She had a horrible urge to put her head on his shoulder.
They came around the cabin to a bricked patio, puddled with rain. Beyond the patio, natural grasses and early wildflowers bordered the area. A dirt path led away, about thirty feet, to a fire ring.
Six wooden benches surrounded the fire ring in a hexagon. The wet benches steamed in the sun. The fire pit waited, ready, neatly stacked with wet wood.
Beyond the fire ring, the path continued down a slope to a small turquoise colored lake. Ryder set her down, keeping his arm around her waist.
His arm felt . . . reassuring?
“We used to come out here every summer,” Pro was saying. “There’s a great fishing spot down there. Can you see?”
She could see it. She could see it all. And she wished she could stay. For a long time.
But she needed to go back to Calgary. Leaving had been a silly impulse and she never acted on impulse. Except—she sighed heavily, shoulders slumping—except for last night. And now, even though she didn’t want to go back, it was the only decision that made sense.
“You’re cold again,” Ryder said. “You should have taken my jacket.”
“I’m fine.” She tried to keep from shivering.
Ryder studied her a moment. Then he turned to Pro. “Can we go now? I’ll have time to check on the site after the hospital.”
Her breath caught as she thought about the hospital. That was second on the list of things she had to do. First she had to face her mother, who would not understand. And then her mother could drive her to the ER. She couldn’t take any more of Ryder’s time.
“You can bring me to my mother’s house. She’ll take me to the Nose Hill.”
“You mean you do what she tells you?”
Her heart stuttered. Knowing he was right, she straightened her shoulders. She did do what her mother told her. At least . . . she always had. She was the perfect daughter, and look where it had got her.
· · · · ·
“We’re here,” Ryder said.
So far he’d seen minimal damage from last night’s storm. Calgary seemed to have been on the edges. A few fallen poplar limbs littered front yards. Debris settled at the storm sewer openings. The light fluctuated and dark patches of clouds rushed across the sky, but the sun still fought its way through the gray.
He’d had to insist that she take his jacket. And then after she’d given him her mother’s Varsity Estates address, she’d snuggled under his jacket and fallen asleep. The poor thing was worn out.
Whoa. Not a poor thing. A ditzy female who didn’t know how to take care of herself. She was worse than his mother.
But . . . he had to admit, he kind of liked watching her sleep. Her dark hair curled all around her face. Her lashes were impossibly long, covering those strange green eyes.
Right.
He touched her arm and shook her.
She awoke with a start and looked around, like she didn’t know where she was. Or, like she did know, and she didn’t want to be here?
“Sit still. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He got out of the truck, jogged up the walk and rang the bell. Almost immediately, the door opened and a woman, about his mother’s age, stared out at him. Her dark hair poked out of a clip on top of her head.
“Mrs. Whitney?”
“Yes?” She smiled at him, her eyes wide.
“I’ve got your daughter here.”
Mrs. Whitney frowned.
“She had an accident.”
Mrs. Whitney’s hand went to her heart.
Christ. This was coming out all wrong. “She’s all right,” he said, reaching out to touch Mrs. Whitney’s arm. “Her car is totaled, but she’s all right.” He let go of her arm. “I’ll bring her in.”
Turning around, he saw Toria getting out of the truck. He ran down the walk and reached her just as her good foot touched the ground. “Take it easy, tiger.”
“Oh—my—God. Victoria, what have you done?” Mrs. Whitney stared at Toria’s tensored foot.
“It’ll be all right, Mom. Don’t worry.” Toria handed her mother the running shoe.
“But your foot? What happened? Can you walk?”
Ryder slipped his arm around Toria’s waist, ready to lift her. He would have picked her up right away, except―
She was shaking, and she looked pale.
“Can you walk, Victoria?” her mother repeated as she fluttered around them.
Toria didn’t answer.
So he said, “It’s a sprain. She says, it’s just a sprain.”
“Oh thank goodness,” her mother said, wringing her hands. “She’s getting married in three weeks. Did she tell you? She has to be able to walk down the aisle and―”
“Mom, I don’t know if I―”
“Of course you can, Victoria. It’s only a sprain. You’ll be all right in three weeks. You have to be. We can’t postpone now. The hall. The caterers.” She paused for a breath and then, speaking to Ryder, she added, “We’ve got the Red & White club at McMahon.”
“Mom, he doesn’t need to know th―”
Mrs. Whitney ignored her. “Greg’s mother has hired the band. Did she tell you? We’ve got a four piece band. Two guitars, drums, and an accordion player who sings. And the―”
Toria gripped his arm. “Mom. I think it’s broken.”
· · · · ·
“That’s her mother?”
Pro had driven up just as Mrs. Whitney had backed out a white Cadillac SUV from the triple car garage, and driven away with Toria. The gray sky was threatening more rain.
“That’s her mother,” Ryder confirmed.
“Taking her to the ER?”
“Yeah. Nose Hill.”
“What about her luggage?”
Pro must have noticed the extra suitcases in the back of the truck. “I didn’t think Mrs. Whitney wanted to take time to move luggage,” Ryder said.
Never mind the time. He didn’t think—in fact, he was sure—Mrs. Whitney didn’t know her daughter had taken off for Kalispell last night. Bringing out the luggage would have meant a lot of questions that Toria probably didn’t want to answer. And she probably wouldn’t have been able to explain the wedding dress either.
Why would someone who was having a reception at the Red and White Club be taking her wedding dress to Kalispell?
He shrugged. None of his business.
Maybe her father lived down there and she wanted to show him the dress? Maybe he hadn’t seen it yet?
Maybe he wasn’t invited to the wedding.
Pro stood next to him, with his arms folded. “So what are you going to do now?”
Ryder stared at the empty driveway. “Damned if I know.” The construction site would be solid mud.
“You could try to stay away from work. At least, give it a try,” Pro said. “One day won’t kill you.”
“Okay,” Ryder said. “I’ll stay away.” He didn’t like mud anyway. And then he looked at Pro. “I can help Toria get her car back to Calgary.”
“A tow truck can do that.”
“Wait a minute.” He remembered. “I’ve got her purse.” It was on the front seat of the truck. “I’d better bring it to her.” He started walking back to the street.
“Yes,” Pro said, falling in beside him, “you could do that.”
“She’ll need it. For the ER.” And then—yes― “I’ll get her address,” he said, as he reached for the door latch on the truck. “So I can take her luggage to her apartment.”
Chapter Four
Why had he come into her life now? Would she ever see him again?
Toria shivered in the car, wishing she’d taken time to get a sweater, wishing her mother didn’t need to have the air conditioning on.
Did she want to see him again?
No. He was a blip on her radar, something out of sync in her life.
She smiled to herself, rubbing her hands over her bare arms. What a silly thought. Out of sync. Like her life wasn’t already
horribly out of sync.
Silence permeated the car as thoughts raced in her head. Doubt was right up there, taking the lead, still asking the question. What if Greg was right? What if her mother was right? What if she simply had cold feet? What if she was afraid of commitment?
She crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hands in her armpits, and she thought about all the mistakes she was in danger of making. She thought about how her mother and Greg’s mother were trying to decide everything about her future. And she knew they meant well, but what was the right thing to do? Fear sucked at her. The wedding date advanced, the invitations summoned. The hall waited. Everything was in place.
Except for her.
Among all the feelings tumbling through her mind, Loneliness stood out. Always Loneliness, sitting in the back of her mind. She missed her dad so much. And then Responsibility came charging in, demanding, who will take care of your mother? It’s your job.
And it was. Her job. To take care of Mom, now that Dad was gone.
And then another voice, from somewhere far away, echoing. No. No. No! I don’t want to take care of her!
And now Guilt pounded into her thoughts. What a horrible daughter you are.
If only she could think. That’s why she was driving to Kalispell, to Aunt Glenda. To think. If only she could get some time alone and then―
“I tried to call you last night.” Her mother clenched the steering wheel.
“Oh?”
“You weren’t home.”
“No.” I was on the road, running to Aunt Glenda. Her answering machine would be full of her mother’s calls.
“Geraldine wanted to check with you. To be sure you liked the accordion player.”
Toria closed her eyes. An accordion player to sing at the wedding. The wedding. Not her wedding. It had never been her wedding.
“You’ll like him,” her mother said, in her cheerful voice. Her fake cheerful voice. And then, “Geraldine told me about the china.”
“The china,” Toria said, feeling her throat tighten. The traffic was thick near the construction, as they closed in on the hospital.
“It’s a beautiful pattern.”
Black and white, clashing angles. She couldn’t do it. Not the china. Not the accordion player. Not any of it. She didn’t want to marry Greg.
It had been a mistake. All of it. Saying yes on Valentine’s Day, after all that wine. How could she be so stupid?
But she had said yes. To Valentine’s Day, to happy memories, to trying to change everything back to the way it was when her father was still there.
“We had to get the pattern in to the bridal registry.” Her mother laughed. “I know you wanted to pick out your own china but you didn’t. You didn’t have time. The school. Always that school. Never any time. Not even for your own wedding.”
“Mom, I’m not getting married.” She felt her voice shake.
“Of course you are. You’re just overexcited.”
Overexcited. Better not get excited. About anything.
“And you’re not at the school now. That will help. It’s too bad they could only give you three weeks.”
Make it stop. “You don’t understand. I’m not getting married.” Her voice was thin and hoarse.
“And,” her mother added with her fake cheerfulness, “if you really don’t like the china, you can pick out a different pattern in a year or so. Lots of people have more than one pattern.” She signaled to turn.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“You’re doing the right thing, you know.”
Count. One, two, three, four―
“Greg is such a nice man. You could do a lot worse.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know what?”
“That I could do a lot worse.”
“Victoria, don’t be like that.”
· · · · ·
Ryder pushed the button on the parking gate, and then waited. And waited.
Finally, the useless machine spit out a ticket for him. He found a parking spot and got out of the truck. A few speckles of rain touched his face.
He’d talked to the RCMP. They would arrange for towing the Honda to Cochrane.
The automatic doors of the ER whooshed open to admit him and he stepped into the waiting room.
The air had a non smell. Not offending, but not fresh either. The air conditioning was doing its job. Beige walls, beige tiled floors. Gray metal chairs with gray fabric, set in a grid. They needed Catherine in here to decorate.
Four boys in baseball uniforms sat near the door. One of them held an ice pack on his eye.
In the next row, an old man rested with his eyes closed. A bunched up brown corduroy jacket drooped over his lap.
Two chairs down, a smartly dressed woman sat beside a little girl, maybe four years old. She wore pink overalls and held a worn teddy bear in her arms, rocking it, and crying. The woman was reading a magazine. She turned the page slowly, ignoring the child.
And then, around the post, he saw Toria sitting alone, still wearing the same clothes as last night. The pink sleeveless shirt. The jeans with the muddy hems. Her injured foot was propped on her other foot, down on the floor.
No mother, thankfully.
“How’s it going?”
“You’re back?”
He dropped her purse in her lap. “You forgot your purse.” No use telling her he was trying to prove he could stay away from a job site.
He pulled a chair around and lifted her injured foot up onto it.
She grimaced. “I’m―”
“All right,” he said. “I know.” He sat in the chair next to her.
She looked cold. He should have brought his jacket in. “I called the police.”
“You did?”
“They’ll get your car towed back to Cochrane. Then they’ll want to talk to you.”
She looked at the floor, nodding her head.
“I already told them about the potholes in the road—they know about that road. They asked me if you were drunk. I told them you weren’t.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Not when you were driving. But the peaches―”
“I didn’t know about the brandy.”
“Do you have collision on the car?”
“Collision?”
Please tell me she knows what that means.
“Yes.”
“Then your insurance company will want to get your car out of the impound lot.”
“Can’t the police tow it straight to a garage?”
“That’s not the way it works.”
“So my insurance company will get it towed to a garage?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s totaled.”
“That means they can’t fix it?”
God, she was dense. “That is what it means.”
“Then why not tow it straight to a scrapyard?”
“Your adjuster will have to look at it.”
“My adjuster?”
“You do have insurance, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. But―”
He took her purse out of her hands and zipped it open.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for your wallet.” Because it was going to take forever otherwise. He lifted the burgundy wallet out just as she pulled the purse away from him.
“You can’t do that!”
He flipped the wallet open. “I’m taking your pink card.” He found it, pulled it out. “I’ll call your insurance company. They’ll contact you. They’ll look at the car. And then they’ll tow it to a scrapyard.” He folded her wallet and handed it back to her.
“Why?”
Why? “Would you like to keep it? Sentimental value?” Is that how women did things? At least women like this? Catherine didn’t have a sentimental bone in her body.
“I mean, the Good Samaritan thing. Why are you doing this?” She paused. “Helping me.”
Finally, a good question
. “Because I don’t have anything else to do today,” he admitted. “My fiancée tells me I have trouble staying away from work. So I’m staying away.” And then he added, “For one day.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Do you like your work?”
“Love it.”
“Then . . .”
“Then what?”
She shrugged and smiled. A sort of smile. Kind of sad. “It’s funny. I like my work. Mostly. But my fiancé says I spend too much time there.”
He ran his fingers over the pink card from Loche Monne, reading her address. She lived in Dalhousie. Probably in The Towers.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a teacher.”
A teacher? “Really?”
“What do you mean—really?”
“I didn’t think . . . well―” What had he thought? “I put you more as a . . .”
“A what?”
“I don’t know.” A bimbo. “Just not a teacher. Where’s your mother?”
“Making a phone call.”
“Cancelling the wedding?”
“Not yet.”
“You sound hopeful.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
A middle-aged, overweight nurse with a big smile and an orange uniform interrupted them. “Victoria Whitney? Oh good,” she said, looking at the wallet in Toria’s hands. “Your fiancé brought your Alberta Health Care card.”
Fiancé? Did the nurse think he was the fiancé?
Amused at the thought, he watched as Toria fumbled through her wallet and handed the card to the nurse.
“You got here fast,” the nurse said, smiling at him.
Yeah, she thought he was the fiancé. A complete misunderstanding. As if he could ever be this woman’s fiancé.
“I can bring you in now,” the nurse said. “I’ll get a wheelchair.”
“That’s all right.” Ryder got to his feet. “Just tell me where to put her.”
Another big smile, directed at him. “Hospital policy,” the nurse said. “I’ll get her a wheelchair. Then you can bring her in.” She left.
“You?” Toria asked.
“Why not? I don’t have anything else to do.”
“But―”
The orange smiling nurse was back, pushing the wheelchair.
Ryder stood in front of Toria and reached for her waist. She glanced up at him for a second, then put her hands on his forearms. Cold hands. As cold as they’d been last night. He lifted her over to the wheelchair.
On the Way to a Wedding Page 5
