Reckless

by Ruth Wind

  Then she was gone. and the room was suddenly too quiet. Jake sank down into a chair, feeling deserted, and horny and very depressed.

  Chapter 13

  The baby came fast and without much trouble, but when Ramona was finished, she did not return to Jake’s condo. It had been in her mind to do so when she left him, but after a few hours of cooling off, she decided it would be unwise.

  In her own bed, with a cat purring and warm on her tummy, Ramona stared into the darkness and replayed the evening with Jake. She wanted him, heaven knew. He aroused in her a passion she had never experienced, never even really believed existed.

  Miraculously, he wanted her, too. But alone and clearheaded now, without the narcotic presence of the man himself to distract her, Ramona wondered about his motivation. Why was he drawn to her in particular?

  And the only answer she could come up with was that he needed healing. She didn’t think he knew that, didn’t think he even had the faintest idea of what impelled him, but Ramona could taste his need when he kissed her. He was almost—driven. She really wasn’t the sort of woman to inspire that kind of blinding passion in a man.

  Traitorously, she liked it. She liked the sense of power it gave, the flush of feminine exhilaration it made her feel.

  More, she loved the way she felt when he touched her. As if every cell in her body were filled with a moist, honeyed light. A single finger dragged along the inside of her elbow, the brush of his lips over her tummy, the whisper of his hair brushing her chin and neck and breasts—alt of it made her feel hungry and alive. In Jake’s arms, privy to his skilled and ardent caresses, Ramona had become someone new.

  She liked touching him. He was sexy and responsive and sensual. She liked the sounds he made—low growls, slow, throaty sighs and murmurings of fervent longing.

  Restlessly, she turned to her side, aware of a heaviness in her groin, a weighty need in her breasts and lips and palms. She wanted to throw on whatever she could find, jump in her car and roar over to his condo to take up where they’d left off. Even the thought made her ache with desire.

  Why had she come home instead?

  Because, quite simply, tonight Ramona had realized that she was falling in love with him. And he was wounded, and he wanted her for reasons he didn’t understand, and once he healed, he would take up the life he’d deserted. A life in which a simple country doctor had no place.

  When it came right down to it, Ramona didn’t think she could bear having him, then losing him. Far better to avoid the temptation and save her heart. Whatever the clichés said, she didn’t believe it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. She didn’t want that kind of sorrow in her life.

  Which didn’t mean she was afraid of risks, or afraid of love. She wasn’t. But foolish risks, risks that were almost certain to hurt her, those were better left unexplored. She wouldn’t jump out of a plane without a parachute, she wouldn’t ride a motorcycle without a helmet and she wouldn’t sleep with Jake.

  Wincing, she knew he wasn’t going to take kindly to the news. He’d be annoyed. He was a man who was used to getting his way, and if for no other reason, he’d be all the more set upon getting her into his bed for whatever amount of time she held his interest. Ramona would have to prepare herself for that. She wouldn’t bother to be reasonable or calm. She’d give him a simple, clear explanation—and leave him to his irritation.

  And as much as it pained her, she would have to avoid him after that. Since Dr. Richards had taken his case, it shouldn’t be hard.

  She ignored the pang of regret she felt. These past few weeks had been very pleasant. Already she would miss him.

  But Ramona didn’t have a chance to tell Jake anything. The official Fourth of July weekend would start Friday, two days away, and the usual crowd of campers and tourists were flooding into town. It was worse than usual, since the Fourth fell on a Monday, making it a three-day weekend.

  The morning after she delivered the baby, she had her first two cases of a summer flu that had nasty respiratory manifestations. By the next day, she decided most of the townspeople had come down with the virus, along with a good percentage of the tourists. The small clinic was soon bulging with victims, including two asthma cases and four elderly patients whose flu shots hadn’t protected them against the mutated strain and they’d developed pneumonia. A hoard of preschoolers who had picked it up at day care, among them Curtis and Cody, Jake’s nephews, were afflicted, as was Tyler. She dispensed medications and cough syrup and nasal sprays and inhalers in numbers that made two pharmacists call her in alarm.

  To make matters worse, the usual Fourth of July bums started appearing. Fireworks were strictly outlawed in Red Creek except for the carefully controlled display given in the town square every year, but the law never stopped anyone. The townsfolk were as stubborn and independent as Westerners came, and by hook or by crook, they’d have their fireworks. They could drive into Denver for mild sorts of sparklers and snakes and smoke bombs, or drive another hour and a half across the Wyoming border to buy anything they wanted—including Roman candles, bottle rockets, and a whole menu of shooting stars.

  And with fireworks came burns.

  The teenage boys were the worst. They lit bottle rockets in their hands or pointed Roman candles at each other. One boy, involved in just such an incident, had come very close to losing his eye. Instead, the fiery ball had skimmed his temple and seared away the hair in a line above his ear. Treating him, Ramona commented, “You’re lucky your hair didn’t catch fire. I’d hate to see a boy your age bald.”

  He blanched.

  Twice Jake called her house and left messages on her machine, but by the time she got home at night, it was too late to call him back, and she was too exhausted anyway. He appeared once at the clinic, but Ramona didn’t even get a chance to talk to him. Every time she headed in his direction, someone else rushed toward her with something urgent she needed to address that very minute. Finally, giving up, she waved and gave him a rueful smile, and he seemed to take it in good grace, giving her a smile as he waved farewell.

  By Saturday, the patient load was down a little, but Dr. Richards called from the VA home to tell her that some flu cases had begun to appear there. Ramona swore under her breath. It was a nasty enough virus among the young and healthy—but it devastated the elderly. She told him she’d get over there as soon as she could.

  She didn’t make it until evening, and by then, the past few days had begun to take their toll. Dr. Richards, dressed in green scrubs, took one look at her and shook his head. “You’re too old to play intern, Ramona. How much sleep have you had?”

  Wearily, she rubbed her forehead. “Precious little. This flu seems like it’s about to run its course, however, and once we get through the weekend, most of the tourists will go home, and maybe most of the bums will stop, too.” In reality, the truth was that she had not slept more than three hours at a stretch since Tuesday, and she wasn’t twenty-four anymore. She felt the exhaustion in her shoulders, at the back of her neck and in her grainy eyes.

  “Take tomorrow off,” Dr. Richards said. “I’ll cover for you.”

  Ramona frowned, shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but you have plenty going on here yourself.” She took a chart from the hanging files along the wall. “How is Mr. Redfeather?”

  “No, you don’t,” he said, and plucked the chart out of her hands. “You can’t treat patients when you can’t even see straight. The VA is sending a couple of residents up to help, and we can cover you.”

  Ramona knew he was right. “Let’s make a deal.” She grabbed the chart back. “Let me look in on my patients tonight, and I’ll take off until morning.”

  “No deal. You take off till Monday morning and I’ll let you go visit the old codgers.”

  “Monday!”

  “Come on, woman. You’re young and healthy and you need to do more than work. Get some sleep, then head over to the picnic and watch some fireworks.” He smiled.
“Doctor’s orders.”

  She pursed her lips. The truth was, she was exhausted and fed up with the crisis. If she took a day off, her humor would surely be restored. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll call me if you need me?”

  He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Then we have a deal.” She took out another chart to add to the pile, then as casually as she could, asked, “How is Jake Forrest doing?”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Dr. Richards’s face. “Well, there’s no question he’s got a classic case of PTSD, but along with that goes the classic resistance. I haven’t had any luck getting him to talk to a counselor or go to a group.”

  Ramona shook her head. “Too bad.”

  “You know, just out of curiosity, why did you refer him? You’re one of the best with cases like this.”

  She lifted a shoulder, carefully training her gaze on the charts. “I was becoming personally involved.” She took a steadying breath. “I also thought he might respond better to a man and a soldier, instead of...” She paused. “How did he put it? ‘What can a woman know about any of it?’ Or words to that effect.”

  “Ah. Macho man.”

  Once, Ramona would have agreed with him, but now she wasn’t sure the label fitted. Still, maybe she shouldn’t be the one to judge. “Something like that.”

  He moved toward the door. “Do your rounds, then I want you to go home and sleep. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!” Ramona saluted smartly, drawing from him the chuckle she’d hoped she would.

  Jake hurried down to the sun-room, his stash for Harry hidden in his coat. A light rain was falling outside, making the room seem even gloomier. It was empty.

  Frowning, Jake went to Harry’s room. The old man lay in bed, covered by heavy blankets. His complexion was waxy and his hair hadn’t been washed. “Hey, old man,” Jake greeted, pulling up a chair. “What did you do? Go and get sick on me?”

  Harry gave a raspy cough. “What the hell happened to you? Were you brawlin’, boy?”

  Jake winced. Harry had been a cop after his years in the service, and he wouldn’t take kindly to this story. “I had a little accident in my car.”

  “Little?”

  “Well...” Jake cleared his throat. “I totaled it.”

  “Damn, boy. You haven’t got the sense God gave a monkey. Didn’t I tell you sports cars are bad news?”

  “You did, Harry. I didn’t listen.”

  The old man looked disgusted. “Crank me up so I can sit straight. This bed is driving me crazy.”

  Jake complied. “I brought your stuff. Sorry I haven’t been here, but it’s been hard to get a ride.”

  “I told you before not to worry about it when you can’t come. I get along all right.”

  “I know,” Jake said. “You want me to stash everything in your closet?”

  Harry looked at the door. “The cigarettes you can put in my coat pocket there. Close the door and give me the ale. I’ll hide it under the covers.”

  Jake grinned. “You got it.” From beneath his jacket, he took the single bottle of ale, and walking across the room, he hid the cigarettes and closed the door. On the way back, he noticed the other bed in the room was empty. “Where’s your roomie?”

  Harry sipped his ale and sighed deeply. “Damn, that’s good. One of life’s finer things.” He settled back, the bottle hidden under the covers. “George died last night. Cold as ice when they tried to wake him up this morning.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Harry. shot him a glare through rheumy eyes. “Man couldn’t speak, and every minute he was awake, he was in pain. Death was a blessing, boy.”

  Jake lowered his head. Obviously, Harry was put out with him, no matter what he said. “Well, how are you feeling? Did you catch this flu?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  In the corner, the television news played a clip of tanks moving in the mountains somewhere, maybe Bosnia or Croatia. Jake felt a sharp, stabbing pain and looked away.

  “You sleeping any better?” Harry asked.

  “Sometimes.” Jake folded his hands. “Ramona brought me a cat. She said it might help.”

  Harry chuckled. “Now there’s a woman. Pretty little thing, and plenty of meat on her bones. I like a woman like that.”

  A vision of her naked breasts and round tummy flashed in Jake’s mind, and he sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. Too bad she’s so damned busy all the time.”

  “She still your doctor?”

  “No. I’m with Dr. Richards.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  Jake shrugged, but he thought he knew. “I yelled at her one night. Told her she didn’t have a clue what was bothering me. I mean, really—” he spread his hands “—what can a woman like her know about all this? She’s the most protected, cheerful little thing I ever met.”

  “You got it wrong, Jake.”

  “What do you mean?” Harry had gone very still, and on his face was an expression of fury and sorrow Jake had never seen. “What is it?”

  “I got something to tell you, boy, but if you tell another soul, I’ll haunt you till the day you die.”

  Perplexed, Jake leaned forward. “Tell me.”

  Harry settled, then lifted his ale for another sip before he began. “That woman has seen plenty of pain, pain like a man will never understand. You know what I’m getting at?”

  A prickle of foreboding moved through Jake’s chest. “Maybe.”

  “It must have been that winter after you went to West Point. I was on duty. A winter afternoon, nothing much going on. We were playing poker in the squad room, waiting for the shift to be over so we could go home.”

  The prickle grew stronger. Jake wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this. This was starting like one of Harry’s war stories, the stories that had so enthralled him as a boy. Harry had a talent for starting slow, relating normal, everyday details that served to illuminate horrors in a way nothing else could. “Harry, maybe if it’s a secret—”

  “You need to hear this.”

  Jake took a breath. Nodded.

  “There we were, this boring afternoon. Nothing to do, and in walks this little girl.” Harry swallowed, his eyes focused on that long-ago day. “She was beat up pretty bad. Had these marks on her neck and mouth, and she didn’t have on any shoes.”

  Jake found his breath coming too fast, like a panic attack was coming on. He fought the urge to cover his ears, to block the terrible thing he knew he was about to find out.

  “You see that look one time, and it stays with you forever. It was plain she’d been raped. But there she was, shivering and no coat. She walked all the way out of the mountains like that. She didn’t shed a tear, either, just came up to us and said real calm, ‘Some boys raped me, and I left them passed out up near Henrietta Pass. They’ll freeze if you don’t go get them.”’

  Horrified, Jake stared at Harry, his mind almost unable to grasp Harry’s words. “They...raped her?”

  “Yeah. We kept it real quiet, so she wouldn’t have to deal with people staring and calling names, you know, like they do. I was half-tempted to just let them freeze to death up there, but we called the rangers, and they fetched the bastards. Kids from college, out on a break. Drunk and stupid and mean.”

  “Why are you telling me, Harry? I’m sure she’d rather people didn’t know.”

  “I’m not telling people, boy. I’m telling you. She knows what she’s talking about when she says people can make peace with things. She knows how to help you, if you’ll just let her.”

  Something very like tears gathered behind Jake’s eyes and clogged his throat. He bowed his head, pressing his palms hard into his eyes. “Damn.”

  “Jake.”

  He raised his head.

  “I’m worried about you, son. You need help.”

  Panic welled up in him and then Jake stood suddenly. “I gotta get out of here. Sorry, Harry. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day
.”

  Harry only nodded. “You do what you have to do, son.”

  Jake left the VA home on foot, walking aimlessly in the light drizzle, along sidewalks cracked since his childhood, past homes with wide porches and tall trees grown up to shade the lush green lawns. Through the windows, he glimpsed families sitting down to dinner and waved to people rocking on porch swings. He walked through downtown, past the B&B café and the old honky-tonk his father had favored.

  And still his chest ached and his head roared and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Over and over he saw violent images of Ramona being so brutally violated. Walking through the snow to town. Without her shoes. Bruised and ravaged and hurt. He shoved the pictures away, but they kept coming back. Ramona without her shoes in the snow, walking back to town with bruises and sorrows and pains he didn’t want to imagine.

  Rage swelled and choked him. Brutality was everywhere, creeping into everything, staining the world. In his memory, he heard a boy screaming, and the sound became mixed up with Ramona crying.

  No, Harry said she hadn’t cried.

  Blindly, he ducked into a little bar and ordered a Scotch, straight, and drank it in a single gulp. It burned through the thickness in his throat and he ordered another. The ache dulled a little, and the images finally halted. The bartender suggested he quit after four and cut him off at six, then called him a cab. The cab. There was only one. That struck Jake as slightly absurd.

  Outside, the rain had stopped. Reflected light shimmered in spots across the wet blacktop, blue and red and white, and it made him sad for some reason he couldn’t name. Inside the cab, he couldn’t breathe and rolled down the window to suck in a gulp of rain-scented air.

  Abruptly, he was sober. Or nearly so. More than he wanted to be. Fury welled in his chest and roared through his mind, and he knew where he wanted to be. He gave the cabbie the address.

  Ramona took a long, hot bath and washed her hair. Padding around the house in her nightgown and robe, she made an omelet for supper, with toast and jam and a big mug of hot chocolate. Outside, a light rain pattered in the pines and against her windows, and the sound was relaxing. Her dogs, deprived of her attention the past few days, arranged themselves in a half circle around her, and if she moved, they followed. It became annoying after a while. “Come on, you guys,” she finally said in exasperation. “I swear I’m not going anywhere tonight.”