by Amelia Autin
Their gazes locked. "Yeah," he admitted. "You're right. But only when there's a damn good reason."
They washed and rinsed in silence for a minute or so as Reilly continued turning the original question over in his mind. "Maybe there's another explanation," he said finally.
"For secrets?"
"No, the name thing. You know, a man's last name is linked to his identity, to who he is. I don't think women attach the same importance to it as a general rule."
"You mean because most women still take their husbands' names if they marry?"
"Yeah. But it's not just that." He squinted a little, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "A man's last name is as much a part of him as the shape of his eyes, the color of his skin. It's passed down to him from his father, and his father's father before him, and his father before that."
He paused, smiling faintly, as a distant, vague memory came back to him. He couldn't have been more than three years old when it happened, but his dad's words had stayed with him all this time, waiting to be remembered. "He's a true Callahan, all right," Patrick had boasted, nearly bursting with pride as he showed off his son to his fellow construction workers. "Mark my words, boyos, my Ryan will do the name proud some day."
His smile faded. I tried, Da, he thought, using the childhood name for his father that he hadn't used in over thirty-five years. I tried to do the name proud.
"Reilly?"
The strange name intruded on his consciousness, and for a fraction of a moment he wondered who that was. Then he remembered.
He glanced down at Mandy's worried face. "What is it?"
"That's what I was going to ask you," she said. "You were talking, and then all of sudden … it was like you weren't even there. Is something wrong?"
He shook his head. "No. Talking about fathers just triggered a memory of my own dad. That's all."
"You said you were very young when he died. You can't have many memories of him."
"No, I don't." But like his memories of Mandy, each one was precious. "At least I had a father once," he added. "Some of the kids I grew up with didn't even have that."
He took the pot she handed to him, thinking out loud as he rinsed. "You know," he mused, "it used to be that the worst insult you could give a man was to call him a bastard. Even though times have changed, even though out-of-wedlock children have become so commonplace it's almost fashionable these days, it's still a fighting word on streets and playgrounds everywhere."
Mandy had stiffened during his speech. Now she gave the washcloth a vicious wring and flung it over the faucet, saying in a tight little voice, "I don't quite see the connection."
He could have kicked himself. Mandy obviously thought he'd been reproaching her with a reference to their baby when he'd mentioned out-of-wedlock children. But that wasn't the case. Not consciously, anyway.
He caught her arm as she turned away from him. "We're not done yet."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there are still things we have to discuss."
Fear replaced the flash of anger in her eyes, but Reilly knew it was fear for him, not fear of him.
"Not yet," she pleaded. "There's still time."
He checked his watch and saw there was even less time left than he'd thought. He shook his head and grasped her hand. "Come here."
He led her to the table and dragged out a chair, but instead of sitting her in it, he sat down himself and pulled her onto his lap. He pressed her head against his shoulder and wrapped his arms around her for a moment, drawing strength for what he had to say. Then he took a deep breath. "I know last night didn't resolve everything. I know there are a lot of things we still need to work out. But I want you to promise me something."
"What?" Her reply was muffled.
"Promise me first."
Her slight hesitation was barely noticeable. "I promise."
"If something happens to me tonight—"
"No!" Her hair flew back in a golden cloud as her head came up in vehement denial, blue eyes vivid in her pale face. "Nothing's going to happen to you."
"I'm not saying it will, but if something goes wrong—"
"I won't listen to this."
"You've got to!" He controlled her struggles for freedom. "Stop it, Mandy. You promised." The stricken expression in her eyes pierced his heart, but he couldn't afford to let her see how it affected him. "Please. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important to me."
He counted his heartbeats in the silence that followed, making it all the way to seventeen before she answered.
"All right," she said in a toneless voice, averting her face from his. "What is it you want me to do?"
"O'Neill's a good Irish name," he began, "but if I die—" The shudder that coursed through her body forced him to halt for a second. Then he pressed on doggedly. "If I die, I want to be buried under my real name."
She blinked a couple of times, then nodded her assent, as if she didn't trust her voice.
Relieved to have the request over with, he said, "It's—"
"Ryan Callahan," she finished, still not looking at him. "I remember."
"Son of Patrick and Mary Callahan," he added softly, and she dutifully repeated the names after him, committing them to memory.
"And beloved husband of Amanda Callahan."
"Beloved hus—" She choked and broke off, burying her face against him, clutching his shirt with desperate hands.
He stroked the bright hair that tumbled around her face, tucking a few strands behind her ear, waiting until the tempest passed. Then he whispered, "I would have asked you to marry me a year ago, if I could have. You know that, don't you?"
He took the strangled sound that issued from her throat as a yes. "I would have bound you to me in every way I knew," he continued, the words pouring out of him unchecked, knowing this might be his last chance to say them to her. "But Mandy, in my heart I was already your husband before I ever came to your bed." His voice dropped a notch. "And you were my wife."
Her desperate grasp on his shirt increased and she pressed closer, her lips moving against his throat. He strained his ears and caught her faint words. "In my heart, too, Reilly. In my heart, too."
How was it possible to feel both pain and joy in the same instant? he wondered. Maybe someday, if he was lucky, he'd have the chance to pose that question to himself again when he had time to seek the answer. Right now, he only had time to extract the other promises he sought.
"Mandy, darlin'," he whispered above her ear, "can you hear me?" Receiving a tiny nod in response, he said, "There's another thing we have to discuss."
"What?"
"We haven't been very careful about … birth control."
She jerked at that, but he held tight. "Don't get me wrong," he said. "I want your babies, more than you know. More than I knew." He swallowed hard. How many times in the past few days had he imagined her with a baby in her arms, even before he'd learned of the one they'd lost?
"But Mandy," he continued, "I want my child to bear my name. I never understood before how much it means to me. How much it will mean to our child. That may be all the legacy I leave behind."
She quivered when he slid his hand around her slender waist and insinuated it between their bodies, rubbing the backs of his fingers against her flat stomach. "So I want you to promise me that if we made a baby…"
She trembled in his arms but her voice was steady. "I promise."
He let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding, then said, "There's just one more thing I want you to promise, and then I'll be done."
She raised a grief-ravaged face to look at him. "No," she said fiercely. "No more promises until I get one from you."
Although there wasn't anything the least bit funny in their situation, a smile tugged at Reilly's heart. This was the side of Mandy he loved best—the fighter. Other characteristics appealed to a man's masculinity, his protective nature, but when you came right down to it, a man wanted a woman who would stand with him against the w
orld.
"I guess that's fair," he said,
They gazed at each other for long seconds, and it was as if he could read her mind. Promise you'll come back to me, her eyes beseeched him, but she never voiced the request. She knew it was the one thing he couldn't guarantee.
Instead, she gripped his shoulders and said. "I want your word that you won't take any chances tonight."
He nodded, mentally inserting the word "unnecessary" between "any" and "chances" before he said, "Done."
Her eyes searched his for confirmation, then she relaxed her hold on him. "Okay," she said. "Okay."
She slipped her arms around him and laid her head against his shoulder once more, then sighed. After a moment she asked, "What's the third thing?"
Now it was his turn to grasp her shoulders, pushing her away a little, forcing her to look at him. "Promise me," he said, anguish creeping in as he remembered her bitter revelation from yesterday. "No matter what happens tonight, or in the future, promise me you won't ever…"
He couldn't frame the rest of his request, but she knew.
"I promise," she whispered, accepting that he had the right to demand she never again attempt to take her own life. "I didn't plan it the first time," she added. "It just … happened. I didn't really want to die." Her voice broke. "It just hurt so much losing you and … the baby…"
He pulled her close and they wrapped their arms around each other, giving and receiving comfort as they both grieved for what might have been.
They were still sitting there when Walker arrived ten minutes later.
* * *
"It's time," Walker said.
Reilly slid his .45 into its holster and shrugged into his jacket. "I'm ready."
"Wait!" Mandy darted to the cabinet where Reilly had stashed the nine-millimeter that morning. "Take your backup gun, too," she said. "You might need it."
He shook his head. "Keep it."
"But—"
"Don't worry, Mandy," Walker interjected. "You're forgetting that I'm O'Neill's backup this time."
She remained unconvinced, and Reilly said, "I want you to have it. And these, too." He shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a jangle of keys, which he handed to her. "If we're not back by—" He glanced at Walker.
"Midnight."
"Midnight," Reilly continued, "then don't wait for us. Take the gun and the ammo and whatever clothes and food you can carry in one bag, get in the truck and start driving. Forget Canada. You'd have to smuggle the gun past the border, and you can't afford to get caught doing it. So hit the interstate in whatever direction you want to go and don't look back. There's a lot of empty road between here and anywhere. Use it to your advantage.
"There are maps in the truck. After you've put at least five hundred miles behind you, pick a medium-sized city and lose yourself in it. Pay cash for everything, understand? Checks, cash machines and credit cards leave a paper trail. But don't flash your money around—you want to blend into the background as much as possible."
"But I don't have—"
"There's about two grand in my knapsack. That should cover the first few weeks, but when you run out there's more money hidden in the truck. You'll find twenty bucks and some change in the glove compartment, but that's just for cover. The glove compartment has a secret bottom—you'll need a screwdriver to pry it up. Both the driver's and passenger's sun visor are padded with small bills. Tens and twenties. A razor blade will slit the stitches so the visors will still be usable. The rest of the money is cached in a metal box under the tailgate. You won't recognize it for what it is. It's disguised as part of the trailer hitch, and you'll need to actually remove the hitch to get at it, so leave that for last. Got all that?"
She nodded. "How do I get in touch with you?"
He gave her a steady look. He didn't have to draw her a picture—if he and Walker weren't back by the time she left, odds were one or both of them would already be dead. If they weren't dead, they might be hunted men, and in that case neither of them would risk Mandy's life by coming back to this cabin or contacting her in any way. Still, long shots did pay off once in a while, and it wouldn't hurt to have a way to reach her as a last resort.
He thought for a moment. "Here's what you do. For the next two months, check the classified section in Friday's edition of USA Today. Most convenience stores carry it. If I'm alive, I'll put an ad in there. If not…"
"How will I know it's you?"
For just a moment he let his control slip. He reached out and cupped her cheek, imprinting the silky texture, the warmth, in his mind. And because he couldn't help it, he brushed his thumb over her parted lips in the way he knew she loved, before dropping his hand to his side. "You'll know," he promised with a husky catch in his voice. "I'll make sure."
Walker cleared his throat, reminding Reilly that the other man was a reluctant witness to this scene. He forced himself to turn away from Mandy, saying, "Let's do it."
"Right."
Walker was closest to the door, and consequently the first one through. Reilly was right behind him, but he paused in the doorway and glanced back. "If the worst happens, Mandy," he warned, "whatever you do, don't go back to Black Rock for any reason. And don't let anyone know where you are." He paused. "It's better to play dead than to be dead," he added softly. "I know."
* * *
Mandy roamed the cabin after the men left, unable to sit still for more than a minute at a time. "It wouldn't even help if I had a book to read," she muttered to herself. No book ever written could hold her attention now.
She hated waiting like this. If Reilly and Cody had given her a choice she'd have gone with them. Even if they'd made her wait in the truck, at least she'd have known what was happening. As it was, she was worrying herself sick.
She stopped pacing long enough to check her watch, and tried to gauge where the men were by now. In her mind's eye she saw Cody's rugged 4x4 gliding down the mountain road toward the highway, past the Little Creek turnoff, past the entrance to the J-Bar-J ranch.
They wouldn't be saying much, she figured. A terse comment here, a grunt or two there. Animosity still simmered beneath the surface—she'd be an idiot to think otherwise—but they were joined in a common cause for now. Their personal feelings towards each other had been set aside for the time being. What would happen afterwards was anybody's guess.
If there was an afterwards.
"No!" She swung around, furious with herself. "I'm not going to think like that. I'm not! Reilly's coming back. He has to!"
With nothing else to do, she started pacing again, then stopped in midstride and shook her head. "This is crazy! There has to be something I can do to keep busy."
But what? The bed was made, the dishes were washed, and she'd swept the ashes out of the fireplace and the dirt off the front steps this morning after breakfast. She'd scrubbed the entire cabin three days ago, the last time she'd been left here alone, and there'd hardly been enough time to get it dirty again.
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The only thing that even remotely needed cleaning was the job she hated the most—the bathroom. True, she'd scrubbed it three days ago, but there was something about men and bathrooms, even one as rustic as this one, that just didn't mix.
Oh, well, she thought. If I'm going to clean something, I might as well make it worthwhile.
She dragged out the necessary cleaning supplies and set to with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. It wouldn't take her mind off Reilly, but at least it was something to pass the time, and would keep her from going stir crazy.
Fifteen minutes later she was almost done. She was running the broom under the big claw-footed tub, when it caught on something. She jerked, but it held fast.
"It figures," she said in disgust, then brushed her hair away from her face with the back of her arm and bent down to see what the problem was. It was too dark under there to see much, but it looked like the string binding the broom-straws had somehow gotten hooked on something sticking out of the flo
or. A loose nail head, maybe.
She maneuvered the broom as best she could, trying to work the string loose, but the angle was too awkward. So she leaned over again, pushing the handle down, then lifting up and pulling. All of a sudden the broom popped free, catching her off balance, and she fell forward. She dropped the broom trying to break her fall with her hands, but she was only partly successful, and bumped her head hard enough against the wall to see stars. Something tugged against her neck, then snapped, and the broom handle clattered to the floor.
"Ow!" Mandy sagged weakly against the wall, then turned and let herself slide down until she was sitting on the wooden floor. She pressed her palm against her temple, where a lump was already forming, and squeezed her eyes shut against the sharp pain. "Ow-w-w," she said again.
She cracked one eye open, found her vision not too blurred, and opened the other, then glanced around and down to see how difficult it was going to be to get up from here. That's when she saw the broken gold chain.
She caught her breath and felt around her throat, but there was nothing there. No chain. No locket.
She scrambled to her feet, the pain forgotten now. "Where is it?" she said frantically, her gaze darting here and there as she searched in vain for her great-great-grandmother's locket, the only family heirloom she had left. "It has to be here somewhere."
She dropped to her hands and knees and peered under the tub, but couldn't see anything. She groped around anyway, but came up with nothing. "Light," she said. "I need light."
Reilly had a flashlight, she remembered suddenly. She found it in his knapsack, the first place she checked.
Back in the bathroom, the flashlight's powerful beam illuminated every crack in the floor under the tub, but still no locket. She was almost sobbing now, from the throbbing pain in her head and from frustration, but she wasn't giving up. It had to be here.
"Think!" she demanded, forcing herself to calm down. After a moment, she positioned herself where she thought she'd been when the chain broke, then closed her eyes and tried to imagine where the locket, heavier than the chain, might have fallen. When she opened her eyes again and turned her head, she spotted a gleam of gold.
