by Terry Odell
Someone sat up on the couch. "No need for that. Thought we should talk is all."
*****
Frankie raced into the emergency room, her eyes sweeping the rows of chairs, searching for her mother. Instead, she saw Bob Dwyer, her mother's current—whatever you called it at their age. Beau? Boyfriend? Leech? He rose from a chair in the corner, adjusted his navy blue sport coat and approached her, every strand of his silver hair in place.
"Bob," Frankie said, finally able to take a breath. "How's Mom? Where's Molly?"
"Relax. All's well. We didn't know how long it would take in the emergency room, so Brenda stayed with Molly, and I brought Anna. The doctor's with her now."
He gripped her hands. His were warm, soft, and smooth. Hers were icy and trembling. He guided her to a chair. "Sit. Relax."
She perched on the edge of the plastic seat. "What happened?"
"She was climbing the stairs," Bob said, still holding Frankie's hands. "She said she got lightheaded, and the next thing she knew, she was on the floor."
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Did she break anything else? Her hip?" Mom had a broken wrist—part of the reason Frankie had moved home. She felt the blood drain from her face. "Her back? Oh, not her neck?"
"Hey there. No—she was on the third step. Her head collided with the newel post. But we thought it best to bring her here."
"Molly. Did she see it? How is she handling this?"
Bob squeezed her hands. "Molly was already in bed. Your mom was out for a moment or two. She swore she was fine. It was all we could do to convince her to get checked out. She refused an ambulance, so I drove her. And you'd better take some deep breaths, or they'll be picking you up off the floor next."
Frankie managed a smile. "Sorry. I've been doing the worst case scenario playback in my head since I got the phone call. The cell reception was terrible, and I couldn't understand anything but 'Mom' and 'emergency room.'"
"Anna was adamant about that, too. She preferred that we not ruin your evening, so I told Brenda to call you after we left."
"Thanks. That sounds like Mom."
Now that her heartbeat had approached normal, she wondered why Bob would have been at the house so late, and if he'd been on the stairs when Mom fell. She was about to ask when she noticed Bob's gaze slide up and down her body. Good grief, she'd dashed out so fast she hadn't changed her clothes, and she was sitting in the ER looking like—like what she was tonight. A one-step-from-stripper cocktail waitress. She tugged on her skirt and gave the quickest glance possible around the room, praying that none of her students had come down with a bug. All she needed was to be caught in this outfit, and her teaching job was over. Only a few of the chairs were filled, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw nobody she recognized.
"Bob, you've got to promise you won't tell anyone, especially Mom. I've been moonlighting at the Three Elks in Stanton. If anyone finds out, I'm finished."
He opened his mouth, as if he were going to tell her what she already knew, but instead, he nodded. "If that's what you want." He pulled a topcoat from the chair beside him and wrapped it around her. "If tonight is like any other ER visit, she'll be awhile. Why don't you go home? There's nothing you can do, and I'll be here."
She shook her head. "I'll be back right after I change, and then you can go. Thanks for bringing Mom in." Burrowing into Bob's coat, her head down, Frankie tried to keep a sedate pace out the door.
At home, Frankie hung Bob's coat on the hall tree and dashed for the stairs. Brenda appeared from the den, running her hands through her dark brown curls.
"How's your mother?"
"The doctor's with her." The thought swimming through her head surfaced now that she'd had time to think. First a broken wrist, and now this. Both times when Mom was with Bob. She remembered what her sister had said a month ago, when she'd called and dropped the bomb.
"James has a great job offer. But it's in London. Someone has to help Mom. And keep an eye on Bob. He creeps me out."
"Brenda, did you see Mom fall? Was Bob with her?"
Brenda tilted her head, squinted her green eyes as if replaying the event. "I'm not sure. They were in the den. I was in my room, working on my paper, and then I heard your mom fall. Bob was with her when I got there."
Why would Bob want to hurt Mom? And if he did, why would he have stayed at the emergency room? It didn't make sense. He'd looked genuinely concerned. But, if he was up to something shady, wouldn't he try to be the nice guy?
She couldn't deal with it now. "How's Molly doing?"
"She's been asleep the whole time. I hope it's okay that I used your computer. I showed Molly a game earlier, and I've been working in the den so I could hear her if she woke up."
"That's fine. I'm going to change and get back to the ER."
Brenda's raised eyebrows said she'd noticed Frankie's unorthodox attire. What the heck. Bob knew. Better to tell the truth than have Brenda speculate and say anything to Mom. When she explained her moonlighting job, Brenda promised to keep her secret.
"Oh, and thanks for staying up," Frankie said.
"No problem. I have to finish two chapters before I leave. I've got an early flight, so I'll be gone before you're awake."
Frankie headed for the stairs. Halfway there, she turned. "Brenda? That computer game. Molly wasn't blowing things up, was she?"
Brenda laughed. "No. It was a Barbie game. Totally non-violent."
"Good. Thanks again."
Upstairs, Frankie peeked into Molly's room. Her daughter's hair splayed over the pillow, shining red-gold in the glow of the night light. As always, Mr. Snuggles, a once-white stuffed dog, lay in the crook of Molly's arm. Frankie tiptoed across the room and stroked Molly's cheek. "Sleep well."
Across the hall in her own bedroom, Frankie kicked off her shoes and stepped into the bathroom to scrub off her makeup. The mirror reflected stress, but all in all, she looked better than she felt. The internal flip-flops hadn't made it to her face yet. She unpinned her chignon, shook her hair loose and jumped into jeans and a sweatshirt—inconspicuous Broken Bow attire.
The shrill ring of the phone made her jump. Frankie rushed to the nightstand and grabbed the receiver. "Yes?"
"It's Bob. They're going to keep your mother overnight. They're doing a CAT scan, and want to check a little heart arrhythmia."
New worries surged through Frankie. She glanced at the clock. Eleven. "I'll be right there."
"There's not really any point. She's going to sleep through the night, and I'll bring her home in the morning. I think you'd be doing the most good by getting some sleep, and being there for your little girl. Keep things routine."
Frankie sank to the bed. "Can I talk to her?"
"She's still in the ER, but they're going to take her to a room soon." He cleared his throat. "She asked you to stay home. I'll be here with her."
"Yeah. Sure. Okay. Thanks." She set the phone in the cradle. Her mother wanted Bob, not her. Frankie tried to digest that one. She looked at the phone. Mom said to stay home. Or had Bob? Frankie grabbed her purse.
*****
"Pop. Shit, you could have…I might have…" Ryan slid his Glock into his waistband and waited for his pulse to slow. Damn, he was losing it. Blackthorne had been right. He had no business in the field. "How did you get here?"
"The usual way. I walked. Needed some exercise. Left you some grub in the fridge."
"Thanks. I've eaten." He went to the kitchen and flipped on the light. "You want a drink? Coffee?"
"Whatever you're having's fine."
He poured two glasses of whiskey and brought them to the couch. "Be right back." He stumbled into the bedroom, emptied his pockets onto the nightstand, put his gun in the drawer, then stepped into the bathroom and relieved himself. At the same time, apprehension curled into his belly. Pop wouldn't have hiked two miles in the middle of the night simply to say hello. The man hadn't come by in the two weeks since Ryan had been here. He zipped up, then rubbed his tense neck muscles
.
Standing at the sink washing his hands, he stared into the mirror. He'd looked worse, but there had always been reasons for it—like being on a two-week mission in some undeveloped countryside. Somehow, not sleeping on assignment wasn't as exhausting as not sleeping in his own bed. He grabbed his brush and ran it through his hair, wet a washcloth with cold water and pressed it against his red-rimmed eyes for a moment, bracing himself for whatever Pop wanted.
His father sat in the corner of the couch, leg crossed over knee, his cowboy boots worn and dusty. Wolf lay at his feet. Ryan chose one of the wing chairs. "What do you want to talk about?"
His father downed half his drink, then set the glass on the table. "I'm getting old. I put the ranch on the market."
Ryan reached for his own drink. "The ranch? That's crazy, Pop. Why?"
"Not much family interest, I'd say. Lindy moved away when she got married. Was damn clear you and your brother didn't like the life."
"We were kids. It wasn't the work as much as the lack of choice. You assumed we'd follow along, mucking stalls, leading tourists on trips through the mountains four times a day when you stopped raising livestock. We wanted more. Maybe if things had been different, we'd have come back."
"Maybe so. But you didn't, did you?"
Damn. The boulder that materialized in his belly hadn't gotten smaller. "What do you want me to say?"
"Well, maybe it's my turn to go." Pop's chin jutted out and his eyes narrowed.
"Where would you go? What would you do?"
"Thought I might like to go somewhere warmer. Arizona, maybe. Or New Mexico. Hear Albuquerque's nice."
Ryan got up and paced the room, which seemed much too small to handle his energy. "Why didn't you say that before, when I first got here? Why wait until now?"
"You didn't seem to want much company." His father stood and went to the kitchen to refill his glass. "Besides. Didn't think you'd want the place. Didn't think I needed to ask permission."
"No, of course you don't need to ask. But it might have been nice to tell me."
"Doing that now, ain't I?"
"Shit, Pop, I'm not ready to absorb this. It's late, I'm buzzed and—" He tugged on his hair. Wolf pricked up his ears, shifting his gaze from one man to the other, whimpering softly.
Ryan's voice was hoarse. "I know it's not my call. But damn it to hell, the timing sucks."
"Why?" His father raised his tone to a volume Ryan rarely heard him use. "You all but disappear for ten years, send a few Christmas cards, make a few phone calls, then come strolling back and everything's supposed to be like nothing happened? Life don't work that way."
"Don't I know it? But what the hell. It worked for you, didn't it? Mom dies and it's like she never existed. Nothing that was hers in the house, not even a goddamn picture!" Now he was shouting too. "Everything else I had is gone, why should I be surprised to find out home—the one thing I thought would always be there—is being yanked out from under me?" He scrubbed his hands over his eyes.
"Who'd you lose, son? How?" His father's tone shifted to gentle. The voice from his nightmare. With a hand on Ryan's shoulder, Pop led him to the couch and sat next to him. "Ain't right to hurt so bad." He handed him the glass of whiskey he'd refilled.
Ryan took a slow sip. Then another, and another. When he thought he could talk, he spoke into the glass.
"My job with Blackthorne—sometimes things got messy."
"I kinda figured there was more going on than playing babysitter for rich folks."
Blackthorne's private side was one he didn't think his father had known.
"What makes you think that?" Ryan asked.
Pop gave him the same look he'd used whenever he or his brother had been caught in a lie. He shrugged. "No reason to shun family if all you were doing was hand-holding, or some detective work. Didn't figure you 'd work the wrong side of the law. Covert operations made the most sense. Josh hinted a little, too—his path skirted yours a couple of times." He gave a little snort. "Besides. Can't see you wasting all that damn Navy SEAL time to baby-sit."
He gulped his drink and tried to absorb what his father had said. He'd known what Ryan did, and accepted it. Even Josh had figured it out. Ryan's world shifted on its axis. "After the way you reacted when I joined the Navy, I didn't think you approved of my job."
"Approval wasn't my call. Disagreed maybe, but when you break a stallion to ride, you gotta do it without breaking his spirit. You knew what you wanted. I hoped it was what you needed."
"I thought I could do some good." Ryan sighed, his head hanging almost to his knees.
"I'll wager you did plenty." His father kneaded Ryan's shoulder. "Talk it out, son."
He stared at the floor. "We were in—well, I can't tell you that. But a family—mom, dad, and two little kids—needed to leave. You were right. Blackthorne goes places where it would be…inappropriate…for our government to be involved. Three of us were sent to get them out. New identities, new lives. Totally top secret." The detachment that served him in his job returned, and he found he could relate the incident as if it had happened to someone else. Or was it the strength from his father's touch?
"Bushwhacked," his father said, his tone as detached as Ryan's.
"Yeah. It was ugly. The family died, and so did my team.
"A week later, they needed me again. This one was supposed to be a cakewalk. Turned into a total clusterfuck. I got out and waited for a chopper to yank me out of the jungle." No need to mention the three days of hell, or how he'd been sick enough to wish they'd never rescued him. Or that he had the intel he'd been sent to get.
His father leaned back. Nodded. Waited.
Ryan scratched his beard. "But nobody's talking about the leaks. Since I'm the only survivor in both places, I look like the obvious suspect."
"You gonna find who did it?" It was more statement than question.
He sighed. "I'm trying. It's tricky, because I don't know what sort of red flags I'll send up if I start digging." Unable to sit, he stood and refilled his glass. "My ex-boss might be involved. One friend I trust is digging through the places I can't go. But he's not in the country much. I'm looking for anything that will connect the two cases. I've been using the computers at the Three Elks. That way, there's no tracing anything back to me."
Pop gave a slow nod. "Didn't figure you for a melancholy drunk."
"You're something else, Pop. I know I shouldn't have stayed away so long, but it was easier than lying to you about what I did, or why I'd have to disappear with no explanation."
"Maybe so." Pop stood and clapped him on the shoulder. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah. I am. Thanks."
When his father grinned, he felt like an idiot. "You're not really selling the place, are you?"
"Nope. Why would I do a fool thing like that? It's home. Gives the kids around here a place to work. Keeps me young. I can always go to Albuquerque for a vacation if the yearning strikes."
"So why come out here in the middle of the night to piss me off?"
"Had to get you riled enough so you'd talk. You always did bottle everything up. Needed some pressure to pop the cork."
"Dammit, Pop, I—"
Pop took the whiskey glasses to the kitchen and set them by the sink. "Good night, son."
"You're not going to walk home at this hour, and I'm too buzzed to drive. Take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
"I ain't too buzzed. Give me the keys to that flashy Mustang. You can pick her up tomorrow. Walk'll do you good."
After his father left, Ryan stripped to his shorts and flopped onto the bed. He was no closer to knowing what had happened than when he'd walked out of Blackthorne's office, but he didn't feel alone anymore. He closed his eyes and relished the quiet drift toward sleep.
Within moments, the crack of an explosion jerked him awake. Not a nightmare this time. He leaped up and had his jeans and boots on in seconds. Wolf barked at the door, and as soon as Ryan yanked it open, the dog raced down the
trail. Ryan followed, punching 911 into his cell phone, praying for a signal. The sky glowed red. Smoke filled the air. And he saw his Mustang, engulfed in flames, wrapped around a pine tree.
"Pop!" Ryan's cry tore his throat.
Chapter 4
Frankie followed the directions the ER receptionist gave her. Glued to the winding green stripe on the floor as if it were a lifeline, she found the lobby of the hospital that served Broken Bow and the surrounding communities. A tired looking man in a gray jacket and red and white striped bow tie squinted up from behind the counter when she entered. His face was creased like a piece of crumpled tissue paper.
Head high, she marched past him, toward the elevator as if it were the middle of visiting hours, not the middle of the night. At the third floor nurse's station a heavy-set woman, her head bent over paperwork, didn't look up. Frankie located her mother's room and peeked through the view pane. Her mother lay in the bed, eyes closed, an IV drip in her uncasted arm. Relieved when there didn't seem to be any indications of a new injury, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
She glanced around the room and into the small bathroom, but there was no sign of Bob. Not sure if she was glad he was gone, or angry that he'd deserted her mother, she sat in the bedside chair and touched her mother's hand. In sleep, Mom's face seemed less lined than at home, and Frankie realized the pain she must carry from her arthritis. She'd have to talk to Dr. Sedgewick about adjusting her medication. Beside the bed, a monitor bleeped steadily.
"I'm here, Mom."
Her mother's eyes fluttered open. Frankie watched her become aware of her surroundings.
"Frankie? What are you doing here?"
"You're my mother. Why wouldn't I be here?"
Mom shifted her position, her movements hampered by the IV and her broken wrist. "May I have some water? My mouth is so dry."
Frankie held the plastic container with its flexible straw to her mother's mouth. She brushed a stray lock of hair out of the way. Why hadn't she noticed how it had faded from blonde to white? She swallowed past a lump in her throat. Mom was getting older.
