"No," Ben said, as he broke into a run. "Norman."
The cries continued as they cut through the grove, ignoring the winding paths. A clump of chokecherry stood at the far edge, a screen between the ring road and the Grove. As soon as they'd circled it, they saw Norman standing at the edge of the road, his shirt and shorts splotched with purple and red, his bare legs splattered with bright green. His voice was taking on a tone of hysteria.
Ward decided to let Ben deal with his grandson. He motioned Gib aside, spoke in a low voice. "I thought you said you'd hid that damn paintgun."
"I thought I had." Gib peered back into the grove. "You see Tommy anywhere?"
"Norman!"
"Oh, hell," Ward said as Jennifer burst from the front door of the Blue House, "that's all we need."
By common consent, they faded back into the trees. Once concealed from the road, Gib called softly, "Tommy, you'd better come out now."
The only answer was a crow's raucous call.
"He's probably long gone by now."
"Won't do much good to look for him," Gib agreed. "That kid can hide better than anyone. Let's just hope he runs out of ammunition soon."
They followed a path back in the direction of the cookshack. "I think it's time to have a talk with Stephen," Ward said, after a while. "Tommy needs more than an occasional father. He's not a bad boy, but he's probably more than any hired nanny can handle."
Gib kicked a pinecone out of the path. "I've been thinking the same. I sure hate to stick my nose in, though. If it were me, I wouldn't want somebody telling me I was doing a piss poor job of raising my kids."
"Let Ma do it. She's real good at meddling, and if anybody's got a right, she does. It's not like Stephen has kin who can help with the boy."
"The problem is what to do with him. I suppose we could take him, but I'm not keen on the notion. Thea's shop takes all her time, and she's not making enough yet to hire full-time help. And I can't take time off right now, now with Jeff Lamarr still recovering from his coronary." He looked into the distance, and Ward could almost hear the wheels turning. "I wonder if Annie could handle him..."
"I think Ma's got another scheme for her. Let's see how Tommy does with Ben this next week," Ward told him. "We'll figure out something."
"Yeah--" Gib stopped in the middle of the path. "There he is!" He pointed toward the cookshack, where a small boy was hunkered down under a bush. "I'll take care of this."
"Be my guest." Ward watched until Gib squatted down beside Tommy, then walked on toward the Big House, wondering what else was going to happen before everyone departed tomorrow.
Crossing his fingers against catastrophe.
Chapter Twenty-two
"Oh, shit! Let's go the other way."
Evan turned at the same time she did, and fell into step beside her. "So are things weird this morning or is it my imagination?" Hildy asked him, once they were far enough away from the crowd surrounding the screaming kid and his almost-as-loud mother.
"Things are definitely weird. I've been to a lot of Gatherings, and I don't think anyone ever took off early before, unless they'd already planned to. Do you have any idea what happened with Aunt Joss and Uncle John?"
"You mean you didn't hear? It was like something out of a Grade B movie. Sex and violence and booze. Joss tried to kill Frank for fucking her precious daughter, Ben said he'd seen Joss downstairs hitting the booze in the middle of the night, and John told Gran he was taking Joss somewhere she'd be safe from all the stress of trying to live up to the family's expectations."
"Tried to kill Frank? You're putting me on."
Hildy held up her hand, palm out. "Swear to God. Didn't you see his cast? She broke his arm. Hit it with a big wood thing."
"Christ! I don't believe it."
"You calling me a liar?" Here she'd thought Evan was as close to a friend as she had in the Families.
"No, of course not. I was just stunned. It's the situation I don't believe, not that it happened. I've always though Aunt Joss and Uncle John were so damn respectable. They were the ones I worried about. Say, Serhilda, do you suppose--"
The name grated on her like it always had. With a curious sense of lightness, she realized she didn't have to put up with that any more. "Call me Hildy."
"Hildy?"
"Can you imagine being called 'Serhilda? Honestly?"
He shook his head, but she could see how he was trying not to grin.
"Les always called me Hildy, but Frances wouldn't. 'Hildy is a girlie name. Serhilda is the name of a strong woman, a warrior.' Yeah, right, as if I'm gonna be a soldier or something."
"You could be, you know. You're fast on your feet and in pretty good shape," Evan said.
"Oh, yeah, like I'm gonna march and carry a gun and maybe shoot at people. No way!"
Evan laughed. "I feel the same way. That's one reason I joined Medic Corps. I figure a good way to avoid situations where I'd have to shoot people is to go in and help those who are in need."
"You're gonna be one of those people who goes in where there's been a disaster, Ward said. Cool! Les used to volunteer with some group like that, before he got sick." She was impressed enough to forget to act bored. "In some foreign place?"
"Africa, but I'm not exactly sure where I'll be yet. They don't usually send beginners there, but I speak Swahili and a couple of other languages pretty well. So I got lucky. My assignment begins on the first of September."
"That is so cool. What made you decide to learn that language, instead of Spanish or something?"
He shrugged. "Nobody else was studying it. I used to work really hard at being different."
"That was before you came out, wasn't it?"
He stopped and glared at her. "I don't want to talk about it."
She grabbed his elbow and pulled him around. "Look at me, Evan. Look me in the eye and tell me you wish you were straight."
He aimed his face at her, but his gaze skittered away.
"See! You can't say it. And you know what?"
He shook his head, his expression reminding her of the bloodhound Les had worked with in one of his films. Sad enough to make her want to cry.
"Les said, once, that the sorriest people he knew were those who wished they were straight. When he first realized he was gay, he went kinda crazy for a while, until he got his head sorted out and decided he could live with it. That's when he stopped being fucked up and started being cool with his life." She caught both of his hands and squeezed. "It's no big deal, Evan."
"Huh?"
"Gay's no big deal. Most people don't care, and those who do aren't worth wasting your time on."
* * * *
When Annie awoke, she knew immediately where she was. What she didn't know was how she could get out of here without waking Clay. No, that wouldn't be fair. She had to tell him goodbye, to thank him for his patience, his forbearance last night. There weren't many men who would have left her to sleep, not after she'd given him every reason to expect her to go to bed with him.
She slipped a finger between the slats of the miniblinds above her head. The cool, blue light of early morning told her it was far too early to wake her host. So what am I going to do until... Wait a minute. Yesterday the sun didn't come up until I was on my way to the river. She scooted upright, tilted the blinds to let in the morning. Bathroom? Where's the bathroom? Past the fridge, she remembered.
Once she'd washed her face and rinsed her mouth out, she felt halfway human. When she emerged, a narrow band of sunlight was peeking through the window, and it showed her a coffee maker on the small counter. The coffee and filers were in the second cupboard she opened.
Fifteen minutes later the bedroom door opened. "Coffee?" Clay paused in the doorway, scratching his chest and yawning. "Do I smell coffee?"
The apprehension that had been knotting her stomach faded away. She hadn't known Clay Knight long, but she was certain he wouldn't ever insist a woman owed him sex in exchange for dinner. He'd been a comforting should
er for her to cry on, a sympathetic listener to her troubled tale. She'd been convinced that they didn't make men like this any more.
She filled a cup and handed it to him. "Are we fishing this morning?"
"Is the sun coming up?"
And just like that, she relaxed.
While he dressed, she filled the Thermos. In twenty minutes they were on their way.
"I thought we'd try a different place today," he said in answer to her unspoken question when he turned off the highway at island Park "Give you a taste of some livelier water"
"Livelier?" She didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean, livelier?"
"A few riffles, maybe even a rapid or two. Not all fish like the slow and easy life. Box Canyon will give you a different experience."
Spiders crawled in here belly. Big, ugly spiders whose sharp legs poked and stung as they scampered along her nerves. "Clay, I...uh...I'm not real crazy about rapids."
"You'll love these. Trust me."
You don't have to get in the water. You can tell him you don't feel like fishing this morning. Maybe he won't insist. Or maybe it won't be real rapids. Just a little swifter water. Maybe he's teasing.
He wasn't.
When Annie refused to get into the water, all he said was, "Fishing from the bank isn't as much fun. Try an emergent nymph. It'll work as well as anything."
The fly must have been attractive to the fish because, within the first half hour, she caught two rainbows, both over five pounds. She had to admit Clay had been right, though. Fishing from the bank wasn't as much fun. A couple of times her line tangled in branches and she had to patiently release it.
There were about fifteen other anglers within sight. When Annie's line caught a fourth time, she decided she was done for the day. She put her gear away in the pickup storage locker and dug a Coke out of the cooler in the cab. Carrying it, she walked back along the bank until she could see him, hip deep in the rushing water about twenty feet from shore.
Another woman, clad in waders and wearing the usual many-pocketed vest, was sitting on a rock nearby and she motioned for Annie to join her. "I saw you land that big one. What'd he weigh?"
"About seven pounds. He bit on a Blue-winged Olive." By now Annie had learned what sort of answers all fisherpeople wanted.
"I was using a Pale Morning Dun earlier, and had a couple of strikes. Lost the first one, but the second went about six pounds. Do you fish here often."
"I've never fished much at all before this week. My friend--that's him down there by that big rock--is teaching me."
"You're doing well for a beginner. Keep at it. Pretty soon you'll find you don't want to do anything else."
They conversed desultorily for a while longer, until the woman slipped back into the river. Annie fought drowsiness for a while, but finally her almost-sleepless night took its toll.
A shout awoke her. Annie sat up and looked toward the river, automatically seeking Clay.
She saw another fisherman wading rapidly downstream, heard him call, "Hang on! I'm coming."
The woman she had talked to was standing on the bank several yards away, half out of her waders. She was staring at the river, her face twisted with apprehension, her body tense.
Where was Clay?
Annie leapt to her feet, frantically scanning the rough surface of the river. Plumes of white showed where angular boulders broke its rapid flow.
Where was Clay?
Another fisherman was working his way downstream also, face turned toward a foaming cauldron amid a cluster of mid-stream boulders. Annie saw a flash of red within the foam. Clay's shirt was red!
"Clay!" The scream ripped through her throat. Annie did not see the woman tear off her waders. She did not feel the strong arms that surrounded her waist. All she knew was that Clay was drowning and she would not--must not--let him. She struggled to free herself, to keep him from being swept away as Calvin had been.
"He's on his feet!" Annie felt herself being shaken. "Stop it! He's safe!" The shouted words penetrated her panic. She quit trying to escape as she saw Clay's head, hair dark with moisture, appear in silhouette against the largest rock.
He waved and his would-be rescuers waved back. Annie watched while he fought the current, hardly breathing until he was back in smoother water. Smoother, but no less rapid. She had felt the river's relentless pressure against her legs in a slower reach. She knew how much strength it took to oppose it. The occasional emergent rocks told her what treacherous footing there was on its rocky bed.
Slowly, cautiously, Clay worked his way to the bank. Cursing the loose rock that had turned under his foot, his own ineptitude, and the loss of his rod, he finally reached a break in the steep, rocky bank where he could climb out.
"Goddamn it!" Feet squishing in water that had seeped into his waders, he plodded upstream, condemning to perdition each fallen tree, every angular chunk of basalt that blocked his path back to Annie.
She was huddled against a tree, arms around her shins, her forehead resting on her knees. A middle aged woman was patting her shoulder and murmuring reassurances.
Clay flashed the woman a grateful smile and fell on his knees beside Annie. He spoke her name.
The face that lifted to him was tear-streaked and tragic.
"She thought you were drowning," the older woman said, giving Clay a sympathetic smile before rising and walking away. He was torn between following, to give thanks for her solicitude, and staying, to hold Annie close to his heart. He stayed.
Annie's hands clutched convulsively at his shoulders when he pulled her against him. He whispered her name again and again until the blankness of panic left her eyes.
"I thought... I was so afraid..." she stammered.
"I know, sweetheart," he said, cupping her wet cheek in his hand, "but I was never in any real danger."
"You could have..."
"Shhh." With one finger, he wiped the tear streaks from her pale skin. "Not a chance. I'm half fish, you know." Her expression broke his heart with its desolation. "Annie, Annie, I've taken a lot worse dunkings than that. I'm still here, aren't I?" He felt a tremor go through her fragile body. "You're cold. C'mon, let's get you home. It's almost noon."
Her hoodie was damp where it had been pressed against his still wet waders. Clay pulled her to her feet and guided her to the truck. He unearthed a jacket from behind the seat and draped it over her shoulders. Intermittent shivers still shook her, but she seemed less distressed.
"The worst thing," he said, as he turned into the ranch entrance after a short, silent trip, "is that I lost the fly rod. And it was my favorite." He grinned across his shoulder at her, but she was still staring at him as if she couldn't get enough of the sight. A little humor, maybe? "Maybe it's just as well I lost it. A fly rod that lets itself get dropped is a pretty poor tool."
She didn't laugh.
Oh, well, it wasn't very funny anyway.
"The worst thing?" Annie croaked, after a moment. "The worst thing?" Was that a note of hysteria?
Clay pulled into the parking area in front of the Pink House. Tumbling from his seat, he ran around and pulled her from hers.
"That's enough, Annie, sweetheart. I'm safe. Stop crying." She clung to him, sobs shaking her body. He stroked her hair, her back, her cheeks, wetted by new tears.
Gradually her sobs quieted and the tears ceased. Clay continued to hold her, marveling at how right she felt in his arms and on his lap.
"Better?"
Annie wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, sniffed a couple of times, and nodded. How endearingly childlike she was.
"You okay now?"
She nodded and sniffed again.
"Look, Annie," he said, forcing her to look at him, "all fishermen fall sometimes. Nothing happens, except you get wet, unless you panic." He took her face between his hands, holding her, forcing her to accept the truth in his steady, calm gaze. "I had a little trouble getting my feet under me out there, but I was never in any danger. None!
"
She didn't believe him. Doubt drew her brows together, was written in the downturn of her mouth.
"Even if I hadn't been able to get to my feet, I'd have been okay. I was wearing my wading belt, so I'd have floated. All I had to do was let the river carry me along to a calmer stretch." He chuckled. "It would have been a long walk home, though."
Annie was patently unconvinced, even after he repeated, over and over again, his reassurances. No smile broke the tightness of her mouth nor did the shadows leave her eyes. Time to change the subject.
"You did well today. I saw one of those whales you caught."
The corners of her mouth twitched.
"How many strikes?" He set his foot on the bench beside her and rested one forearm on his thigh.
"Two." Her voice was lackluster and flat.
"I knew when you caught a big one. I heard you whooping and hollering, even over the noise of the river." He made a face, pretended disgust. "Whatever you did, I wish I knew your secret. I got only one strike, all morning. I tried everything--nymphs, hoppers, even a woolly worm. Nothing."
"I was excited." Annie seemed almost reluctant to admit it. She avoided looking at him.
Just as well. It was too soon yet for her to see just how much he was coming to care for her. She wasn't ready.
Damn it all! If we only had more time.
Chapter Twenty-three
Gran was setting up the coffee pot when Annie entered the cookshack. "I hope you're planning to spend some time with your family today," she said, her smile contradicting her tart tone.
"Good morning, Gran." Annie kissed a papery cheek. "Yes, I've done with fishing. I'll be here the rest of the day."
"Humph. Well, I guess I shouldn't complain. At least you're not mooning around here like a sick calf."
"Gran, I doubt you've seen a sick calf since you were a kid." She resented the implied criticism, but was determined to avoid letting Gran irritate her this morning.
"You don't know what I've seen, miss. Your grandfather and I lived in some strange places in the early years. I've not only seen a sick calf, I've doctored one."
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