Once inside, she didn’t bother hiding her curiosity but turned and looked over the tiny built-in kitchenette with a pair of folding chairs beside an old card table, where a dog-eared copy of the John Graves ode to solitude, Goodbye to a River, lay open, facedown, its spine strained by the unwarranted abuse. Beyond the pass-through counter, her gaze glanced off an old hospital bed with white paint peeling from its iron frame. Beside it, a warped and faded cupboard held his clothing, and an ancient woodstove claimed a corner.
He kept the place neat, everything except the book precisely where it should be, but for the first time ever, he saw the way it must look through her eyes, with its concrete floor and cast-off furnishings, without a spot of color in the whole place, save for the door.
“All those gorgeous things you make,” she whispered, “and you haven’t kept a single one….”
She shook her head, then set the muffins on the table. “Talk about restraint. I’d hog all the good stuff for myself.”
“Then you’d go hungry.”
“But my avaricious soul would be well fed,” she said with a dismissive gesture before pulling out the chair. “Now, sit yourself down and let me get you some ice.”
Grateful to get off his feet, he did as she asked and pointed out the drawer where she could find a plastic bag. It was a struggle to pull off the boot, but by gritting his teeth, he managed to do it without shouting.
“Hurt, didn’t it?” she asked him before adding, “Your face is getting red.”
“That’s from holding in about a thousand cuss words.” Cautiously, he peeled off the sock and hissed through his teeth at the violent patch of black, dark brown, and purple discoloring the base of his toes.
“Owww,” Rachel said for him. “That looks like it could be broken.”
“Don’t think so.” No way in hell was he going to the hospital in Alpine, or even the local clinic. “If it was, I couldn’t have walked on it so far.”
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you somewhere for X-rays?”
“I’m sure. And I’m starving. You want one of these muffins?”
“No thanks.” She spoke over the sound of cracking as she pulled the metal handle of his old-fashioned ice-cube tray.
The paper bag rattled as he opened it. Before he stuck a hand inside, he hesitated, then pushed himself back to his feet and staggered to the sink to wash up. Mostly because he worried what she’d think about him if he didn’t.
Once he’d made it back to his chair with a paper towel, a thought occurred to him. “You didn’t drive out here this morning just to feed me.”
She passed him the bag of ice. “True. And I didn’t come to scare your horse off or help you catch him, either. I brought some proofs for you to look at—the pictures I shot when I was here last. I’ll need your signature on a release form before I do anything with them.”
“Thought I already gave you my permission. It’s not like I changed my mind.”
As she turned away to refill the ice tray, he noticed the way her shoulders rose and stiffened. Was she worried about something?
“I need it in writing,” she said.
“So go and get your paper. I’ll sign.”
A nod. A hesitation, then a puff of breath as she exhaled. “I’ll be right back with the proofs and the form.”
By the time she returned, he thought he’d figured out her problem. She was nervous, worried that he wouldn’t like her work. Patsy had once mentioned—with a degree of pride—that Rachel was into art photography, so maybe she had an artist’s insecurity about it. Truth was, she needn’t fret. As far as he was concerned, a picture was a picture, unless somebody’s thumb had covered half the lens.
By the time she came back inside, he was finishing the breakfast she’d brought him.
“Thought you’d taken off or something,” he said by way of greeting.
“Here you go.” She laid the envelope on the table, her eyes avoiding his, her posture radiating tension.
As he wiped his hands, he decided this was more evidence that he was just a simple craftsman, not an artist. If people liked his work, fine. He didn’t give a damn about the ones who didn’t, and when others ran a piece down in an attempt to talk him into lowering his price, he took their criticism as some kind of “let’s haggle with the natives” bullshit and sent them on their way. He’d heard that it had given him a reputation for being temperamental. Suited him just fine and kept the socializing to a minimum.
After putting aside the form on top, he flipped through the first few photos and found himself impressed. Clear and vivid, each showed one of the pieces he’d created to its best advantage.
“These’re good,” he said as he reached for the release form. He’d seen enough to know the photos would be sure to bring in business.
She passed him a pen. “You don’t want to…?”
“Want to what?” He shook his head, taken aback at her sudden pallor, the way she looked as if she might explode out of her skin. Was it just the photos making her so nervous, or had she noticed the glances he kept sliding her way? Could she be nervous about being in his apartment with his bed in plain view?
Had “You don’t want to…?” referred to something more than photos? His libido took notice, though he told himself he was being ridiculous. Face heating with his foolishness, he signed the form and passed her back both the photos and the paper.
“Never—never mind,” she said as she shoved the stack and release back into the envelope. “Listen, I’d better get going. I’m flying with my dad today. He’s got a sailplane reserved.”
He wondered at her sudden haste. As if she’d read his thoughts—his foolish fantasies about her.
He tried to stall her with a little conversation. “What’s that like? I’ve watched ’em plenty, but—going up without an engine to rely on…Seems like that could get a little scary.”
Relaxing visibly, she smiled. “I grew up around gliding, so I’ve never thought about it that way. But I’ve always liked the challenge of it, finding lift and riding thermals, soaring like the raptors. If the conditions are right and you’re good at reading them, you can stay aloft for hours on end. Whereas anybody can keep a powered airplane in the sky.”
He shook his head. “Not me.” I’ve never even been inside a plane.
“You could learn it, easy. I’ve seen the way you watch those planes.”
He shrugged in an attempt to look indifferent. “Just something to pass the time while I eat my lunch.”
“I’ll take you up sometime, once I’m flying on my own again. Is there anything else you need now? Looks to me like you’ll be off your feet for a few days.”
“I’ll get by,” he said. “Truck’s out there, for one thing, and there’s a pair of crutches handy. Got myself bit by a desert recluse a few years back. Damned leg swelled like a melon.”
“A spider bit you?” She stood at the door, her brows raised and her smile teasing. “You’d think he’d offer you professional courtesy, one recluse to another.”
With the van idling, Rachel lingered. She had gotten what she wanted, needed. She’d handed him every shot she’d taken, given him every opportunity to voice his objections. So why did she feel as if she had just stolen from Zeke Pike?
The trouble was, he was starting to grow on her. Blunt and irascible as he could be, there was something refreshing in his honesty. She found that she preferred it to the way people tiptoed carefully around her, making her feel as dangerously explosive as a flask of nitroglycerin.
The cell phone she’d left in her purse rang. Mindful of her father’s annoyance with her earlier, she pulled it out and checked the caller ID window.
It was Patsy calling from The Roost. Or maybe her dad had stopped for breakfast and was using the phone there.
“Hello?” she answered.
“I need you to get over to your grandma’s, quick as you can.” Silverware clattered in the background, and Patsy sounded both worried and distracted. “One of the
neighbors called me, said that dog of hers has gotten into his trash. He knocked on her door, but she didn’t answer.”
“Could she be out? Maybe she went to breakfast with one of her canasta buddies.”
“Most of her friends have died off or moved to be near their children. Besides, she’s never out and about this early in the day. I tried to reach her on her phone, but I can’t get any answer. I’d run by if I had time, but I’ve got customers and there’s no one here to cover for me.”
Rachel fired up the engine. “Does Dad know?”
“He’s not answering his phone—probably up to his elbows in that restoration. Besides, he’d just tell me she’s napping or caught up in one of her game shows again. I swear, the man’s stone blind when it comes to his mama. After last month, when she got her medications confused…She might not be my mother, but she’s the closest thing I’ve ever—I’ve been concerned about her.”
Rachel thought first of the lapse she’d witnessed on the way to Alpine and then of her father and Patsy’s recent argument. She still wanted no part of that squabble, but she was worried about her grandma, too.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Rachel promised, “and I’ll call and let you know what’s going on.” If everything was all right, at least she could appease the neighbor by capturing her grandmother’s trash-eating Boston terrier and cleaning up his mess.
“Thanks.” Patsy quit rattling dishes and lowered her voice. “One other thing, real quick. Some woman stopped by earlier. Looking for you. Blonde with big sunglasses—I didn’t recognize her, so I didn’t tell her anything. When I asked her name and business, she took off in a hurry.”
Rachel’s throat tightened at the memory of last night’s disturbing call. I’m coming for you, Raaaachel. You can’t run far enough or fast enough. I’ll always know where you hide….
But there wasn’t time to worry about that at the moment, so she swept it out of her mind, along with her last lingering doubts about the photographic release.
“I’ll call you as soon as I can,” Rachel promised. After ending the call, she turned the van around and drove toward the little, cinnamon-toast adobe house where Benita Copeland had happily lived alone for decades.
With a shiver, Rachel pressed down harder on the old van’s accelerator. What if they’d been wrong to take her grandmother’s health for granted? What if, right this moment, she was lying on her tiled floor, helpless and alone?
CHAPTER SIX
In the Mexican oral tradition of South Texas, the people speak of una bruja, a witch, who appears in owl form. La Lechuza, as they call her, perches upon rooftops and cries out in the darkness, seeking to lure the unsuspecting from their homes.
Those foolish few who heed her call are never seen again….
—Professor Elizabeth Farnum, PhD,
from “Curious Customs of the Lone Star State”
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Marlene’s husband, Dan, said, “but for once, I think Kathy’s right. Your mother doesn’t want help, and she sure as hell won’t thank you even if you actually do find her.”
Marlene looked up from her packing to see that not only Dan, but also their two sons, had come into the bedroom. It was bad enough she’d had to listen to her sister’s ragging; now Team Testosterone was ganging up on her as well.
“He’s right, Mom. Besides, you shouldn’t be traveling alone,” the older boy said. Though Taylor, a high school sophomore, was savvy enough to claim a manly concern about her welfare, he was probably more worried she’d be unavailable to ferry him to basketball or run him to the mall.
“You aren’t going to bring her back here, are you?” twelve-year-old Josh whined. “I don’t want to have to give up my room and bunk with Taylor. He leaves his smelly socks all over, and he talks half the night on the phone when we’re supposed to be asleep.”
“Shut up, you little douche bag—”
“Taylor,” warned his father at the same time Marlene said, “That’s enough.”
When Josh opened his mouth again, she pointed at him. “Shut it down. Right now. Both of you.”
Her gaze flicked from the younger to the older, and then up to Dan, who had clearly been the mastermind behind this “stealth” operation. If they weren’t so damned annoying, they’d be cute. “Listen, you three. I know this is an inconvenience. And I also know that Grandma, well Grandma’s had some issues for quite a while now. Ever since…She loved my little brother, really loved him, the way that I love you. When he died, it hurt something in her. But the thing is, she’s still my mother, and I promised Grandpa I would—”
“Of course she’s still your mother,” Dan said, “and no one could ever say you haven’t done your best to help her. But you’ve turned over every scrap of information the police asked for, even more than they requested.”
“A few old photographs and credit card numbers won’t make her matter to them. Not the way she does to me.” The way she did to Kathy, too, whether or not her sister would admit it.
“Come on, Marlene, isn’t it time to step aside and leave finding her to the professionals? Maybe if you headed back to work, got back to your routine, it would take your mind off things a little. Then, before you know it—”
“Do you honestly think I can set appointments and hassle with insurance companies with this looming over me?” she snapped and wondered if this was really about money. Since her dad’s death, she had lost touch with the family bud get…and so many of the things she used to think important. “I understand you just want—that all three of you want—everything to go back to normal. But things won’t be normal, can’t be normal, until I get her back and fix this.”
When Dan’s blue eyes met hers, Marlene’s heart fluttered, reminded of the boy who’d captured it so very long ago.
“Some things can’t be fixed,” he told her gently, “and neither can some people.”
He’d never understand, no matter what words she used to explain it. Frowning, Marlene zipped up her suitcase and placed one hand on her hip. “Are you going to drive me to the airport, or do I have to call one of my friends for a ride?”
James Dean strutted down the center of a mostly residential street, his tongue lolling and his black-and-white face stained with the evidence of his most recent crime spree.
“And I’ll bet you reek now, too, you little heathen,” Rachel grumbled as she slowed the van and opened her door. When she whistled for the Boston terrier, he stopped and cocked his round head. Probably wondering what was in it for him should he decide to listen.
“Come on, boy. Let’s go for a ride, J.D.” She tried to make it sound exciting, but the small dog must have detected “imminent bath” in her tone, for he turned his stubby tail and bolted between a neighbor’s bungalow and an older, pink adobe.
More concerned for her grandmother, Rachel pulled into the empty carport beside the well-kept, little spice-brown house. “Please, God,” she whispered as she hurried over to the side door, “I know you and I haven’t been on great terms for a while, but please let her be napping, or maybe in the bathroom.”
She knocked several times, then stood on tiptoe to peer through the window in the upper portion of the door. Seeing no one, she bounced on the balls of her feet a few more seconds before trying the door. When she found it locked, she pounded hard enough to bruise her knuckles and called out, “Grandma? Can you hear me?”
She paused to listen for an answer and thought she heard the blare of the ancient cabinet television from the living room. After running around to the front porch, she found the front door locked as well, and no one responded to her knocking or shouting. Maybe her grandma was out. She could have thrown on her jacket and walked the two blocks to the little store for fresh bread, a temptation she should—but rarely managed to—resist.
That must be it, thought Rachel as she scooted behind the chain-hung porch swing to peer through the front window…
And saw her grandmother apparently dozing in an overs
tuffed recliner, an afghan draped over her inert form. Heart in her throat, Rachel rapped hard at the window.
“Please don’t be—Oh, thank you, God. I owe you.” For Rachel saw movement as her grandmother’s head turned. Though her eyes didn’t open, she lifted a hand to rub her face.
“It’s me, Grandma. It’s Rachel. I need you to get up and let me in.”
“Is she in there?” a man called from behind her.
A few days before, Rachel had met the neighbor, Mr. Morgan, a retired accountant out of Lubbock. A smallish man with wire-rimmed glasses and gray hair that wreathed a bald pate, he seemed nice enough, in spite of his understandable dislike of James Dean’s trash can mayhem.
“Please hurry—call an ambulance,” Rachel told him. “I saw her move a little, but she’s not responding. She used to keep a key around back. Let me see if I can find it.”
“I’ll call your mother, too.”
Stepmother, Rachel thought, but she didn’t slow down to correct him. When she couldn’t find the key, she took one of the rocks bordering the garden and smashed out part of a rear window. Reaching her arm through, she unlatched it, then slid it open and climbed through. Feet crunching on the shattered glass, she ran for the living room, where she found her grandma staring, her plump face flushed.
“Rachellll,” she slurred, “I nee—I need some…” Her lids fluttered, sliding down to shutter soft, brown eyes.
“You need glucose,” Rachel realized. Once, while still a teenager, she’d seen her grandmother when her sugar level dipped too low. She’d looked and sounded drunk then, too. Her breath even smelled a little like it, though she never touched alcohol. “Where are your glucose pills, Grandma?”
When her grandmother didn’t answer, she raced back through the door into the little kitchen and rattled through the clutch of prescription bottles on the counter near the glucose meter. There had to be at least a dozen—far too many medications to be juggling—but Rachel couldn’t find the one she wanted. So instead, she went to the refrigerator and saw exactly what she needed, a small juice box with a smiling apple on its front. Pulling free the attached straw, Rachel tore off the wrapper and stabbed it through the top of the container.
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