Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  He knew the man’s name now: Jules Farrier. And he knew whom he’d come for: Rachel Austin, penthouse suite. His pulse accelerated as he glanced down at his watch. If he was late getting home, there’d be hell to pay from his mother. But suddenly he didn’t care. He had to see Rachel once more before he went home for the day. She’d moved here on Tuesday. Today was Friday. It seemed as if he’d known her forever.

  Five minutes passed, then ten. He was starting to sweat. If he didn’t hurry, the fish market near his house would be closed and he wouldn’t be able to buy the fish his mother was planning to cook for dinner tonight.

  Suddenly the elevator doors opened. He saw the man first, and took a tentative step forward. Then she appeared in his line of vision and he froze in midstep. It was at that moment that the notion began. He didn’t know how, but some way, somehow, Rachel Austin would be his wife.

  All too quickly she was gone. He followed behind them at a safe distance, leaving the building only after the limousine had pulled into traffic. He headed toward the subway entrance, his mother and her fish forgotten. He would make Rachel see past his uniform to the man he was underneath. He knew he wasn’t handsome, but he could take care of her. All the soldiers he read about had beautiful women in their lives. Of course, they rarely kept them, but that didn’t matter. He was in charge of this dream. He could make it happen any way he chose.

  As he crossed the street he began to frown. He’d forgotten about Mother. She wouldn’t like having to share him with someone else. Then his chin jutted angrily. He didn’t like to make Mother angry, but for Rachel, he would dare anything.

  Seven

  Kenny Monday braked his car to a sliding halt at the Bookout homestead and got out on the run, clearing the porch steps in one leap. His suit coat was flapping and his tie was askew. For the early part of May, it was as hot as blazes, but he couldn’t have cared less.

  “Houston, it’s me, Kenny,” he yelled, knocking abruptly on the front door. No one answered. He rapped even harder, raising his voice to a shout. “Hey, Houston!”

  Still no answer.

  He pivoted, searching the area for a sign of where Houston might be. It didn’t make sense that he couldn’t find him. Houston’s pickup was parked in the drive. The old tractor was in the shed. Then his gaze slid to the corral and he sighed. One of the horses was gone.

  “Well, damn. You picked a hell of a day to go for a ride.”

  Kenny knew he would be in for a wait. He tried the front door. It was locked. Sighing, he yanked off his coat and loosened his tie. What he had to say needed to be said face-to-face. There was no way he was going to leave this kind of news in a note or on Houston’s answering machine, so he sat down in a chair on the front porch. At least here he had some shade.

  A few minutes soon turned into fifteen, and then twenty. The longer Kenny waited, the hotter he got. Behind him, the hum of the window unit was even more irritating; only a few feet away the cool comfort of refrigerated air awaited.

  Frustrated, he strode off the porch and began circling the house, hoping to find an unlocked window. At this point he wasn’t averse to a little breaking and entering. To his surprise, the back door was unlocked. He cursed beneath his breath for not trying it sooner and walked into the coolness, sighing with relief.

  “Make yourself at home,” he told himself, and then headed for the refrigerator. A few seconds later he was popping the top on a beer. “Thanks,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Satisfied that his wait would now be in comfort, he headed for the living room. A little television and a cold beer never hurt anyone. But when he sat down and reached for the remote, his hand froze in midair.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, staring at the mountain of magazines on Houston’s coffee table. They were in stacks, some on the table, some on the floor. It wasn’t that Houston had taken to reading women’s magazines that confused him—it was the fact that they were all the same magazine, same issue.

  And then his gaze focused on the face adorning the front cover. Recognition came swiftly. That was Rachel Austin!

  He whistled beneath his breath. There couldn’t be two women in this world with a face like that. He sank back in the sofa, contemplating the ramifications of why Houston would be buying every issue of the magazine he could find. As he sat, something began to make sense. This was why Houston hadn’t returned his latest phone calls and why he’d seemed distant, almost cold, when he’d talked to him last.

  Moisture dripped from the bottle in his hand to the knee of his good slacks, but Kenny didn’t even notice. All he could think was, My God, what has this done to him?

  About the only thing constant in west Texas was the wind, and today it was getting on Houston’s last nerve. He reined in his horse and pulled his hat a little lower across his forehead, watching absently as Taco began circling an empty tortoise shell he’d found. Houston grinned to himself and then looked back at the horizon, shading his eyes from the heat and the dust and trying to imagine where a cow could hide in a place like this. There were no ditches to fall into. No trees to hide behind. Hell, there wasn’t even a river to drown in. He looked to the sky, searching for a circling of buzzards. The sky was clear. He sighed. The old heifer wasn’t worth five cents on the dollar, but she was his and he wanted her found.

  A blast of hot wind seared his face, but he wouldn’t let himself think of air-conditioned rooms and cold beers. Instead he urged his horse forward, aiming toward a small stand of mesquite he could see in the distance. It wasn’t much more than a gathering of bushes, but it was the only place left to look. The moment the horse started moving, Taco abandoned the tortoise shell and retook the lead, running with his nose to the wind and his tongue out and flopping.

  When Houston was within a couple hundred yards of the bushes, Taco suddenly started to bark. At the sound, more than a dozen turkey buzzards suddenly lifted into the air. In flight, their massive wingspreads were reminiscent of Dracula’s cape. Houston cursed beneath his breath. He’d found his cow. He looked up, watching until the buzzards were little more than dark specks in the distant sky. Then he rode closer, taking quick, shallow breaths as the stench of decaying flesh became apparent.

  At least the search was over. There was no way to tell why she’d died, but his best guess would have been from old age. He gave the surrounding area a cursory glance, whistled for Taco to come, and then turned his horse toward home.

  It was a long, hot ride back to the house. Too much time in which to think about losses. It seemed as if everything that mattered in his life kept slipping away.

  He’d been alone in this world for the better part of twelve years, but he’d never felt lonely until now. The past months had been nothing short of pure hell, and the only thing that had kept him from just plain giving up was the knowledge that this, too, would pass.

  While he was trying to remain philosophical about his lot in life, the last thing he wanted was company. But when he topped the small rise behind the corral, he could see even that wasn’t going his way. Kenny Monday’s red sports car was parked in front of his house. As much as he liked the man, he was in no mood for any of his banter.

  He rode to the barn and unsaddled, then turned his horse into the corral. He started to the house with Taco at his heels. It wasn’t until they were halfway there that the dog realized a strange car was in the yard. His ears came up and he barked once.

  “Hush,” Houston said sharply, and when Taco ducked his head and his tail instantly went between his legs, Houston sighed. He leaned over and petted his dog, giving him an extra scratch between the ears. “Sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to take the day out on you.”

  True to his calling, man’s best friend forgave everything for the love that Houston gave him.

  When Houston looked back toward the house, Kenny was standing on the porch. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie was missing, and it looked as if he’d combed his hair with his fingers. As much as he wanted to stay disgruntled, Hou
ston realized he was glad to see the man.

  “I waited,” Kenny said. “It got hot. I let myself in.”

  Houston nodded. “It is hot,” he said.

  Kenny followed him into the house, watching Houston’s every move, waiting for an expression that would tell him it was all right to be here. It didn’t come. But Kenny Monday hadn’t gotten where he was today by being shy. He tried again.

  “Hell of a day to go horseback riding, isn’t it?”

  “Lost a cow,” Houston said, and tossed his hat onto the hat rack before heading for the kitchen.

  “Did you find her?” Kenny asked as he followed behind.

  “What was left of her,” Houston said, and got himself a cold beer from the refrigerator.

  Ah, so that explains the long face, Kenny thought. “Sorry.”

  Houston shrugged. “It happens,” he said, and then took a long swig. “Thought about that beer all morning,” he said as he set the bottle on the counter and began to wash up.

  Kenny smiled. He wanted to tease, to do something, anything, that would alleviate the tension between them. But he kept thinking of those magazines on the living room floor.

  “So, other than the joy of seeing my smiling face, what brings you out this way?” Houston asked.

  Kenny relaxed. At least Houston was willing to make light of his morose attitude.

  “I have news,” he said.

  Houston glanced at the bottle of beer on the counter. “You know, my luck hasn’t been running too pure lately. Do I need something stronger to kill the pain?”

  Kenny grinned. “Well, all I’ll say is, let’s save the champagne for later, when there’s reason to be sure.”

  Houston paused in the act of drying his hands. “Sure of what?”

  Kenny took a deep breath. He wanted to be careful how he phrased this.

  “You remember those seismograph tests I ran on your place?”

  Houston nodded. “Yeah, you scared the hell out of my cows when you set those charges.”

  Kenny shrugged. “All for the good of science. Besides, they made some real pretty pictures.”

  Houston managed a grin, thinking of the squiggly lines that constituted seismograph readings. “So what are you telling me? That you’ve decided to become the new Picasso?”

  Unable to contain his elation any longer, Kenny grinned and then pointed to a sheaf of papers lying on the table.

  “No. But I have a question to ask you.”

  “Fire away,” Houston said.

  “Are you sure you own all the mineral rights to your land?”

  Houston looked puzzled. “Yes.”

  Kenny clapped his hands. “Hot damn,” he muttered, more to himself than to Houston.

  “What’s the big deal?” Houston asked.

  “I’ve talked to some friends of mine about you. We want to come in and take some core samples on your land.”

  Houston went still. There wasn’t a Texan alive who didn’t have some knowledge of the oil business, and taking core samples was the last step before drilling for oil.

  “Core samples?”

  Kenny nodded. “The preliminary tests I ran were very encouraging.” Then he took a deep breath. “There’s a possibility that there’s oil on your land.”

  The words were wrapping around Houston’s mind, but he couldn’t seem to assimilate them into the reality he knew.

  “Oil?”

  Kenny grinned. “That’s what I said.”

  Houston’s heart lurched and then quickly subsided. “There’s no way I could afford to invest any money in a wildcat hole.”

  Kenny’s grin widened. “That’s the beauty of your owning all of the mineral rights. My friends put up the money to drill and take a portion of the profits. Details would have to be worked out between them and your lawyer, but if the well came in, you’d be sitting pretty.”

  Houston was silent so long, Kenny began to fidget.

  “Well?” he asked. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “When can they start?”

  Kenny whooped with delight, grabbed another beer from the refrigerator, then lifted it toward Houston in a toast.

  “To dreams coming true,” he said.

  The distinct clink of bottle to bottle broke the silence between them as they both took a drink. Then Houston lifted his bottle, toasting Kenny in turn.

  “To hell with dreams. Here’s to money in the bank.”

  Kenny grinned, but he knew that even now, Houston’s thoughts weren’t on gushers, but on the woman he’d lost.

  Rain peppered the windows of Beatty Andrews’s bedroom, coloring the dismal beginning to the day in a wet, dripping shroud. He rolled over on his back and hit the alarm before it could go off, then stretched. As he did, his gaze went straight to the pictures he’d hung. They were the first things he saw upon awakening, and his mother had thrown a fit about the holes in her walls. But he’d ignored her whining, just as he ignored all of her complaints, and hung an even dozen of Rachel Austin’s covers opposite his bed.

  Now he drew a deep breath, aching from the impact of her smile.

  “Good morning, my darling,” he whispered. “Did you sleep well?”

  Her smile was silent but wide. For Beatty, it was enough.

  The erection he’d awakened with was hard and aching. He reached down and stroked himself while whispering her name.

  In the other room, he could hear the sounds of his mother’s morning rituals. The thick, hacking cough and the phlegm she always spit up were compliments of a sixty-year smoking habit. And then there was the constant blowing of her nose, long after there was nothing left to blow. He closed his mind to it all, concentrating instead on the dark, exotic beauty of Rachel Austin’s face and the friction of skin against skin.

  He hammered himself in perpetual motion, waiting for that blinding burst of pleasure and the spill of his seed. Rachel’s face smiled down at him. He arched himself toward her and smiled back, imagining those beautiful green eyes closing and the soft, almost nonexistent sound of her gasp as she shared his ecstasy.

  The door creaked in the hall. His mind slid from Rachel to his mother. That sound meant she was dressed. It also meant that within seconds she would be knocking on his door to make sure he was up. He bit his lip and then closed his eyes. The luxury of watching Rachel was no longer an issue as he focused instead on his imminent climax.

  The knock sounded on his door as the first wave hit. He groaned beneath his breath and grabbed at the covers, pulling them up over his body to help muffle the sound of flesh slapping flesh.

  “Beatty! It’s time to get up!”

  Blinded by the blood racing through his veins, a second wave of pleasure pulled him under. Then he opened his eyes, staring straight into Rachel Austin’s gaze as his body began to buck.

  “Beatty! Are you awake?”

  Beads of sweat dotted his brow. His mouth was slack, his eyes wide and fixed upon Rachel’s lips. The chant started in his mind.

  Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.

  “Beatty! You get up right now! Do you hear me?”

  Warm semen suddenly spilled in his hand. For a moment Beatty thought he’d gone blind.

  “Beatty Andrews, if you don’t—”

  He groaned as his body went weak, then gritted his teeth. “Goddamn it, Mother, I am awake.”

  “All you had to do was say so,” she muttered, and shuffled off down the hall.

  Beatty lay in the bed, savoring the satiated feeling of sexual release and making a mental note to make up his bed before he left. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left semen stains on his sheets, but he wasn’t in the mood to listen to her bitch about how he was going to hell. He glanced at Rachel’s face on the opposite wall and then blew her a kiss.

  “You were wonderful,” he said softly, then crawled out of bed. It was time to start his day.

  ***

  Rachel gave her hair one last swipe with the brush just as a blast of rain splattered against the windo
w behind her. She was meeting Maris Binder for lunch.

  The distant wail of a siren sounded from somewhere on the streets below. Rachel walked to the window and looked down. From where she was standing, it looked as if a garden of mushrooms had sprouted on the sidewalk overnight. All she could see was the tops of bouncing umbrellas in varying colors and sizes. Now and then someone would dash from a building and into a cab. That was another thing she’d learned since coming to New York City: Cab drivers loved rainy days.

  She leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes, letting the sound of the raindrops against the glass lull the loneliness inside of her, remembering another time, and another rainy day, and the man who’d been the beginning and end of her world.

  He was waiting for her on her front porch. She saw him between the swipes of the windshield wipers of her car as she turned off the road and started down her driveway. Relief came quickly. She had spent all day at the hospital with her mother and had been dreading coming home to this empty house. Somehow he had known. She smiled to herself. She shouldn’t be surprised. Houston Bookout knew far too much about the way she ticked.

  She parked and then sat for just a moment, watching as he unfolded his length from the old cane-bottom chair and walked to the edge of the steps. Her heart skipped a beat. God, but she loved that man. Even the way he stood, with weight resting on one leg more than another, made her belly knot. She grabbed her purse and then opened the door. Moisture like this was precious and rare in west Texas, and she savored the scent of damp earth as she started toward the house.

  Houston raised his hand in a silent greeting and then started down the steps.

  Rachel paused in the downpour, all too aware that her clothes had molded to her body from the wet. His strides were long and sure, his gaze warm and steady. When he stopped before her, she leaned into the hand he cupped against her cheek.

  “You’re off work early,” she said.

  “You’re getting wet,” he replied.