by Sharon Sala
“Thanks, ladies,” Chance said. He tipped his hat, and made a dash for the door. He didn’t know which was the more dangerous, the woman with a grudge or the one wearing hot pants.
Della watched him leave. Even his smile was the same. She glared at Tamma, who’d already retreated to her desk. Then she made a run for her own. The pages of the phone book fanned her face as she searched for the name. There! She didn’t hesitate. It had been years since she’d done more than pass the time of day with people like this, but she deserved to know. Della considered it her duty.
The numbers beeped in her ear as she punched them in. The phone rang, three, four, five times, and then was answered.
The voice was the same, and Della guessed that the face hadn’t changed that much either. People like her had money. They didn’t have to age. They just had birthdays.
“Mrs. Oslow? This is Della, down at the Odessa courthouse. You remember me? We lived down the street from you when you were just a little girl. That was before we moved from Midland to Odessa. Well, I just had to call and tell you. I think I just saw a ghost. Do you remember that…”
Chance found the address with little trouble. It also hadn’t taken long to find out that the yearly taxes were up-to-date. But his hopes hit bottom when he pulled up beneath the shade tree across the street and stared blankly at the vacant lot. No house! And the only thing green for blocks and blocks was the lot full of weeds.
“Well hell,” he muttered, “this is just perfect.” He climbed out of his truck and walked across the street, jammed his hands in his pockets, and silently stared at what was left of a concrete block foundation and some porch steps. He supposed he was waiting for a miracle to occur, or at least, a hint of memory to surface.
Nothing happened. A little bit of hope died with the weeds wilting in the lot.
Then a man’s angry voice behind him sent him spinning around. An inexplicable panic spurted through him. A feeling of having been here, standing as he was now, and listening to that same voice yelling at him, calling something…But just as quickly as the memory came, it went.
“What’s your business here, mister?” the man asked.
The man approaching was a stranger. Chance saw evidence of too many beers hanging over his belly as the man hopped the curb and stopped. He was big and heavy. He wore jeans a size too small, a T-shirt that could have used a washing, and a week’s worth of whiskers.
“I was told that this was the McCall property,” Chance said, watching the man’s face closely. He got a reaction, but it was not what he’d expected.
“What’s left of it,” the man said. “What’s it to you?”
“Just trying to locate some relatives, that’s all.”
The man nodded. “Don’t know why you’re lookin’,” he drawled. “I got too damned many to suit me.” He jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder at the gaggle of kids playing in the yard across the street. “More than half them brats is mine, along with an out-of-work brother-in-law, and my old lady’s mother. Shit! I oughta just light a shuck for parts unknown. Know what I mean?”
Chance shrugged. This was getting him nowhere. “So, you lived here long? Do you remember the McCalls?”
“Hell yes! How could you forget someone as hot as that bitch? She was up for grabs for anyone with the dough. I’da took her up on it myself, ’cept for the fact that we lived across the damned street. Can’t exactly get a piece on the side with your old lady a’watchin’. Know what I mean?”
Chance’s fury burned hot. It took everything he had not to shove his fist in the man’s beefy mouth. But starting a fight wouldn’t get him answers, and he might wind up in jail. It was a bad plan. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets and stared down at the cracked sidewalk. Maybe if he didn’t have to look at the son-of-a-bitch, he wouldn’t have to hit him.
“Can’t say as I do,” Chance answered. “Not married myself.”
“Smart man,” he replied. “Say, I didn’t get your name.”
Chance remained silent. He turned and stared at the overgrown lot. “What happened to the house?”
The man didn’t seem to notice that his question never got an answer. His eyes lit up. “Oowee, that was one hell of an excitin’ night, I can tell you.”
Chance waited. The man hitched at his low-riding jeans, scratched an armpit, and walked toward the lot to kick at a stone.
“It was after midnight. I’ll never forget. The McCall woman wadn’t cold in the ground. She’d gone and killed herself a few days before.” He turned to get Chance’s reaction. There was none.
When Chance made no comment, the man continued with relish. “One of my kids was cryin’. Hell, one’s always cryin’. Anyways, it woke me up. And the fire made it bright as day outside. The fire trucks was turnin’ the corner when I run out on the porch. I figgered that damned McCall kid was still inside.”
Kid! Somehow Chance knew the rest of the story before the man finished. But he had to hear.
“They sifted the ashes for two days before it dawned on me that the snot-nosed bugger’d had a pickup truck. And it was gone. It just stood to reason that he’d left in it, doncha’ see? I called the cops myself.”
Chance’s belly twisted again. Cops! Please, God, he hadn’t been running from them.
“But,” the man continued, “they’d done already figgered that out. The kid’s boss, a man named Charlie Rollins who owned a gas station a couple a’ blocks over, had cleared his name and told the cops that he figgered the boy just left town due to sadness or some such shit. Personally, I think he lit a shuck because there wadn’t nothin’ left to stay for. His old lady was dead and buried. Know what I mean?”
A flash of heat! Adrenaline spiked through him as his feet pounded on pavement! Fire snaked through windows and exploded in a shower of glass and debris. Red and yellow tongues of hell licked greedily at dry timbers.
Chance blinked slowly and took a deep breath. The images came and went so quickly, he knew that absorbing their meaning was next to impossible. He had to get away.
“Well, thanks all the same.” He headed back across the street for his truck.
“Say! I didn’t get your name,” the man called.
Chance just waved and drove away, certain that the man was still staring. He was also certain that he’d stirred up another set of ghosts.
Dinner at the The Barn Door was a solemn affair. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed the thick, juicy steak and baked potato. Ordering from the menu had been difficult. It had more choices than the Triple T had horses. But, by the time the food had arrived, his appetite had disappeared. He’d never liked eating alone, and what he was trying to digest along with his food was causing him grief.
A visit earlier in the day to a local funeral home had produced information that Chance was having trouble accepting. Leticia McCall had died May 7, 1980, and her son, an eighteen-year-old named Chance McCall, was the person responsible for her interment. There was also a note on the old records showing that a Charlie Rollins had paid for the burial in full.
A grim line curved the corners of his mouth. He felt regret for the loss of what must have been a close friendship. He’d obviously run away from Odessa, leaving at least one person behind who’d cared. And now Charlie was alone with no one to care for him.
Chance told himself he would make another visit to Charlie. It didn’t matter whether or not Charlie remembered him. Chance would remember. That was enough.
His meal finished, he walked outside the restaurant and took a deep breath. The air was close, heavy with the lingering heat of daytime, not yet cool from the relief that always came at sundown. Chance was reluctant to go back to that hole-in-the-wall that passed for a motel room. He stepped out of the restaurant and looked around, searching for something that would help pass the time.
Country and western music drifted out of a little club somewhere close by. Chance left his truck where he’d parked it and decided to walk.
Garth Brooks’s voice met him at t
he door of the bar as Chance pushed it open. He winced as the music vibrated his eardrums. The jukebox was turned all the way to meltdown. The air was smoky, the tables full. A small dance floor in the center of the room was a gathering place for a group of clinging women and groping men who seemed to be using the music as an excuse for foreplay. Thoughts of Jenny surfaced instantly and Chance wondered if this had been such a good idea after all. Remembering the woman he’d left behind was not just painful behind his zipper. It hurt the hell out of his heart.
“Beer,” Chance ordered, and slid his elbows onto the bar. He rested one booted foot on the kick bar below. “Nothing fancy, just a bottle,” he added, before the bartender could run through what was available.
The man nodded, grinned, and slid a tall brown bottle down the bar, slicing a wet trail through the assortment of napkins and peanut shells. Chance caught it in mid-slide and tilted it to his lips. It was sharp and cold. Several minutes passed as Chance savored the drink, then he turned around to check out the patrons. At this point, he had no thoughts of recognition. It had simply become a habit.
A bunch of women sitting at a table in the corner were looking at him with interest. Chance quickly shifted his gaze. He had no intention of giving them an opening. A couple of women gave him more than a welcoming smile as they danced past with their partners. Jenny! I’d give a whole lot for one of your smiles right now.
He frowned, turned around, drained the bottle of its last swallow, and set it back down on the bar. The bartender looked up, asking with a silent shrug if Chance wanted another. He shook his head and pulled out his wallet. Being in a place like this was only a reminder of the fact that he was alone and it was his own fault.
The bartender slid his hand across the bar and grabbed the money that Chance dropped onto the surface, then grinned as a picture fell into the dish of peanuts beside it. Before Chance could react, the bartender had picked it up and tilted it toward the neon light behind the bar to get a better look.
“Whooee, son. You like ’em young.”
Chance frowned. It was the old picture of Victoria Henry that he’d found in his suitcase. Before he could respond, a hand slid into his back pocket and cupped his rear. A woman’s deep, husky voice vibrated above the din of the music, as she leaned suggestively against his shoulder and took the picture out of the bartender’s hands.
“Frank! You’re just a dirty old man, that’s what you are. That girl ain’t someone he’d take to bed. That’s his daughter. Logan Henry don’t like babies, he likes women. Ain’t that right, honey?”
Her hand clung to his backside in a movement of familiarity as she tilted her head back and gave him what Chance supposed was meant to pass as a sexy look. As far as he was concerned, she was way off the mark. And, from the look on her face, she’d just realized it, too.
“Oooh, honey!” she squeaked, and reluctantly removed her hand from his hip pocket, giving him one last squeeze as she did, “you’re not Logan Henry, are you? But damn! You sure fooled me. I guess it’s this light.” She smiled as Chance took the picture out of her fingers and slid it back into his wallet.
“Nothing personal, okay?” she patted his butt to make her point.
He shrugged. Who the hell was Logan Henry? The girl’s name was Victoria Henry. It was on the picture. What did all this mean? Suddenly too many people were staring at him, and he didn’t have a good feeling about it. He had to get out.
“If you’re interested, I’m free later,” the woman offered.
Chance smiled, but the woman knew the answer was no. She shrugged, stared at his backside once again, and said, “If you change your mind…you know where to find me.”
He tipped his hat and left. It was none too soon. People were staring. He could hear the whispers. He walked to the pickup, suddenly anxious to get back to the motel, away from curious looks and prying eyes. Who the hell was Logan Henry?
The woman watched him leave and then dug into the front pocket of her faux designer jeans to pull out a quarter. She headed for the hallway between the restrooms, where a pay phone hung in plain view, dropped in the quarter, punched in the numbers, and waited.
“Hi, darlin’,” she said, yelling to make herself heard above the music that had gone back into full swing, “it’s me, Lorrie.” There was silence as she listened. “You remember me. Lorrie, from Odessa? Yeah, that’s right, darlin’, that one.” Well, the reason I’m callin’ is…you don’t happen to have a little brother, do you?” She listened again, her painted on eyebrows coming together over her nose as she frowned.
“Well, I was just askin’ ’cause there was a man in here tonight with an old picture of Vicky. Yeah, I mean Victoria. Anyway…my Gawd, darlin’, he’s your livin’ double, if you know what I mean…. No. I don’t know where he went. I only saw him this once…. No, I don’t know nothin’…. No, I won’t say nothin’ about this either. You know me. I promise.”
She hung up the phone, rubbed her sweaty palms against her skin-tight pants, and shuddered. Whatever she’d just done by making that call, she wanted to forget. The man she’d called wasn’t happy. Not one bit. A cowboy walked past the phone on his way to the men’s room. She grabbed him by the arm and leaned forward, inviting his attention. It was all the invitation he needed.
Chance dropped onto the bed, relishing the feel of surprisingly clean sheets, and let himself air dry from the shower he’d just had. His wounds had healed, his scars were not so tender, but the wounds inside him were festering and he could feel it. This may have been the biggest mistake he’d ever made. He’d heard it said that you can never go home.
At first it had seemed the only sensible, honorable thing to do. How could he offer to share his life with a woman like Jenny Tyler when he didn’t know what kind of a life he’d come from? What was so awful about his past that he’d never shared it? What secrets had followed him from Odessa to Tyler and made it impossible to tell Jenny he loved her?
And he did love her. He didn’t have to get his memory back to know that. His body burned for her. His muscles grew taut with desire. Cursing softly beneath his breath, he shoved himself up from the bed and headed back to the shower. It was a good thing for the desk clerk that she’d taken his threat seriously. The room next to his had been silent for days. Tonight would have been his breaking point. He needed Jenny…desperately…in more ways than one.
A fist swung forward, smashing against bone and flesh. Blood spurted. There was a grunt and a thud, and dust swirled into his mouth and nostrils. A girl cried. Loud voices came from everywhere. Then there was silence.
A woman sat at a table, crying. A bottle of whiskey spilled onto the table as an amber river ran off the side and onto the floor. An argument ensued, soundless, but alive with motion and movement as she stretched her arm forward in supplication…and then she disappeared.
Heat blistered the back of his arms. Fire was everywhere…and he ran…and ran…and ran.
A siren screamed! Panic shot him out of bed as he stood, legs shaking, sweat pouring, heart pounding. Red lights pulsed through the curtains of the motel room, and then the sound passed, as did the lights.
“Sweet heaven,” Chance whispered, wiping sweat from his face and neck with the end of the sheet. He dropped back onto the bed, trying to absorb what he’d been dreaming. The memories were already fading, and then they were gone. The only thing left was a feeling of impending doom. It was not enough to make him want to finish the night in sleep.
He pulled on his jeans, walked outside barefoot, and climbed into the back of his pickup truck. Leaning against the cab, he stared up into the clear night sky and at the curtain of stars blanketing the earth. How could that be so beautiful when his world was so lost…and ugly? But there were no answers up there, just as there were no answers down on earth. Not tonight. Not for Chance. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought of Jenny.
10
He moved quietly, his face in shadow as he walked toward her bed with purpose in every step.
Moonlight glow slid across his nude body, burnishing the muscles that rippled and tensed, as he neared where she was lying.
He came out of the darkness. She could see his face, so beloved…so dear.
Chance!
She ached to touch him, to feel the power beneath those muscles, to hold that part of him that was so obviously ready for her. Her hands reached out, cupped. Breath caught in her throat.
His touch burned across her, his lips forging a trail of tension that began at her chin and hurtled down past her breasts. His tongue made a trail of its own, down past her rib cage, lingering just long enough at her navel to start a spiraling heat between her legs that made the bed tilt.
Her hands caught and held in the dark thatch of hair on his head as she hung on for dear life. He was taking her with him…to places she’d never been…and if she didn’t hold on, she would never find her way back. She gasped and lost her hold on Chance. She reached behind her to hold onto the bed. It wasn’t there! She fell backward and down…down…down. And heard him calling her name…
“Damn you, Chance McCall!”
Her cry broke the silence of the dream. Jenny bolted up in bed, gasping for breath, aching in places she’d never known could ache…in that way…for a man who was gone. For a man who came only in her dreams, and was driving her mad.
She moaned and catapulted herself out of the tangle of sheets. She walked to the window to stare outside at the long, black ribbon of roadway that stretched past the yard and into the dark night.
She swallowed once, tore the sticky nightgown off her body, and turned, naked and aching, to walk into her bathroom. She didn’t need a light to find the cold tap. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. But Jenny Tyler swore it would be the last. She splashed cold water on her face and neck without a shudder. Inside, she was already as cold as ice.
