by Sheryl Lynn
DAY BY DAY, Laura grew stronger.
Her physical therapist gave her a list of exercises to build her strength and ease the chronic pain in her back and legs. She made good use of the indoor swimming pool and gym.
One day, she finished her sixth lap and was clinging to the pool side, catching her breath, when she noticed Abby. Lately, she’d often see her daughter lurking, peering at her through doorways or shadowing her to the pool. Today the girl stood behind a pool chair.
“Hey,” Laura said, gasping. “Did I really do forty or fifty laps a day?”
Abby lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug.
Laboriously, Laura hauled herself out of the water. She slumped on the tiles. “Hand me that towel, would you?”
Wide-eyed, looking poised to run at the slightest threat, Abby sidled to the chaise where Laura had draped a towel. Just as cautiously, she gave the towel to Laura.
“Thanks, honey.” She daubed at her dripping hair and wet face. “Do you like to swim?”
“I like riding my pony.” Abby clamped her arms around her midsection and thrust her chin forward as if expecting an argument. “He’s a nice pony. His name is Buttermilk, just like Dale Evans’s horse. Daddy gave him to me.”
“I’ve seen your daddy riding his horse. I bet you two have fun nding around in the mountains.” She stretched out her legs and compared them. Her left leg was still thinner than the right, but muscle was beginning to add shape. “Wish I could go riding with you.”
“You said horses are icky. You hate horses.”
“Oh.”
“Your swimmy suit is funny.”
Laura had to laugh She’d gained eight pounds since leaving the hospital. It still wasn’t enough to fit her clothing. This tank suit was the only swimsuit that fit, and even it took numerous safety pins to keep it from falling off in the water.
“It feels funny, too. I think I need a new one.”
“All your clothes look funny.”
From the mouths of babes, Laura thought with a sigh. Her suite had three closets, and all of them were jammed with clothes that didn’t fit. She hadn’t a thing to wear.
She pushed upright. As long as she took it very slow, she didn’t need the cane that had replaced her crutches. “I may have to go shopping. What about you? Do you want to go shopping for some new clothes?”
Abby jumped as if touched with an electrified wire. Her face turned bright red and her eyes filled with fury. She screamed, “I hate shopping and I hate you!” Her scream echoed off the tiles as she raced out of the pool house.
Frozen in astonishment, Laura stared at the door where Abby had disappeared. Her throat tightened. Her vision blurred. She drew several deep, cleansing breaths
“Shopping,” she whispered. “All right, baby, I’ll cross that one off my list.”
RYDER CHECKED his watch. Laura and Abby were both late. He paced the length of the dining room, his boot heels clicking on the marble. He was tired of eating in Laura’s room and tired of Abby complaining that he never ate dinner with her anymore.
Laura finally arrived. Using her cane, she made her careful way to the table. Ryder resisted the urge to help her. Ever since the cast had come off her leg, she’d turned fiercely independent. She’d released her nurse. She no longer allowed Mrs. Weatherbee to bring breakfast on a tray. She spent countless hours in the pool house.
All the hard work was paying off, he noticed with a start. Although he’d canceled his appearances on the art-show circuit, he’d been busy lately, catching up on the commissions he’d neglected while Laura had been in the hospital. In a sick sort of way, Laura’s accident and the rumors that he’d tried to kill her had been great for business. Notoriety had tripled the value of his limited edition prints, and his agent was even now negotiating a million-dollar commission with a German who was an avid collector of American cowboy art. During all the craziness, he hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to Laura’s appearance.
Not even the kindest person could claim Laura was the gorgeous creature she once was, but she looked pretty good. Her hair was not quite sable like Abby’s, but dark, except for a lightning bolt of pure white following the worst scar on her skull. A soft, simple hairstyle highlighting the white streak gave her a striking appearance.
In her silk lounge pajamas, she reminded him of a yearling doe, all long legs and shyness.
He grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it away from the table. She smiled in gratitude.
Her face wasn’t destroyed, he thought. The tender pink scars weren’t pretty, but she wasn’t Frankenstein’s monster, either. He tried to conjure an image of her previous perfection. Her soft brown eyes distracted him.
“You look nice.”
Her slim hand fluttered to the base of her throat. She’d used a large brooch to close the plunging neckline. “Thank you.” She settled onto the chair and he eased her to the table.
Mrs. Weatherbee brought a tray of canapés.
Laura said, “The table is gorgeous I just love the centerpiece. You’re very clever when it comes to pine cones and ribbon.”
To Ryder’s utter amazement, the dour woman practically wriggled. The corners of her mouth tipped in a smug smile. “I rather like it myself, Mrs. H. We need some color considering all this darn snow we’ve been having. Crazy thing, having spring in February and now here it is May and we’re having winter. Hmph!”
Laura plucked at her trouser leg. “And thanks so much for taking in the waistband. They fit perfectly.”
“Any time.” The housekeeper gave Ryder a snooty look before marching back to her kitchen.
He slid a hand over the back of his neck and clutched hair in his fingers. The two women almost seemed like friends. How, why or when that had happened, he hadn’t a clue.
“I’m so lucky she’s around,” Laura said as she selected a bread round topped with smoked salmon and dill. “I had hoped I remembered how to sew, but no amount of hoping helps. If it wasn’t for her, I’d have nothing to wear. I’m sorry, Ryder, but I think I’m going to have to break down and buy something.”
“No problem.”
“You always say that, but honestly, there are tons of clothes up there. It’s such a waste.”
He scowled, unable to believe those words came out of her mouth. “You never worried about buying clothes before.”
“Obviously. Hmm, perhaps a seamstress could alter what I’ve got.” She nodded at the four place settings on the table. “Are we expecting company?”
“Tom Sorry.” Tom didn’t want to come to dinner, but Ryder had insisted. Tom had been so busy with moving the longhorns from winter to summer pasture; Ryder hadn’t had time to talk to him about the ranch.
“Where is Abby?”
“Coming around. Would you like a drink? Wine?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” She rested her chin on her hand. “I’m curious. That building out back next to the barn. You spend most of your time there. I thought this was a cattle ranch.”
He scratched the back of his head. “The only cattle are my longhorns. I use them for models. That’s my studio.” She had never liked his artwork, except for the money it brought into the house, and he never mentioned it because her dislike hurt his feelings. It hit him that she didn’t remember his art and maybe she didn’t remember her dislike. All this time, she’d apparently thought he was working cattle. “I’m an artist, darlin’. I paint.”
“Oh.” She looked to an abstract hanging on the wall. “Did you paint that?”
“You bought that in France. Same place you had the nude portrait done. I paint cowboys and such. You prefer modern art.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I have truly horrible taste, don’t I?” She sighed. “How in the world do you stand this house?”
Stunned, he laughed. “I figured you liked it. But if you don’t, then you won’t get any objections from me if you want to change it.”
“I can’t see wasting your money like that.”
He moved to
her side and touched her shoulder. The knob of bone underneath satiny fabric emphasized her fragility; a warm welling of protectiveness spread like melted butter through his chest. “I’ve got lots of money, darlin’. If it makes you feel better spending it, then go right ahead.” He wanted to laugh again. The wreck had robbed her of beauty, but had given her some character. To his way of thinking, that was a hell of a deal.
Abby sauntered into the dining room. She was strutting like an underdog contender into a prizefight ring, and the look on her face dared Ryder to say a word.
He was too shocked for speech.
Clumps of reddish mud had dried in her tousled hair. Her blue jeans were suspiciously green, and her shirt looked as if a boar hog had used it for a hankie. Her hands were black to the elbow. Her tight little grimace and glittering eyes challenged her mother to battle.
Holding her glare on Laura, she clambered onto a chair and grabbed a canape.
Laura’s nose twitched.
Seeing Abby was about to knock the platter off the table, Ryder rescued it. “Now, you look here, young lady, I don’t know what you think you’re pulling but—”
“I hate her!” Abby hollered. She snatched a plate and sent it flying. It crashed onto the marble. “I hate her!”
“That’s it! I’ve put up with about—”
“Ryder,” Laura said. She grasped his upper arm, and her slim fingers squeezed his biceps. “Please.”
He shook her off. “Young lady, you’ve stepped way out of line this time.”
Abby faced him squarely. In the months of Laura’s convalescence, she’d acquired reckless courage and she wasn’t about to back down now.
“This isn’t your fight, Ryder,” Laura said. “She’s angry with me, not you. So please, sit down. It’s about time I start acting like her mother.”
Fear tied a slipknot in his guts and jerked tight. That he had no parental rights was one thing he hoped Laura never remembered. Even Abby heard the implied threat. The skin paled around her eyes and mouth.
“Now, Abby,” Laura said, her voice calm and assured. “If you are angry with me, you can tell me you are angry with me. Are you?”
The girl fidgeted her way off the chair. She eyed Ryder uncertainly.
“Well, fine. If you don’t wish to speak to me, you don’t have to. But, just because you’re mad, you are not to break plates. We don’t do that in this house.”
“You break plates,” Abby said. Her sullen glare dared Laura to contradict her.
Laura looked to Ryder for confirmation. He’d stopped counting long ago the number of plates and lamps she’d busted. He nodded.
“Oh. Well, I was wrong, then. I apologize, deeply and truly. I will never break a plate again as long as I live. But I know I don’t come to dinner filthy. So you go wash your hands and brush that gunk out of your hair.” She held up an admonishing finger. “But first, you will tell your daddy you’re sorry for being rude.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, your daddy. He’s very proud of you and it hurts his feelings when you act naughty. You’re mad at me, not him. I think you should apologize.”
Her big eyes turned liquid and her lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Certain he must be dreaming, he murmured, “All right, sugar bear, I accept. Go wash up.”
Abby scuffled to the door. She glanced at Laura then picked up the bigger pieces of broken china. Casting her mother a last mournful look, she slunk out of the room.
Laura turned a gentle, reproachful gaze on him. “Honestly, Ryder, you spoil that child rotten. You’ve no call to lose your temper when she acts up.”
His temper.
“I appreciate so much the way you’ve taken up the slack, but I don’t know if that’s the best thing for her. I have no right to criticize because I’ve been so passive, but you’re much too indulgent. We have to set limits and stick to them. It’s for Abby’s own good. She’ll be much happier if we do. I’m sure of it.”
His cheek muscles twitched.
“Ryder? Are we agreed?”
“Ah, depends on the limits you’re talking about.”
“The usual. Regular bedtime, meals with the family, not so much television. I understand she’s quite responsible with her pony, so perhaps a chore or two around the house—”
He sat down hard. One of the first things he’d done after Laura’s accident was finally give Abby a pony. “You know about the pony?”
She raised an eyebrow. “If you mean to keep it a secret, then Abby needs to bathe more often.”
“You hate horses. You always forbade Abby to have anything to do with them.”
She shook her head in firm denial. “Oh, for goodness sake. In any case, it will be good for her to have a chore. She is in kindergarten, after all. No longer a baby.”
Tom Sorry walked into the dining room. Head down, he looked as uncomfortable as a hound dog at a wedding. He swept off his hat and held it to his chest. “Ma’am, boss. Evening.”
“Have a seat, Tom. Can I get you a drink?”
“Whatever you’re having is just fine.” He eased onto a chair and set his hat beneath it. He gave Laura a shy smile. “Looking mighty fine this evening, ma’am. I take it you’re doing good?”
Laura smiled. “I’m doing...” Her words faltered and so did the smile. A crease appeared between her eyebrows.
“Laura?” Ryder watched in alarm as color drained from her face. “What’s the matter?”
She gave a start. “Oh! I’m sorry, I, uh, excuse me.” Hot pink bloomed on her cheeks.
Ryder looked between her and Tom. The man’s expression was frozen in mortification. Ryder guessed Laura finally remembered how much she despised his best friend and how shabbily she’d treated him in the past.
Laura dabbed at her lips with a napkin. Looking at the tall, craggy-faced cowboy, she remembered vividly the way he’d once kissed her. She could almost feel her hand clasped firmly inside his and the way his calluses rasped her skin. He had swung her hand in rhythm to their walk.
“Take a ride with me in the moonlight, honey,” he’d teased.
He’d kissed her. She’d kissed him back and tasted pink bubble gum on his breath and smelled horse on his collar. She’d kissed him!
God only knew what else they’d done.
Chapter Six
If you remember...
Laura spent a restless, tormented night hearing those words over and over again.
In the early morning, she stood before the antique secretary in her bedroom and stared down at Becky Solerno’s business card. The investigator had penciled her personal home telephone number under her office number.
“Anytime,” Becky had said, “day or night. If you remember anything about the accident, call me.”
A wave of nausea left Laura shuddering. She clearly remembered walking hand in hand with Tom and listening to the self-effacing way he talked. She remembered kissing him. Whatever else had happened between them was blotted from her memory, but how dare the man, anyway! Enduring dinner with that aw-shucks hypocrite while he pretended to be Ryder’s friend had been more painful than plastic surgery, more agonizing than physical therapy.
Tom must have been the man who called her. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he had tried to take advantage of her injuries and amnesia. What a thoroughly disgusting creature.
Disgusting enough to have attempted murder?
She picked up the card, but immediately set it down.
Ryder must suspect she’d taken lovers. Which would explain why he never kissed her and had yet to return to their bedroom. Thinking about her with another man—or several men—must repulse him. She stared at a wall, envisioning her closets, which were full of sexy, clingy, trampy clothing; spike-heeled shoes, peekaboo underwear and skirts slit up to never land.
She’d been an adulteress! A cheater, a liar and a woman on the prowl.
Self-loathing curled around her like a python, squeezing her ribs and cho
king her throat. Her child hated her, she cheated on her husband, she had no friends—she wished she had died in the accident.
She picked up the investigator’s card again. Day or night...
Their probable conversation played through her head. She heard herself say, “I think Tom Sorry is the man who tried to kill me. You see, Becky, I remember he kissed me. I must have been loose and easy, a cheater. And I think he’s the man who threatened me on the telephone.”
Then Becky would reply, “So how many men do you think you slept with while married to Ryder? Is Tom Sorry the only one?”
Becky would interrogate Tom Sorry. Ryder would find out about the affair. It might be the excuse he needed to get rid of her. At the very least it would destroy his and Tom’s relationship. And all based upon what? She didn’t have a shred of real proof anywhere that the cowboy had harmed her.
For all she knew, kissing the cowboy could be another trick played by her flaky memory. Or it could be part of a dream, like the book dream, which was still making regular appearances in her sleeping consciousness.
She swept the investigator’s card into a drawer and shut it. Uneasy about whether she’d done the right thing, she limped through the doorway to the sitting room. She pulled the gold silk draperies aside. Yesterday it had snowed like crazy. Today the sun shone, burning away any trace of winter. Misty steam curled off the pastures. Moisture on the aspen trees made them glitter as if made of glass.
Lights were on inside Ryder’s studio. So, he was an artist. At least that explained why she occasionally smelled turpentine when he was around. It didn’t explain why he bored her with vacuous talk. It didn’t explain his quiet caution around her, or why he was always in a hurry to get away from her- More and more she was beginning to think he didn’t want her to remember her past.
Or maybe he wanted to forget her past. Forget her. Leave her locked inside this ugly house—isolated, ignorant, friendless and unloved.
She wanted to talk to him about her accident and their life together. She’d even risk confessing her affair with Tom Sorry if it meant bringing her and Ryder closer.
