True Colors

by Diana Palmer

  It was hours later, almost daylight, when the neurosurgeon arrived. He'd slept on the plane, thank God, and was wide awake and alert. He shook hands with Meredith and Mrs. Harden and then went directly to Dr. Bryner to discuss the case. Barely two hours later, Cy was wheeled, heavily sedated, into the operating room. He'd come around only briefly and was in too much pain to speak or even be aware of his surroundings. Myrna had cried at the sight of him, lacerated and bruised, his dark face drawn in lines of terrible pain. Meredith had to bite back tears of her own. She had to be strong.

  Memories of the day Henry died came careening back, haunting her. She stared out the window, remembering.

  It had been raining. She'd been sitting with Blake, because he'd had a slight cold and she'd been worried about him. Her mind had been lingering on the sweetness of the night before. For once, Cy Harden was out of her thoughts as she considered how lucky she was to have someone like Henry to take care of her, to love her. She was weaving daydreams, because his ardor had been thorough and so potent that she still trembled just remembering how completely he'd satisfied her. By then it had been three years since she'd left Billings, almost three years since she and Henry had been married. She'd reconciled herself to the fact that she'd never see Cy again, that her only loyalty now was to Henry. She was making the best of her situation, but it wasn't as difficult as she'd imagined. For all of that one long night, she hadn't thought of Cy. It had been like an omen, giving her hope that she could find happiness with Henry.

  The phone rang, and she'd smiled to herself. No doubt that was Henry, phoning from the airport to say good-bye again. She left Blake playing with his toys in bed and ran into the bedroom she and Henry shared to answer it, breathless and happier than she'd been in the whole three years of her marriage.

  The voice on the other end of the telephone was Don's. He wouldn't talk to her. He asked her to put Mr. Smith on.

  Puzzled, she called her bodyguard and waited while Mr. Smith's stoic face registered first shock and then grief. He put down the receiver.

  As if it were yesterday, she could see the sequence unfolding in her mind.

  "Sit down," Mr. Smith had said, very gently. He'd knelt just in front of her and gripped both her hands. "Hold on, real hard," he'd told her. "Henry's plane just crashed. He's gone."

  It hadn't registered. She'd stared at Mr. Smith with gray eyes that didn't really see him. She was aware of her nails biting into his big hands, but she didn't quite feel any contact.

  "He's gone?" she'd repeated blankly, her eyes wide and trusting.

  "He's dead, Kip," he'd said quietly. "I'm sorry."

  Sorry. Sorry. Sorry . The word echoed until she found herself saying it. The numbness was crushed in a solid wave of anguish. She remembered screaming as she finally realized what had happened.

  Mr. Smith had gathered her up close, cradling her, while the terror and grief rippled through her slender body in throbbing waves. She'd cried until she was totally exhausted. Mr. Smith had carried her to bed, tucking her under the coverlet like a child, leaving her only long enough to phone the family physician and see to Blake.

  The long, terrible days went on, like a nightmare, with Meredith walking through them like a zombie. Don and Mr. Smith had kept her going, through it all, until the memorial service was over and the will was read. Even that didn't really make much of an impression on her. She'd lost Henry, just when she was beginning to love him. It didn't seem fair. It seemed that her life was destined to be nothing but one long tragedy. And now she might lose Cy as well.

  Mrs. Harden touched her shoulder, and when Meredith turned, the look in the younger woman's eyes made her flinch.

  "Are you all right?" she asked gently.

  "I was remembering when Henry's plane went down," Meredith said numbly. "I feltlike this." She wrapped her arms around her body and shivered. "I can't go on living if Cy dies," she whispered, her wide, frightened eyes seeking the older woman's.

  Myrna read the depth of feeling in those tortured eyes, and she didn't know what to say. She loved her son, but it had been a lifetime since she'd loved a man. Her husband had hurt her pride, although he'd never mattered to her. Not like the other man. Her eyes softened as she remembered the beloved dark face that still haunted her dreams. She'd loved once, too, with all the passion Meredith felt for her son, and she understood. She'd betrayed him, just as she'd betrayed Cy and Meredith "He'll be all right," Myrna said. "I know he will." Meredith took a steadying breath and averted her eyes, embarrassed by her outburst. She didn't trust the older woman, and she was afraid of giving away too much of herself. She went back to her seat and picked up her cup of coffee. It was cold, but the bitter taste of it stung her senses back to life. She couldn't give in to weakness now. She had to be strong, for Blake's sake.

  She wouldn't allow herself to think about what life would be like if Cy died in that operating room. Her pride, her vendetta, her need to even the score, all took a back seat to her prayers for his life. The past didn't seem very important when the present might take away the only man she'd ever really loved. She didn't dare think about the future. If Cy died, she wouldn't even have one.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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  The surgery took several hours. Lack of sleep finally drugged Meredith into semiconsciousness. Her dreams were wild and disturbed, and she jerked when a gentle hand shook her.

  "Meredith, he's out of the operating room," Myrna said, her eyes bright and her face smiling. "And it went well!"

  "Oh, thank God." Meredith put her face in her hands and sighed heavily, fighting tears. "Thank God, thank God."

  Myrna sat down beside her, her own eyes bloodshot and her face wan and drawn. "We won't be able to see him until he comes out of the recovery room, but Dr. Danbury says he's almost certain he's repaired most of the damage. At least Cy won't be totally paralyzed."

  Meredith sat up slowly, her eyes widening as that last remark registered. "What do you mean, totally?"

  Myrna hesitated. She took Meredith's hands in hers. "He may not be able to walk," she replied.

  Tears slipped unnoticed down Meredith's cheeks, and her fingers clenched around Myrna's. "But the surgery !"

  "It depends on how well he mends," Myrna said wearily. "They won't know for several days."

  That was frightening. Cy was so vital and alive, so much an outdoorsman. Being confined to a wheelchair would cripple his mind more than his body.

  "He can't be told that," Meredith said quickly. "He mustn't be told that there's any chance of paralysis."

  "I've already made that clear to the doctors," Myrna agreed. "I know him as well as you do, you see. Even if I've been less of a mother than I should be, he's my son and I love him very much."

  "I never doubted that," Meredith said.

  Myrna hesitated, looking for sarcasm, but she didn't find it. Like herself, Meredith was far too drained for arguments.

  When they were finally allowed into the intensive care unit to see Cy, Meredith was all but asleep on her feet. She stood by his bedside, watching Myrna smooth back the dark hair from his broad, pale forehead. His eyes were closed, long dark lashes lying thick on his cheek, his high cheekbones emphasized by the drawn appearance of his face. He was so pale, she thought. Like death. He was hooked up to wires and tubes so profuse that he seemed almost part of the machinery around him.

  "Cy, can you hear me?" Myrna asked in a whisper. "Dear, can you hear me? It's Mother."

  There was no reply. Not even the flutter of an eyelash. His chest rose and fell very slowly, shallowly. Meredith watched him with quiet despair. He was a strong man, but would he want to live, knowing the condition he might have to spend the rest of his life in? Even if they hadn't been able to tell him, might he not sense it? She remembered reading somewhere that even comatose patients could hear what was going on around them.

  She moved closer to the bed, her fingers lightly touching his chest. "You'll walk again," she said, her voice strong and carryin
g, surprising his mother. "You'll get back on your feet, because you're a fighter. You'll need to be, unless you want me to walk off with Harden Properties."

  "Meredith!" Myrna gasped.

  But the younger woman put a finger to her lips. She was watching Cy's face. He didn't stir, but his heavy eyebrows drew together and he grimaced.

  "Yes, you can hear me, can't you?" she asked, bending closer. "You have to fight your way out of this. You can, if you want to. And you want to, don't you? A Harden doesn't lie down and die when there's a war on."

  "Fight," he mouthed the word. Then he drew in a slow breath, grimaced again and seemed to sink back into unconsciousness.

  Myrna followed Meredith out the door, her face worried. "Should you have said that to him?"

  "Oh, yes." Meredith nodded, facing her. "Didn't you notice that he responded to the challenge? He had to have a reason to live. I've given him one."

  "Will you really take the company?" Myrna asked.

  "I haven't decided if I want it," Meredith mused. "I do want those mineral leases. Cy and I are evenly matched. The domestic operation of Tennison International and the scope of Harden Properties are about equal. It all comes down to who controls the most votes."

  "He'd never forgive you," the older woman reminded her.

  Meredith shrugged. "He'll never forgive me for Blake. What's one more sin on my conscience?"

  "I'm the one he'll hate." Myrna sighed wearily. "Not you."

  "Don't bet on it," Meredith said. "He'll come out from under the anesthesia and remember everything, including the fact that I played him for a fool while I gathered those proxies from under his very nose. That won't sit well. Neither will my married name, and my business acumen. Cy remembers an eighteen-year-old girl who never discussed anything more important than food or the weather with him. I'm not that woman anymore."

  Myrna picked up her purse and coat. "Cy didn't .know you were eighteen, that day at the house when Isprang my surprise on you."

  Meredith stared at her frowning. "What?"

  "You'd told him you were older, hadn't you?"

  She hesitated. "Yes. I knew he wouldn't have anything to do with me if he knew I was just turning eighteen." She moved restlessly. "I didn't know he'd ever found out the truth. After we became involved, I was too afraid of losing him to say anything."

  "He told me that he was stunned when he knew the truth. It was one reason he let you go. Barely two days later, he was certain that Tony had lied, but by then I had Tony safely out of the country and he couldn't find him." Myrna's face showed every year of its age. "I was so thorough. I knew you weren't eating breakfast, because I had spies at the café. I knew your uniform was too tight in the waist, and that you were fighting bouts of nausea. It didn't take much guesswork to assume you were pregnant, and your expression when I confronted you confirmed it. I tried to justify what I did, but it wasn't easy. It was one thing to shoot you out of the city. It was quite another to cold-bloodedly push my grandchild away." She brushed at a spot on her jacket with eyes that didn't see. "I must have been mad. I didn't even know you. I wouldn't make the attempt. I closed my mind to everything except arranging a suitable marriage for Cy, to insure that he never had to go without money."

  "Money was something of an obsession with you, if I remember," Meredith said stiffly.

  Myrna lifted her eyes. "I grew up in poverty," she said in a tight whisper, and managed a smile. "My mother was aa prostitute." She closed her eyes, groaning. "I can't talk about it. Let's go. I'll drop you off at your house on my way home."

  Meredith was staggered by what Cy's mother had said. She wondered if the other woman had ever told Cy that, or anyone else. Perhaps it was lack of sleep and worry that had lowered her formidable barriers. Meredith was certain that she'd regret it and that she'd have them firmly back in place the next time they met. She couldn't afford to give in to sympathy. This woman wanted her child. That made her dangerous.

  "I can phone Mr. Smith to come for me" Meredith hesitated.

  Myrna stopped as they reached the lobby and stared at Meredith blankly. "Meredith," she said. "I've just realized, I don't have a car. I came here with the police."

  Meredith smiled, "Well, in that case, it's definitely Mr. Smith."

  He came driving up in the limousine minutes later, glaring as Meredith and Mrs. Harden got into the back seat with a bright, laughing Blake.

  "All night and half the day," he grumbled. "You need your head read. You can't go without sleep and food."

  "I had other priorities," Meredith informed him, hugging Blake to her. "I hope you were good for Mr. Smith?"

  "Yes, Mommy."

  "No more flushing rubber ducks down the commode?"

  "Oh, no," he promised. "Just washcloths."

  Meredith groaned.

  "Cy used to do that," Mrs. Harden murmured. "And once, he put the car in gear and rolled down the hill in it. We were frantic when we got to him, and he laughed and said he wanted to do it again."

  Meredith smiled, trying to picture Cy as a child. She knew less than nothing about his private life or his past. They'd never really talked. He'd been too hungry for her in those days. He took her to bed and out to eat and rarely anyplace else. Even when they talked, it was always about something impersonal. They never talked about themselves or the future. He seemed to think it didn't exist. Perhaps it hadn't.

  "You said that Cy didn't know I was eighteen. Thatmattered to him?" she asked Myrna.

  "It mattered a great deal." She turned on the seat, facing Meredith. "Young women of eighteen are notorious for falling in and out of love. There was also the matter of your ignorance about men. He'd assumed you were experienced, I gathered."

  Meredith averted her eyes. "Yes. Iwanted to go out with him. The other girls said that he wouldn't have anything to do with good girls."

  "Oh, Meredith," Myrna said heavily.

  "Hindsight is a marvelous thing, isn't it?" she asked, absently kissing Blake's dark hair. "I made so many mistakes. I did love him, so much."

  "He didn't know that."

  "He didn't want to know it. He told me time and time again that he wanted no part of commitment. Marriage meant fidelity, and he didn't believe in it." She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. "I'm so tired."

  "So am I. You will come back?"

  "How could I stay away?" Meredith mused. "He'll need a scapegoat." She glanced at Myrna. "In fact, Mr. Smith said earlier that you and I had better find a nice, deep hole now that he knows the whole truth."

  Myrna managed a smile in return. "Well, I suppose I could buy the shovel, if you'll help me dig."

  Meredith laughed. "As long as he's fit enough to throw us into it, I guess I won't mind."

  "Yes indeed."

  They dropped Myrna off at her house, and Mr. Smith drove Meredith back to Great-Aunt Mary's.

  "How is he?" he asked her when Blake was settled in front of the television watching a program on the educational channel.

  "Critical, but they think he'll live. I went in and dared him to let me take over his company. I think that did it. He was fighting when I left."

  "Good incentive," he mused.

  She smiled ruefully. "Wait until he comes to. I don't want to be within earshot. And his mother is going to catch hell for certain."

  "You haven't gotten over him at all, have you?" he asked.

  She turned away, refusing to answer him. "I need a few hours' sleep. Will you call me about five?"

  "Sure thing. I'll look after the little one. Don called."

  "Did you tell him about Cy?"

  "No. That's your business."

  She grinned at him. "I like your sense of loyalty, Mr. Smith."

  "I worked for Henry, not his brother." His green eyes narrowed. "Don's up to something."

  "I'm not blind," she replied. "I've caught bits and pieces of conversation for weeks, and I found out plenty the last time I flew to Chicago. I know what he's up to." She pursed her lips. "I'l
l bet you ten cents to a dollar that he's dealing behind my back. When I'm less sleepy, I'm going to double-check on those proxies. If he's trying to cut me out with Cy, he'll have to have firm promises of support for his position."

  "Do you think any of his contacts will talk?"

  "Most of them wouldn't dare. But Cy's great-uncle is a man of his word, and he will. He likes me."

  Mr. Smith smiled at the picture she made, even disheveled and half-asleep. "I don't blame him. I like you, too."

  She frowned. "Cy never did. He wanted me. He was obsessed with me. But he never really knew me. I know more about your past than I know about his. I don't think we ever talked about a single personal thing."

  "You were a different person six years ago," he suggested.

  She nodded. "Yes. I'm not the woman he remembers. I wonder if he realizes that."

  "Give him time and he might."

  She lifted her eyes. "I hope he has time. I hope he can walk again."

  "Time will tell."

  "Yes."

  She went up the staircase, her steps dragging a little. But when she lay down and tried to sleep, memories kept coming back to haunt her.

  The first time they made love, Cy had taken her out riding on the family ranch that was located outside town. They lived in town because Myrna refused to "rough it" in the country. She had no taste for that kind of life, Cy had mentioned once. It wasn't, apparently, a socially acceptable kind of setting for her. Cy loved it. He kept Arabians, and it was two of them that he'd saddled for an outing.

  Meredith had met Myrna Harden for the first time that morning, at the big Harden mansion in Billings where Cy had gone to change clothes. The older woman had been instantly cold and hostile, hardly acknowledging Meredith on her way to a bridge club meeting. She'd made it patently obvious that she had no interest in one of her son's women, and she'd made a pointed reference to a date Cy had that evening with a local debutante.

  The incident had left a bad taste in Meredith's mouth. In the past few days she and Cy had gone on a picnic, and he'd taken her out to eat one night. They'd hardly had any time to be completely alone. Now she began to see that he might have other irons in the fire, and she knew she could never compete with a debutante. She didn't have the clothes or the money or the poise. She only had a body that he wanted. But if she gave in to himand she knew all too well how badly he wanted herit might be the last time she ever saw him. She wished she had a woman she could talk to about sex. Her great-aunt Mary wouldn't have been able to discuss the subject at all, and her great-uncle, well, that was out of the question. She was on her own, and she didn't know how to handle her blatant hunger for Cy or his for her.