The Other Laura

by Sheryl Lynn

  “You made me build the darned thing,” Ryder said. “And Tom Sorry isn’t about to give me back my cabin. So you’re not skipping out on me.”

  That couldn’t possibly be amusement in his voice. She looked up at him. For the first time, his eyes were neither sad nor grim. Shaded beneath his broad-brimmed cowboy hat, they sparkled with good humor. Glints of light brightened them like sapphires. Her breath caught again in her throat.

  “You’re fibbing,” she said. “I didn’t design this.”

  “You sure did, darlin’.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Looks like I could have gotten away with some remodeling. Missed my chance.”

  He pushed her wheelchair up the two steps into the courtyard, then left her for a moment while he made final arrangements with the ambulance attendants and helped the live-in nurse with her luggage. It gave Laura time to absorb the full impact of the courtyard. Two sides of the courtyard were lined with French doors. Balconies overhead had wrought-iron railings. Chunky terra-cotta pots stood empty, but it was easy to imagine them filled with mums, dahlias, daisies and geraniums. A rainbow flashed in the mist over a triple-tier, verdigris fountain.

  A woman emerged from the house. Tall and broad-shouldered, she had a round face and stern demeanor. A light gray uniform fit her with tailored precision.

  As the woman approached, her pale eyes boring into Laura, the back of Laura’s neck began to prickle. The prickle worked its way downward to join the chronic itch inside the cast on her left leg. Laura felt her helplessness as she’d never felt it before.

  “Welcome home, ma’am,” the woman said. Her voice was as flat as her expression, yet managed to blare disapproval.

  Laura felt this woman’s hatred. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded. Becky Solerno’s concerns about the dangers of this household echoed in Laura’s mind. Somebody had tried to kill her.

  Somebody who hated her enough to want her dead.

  “Mrs. Weatherbee,” Ryder said as he took hold of the wheelchair handles. “I’ll take Laura straight up to her room ” He indicated the nurse who had accompanied them from the hospital. “This is Miss Garner. After we get Laura settled, you can show Miss Garner to her room.” He looked around. “Where’s Tom?”

  “Said he had a problem with a water tank.”

  Ryder flashed an apologetic smile at Laura. “Tom Sorry can welcome you home later.”

  Mrs. Weatherbee asked, “And where would you care for lunch?”

  Laura stared at her hands, but felt the woman’s eyes.

  “I’ll join Laura in her bedroom.” Ryder pushed her through the double-wide doorway.

  Uneasily, she looked around at the foyer. If Ryder insisted she’d designed this house, she had no choice except to believe him. For the life of her, though, she could not begin to imagine why.

  The double staircase seemed to float against a two-story glass wall. The marble steps were open, enhancing the floating effect, and the railing was made of iron pipe, enameled white and fitted with bright brass end caps and joints. Chandeliers made of crystal plates and gold leaves hung at varying heights, suspended by brass rods.

  “I think I know why I forgot this,” she muttered.

  “What was that?” Ryder asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I thought about quartering you downstairs,” he said as he knelt to lock the wheelchair wheels. “But, as determined as you are to walk, you won’t be needing this chair much longer. If I’m wrong, we can move you into a guest room easy enough. Ready?”

  She wrapped both arms around his neck and braced herself. He lifted her from the chair. She caught a whiff of woodsy after-shave and balsam shampoo in his thick brown hair. His good mood relaxed her. His strong arms were safe. He’d never let anyone hurt her.

  As he started up the stairs, she said, “Are you sure I’m not too heavy?” Though he walked lightly, her left leg in its bulky cast bobbed. She winced with each painful twinge. Her back burned as if probed with needles. Pain had become her constant companion, but even her high tolerance had limits.

  “You finally got your wish, darlin’. You’re skinny as a fresh-whelped coyote. Of course, it’s not a weight-loss program I’d recommend to anybody.”

  She hadn’t spoken to anybody about how her appearance had changed since the accident. The plastic surgeons who operated on her face had been concerned about repairing crushed bones and lacerated muscles and nerves, salvaging her teeth and making certain she could see and breathe properly. Pain and the effort of healing had made her appearance seem unimportant by contrast.

  But now she was a wife again. From the corner of her eye, she studied Ryder’s hard jaw and big, handsome features. She couldn’t be ugly. He wouldn’t have an ugly wife.

  “Was I fat?” she asked.

  He laughed.

  The sound of it startled her; its richness enchanted her. She tightened her arms around his neck. Suddenly she was glad he was her husband, and she knew with all her heart that Becky was wrong about him trying to kill her. She would remember how and why they fell in love. He’d be easy to love again.

  “You weren’t fat, darlin’, not by a long shot.”

  At the top of the stairs, he turned left. Mrs. Weatherbee and Miss Garner waited near an open door. Ryder walked quickly through a large sitting room and into a bedroom. He placed Laura atop a bed. Miss Garner was right there, propping Laura with pillows and arranging her broken leg for comfort.

  Certain this was another of her more-real-than-reality dreams, Laura looked around the room. The suite was decorated entirely in white and gold. Watered silk covered the walls and windows. Carved carpeting with a vaguely Middle Eastern design spread like velvet over the floor. The furnishings were French classical, polished to a hard shine. Dozens of mirrors in every shape and size covered the walls. There were skirts on the tables, hangings over the bed, glittering crystal lamps and vases filled with yellow roses. The roses perfumed the air with cloying sweetness.

  Dominating the overdone decor was a larger-than-life-size reclining nude. The gilt-framed painting hung over a white marble fireplace.

  Nonplussed, Laura slowly lifted her gaze to Ryder. She longed to demand to know what kind of man was he that he allowed her to force him to live in this... seraglio. All she could do was stare.

  “This is fabulous,” Miss Garner said. She sounded absolutely delighted. “The furniture is so posh and pretty!”

  Laura refrained from grimacing. She couldn’t very well comment on the nurse’s awful taste.

  “Is that you?” the nurse asked, indicating the nude.

  “No,” Laura said.

  “Yes.” Ryder lifted his eyebrows. “It’s you.”

  Appalled, Laura took another look at the portrait. The pastel colors gave it a soft, old-fashioned look. Yet the woman was hard-edged and sleek, posed on a swan-shaped recliner. Her golden hair curled in Rapunzel waves over her bare shoulders and breasts. Her face was perfect; her large, dark, sultry eyes seemed to look straight at Laura.

  Laura touched her short, brushy hair. “Artistic license?”

  “Not much.” His expression darkened.

  Laura sensed he didn’t like the portrait. Perhaps it embarrassed him. It certainly embarrassed her.

  The dour housekeeper said, “I’ll see to lunch, sir. Miss

  Garner, I’ll show you to your room.”

  “Oh, please, call me Bertie.” Eyes wide, swiveling her head to take in her surroundings, the nurse followed the housekeeper out of the room.

  Left alone with her husband, Laura fiddled with the silk sheets and lace-trimmed counterpane. “Well, I’m home.”

  Ryder nodded. “Do you feel up to seeing Abby?”

  Her daughter...she closed her eyes. Of all things to forget, how could she possibly forget a child? Whenever Ryder spoke of the girl, his face softened and his eyes acquired a prideful fondness that was completely endearing. Laura could love him for that look alone.

  “Is she terribly angry with me fo
r deserting her?” Laura hated herself for forgetting Abby. A good mother, she felt, would never forget her own child.

  Ryder pulled at his jaw and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Laura guessed little Abby was very angry. Ryder had not brought Abby to the hospital, and Laura hadn’t spoken to her on the telephone. It had seemed the wisest course at the time, but looking back, Laura decided it was a mistake.

  “Truth is,” he said reluctantly, “she hasn’t said much about you.”

  Emotion thickened in her throat and spread to her chest, making it ache. During her lengthy hospital stay, Ryder and Becky Solerno had been her only visitors. No friends had come to wish her well; no family seemed concerned for her welfare. The only people who were remotely interested had been reporters who sneaked past the hospital staff.

  Now it seemed not even her own child cared about her.

  The portrait drew her attention, and this time she saw it wasn’t the size or the ostentatious frame that made the piece so ugly. The artist had captured her lush body and perfect face, but he’d also portrayed her eyes in all their sensual malevolence. The woman in that portrait was nobody’s friend.

  RYDER WATCHED Laura pick at her food. Drawn and quiet, she hadn’t said a word all during lunch. Unable to stand it, he dropped his fork on his plate and exclaimed, “If you hate it that much, I’ll have Mrs. Weatherbee come up. You can go back to planning the cooking around here.”

  “Pardon?”

  Her wide-eyed innocence caught him off guard. She looked so tiny surrounded by the mounds of silk and lace on the bed. During his countless visits to the hospital he’d grown used to her appearance. The bandages and fuzzy hair no longer bothered him.

  He couldn’t get used to her eyes.

  Surgery to repair broken facial bones had changed their shape. Laura now had the soft, vulnerable eyes of an innocent. Eyes without a trace of guile, greed or calculation.

  Eyes that turned him to mush inside.

  He scrubbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I said, if you don’t like the cooking, you can talk to Mrs. Weatherbee.” He prayed she never remembered how much she feared hearty food. He didn’t want to go back a diet of froufrou recipes lacking red meat, fat or sugar.

  “The food is delicious.” She sighed. “May I ask you a question? I’d like an honest answer, please.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Now that I’m home, perhaps you can explain to me why I have no friends.” She closed her eyes and caught her lower lip in her teeth.

  His heart sank. While Laura had been in a month-long coma, Colorado high society had forsaken her as old news. “You’ve got plenty of friends.” His forced heartiness made him wince.

  “Nobody visited me in the hospital. No one called. None of the cards and gifts I received had a personal note attached.” She breathed hard a few seconds, and her thin fingers played with the neckline of her nightgown. “My own child is avoiding me.”

  “She ate before we got home.”

  Her pained expression said she knew he lied. Up until today, Abby had been having the best time of her life. Knowing Laura was in the house had transformed Abby from Miss Sweetie Pie into Tiny Terror. Mrs. Weatherbee was now trying her best to convince the balky child to bathe and dress appropriately for visiting her mother.

  He hadn’t the faintest idea how to tell Laura she was a class-A bitch and any friends she had were well paid for.

  “I’ll go see if she’s ready.” He made his escape from Laura’s suite. An escape from her soft, wounded eyes.

  He found the housekeeper in Abby’s room. The little girl hid under her bed while Mrs. Weatherbee threatened to get a broom and sweep her out.

  “I’ll handle this.”

  “Fine!” Grumbling, the woman marched out of the room.

  Ryder crouched next to the bed and lifted the dust ruffle. “All right, sugar bear, enough is enough. Get your butt out from under there, pronto.”

  “I don’t wanna wear that dress! It’s icky!”

  A green-and-gold taffeta dress lay atop Abby’s bed. The puffy skirt looked stiff, and the neckline was lined with scratchy lace.

  “You don’t have to wear it. Get out from there.”

  Soft rustling marked Abby’s progress under the bed. Her dark head emerged and she lifted reproachful eyes. “I wanna wear my boots.”

  Ever since he’d bought her a pair of real cowboy boots, she practically lived in them. During Laura’s absence, she’d worn only jeans and boots, and acted as horsehappy and rambunctious as any other ranch kid.

  He grasped her under the arms and hauled her into the open. She wore a dirty sweatshirt, denim jeans and her boots. Her face was smudged. She smelled of eau de pony. He thought her the most beautiful thing in all of creation.

  “You can wear your boots, but you will wash your face.”

  She scowled ferociously, but he felt her fear. His own fear increased. In the months since Laura’s accident, Abby had blossomed. She’d gained at least ten pounds. She no longer complained of tummyaches and headaches, nor did she suffer from night terrors. Her behavior had improved a thousand percent.

  Ryder determined that if Laura ever again abused Abby in any way, shape or form, she was gone. He’d find a judge to sign paperwork saying she was nuts, institutionalize her and throw away the key. He took Abby into the bathroom and made her wash her face, hands and neck. He brushed her long brown hair.

  “Braid it, Daddy,” she said.

  She was stalling. Feeling a tad reluctant himself, he carefully divided her hair into three hanks and plaited it into a fat braid that hung to the small of her back. He tied it with a red scrunchy bow.

  “You need a clean shirt, sugar bear.”

  She pooched out her lower lip.

  “Wear your wolf shirt. That’s your favorite.”

  Her lively eyes sparkled as she considered it. Without warning she scampered to her dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. She brought out a cranberry-colored sweatshirt with a picture of a gray wolf on it. She changed shirts then danced an arms-high pirouette.

  “Looking good, babe,” he said and held out his hand

  She placed her tiny hand against his. “I hate Mama’s room,” she stated. “It always stinks like those old roses. I hate it.”

  It occurred to him that Laura had never said a word about the roses. Yellow tea roses were her favorite.

  Even though several psychiatrists and psychologists had told him the personality changes were due to her injuries, it still boggled him that she seemed like a completely different woman. He hoped the changes extended to her attitude about children.

  “You can stand it for a minute.” He and Abby headed for Laura’s suite.

  As soon as they entered the sitting room, Abby began to balk. Her hand turned hot and sweaty inside his. He kept a firm grip on her. When he finally got her to the side of Laura’s bed, Abby hung back, staring at the floor.

  “Hello,” Laura said.

  The child’s stubbornness surrounded her like a thorny hedgerow. Ryder nudged her, but Abby refused to speak.

  “I’m very glad to see you, Abby.” She looked to Ryder.

  Her helplessness tore at his heart. But she’d brought this on herself. She was the one who treated her own baby like an unwanted stray cat.

  In the awkward silence, Abby twisted and turned in his grasp, refusing to look at her mother. Laura fiddled with her nightgown.

  “Ah... that’s a very nice shirt, Abby,” Laura said.

  Abby darted a glance at her, taking in her bandaged face and the bulk of her plaster-encased leg. She ripped her hand away from Ryder’s and tore at the sweatshirt. “I hate this shirt! It’s ugly! Just like you! You’re ugly, ugly, ugly!”

  Laura cringed. Her eyes turned liquid.

  “Abby,” Ryder said sharply. “Hush that talk.”

  Laura caught his arm. “No, she’s right. I must be awful to look at. I’m sorry, Abby, but I was in an accident. I’ve had surgery. Did your father tell you?
”

  “I wish you were dead!” Abby raced out of the room.

  Laura covered her mouth with both hands. Tears soaked the bandages across her cheeks.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Ryder said tightly.

  She caught his arm again and held on to him with all her puny strength. “Dear God, what did I do to that baby?”

  He could not face her.

  Her voice dropped to an anguished whisper. “What did I do to you?”

  INCH BY INCH, Laura wheeled the clumsy chair through the doorway onto the balcony. The effort left her sweating and out of breath. The weak spring sunshine was worth it. She lifted her face to the soothing heat and closed her eyes. The bandages were finally off her face, and the healing skin felt as tight as stretched rubber.

  Male voices caught her attention. She pushed herself closer to the railing so she could look down into the courtyard.

  Ryder and Tom Sorry stood next to the fountain. They spoke too softly for her to make out their exact words. Laura drank in the sight of her husband. His big shoulders strained his light cotton shirt. His well-worn blue jeans fit snugly in all the right places. Lately, instead of his black felt hat, he wore white straw. His skin glowed with vitality.

  Ryder clapped the other man on the shoulder and laughed.

  Laura closed her eyes. The sound of his laughter washed over her, plucking at her heart... breaking her heart. She saw him only once a day. She had no idea what he did with the rest of his time. If they had been intimate, they no longer were. Of course, she told herself, that was only because her body was still slowly healing. Each evening, he joined her for dinner in her bedroom, but the only thing he ever talked to her about were inanities like the society pages and television. Why he found those subjects so fascinating, she hadn’t a clue, but it was better than hearing nothing at all. He’d made some attempts to bring Abby in for visits, but the little girl was so terribly unhappy, Laura couldn’t bear to force her to enter the suite.

  Ryder suddenly looked up. Even from a distance, his dark blue eyes pierced her, robbing her of her breath and her senses.

  She needed to get well as quickly as possible. Instinct said standing up to him, face-to-face, was the only way to win his respect.