by Sharon Sala
The phone rang as she was drying her face. When she came back, the scent of coffee was drifting through the house, but she knew he was not inside. It felt empty. Just like her heart.
About half an hour later she heard him coming back to the house. She supposed he’d been feeding Taco and the horses. Rachel sighed. And what had she been doing while he was going about the business of living? Trying to plug in the toaster and make toast. And she would have done it, too, if Houston hadn’t moved the bread. She’d been looking for it for the better part of five minutes and had yet to put her hands on anything remotely resembling a loaf of bread.
The door opened behind her. She spun.
“Houston, where did you put the bread?”
“There’s not any,” he said.
She leaned against the cabinet, fighting an urge to scream.
“You didn’t tell me,” she muttered.
“I was going to take you out to breakfast this morning,” he said.
She gritted her teeth. “You didn’t tell me that, either.”
Houston felt her frustration, even where he was standing.
“Look, Rachel, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it—”
“Do me a favor,” she snapped. “Next time, think. Then I won’t have to poke through every damned thing in this kitchen trying to find something that isn’t here.”
Houston stared. “Are you through?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine,” he said. “And next time you want to tear a strip off my hide, do it for the real reason, not because you can’t find the goddamned bread.”
Rachel gasped. “I don’t know what you—”
“You’re mad because I didn’t throw you back down on that bed and make love to you this morning.”
An angry flush deepened the color on Rachel’s cheeks. She reached behind her, so furious that her fingers were trembling as they curled around the coffee cup she’d been going to fill.
“You bastard,” she muttered, and flung the cup in the general direction of his voice.
It shattered, leaving them both a little stunned that their morning had come to this. Houston was the first to move. He knelt and began picking up the pieces. Rachel was still shaking as he dumped the pieces in the trash.
“Rachel.”
It was all she could do to answer. “What?”
“I’m sorry. Not a damned bit of what I said was called for.”
She lifted her chin, wanting him to put his arms around her, but settling for the apology instead. “I’m sorry, too.”
He sighed. “Can we start this morning over?”
She hesitated, and then almost smiled. “Only if we start with ‘I was going to take you out to breakfast.’ ”
“Will you go?”
Still uncomfortable with eating in public, Rachel hesitated. “Where to?” she finally asked.
“I need to go to Midland.”
“If you’ll take me to McDonald’s for sausage biscuits, it’s a deal.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “But one of these days we’re going to a regular restaurant, and you’re going to sit down in a chair, order your food, and eat it when it comes, without worrying if someone is watching.”
“But not today.”
He sighed. “No, Cherokee, not today.”
“Why are we going to Midland?”
“It’s your checkup day, and I need to pick up something I ordered.”
She wrinkled her nose at the mention of the doctor. “It won’t take me long to change.”
“You look good to me just the way you are,” Houston said.
Rachel’s smile was automatic. “That tells me nothing. Remember, you’re the man who always liked me best when I wore—” The smile died on her face. “I’ll be right back,” she said shortly.
But Houston knew what she’d been unable to say, that he liked her best when she wore nothing at all. His jaw clenched as he strode across the floor and turned off the coffeemaker. Then he stood staring blindly out the window, trying to pinpoint the moment when everything had started to go wrong.
“Houston? Are you here?”
He turned. She was back and wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a lightweight pink cotton shirt. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and she was wearing her dark glasses. He sighed.
“Yes, I’m here,” he said, and took her by the arm.
“How long has it been since the incident occurred?”
the doctor asked. Rachel frowned. “What date is this?” “The twenty-fourth of August.” “A little over six weeks, give or take a few days.” “Hmmm.” Rachel waited for a remark to follow, but none did. “Are you experiencing any pain, either from your
ribs or from your head?” he finally asked. “My ribs are fine, just the tiniest bit tender, and I still have the occasional headache. Nothing major.” “I’m going to check your right eye now,” he said.
“Try not to blink.” She did as he asked. “Now the other,” he said. Again she sat without moving, following his ex
amination by the pressure of his fingers upon her
eyes and cheeks. “Do you have any sight at all?” he finally asked. “No.” She didn’t see the frown appearing on his forehead.
“No flashes of light? No shadows, nothing like that?” “No.” “Hmmm.” There was something in the tone of his voice that
made her heart skip a beat. She reached out, clutching his wrist.
“Doctor, is there something you’re not telling me?”
To her surprise, his pulse jerked beneath her fingertips.
Her voice started to shake. “Oh my God, there is, isn’t there?”
He stared at her, trying to assimilate his examination of her with the medical records that had been sent to him from Bellevue.
“I can’t really say,” he said. “However, I would have thought by now...”
Rachel put her hands on her chest as if to steady her racing heart.
“Please, Doctor, for God’s sake, don’t play games with me. Are you saying that I could still regain my sight?”
“I’m not going to go that far,” he said. “But I will tell you that your pupils are reacting to light. Not much, but some. Enough for me to question the diagnosis of irreversible blindness.”
Rachel pressed a hand to her mouth. Her pulse was pounding, and her mind was in a whirl.
“Don’t tell,” she said suddenly.
He frowned. “I don’t under—”
“Don’t tell anyone else what you just told me.”
“But—”
“No. I don’t want any more pity if your opinion proves to be wrong.”
“As you wish,” he said. “However, if you do begin to experience any of the symptoms I mentioned, I want you back in my office immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Oh my God, yes,” she whispered. Then she added, “Where are you—I mean, exactly?”
He took her by the hands. “Right in front of you, Miss Austin.”
Rachel threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. “If what you say ever comes true, I will name my first child after you.”
“Oh no, please don’t.”
Suddenly embarrassed by her impulsive behavior, Rachel drew back. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He laughed. “No, no, you didn’t insult me. Quite the contrary. But I’ve spent my whole life trying to live down my name. I have five children, and not a one of them has been named after me.”
“Oh,” Rachel said, and then frowned. “By the way, what is your given name?”
“Merlin.”
“As in the magician?”
“One and the same,” he drawled. “I think my mother had a thing for King Arthur.”
“Why?”
“Because I also have a brother named Lancelot and a sister named Guinevere.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
Rachel laughed aloud. “Okay, you talked me int
o it. No namesakes.”
The doctor patted her shoulder. “I thank you—and trust me, someday so will your child. Now, be off with you,” he said. “I’d like to see you again in about a month. Make an appointment before you leave.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then the doctor paused. “About the man who brought you in...”
“Houston? What about him?”
“He seems very concerned about you.”
Rachel’s heart twisted. “Oh, he is,” she said softly. “But I don’t want his concern. I just want him to love me again.”
The doctor touched her shoulder again. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would quit on someone he loved.”
Rachel’s lips twisted bitterly. “No, Houston’s the kind who stays the distance. I’m the one who quit.”
“Surely he would be willing to forgive and forget.”
This time she laughed, but it was a sharp, angry bark that burned all the way up her throat.
“Probably, and if I could find a way to forgive myself, it just might work.”
“God will help you, if you’ll just ask,” he said softly.
Rachel sighed. “Am I through?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, you’re through. Here, let me help you down.”
A short while later Rachel and Houston were back in his old truck, weaving through the busy streets of Midland. After the quiet of Houston’s ranch, the sounds of passing traffic were like a language she’d forgotten how to speak.
They drove in near silence, stopping for red lights, switching lanes now and then to get to some destination she had yet to learn. Finally the truck began slowing down. She sat up straighter. When he stopped, she cocked her head, listening for identifiable sounds. She heard none.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Houston looked out the windshield. “The Chevrolet dealership.”
She frowned. “What are we doing here?”
“Picking up my new pickup.” He watched a smile cross her face.
“You’re kidding!”
He grinned. Ever since the doctor’s office, she’d been so quiet. Almost too quiet. If he’d known he would get this kind of reaction, he might have told her sooner.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s been on order for almost two months. And it’s about damned time, if you ask me.”
“But how . . . the cost... I mean...”
Guilt hit him again. That lie. It kept tangling and tangling.
“Let’s just say that the company I work for pays me a hell of a lot better than Emery ever did.”
“Oh, Houston, that’s wonderful,” she said. “What color did you pick out? What’s it like? Is it a—”
He managed another smile. “It’s a shiny black extended-cab.”
“Does it have air-conditioning?”
“Honey, it’s got everything.”
She fidgeted with excitement, wishing with everything she had that she could see it and him behind the wheel.
“I’m so happy for you, Houston.”
He sighed. Another shaft of guilt poked at his conscience.
“Thanks, Cherokee.”
“It will be heaven.”
He grinned and reached for her hand. “Then come
on, little angel, let’s go get your wings.” ***
“Still no answer,” Sullivan said, and hung up the phone. It was his third time trying to reach Houston Bookout that hour. He checked the number that Rachel Austin’s agent had given him, then tossed his pen on the desk and tilted back in his chair. “You’d think he’d at least have an answering machine,” he muttered.
“Maybe it’s just not on,” Gianelli said.
“Yeah, I’ll try a bit later,” Sullivan said. “You go on home if you want. I’m going to stick around here for a while. I won’t be able to sleep until I can talk to Rachel Austin about Beatty Andrews.”
“You think they were friends?” Gianelli asked.
Sullivan snorted beneath his breath. “According to what we know about that man, she probably didn’t realize he existed.”
Gianelli nodded. “There sure are a lot of creeps in this world.”
“Yeah,” Sullivan said, and then sat up abruptly and reached for the phone. “One more time.”
Houston and Rachel were walking in the front door of the house when the phone started to ring. He gave her a quick glance, making sure she was okay.
“Be right back,” he told her, and made a dash for the kitchen. “Bookout Ranch,” he said into the phone.
“Houston Bookout?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Danny Sullivan. We met at Bellevue during my interview with Miss Austin.”
Houston frowned. “Yes, I remember you.”
“Is Miss Austin with you? We’ve been trying to reach her.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, she’s here. What’s up?”
Sullivan hesitated. But considering Rachel Austin’s present condition, he suspected this man was in the know about everything that concerned her.
“We have new information on the bombing,” he said. “I just needed to ask her a couple of quick questions.”
“Hang on a minute,” Houston said. “I’ll go get her.”
He made a dash to the living room. She wasn’t there.
“Rachel, telephone,” he yelled.
She stepped into the hall from her bedroom. “I was just changing.”
Houston gritted his teeth, trying to ignore her bare midriff above her shorts and the fact she was carrying her T-shirt instead of wearing it.
“It’s that detective in charge of the bombing,” he said.
She paled, then yanked her shirt over her head and reached for him. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d put the T-shirt on wrong side out. Instead he grabbed her hand and quickly guided her across the hall to his bedroom.
“You can take it on this extension,” he said.
She sank down on his bed and lifted the receiver to her ear.
“This is Rachel Austin.”
Sullivan gave an inward sigh of relief. “Miss Austin, I’m glad I finally reached you. How have you been?”
“Fine. Why have you called? Do you know anything new? Have you caught the person who—”
He chuckled. “Hey, I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask the questions.”
Rachel took a deep breath and made herself relax. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’d be just like you. But back to the reason I called. Do you know a man named Beatty Andrews?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Rachel let out a breath. “Look, Detective, granted I can’t see, but there’s nothing wrong with my mind.”
“Point well taken,” Sullivan said. “Now, let me ask this another way. Do you remember the doorman at your apartment building?”
Rachel frowned. “There were several. Three, I think, maybe four. Which one do you mean?”
This was just as Sullivan had suspected. Whatever fixation Beatty Andrews had had on Rachel Austin had certainly been one-sided.
“At any time did any of them ever give you gifts or speak to you in an unseemly fashion?”
“No, never,” she said. And then she frowned. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, after I became so... uh...”
“Famous?”
She almost smiled. “Yes, that. After it happened, I used to receive all kinds of stuff. In fact, that’s why I thought nothing of receiving that package. The one that blew up.”
“I see. But didn’t your gifts ever have cards?”
“Oh yes, always . . . at least, nearly always. I think there was a time or two when I found flowers outside my door. They didn’t have any cards, but I didn’t think much of it.”
Sullivan was making notes, trying to keep up with what she was telling him.
“So it’s possible that you were receiving gifts
from Beatty Andrews without ever knowing it.”
“I suppose, but even if he’d signed his name, I doubt I would have recognized it.” Then she took a deep breath, needing to ask, at least for her own peace of mind. “Which one?”
“I’m sorry?” Sullivan asked.
“Which one was he? I need to see him in my mind.”
“Oh. Well, according to the picture we got from his apartment, he’s short and pushing forty. Kind of skinny, and has a real high forehead and thinning hair.”
Rachel flinched as the man’s face surfaced. “But he used to smile at me,” she whispered.
“Did you ever smile back?” Sullivan asked.
“Why, yes, of course,” she said. “But I was only being friendly.”
“For Beatty, that was enough.”
“To try to kill me?” she asked.
“We don’t know everything yet. When we find him, we’ll ask.”
Rachel stiffened. “You mean you don’t know where he is?”
“Not yet, but we’ll pick him up. Don’t worry. He has no idea we’re on to him. He’s bound to show up
at his apartment soon.”
“You’ll let me know when you do?”
“You can count on it,” he said. “Will you still be available at this number?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. Where else could she go?
“Fine, then. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
Houston took the phone out of Rachel’s hand and put it back.
“Rachel?”
“They think they know who tried to kill me.”
Houston slid onto the bed beside her.
“Who, baby? Did you know him?”
She shook her head. “They think it was the doorman at my apartment building, but I didn’t even know his name.”
“Why did he do it?”
She started to shake. “They don’t know. They said they’d ask him when they found him.”
“Are you saying he’s gone?”
She nodded.
“Do they know where?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
“They said they’d call when they picked him up.” She was shaking so hard now that her teeth were chattering. She reached for him. “Houston?”
“I’m right here.”
“Would you just hold me?”
“Hell,” he groaned, and put his arms around her and then rolled until they were both stretched out on his bed. But Rachel couldn’t quit shaking.
