer shouted, “Sold.” She didn’t bother to look. It was better if she didn’t know who was taking her things. That way she would not look upon them as the thieves her heart felt them to be.

  Houston pulled her close against him. She shuddered. He was her bulwark and she was giving him up. Panic came and went. She was taking his comfort and love like a greedy child. He didn’t know there was nothing left in her to give back.

  The irony of his arrival was not lost on her. Even if he was God’s answer to her prayer, it wasn’t enough to change her mind. She had a bus ticket in her purse and the few clothes she could carry were already packed. Come sunup tomorrow, this place, these people, and even this man were going to be nothing but memories.

  Then the auctioneer stepped up on a concrete block. He was holding something in his hands. She could see him smiling, then laughing, as he tried to start the bidding. Suddenly she stiffened. It was her mother’s music box.

  Houston felt Rachel tense. He looked down, frowning at the tears in her eyes. There was a jut to her jaw that he recognized all too well. Something had startled her. But what?

  He followed the direction of her gaze to the object in the auctioneer’s hand, then he sighed. No wonder. It was her mother’s music box. He thought of his note due at the bank next month, and the money he owed Red Collins for fuel. He looked back at Rachel just as a single tear spilled down her cheek.

  “What am I bid?” the auctioneer yelled. “Come on, folks. It’s a nice little trinket. And see... it still plays.” He wound it up, and the faint strains of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” drifted through the air. “Who’ll start the bidding at ten dollars?”

  Houston’s nod was subtle, but the auctioneer picked up on it fast.

  “Ten!” he shouted. “I got ten! Who’ll give me twenty? Twenty. Who’ll give me twenty?”

  Someone on the other side of the crowd let out a yell. The auctioneer grinned. “I got twenty. Who’ll give twenty-five?”

  Houston tilted his head just a bit to the side. It was all the auctioneer needed to see.

  “I’ve got twenty-five. Who’ll give me thirty? Thirty? Who’ll give me thirty?”

  Someone yelled, “Yes.”

  Houston sighed. This was getting serious. But he’d hate himself forever if he let this one go. He nodded again.

  And then again.

  And then again.

  And finally the last bid was at forty-five dollars. Houston gave another slow nod. The auctioneer took it.

  “I’ve got fifty!” he shouted. “Fifty dollars for this fine little piece. Do we have sixty?”

  Houston held his breath as the auctioneer lifted it high over his head.

  “Going once! Going twice! Sold to the man in the black cowboy hat.”

  Rachel spun around in shock. Houston brushed his finger against her cheek.

  “Be right back,” he said softly, and started weaving his way through the crowd.

  Her legs went weak as she watched him walk away. Dear God. How can
I take this when I’m going to break his heart?

  Houston took the small wooden box from the auctioneer’s hand and then started back through the crowd toward Rachel. It didn’t take long for the people to realize what he’d done. Guilt struck them as they began to realize what this woman was losing. That she had to buy back a keepsake from her own home seemed shameful.

  Some of them looked away, while others watched with interest as he stopped at Rachel’s side.

  Rachel’s expression was set. Except for the fact that her lips were trembling, it would have been impossible to guess her feelings.

  She looked at him long and hard, memorizing the curve of his lower lip and the pride in his eyes.

  “Oh, Houston.”

  It was all she could say.

  When he laid it in her hands, at that moment he knew he would have given twice the amount for that look in her eyes.

  Then he put his arms around her.

  “Come on, baby. You’ve seen enough.”

  She resisted. “But Houston, it’s not over.”

  He looked back at the crowd, some curious as to what he and Rachel were doing, others already caught up in the bidding on the next item. Then he looked at the house, weathered and worn, like the land it was on.

  “Yes, it is, Rachel. It’s been over for years.”

  Two

  Houston slept with one arm outflung, the other wrapped around Rachel’s shoulders. Her head was pillowed upon his chest, and sometime during the night she’d wrapped a leg around the lower half of his body. Nude, their entwined bodies were sculpted in moonlight and shimmering with a light sheen of perspiration. The night was hot. Their lovemaking had been hotter. The small window air conditioner in Houston’s bedroom was humming away, and still the air was close.

  A frown creased Rachel’s forehead as she fought her way through a dream. Houston shifted in his sleep and tightened his hold, as if sensing her distress. A clock ticked on the bureau across the room. Outside, Taco was coming in from the hills after a little flirtation with a female coyote in heat. In the far distance a line of storm clouds was building. But it was moving to the north and would bypass Mirage and the surrounding area by a good fifty miles.

  Taco settled down on the porch with a thump and a sigh just as Houston woke up from a deep, dreamless sleep. The transition from rest to panic was as startling as the unexplained need to cry. He looked down at Rachel. She was asleep in his arms. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and wondered what the hell had gotten into him. He wasn’t the crying type. But the feeling of despair stayed with him. He glanced around the room, listening carefully and trying to find something out of place in his world. On the surface, all seemed well.

  He made himself close his eyes, but the feeling was still there, so strong that it hurt to draw breath. Was this a premonition of things to come, or just the remnants of a dream he couldn’t remember?

  Finally his heartbeat settled and the feeling began to fade. Sometime later he slept. When morning came, the urgency of getting up and getting to work took precedence over his unsettled rest.

  It wasn’t until he was ready to walk out the door that he remembered the premonition. Although he’d already told Rachel goodbye, something prompted him to say it again. He looked at her there, standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but her panties and one of his shirts, and his heart swelled against his chest. She wasn’t only his woman. She was his life.

  “Rachel.”

  Rachel turned, the dishrag in her hands dripping water and soap into the sink. She tried to stay calm, but this morning had been hell. Everything about Houston seemed magnified a thousand times: the way he spread shaving cream on his face, the hungry glitter for her in his eyes, his ready laughter, his unswerving strength. Pain ballooned within her. If only he would leave before she came the rest of the way apart.

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry about anything today.”

  She nodded.

  “Rest. Sleep. We’ll talk it all out tonight.”

  She tried to smile, and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

  Houston glanced at his watch. He was already going to be late. He glanced at her again. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

  “I love you,” he said softly.

  Rachel took a deep breath. “Ah, God, Houston... I love you, too,” she whispered, and then closed her eyes, unable to watch him walking away.

  “Rachel... don’t.”

  Startled, she looked up. Don’t what? Does he know? Then she shook off the thought. There was no way he could.

  “Damn it, Cherokee, don’t look back.”

  She went limp with relief. He thought she was just grieving.

  “Trust me to take care of you,” he begged.

  Her heart broke. Seconds later she was in his arms.

  Water dripped down the back of his neck as she clung to him with her wet, soapy hands. The heat from her body was startling. In the back of his mind he wondered if she was coming down sick. And then her lips centered on his mouth, stealing his breath and his sanity. Within moments her underwear was off and he had her pinned against the wall. Without words, without foreplay, he took her there, driving himself into the wet, hot depths of her. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck. Her head was thrown back, revealing the slender column of her throat as their bodies hammered against each other.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she bucked against him. It was coming. She could feel it. A building of heat and pressure that wouldn’t let her go. One thrust, then another, and suddenly it was over. Her fingernails sank into his back as she rode out the descending flow.

  Houston groaned. Ripple after ripple of her climax pulled at him, taunting him to follow. One second he was still in control; the next he was lost.

  A minute later they were lying together on the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms and shivering with the aftershocks of their explosive lovemaking.

  He nuzzled his face against her neck, then rolled so that she rested atop his body. He felt her trembling and heard her struggling for breath.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Rachel sighed. “I may never be all right again.”

  He grinned. “Thank you... I think.”

  She laughed before she thought and then felt like a traitor. Again the idea came to her that leaving him would be a mistake.

  “You’re going to be late,” she said softly.

  “I already am,” he said. “But you’re right. As badly as I hate to do it, I’ve got to move.”

  Getting up from the floor wasn’t as easy as getting down there had been. But they managed. And a few minutes later Rachel found herself standing on the porch and waving to Houston as he drove away.

  She watched until even the dust had settled, then she walked out into the yard a few steps and turned back to the house. If she stayed, this would be home.

  Nothing could change it. Not even their love. Weathered gray wood and a roof that had needed fixing for years. It looked like she felt. Used up.

  She turned around, gazing across the flat, empty land that was his ranch. Now and then a stand of mesquite could be seen. His cattle were scattered across the prairie, trying to find grazing on the brown, arid land. There was never enough to eat. She shuddered. She’d been hungry half her life.

  The tin-roofed barn was old, older than the house, and a portion of the corral was missing a top board. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered.

  Dirt poor.

  She hated the thought of it.

  She looked down the road where Houston had gone. This evening he would be coming back down that driveway, as he had for the last twelve years. No change in his life or routine. Like the ranch, just getting by.

  Wind lifted the hair from the sides of her face as she squinted into the early morning sun. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.

  Never again. Never again.

  Houston was tired
to his toes but glad to be heading home. Just the knowledge that Rachel was waiting for him at the other end of the journey was enough to make it worthwhile.

  He took off his Emery Feed and Seed cap and tossed it on the seat beside him. Hot wind blasted through the open windows as he flew along the highway. One of these days he was going to have to fix the air conditioner in his truck, but this evening he didn’t care. He glanced at the bouquet of flowers on the seat beside him. They were suffering some from the wind. On second thought, he tossed them on the floor of the truck to protect them from the heat and dust.

  He patted his pocket again, as he had for the tenth time since leaving Mirage. He could just picture the surprise on Rachel’s face when he showed her the ring. He’d been paying on it for almost a year.

  Nervously he glanced at the time. Almost seven. Damn. He’d planned to be home by six. Then he made himself relax. She knew what his work was like. This wasn’t the first time that Emery had scheduled a late load to go out.

  A slow grin spread across his face as he thought back to this morning. It had been a while since he’d made love to Rachel and wound up on the floor. But when it came to his lady, he didn’t have it in him to tell her no.

  When he topped the last rise in the road before home, he began to relax. They would still have plenty of time for him to clean up. Tonight they were going to celebrate. He was going to take her into Midland to go dancing. Somewhere between then and the bed, he was going to put the ring on her finger and thank God for her presence in his life.

  It wasn’t until he parked that he noticed her old car was gone. He frowned. Damn. He should have called. Then he shrugged. No matter. They didn’t have to go out to go dancing. They could dance on his porch by the light of the moon.

  Taco lifted his head as Houston stepped onto the porch. Houston grinned.

  “Hard day?” he drawled.

  Taco snorted, then sighed before flopping his muzzle on his furry front paws.

  Houston headed for the kitchen to put her flowers in water. He still had some of his mother’s vases somewhere on one of the top shelves of the cabinets. All he had to do was look. Success came on the second set of doors that he opened. Within seconds he had filled the vase and stuck the flowers inside. They shifted slightly to the left as he turned them loose. He frowned, trying to center them, then gave it up as a lost cause. He set them in the middle of the kitchen table and then stepped back and grinned. It’s the thought that counts. Right?