by Sandra Brown
Zack’s eyes lowered to her chest and lingered there for agonizing moments while Camille flushed hotly. If he had reached out and actually touched her, she couldn’t have felt his interest more keenly. His stare was like a physical caress, arousing and compelling. Finally, he raised his head and met her amber eyes, lit by an inner fire that she was cognizant of, but unable to control. She fought letting him see her love so nakedly revealed to him, but her senses were helpless when he looked at her so daringly.
Rayburn broke the spell by pushing back from the table and rescued her from Zack’s dangerous hypnotism.
“I’m going to change, then I’m off to the plantation for a while,” Zack said jauntily as he left the room, whistling again. Was she so easily dismissed from his mind?
Later, as she lay on her bed and stared at the same page of her book for minutes at a time, she convinced herself that she could erase his vision just as he could hers. Why then did she see him constantly? Why did all of her thoughts always come back to Zack? Zack’s soft brown hair, lit by the sun. Zack’s blue eyes that could melt her defenses with one warm glance. Zack’s hands with the long, strong, sun-tanned fingers that could stroke her flesh with utmost tenderness. Zack’s lips…
* * *
She must have dozed, for when the telephone on her bedside table rang, she started and it took her a few seconds to orient herself.
She answered the telephone on the third ring with a quick “Hello.”
“Come over to the main house right away, Camille.”
It was Dearly’s voice, and it was breathless and overwrought. The housekeeper hung up immediately after saying those brief words.
Camille had slipped into a pair of brown slacks earlier, but she had trouble stepping into her shoes and pulling on a blazer as she stumbled to the door. Something was dreadfully wrong. Dearly would never have been that peremptory, that abrupt. A premonition of disaster settled in the pit of Camille’s stomach as she crossed the terrace with long running steps.
She entered the screened porch and went toward the door leading into the kitchen. She opened it and went in, closing it behind her to keep out the cold air. She turned and gasped at what she saw.
Rayburn was lying on the kitchen floor. His eyes were closed; the fine, chiseled lips hung open, slack; his nose looked pinched; the white hair, usually immaculately combed, stood out at angles around his head; his skin was a sickening yellow-gray color. Simon had straddled Rayburn’s stomach and was leaning into his chest. With the heels of his hands, he applied sharp thrusts at regular intervals a few seconds apart to the still chest under him. Rayburn’s shirt was opened; his belt and top button of his pants undone. Dearly was standing by the telephone, wringing her hands and crying.
Camille took in the situation at one glance and asked hurriedly, “Have you already called an ambulance?”
“Yes,” Simon answered without breaking the rhythm of his CPR tactics. “Go find Zack. He’s at the plantation. Go straight to the hospital. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes. We’ll go there—one way or the other.”
“The telephone…?”
“No answer out there.” He was perspiring profusely, but his voice was calm. He gave a small cry of triumph as Rayburn gasped for breath, and Simon felt a faint pulse under his hand. “Thank God,” he prayed.
Camille echoed the prayer, but she wasted no time running to her car, which was parked in the large garage next to Zack’s Lincoln.
She got in and turned on the ignition. The car, thankfully, started immediately and she expertly guided it out of the garage and down the driveway. Did she remember the way to the plantation? She must! Over the Mississippi River bridge, through Vidalia, turn north. Yes. She would remember. But how long would it take her, and where on the vast acreage would she find Zack? Oh, God, please don’t let us be too late. She gripped the wheel firmly and tried to consciously slow the pounding of her heart. She had to remain calm. She had to be strong for Zack’s sake. He would be upset, and she must help him through whatever he would face when they reached the hospital. What if Rayburn—No! She wouldn’t even think about that possibility. Simon had started his heart beating again. The ambulance was on its way, had probably arrived just moments after she left. The paramedics would see that he got immediate attention.
She crossed the bridge and sped through the small town, grateful for the lack of traffic on this peaceful Sunday afternoon. Peaceful? How quickly one’s well-being can be shattered, how lives can be altered forever in the blink of an eye. Please, God, don’t let him die!
She came to the road leading into the plantation sooner than she expected to and turned, almost without braking to slow down. Where to go? She played a hunch and accelerated the car in the direction of the stables. She saw no one to ask about Zack’s whereabouts and remembered the ball games being played on television. No one was going to be out and about when they could be indoors watching football. Unjustifiably, she was angered that people would put so much stock in a sport. Especially at a time like this, she thought bitterly. She realized her thinking wasn’t rational, but these random, nonsensical thoughts kept her from thinking about Rayburn’s long body sprawled out on the kitchen floor, vulnerable and lifeless.
She spotted the derelict pickup parked outside one of the barns and whipped her small car up beside it. She didn’t cut the motor, but engaged the emergency brake and flung herself out the door, calling Zack’s name. She ran headlong into the barn and collided with a man in the dim interior.
“What the—”
“Where is Zack?” She gripped the man’s upper arms and arrested his attempt to question her. “It’s an emergency. Where is he?”
Apparently he read the alarm in her eyes. He answered her briefly. “He’s out riding one of the mares.”
“Where?”
“Out that way.” He pointed past her toward a large meadow that seemed to stretch to infinity.
“Can you signal him? Do you have any kind of fire alarm, anything?”
“Well…” He scratched his head and Camille almost screamed with impatience. “I’ve got a pistol,” he started dubiously.
“Get it and fire it as many times as it will,” she commanded.
He did as he was told. Obviously the pistol was already loaded. He brought it outside and fired into the air six times. On the still atmosphere of this Sunday afternoon, the shots resounded and echoed interminably.
He was a mere dot on the horizon when Camille first spotted him, but within seconds, Zack and his mount took shape as he came thundering over the pasture.
He saw Camille while he was still far away, and she could read the puzzled expression on his face. Then as he got nearer, she saw anguished knowledge dawn on his face as he realized the only emergency that would bring her out to find him and force her to go so far as to alert him with the pistol. He dismounted before the mare came to a complete stop and hit the ground running.
“Dad?” he asked, already knowing her answer.
“Yes, Zack. We’re to go to the hospital immediately.”
“Get in.” He indicated the passenger side of her car. “Ernie, rub down the horse please. Get someone to drive the pickup home for me.”
He climbed behind the steering wheel, scooted the seat back several inches to accommodate his long legs, and jerked the car into gear. If Camille had thought she drove fast to get to the plantation, she felt as if her car were flying under Zack’s piloting. The landscape was a blur. He cut her time by half on their return trip to Natchez. She was once again thankful for the small amount of traffic.
“What happened?” he asked as he pulled up to a stoplight, cursing when he saw that he must yield to a car full of teen-agers followed by a station wagon with a large family in it.
“I really don’t know, Zack. He had a heart attack. Dearly called me at the dowager house. When I reached the kitchen, he was lying on the floor. Simon was straddling him and pushing on his chest. They had already called the ambulance, though it had
n’t arrived when I left. I came to get you immediately.”
“Was he… Did you see if…” His voice cracked and Camille impulsively reached over and rested her hand on his thigh. She had dreaded this question, but she knew that she must answer him honestly.
“When I first came in, he wasn’t breathing. Just before I left, Simon started his pulse and he took a gasping breath.”
“Oh, God,” Zack groaned and banged his fist against the steering wheel of the car.
They entered the emergency driveway of the hospital and Zack parked in a vacant place near the door. He and Camille practically ran through the glass door that opened automatically as they stepped onto the rubber mat in front of it. Dearly and Simon jumped up from a green vinyl couch when they saw them. Zack was striding purposefully toward the treatment rooms when Simon grasped his arm and stopped him.
His voice was low, calm, but urgent. “Zack, they won’t let you in there, and you can’t help anyone by getting in their way. They know what they’re doing. Please wait out here with us. Dr. Daniels is already with him. He was here when we arrived.”
Camille looked at the rigid lines around Zack’s mouth and saw them soften just a bit. The body that had been pulled as taut as a violin string relaxed, then slumped imperceptibly. If she hadn’t had a hand on his arm, she wouldn’t even have noticed the change. He gave credence to the wisdom of Simon’s words.
“What happened?” Zack asked them with the same economy of words that he had used to ask Camille earlier.
Simon didn’t answer. Dearly explained the circumstances that had brought them all here. “I was in the kitchen reading through some recipe books when he came in and told me that he had an upset stomach and asked for a bicarbonate of soda. I thought that he looked… bad. His coloring and all. I turned around to fix him the soda and then I heard him collapse on the floor. I screamed for Simon, who was there within seconds.”
Simon picked up the story. “I was already downstairs. We had been watching the ball game on the television in his bedroom. He was restless and seemed unable to relax. I didn’t think too much about it when he said he was going downstairs for something, but after he left, I got a feeling that he hadn’t felt well and didn’t want to say anything. I followed him down and then heard Dearly call me.”
Zack put his hand on the man’s shoulder and clamped it tightly. “Thank you, Simon. Whatever happens, I’m grateful to you for being there when he needed you. How was he when they brought him in?”
Dearly was quietly weeping now and Camille led her to the plastic sofa again but never diverted her attention away from the conversation between the two men. She watched Zack closely.
“He wasn’t conscious, Zack, but he had a pulse again. Not as strong as we’d like it, but there just the same. They gave him oxygen and he was breathing fairly well. They took him into that room”—he indicated one of the rooms down the hall—“and no one has come out since.”
Zack nodded grimly and walked toward the room, though without the imperious purpose he had shown moments before. Simon went to sit beside Dearly, and Camille crossed to Zack. She didn’t touch him; she didn’t even look at him. She only let him known by her presence that she was available if he wanted her.
They waited for over an hour in tense silence. Zack paced the floor while Camille leaned against the wall. Dearly and Simon sat talking softly together on the sofa. They watched the tragic parade through a city hospital’s emergency ward. A distraught couple brought in a little girl with three burned fingers. Two teen-aged boys had run together while playing basketball, and each sported a bloody nose and swollen eyes. They were all treated and left, and still Zack had heard nothing about his father’s condition. Though nurses hurried in and out of the room, they would divulge no information, much to Zack’s growing impatience.
When the words they longed to hear finally came, it happened so suddenly that the agonizing minutes of waiting vanished in that instant.
The door to the treatment room swung open, and a gray-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses came out, saw Zack, and extended his hand as he strode toward them. Zack clasped the hand as if it were a lifeline—and indeed it was—and asked the important question with his eyes.
“Your father’s resting now, Zack, and is—for the present—out of danger.”
Zack raked a trembling hand over his eyes and then through his hair before saying gruffly, “Thanks, Doc.”
The doctor nodded in acknowledgment and spoke slowly. “It was a bad one, Zack. I won’t sugarcoat it for you. He’s still in bad shape. I’ll put him in intensive care and he’ll stay there until I see fit to let him out. It may be several weeks. He’s conscious, told me he had goddamned fried chicken for lunch.” When he saw that Zack was about to speak, he held up both hands in front of him. “I know, I know, you hate to nag him. Anyway, he’ll be monitored twenty-four hours a day. I don’t want him to relieve himself without my knowing it.” He suddenly became aware of Camille and glanced quickly to Zack before he apologized. “I’m sorry, young lady, for being so indelicate.”
“Dr. George Daniels, Miss Camille Jameson. She’s staying at Bridal Wreath and redecorating it for us.”
“Ah, yes. Rayburn mentioned you when I saw him at his last checkup. He was looking very forward to your arrival.”
“Is there anything we can do, Dr. Daniels?” Camille asked after shaking the strong, sensitive fingers of the doctor.
“Yes. As soon as he’s allowed visitors, you can come and sit by his bedside. The sight of your face and body would give any man a reason for wanting to recover.” He laughed and Camille blushed, looking timidly at Zack, who was smiling. Dr. Daniels was no fool. He had relaxed them all, and Camille was grateful to the crusty, brusque man for that. She liked him.
She excused herself, leaving Zack and the doctor to their own conversation, and told the anxious Mitchells the news about their employer.
“Why don’t the two of you go home. I’ll stay here with Zack. I’m sure he won’t be leaving any time soon. We’ll call you if there is any change in Mr. Prescott’s condition.”
Actually, they probably had more business staying with Zack than she did, but there was no way on earth she would leave him now.
She turned from the door after waving them off and saw the bed with Rayburn on it being rolled out of the emergency unit on its short trip to the ICU. He was surrounded by professional people. A nurse supported an IV bottle over his arm. When Camille drew closer, she saw the oxygen tubes inserted in his nostrils. His face still retained that unhealthy, waxen sheen, and Camille’s earlier alarm returned.
Zack was leaning over his father and clasping one of the pale hands in his own strong, brown ones. Camille couldn’t hear what they were saying. Rayburn’s voice was weak, but Zack was smiling. Just as they were about to roll the bed away, Rayburn caught sight of her. Much to her dismay and the censure of the nurses, Rayburn motioned her over. Dr. Daniels gave a perfunctory nod of his head when she sought his permission with her eyes. She moved toward the bed and leaned over Rayburn, placing her ear almost directly over his lips so she could hear his hoarse whisper.
She smiled down into his face and nodded her head, then brushed Rayburn’s forehead with her lips. The nurses rolled the bed down the hall with Dr. Daniels swaggering behind it.
“What was that all about?” Zack asked her as they followed the entourage at a distance down the hall.
“He asked me to take care of you. He said that you are stubborn sometimes and won’t accept help when you need it.” She slid her eyes in his direction.
“Oh, yeah? What do you think, Miss Jameson?” he asked belligerently.
“I think that is probably a fair assessment of your personality. I also think you need a cup of coffee.” When he started to protest, she argued, “They won’t allow you to see him for a long while yet. Come on,” she ordered, taking his arm and steering him in the opposite direction of the ICU ward toward the coffee shop.
“Yes, sergean
t,” he snapped.
When they were seated at the pink Formica-topped table sipping coffee whose only merit was the fact that it was hot, Zack said seriously, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for what you did today. I—”
“Zack, please. Don’t say any more.” She shook her head sadly as she gripped the warm cup between her cold hands and stared at the oily, dark liquid it contained. “Do you really think I want your ‘thank yous’? After all that’s happened between us—”
“Yes,” Zack interjected. “Yes, something did happen between us.” He searched the golden-flecked brown eyes raised to his. They had become luminous with unshed tears. He took her small hand and enveloped it between his. “Why, in God’s name, Camille, why did you leave me that night at Snow Bird?”
He had never overtly mentioned their night together, and, now that it was there, in the open, between them, all the memories came flooding back, suffocating Camille, drowning her in recollections. She longed to reach out and touch the soft curls hanging loosely on his forehead, caress the firm chin and strong jaw line, lay her head against the hard chest, find succor in the strength of his arms. She composed herself enough to speak. “I… Utah happened so long ago, Zack. It was another time. I don’t want to talk—”
“I want to talk about it, goddammit!” The cords of his neck stood out and he spoke between clenched teeth.
“You’re upset, Zack. I don’t think either of us is emotionally stable enough right now to hash over ancient history.” It wasn’t what she wanted to say, but she had to be hard in order to save her life. Then she added a cheap shot. She knew it to be that when she said it, but she was fighting for her last shred of dignity. “I don’t think it’s fair to your father for us to sit here and discuss our problems.”
He muttered an expletive, pushed back from the table, and fished in the pocket of his tight jeans for change to leave on the table. As they were walking toward the door of the coffee shop, he gripped her upper arm and turned her around to face him.
