Country Roads

by Nancy Herkness

  Slamming the ’Vette into a parking space, Paul raced through the doors to the emergency room and strode straight to the admittance counter. For once he blessed living in a small town because he knew the woman behind the desk. “Afternoon, Iris. Can you tell me where my nephew, Eric, is?”

  She scanned the computer screen. “Room F. Go through those doors, and take a left.” She looked back up. “He’s going to be okay. No anaphylactic shock, no trouble breathing. Dr. Bhattacharya’s treating the bee stings now.”

  “Much obliged,” he said, some of his fear draining away.

  He walked through the doors and down the corridor, reading the signs beside the doorways. As he approached Room F, Jimmy’s voice carried clearly to his ears. Paul slowed to listen. “I had tweezers in the first-aid kit so I got Lisa to pull the stingers out while I drove here. I told her to clean the welts with the sanitary wipes and put some ice on them.”

  “I couldn’t have treated him better myself,” a voice with a faint British accent said. Dr. Bhattacharya.

  “I took a first-aid course before we went camping last year,” Jimmy said. “I even bought an EpiPen, but I told Lisa not to use it unless Eric had trouble breathing.”

  Paul stopped. Jimmy had studied first aid? This was news to him.

  “Has Eric ever had an allergic reaction to bee stings?” the doctor asked.

  “Nah, just the usual. But he stirred up a nest this time and got stung pretty bad, so I figured I’d better bring him here.”

  “Ow! Sorry, ma’am, but that hurt,” Eric said, and Paul smiled and leaned against the wall, his head cocked. His nephew’s voice sounded strong and slightly irritated.

  “My apologies,” Dr. Bhattacharya said, “but I have to count the number of stings, just for our records.”

  “There’s about a million,” Eric said. “And they itch.”

  Dr. Bhattacharya chuckled. “You’re getting an intravenous antihistamine for that. You’ve already had the epinephrine injection, so I’m going to take you off oxygen. However, we’re going to keep you here at the hospital overnight, just for observation.”

  “You mean I can’t go back camping?” Eric’s voice sagged with disappointment.

  “We’ll find another weekend to go,” Jimmy said.

  The last of Paul’s worry ebbed. If Eric was ready to get back to his tent, he couldn’t be feeling too bad.

  The doctor gave a few more instructions and left the room, heading for Paul. He pushed off the wall. “Dr. Bhattacharya, I’m Paul Taggart, Eric’s uncle.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I overheard what you said in there.” He nodded toward the room. “Just tell me what the prognosis is.”

  “Eric’s father knew exactly how to treat the stings, so there shouldn’t be any infection. I’m keeping the child overnight because the swelling and discomfort may worsen, and we can handle that better here. If there hadn’t been ‘a million’ stings,” she smiled, “I’d send him home now.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  The doctor continued past him and Paul ambled into Room F, his brain working furiously to process this new perspective on his brother.

  Jimmy jumped up from the chair beside the bed. “Paul! You didn’t have to come.”

  “I know. You’ve got this under control.” Paul held his brother’s gaze to let him know he meant it. “But Terri was worried, so I said I’d check in.” He reached out and ruffled his nephew’s hair. “First a skunk and now a swarm of bees. Maybe you should give up camping.”

  “No way!” Eric said. Paul winced inwardly as he saw the masses of angry red welts clustered on the boy’s skinny limbs. “I won’t get into bees again because now I know what they sound like.”

  “He heard a weird noise and decided to go find out what it was without telling anyone,” Jimmy said, subsiding into the chair. “Next thing I know he’s hollering that he’s being attacked. I’ve never run so fast in my life.”

  Paul dropped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Good thing you were a sprinter in high school.”

  “I’m out of training,” Jimmy said. “It felt like it took forever to get to Eric.”

  Paul gave Jimmy’s shoulder a squeeze before he dropped his hand. “Next thing we know he’ll be bringing a bear cub back to camp with its angry mama in full pursuit.”

  “Pa says never to get between a cub and its mama,” Eric said. “You’ll get eaten.”

  “Your pa knows what he’s talking about,” Paul agreed. “Well, bub, looks like you’re going to live, so I’m going back to work.”

  Jimmy looked up in surprise. “You’re not staying?”

  “You don’t need me,” Paul said, the truth of his statement nearly making him light-headed.

  The two brothers looked at each other in silence. Jimmy straightened in his chair. “I guess you’re right about that,” he said, his blue eyes lit with pride.

  Paul walked out of the emergency room doors into the sunshine and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the soft summer air. He felt so light he might just float away, swimming through the puffs of white cloud above him.

  His nearly overwhelming impulse was to find Julia. He had to tell her she was right to believe people—and horses—could change.

  Since she’d been right about that, he was going to trust her about being cured of epilepsy too. Of course, he was still going to be careful. He shook his head. That was exactly why she’d refused to tell him about her condition. He grimaced as he realized she would never give up riding Darkside. That would be his private cross to bear.

  As he walked slowly to his car, head down, hands shoved into his pockets, he remembered the disaster of their last meeting. When she said the word seizure, guilt and horror at what might have happened to her had overwhelmed all rational thought. All he could think of were the fast and furious motorcycle rides he’d taken her on, and the guilt had made him turn ugly.

  She’d been right about how he would have treated her if he’d known about the epilepsy. He would have wrapped her in cotton wool just like her uncle did. Hell, he still wanted to. So he had to change. Even more important, he had to convince her he could.

  Chapter 32

  THERE, YOU LOOK fabulous,” Claire said, putting down the makeup brush and adjusting one of the jeweled chopsticks holding Julia’s loose bun in place. “Take a look.” She gestured toward a large mosaic frame that contained geometric pieces of silvered glass held in place by lead strips.

  Julia walked over to the art mirror and planted herself in front of it. The shimmering copper-colored triangles of her Villar blouse fell over slim-fitting brown suede slacks. Her feet and calves were encased in the fantastically expensive embroidered chocolate-brown boots from the Laurels. She wore her chunky amber earrings and necklace on their swoops of silver along with a wide silver cuff Claire had loaned her. With her hair swirled up on top of her head and the slightly dramatic makeup job Claire had given her, she had to admit she looked like a successful artist.

  A miserably unhappy successful artist.

  She stuck her chin up and squared her shoulders. People she cared about had worked very hard to make this reception happen and she was not going to let them down by moping. Forcing the muscles in the corners of her mouth upward, she turned back to Claire. “Look out, Paxton Hayes.”

  “Just remember our strategy for handling him and you’ll be fine.”

  Davis Honaker, Claire’s partner in the gallery, bustled into the office. In his white linen suit, he was the archetype of a southern gentleman. He rubbed his hands together. “The bar’s set up, the canapés are arranged, and Darlene’s by the door with the guest list. She’s a little grumpy because I made her spit out her chewing gum.”

  Claire stood up, smoothing her palms over her black satin trousers. The sleeves of her turquoise silk blouse fluttered as she moved. “I’ll get the music started.”

  Julia narrowed her eyes as she realized Claire might be nervous too. She was trying to think of s
omething reassuring to say when Tim walked in, wearing a charcoal-gray suit that had obviously been tailored for his big frame. Julia’s mouth nearly fell open as she took in the transformation. She watched husband and wife’s eyes meet and stopped worrying about Claire. The other woman had all the support she needed.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Tim said, kissing his wife on the forehead. “I had an emergency surgery on a golden who ate a pair of socks.”

  Julia choked on a nervous laugh and Tim swung around to look at her. He gave her one of those slow, warm smiles that made her understand why Claire had fallen for him. “You look mighty fine,” he said. “Just the way I picture an artist about to take the art world by storm.”

  “Where is everyone?” Sharon’s voice boomed down the hallway.

  “Back here in the office,” Claire called, “but it’s getting a bit cozy. We’ll come out there.”

  The group moved into the gallery. Julia got a quick look at the bar gleaming with glassware and colored bottles, where one black-clad server deftly pulled a cork while his five colleagues chatted quietly. Sharon strode up to her, dressed in dark pants and a white silk blouse, a large, brightly patterned scarf draped over her shoulders. “I’ve got something I need to tell you,” she said, taking Julia’s elbow and steering her into the corner near Darkside’s portrait.

  Sharon paused as the painting caught her eye. “Now that’s a right good picture of Darth Horse.” She turned back to Julia. “Which brings me to my reason for coming early. I want you to have him. If you’re going back to North Carolina, I’ll ship him down to you.”

  Julia was flabbergasted at Sharon’s generosity. “But he’s a Thoroughbred stallion. He’s very valuable.”

  Sharon shook her head. “He’s not worth a plugged nickel without your influence. Although if you’d let me breed him to a couple of my mares, I’d be right grateful. Now that I’m sure his meanness wasn’t born in him, I think he might have some pretty good potential as a sire.”

  “I’m accepting your offer only because he’s my whisper horse and I need him as much as he needs me,” Julia said, tears blurring her vision. “But I’ll find some way to repay you.”

  “Hon, you repaid me by turning that horse around. I hate to see a good animal ruined by a bad human.”

  The elegant sound of classical music swelled through the room, interrupting their conversation.

  “Sorry,” Claire said, as the music’s volume decreased. She stepped away from the bar and walked toward Julia. “While I have everyone’s attention, I’d just like to remind you all to enjoy yourselves. Yes, we are hoping to sell Julia’s paintings, but this is not really about business. It’s a celebration of the growth of an artist whose work I have loved for a long time. Now I’ve come to love the artist herself too.” Claire held out her hand to pull Julia into a hug. “I can’t wait to share both with people who will appreciate them.”

  “You and Sharon are trying to make my mascara run,” Julia said gruffly as the others cheered and applauded.

  Davis consulted his watch with a flourish. “It’s showtime. Darlene, you may unlock the door.”

  Disappointment dragged at Julia. Neither Paul nor Carlos was here. She did the chin-up, shoulders-back routine again as the first guests strolled through the door.

  “Let’s get into position,” Claire said, walking to the place where people would turn to enter the circle of paintings. “Kate and Randall, so nice of you to come down from New York. I’d like you to meet Julia Castillo, one of my favorite artists, as you know.”

  Julia smiled and shook hands with one well-dressed art patron after another. Some were familiar with her previous work and complimented her on it; others were being introduced to her Night Mares without prior acquaintance. The experience of being the artist of the moment was not unpleasant, although she was beginning to wish she had forced down some food before she came. Her stomach was growling noticeably, and a hunger headache lurked behind her forehead.

  “Your uncle’s here. He must have come in the back door,” Claire said, smiling and nodding in the direction of the bar. “Why don’t you go see him while I take care of the latecomers?”

  Julia skirted the outside of the panels to reach Carlos, who stood chatting with two women. He wore another of his power suits, this one with a burgundy shirt and black-and-gray striped tie. His companions, both of whom were young and attractive, were laughing delightedly. A little smile tugged at her lips; Carlos was an accomplished flirt.

  “Hello, Tío,” she said, greeting him with an air kiss on each cheek.

  “Mi Julia!” He swept her into a warm hug, which she returned heartily as a rush of love for the man swept through her. He held her away by her shoulders. “Your show is a triumph. I have been eavesdropping on the conversations around me. I am a wrongheaded old man.”

  “Wrongheaded maybe, but not old,” she said, smiling.

  He excused himself from his company and walked her over to a quiet corner. “I see you here, surrounded by people who respect and admire you, looking so beautiful, and I understand I have hidden you away for too long.”

  Julia shook her head. “You gave me time to prepare for this. I wasn’t ready before.”

  “So now I must step back and let others carry you into the future.” He gestured around the crowded gallery. “I am proud to have been part of it.”

  “You’re still part of it, part of me,” Julia said, touching the spot over her heart. “As exciting as all this is, I kept wondering where you were. I wanted to share it with you.” And despite all their problems, with Paul, but he must have decided he couldn’t bear to see her after all.

  Carlos cupped her face between his hands. “You are a good girl, mi querida. And a great artist, of course,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Mr. Castillo, a pleasure to see you,” Claire said, offering her hand to Carlos. Julia watched in amusement as he raised it to his lips and Claire looked coy. She recovered quickly, saying to Julia, “Paxton Hayes just arrived. He’s in the circle of Night Mares now.”

  Julia tried to peer through the crowd. “Does he look like his blog photo?”

  “If you add ten years and glasses,” Claire said. “He’s very tall and thin.”

  “Let me guess. He’s wearing black,” Julia said.

  “He’d be drummed out of the society of New York art critics if he wasn’t. Ah, there he is, headed for Darkside’s portrait. Might as well go hear his verdict.” Claire headed toward the scarecrow of a man standing in front of the single painting.

  Julia followed, running through the possible scenarios she and Claire had discussed. Neither one of them expected Hayes to tell them what he really thought, but Claire wanted to feed him certain information and hope it made its way into his blog.

  Just before they reached him, Claire halted and put her mouth next to Julia’s ear. “You should know that three of your paintings have sold already. I’m reserving one for Tim now that everyone else has had their chance to make an offer. And several people have given Belle sealed bids for the auction of Darkside’s portrait tomorrow night.”

  Elation flared, temporarily banishing the misery of Paul’s absence. She savored the knowledge that her crazy last-ditch pilgrimage to Sanctuary had been justified. She pumped her fist.

  Claire’s musical laugh rang out. “Exactly.”

  The sound brought Paxton Hayes’s head around, and Claire put her hand on Julia’s back to move her toward the critic. “Paxton, you and Julia have already met by telephone, so you don’t really need an introduction.”

  “Still, it is an honor to shake such a talented hand,” Paxton said, surprising Julia with a firm, warm grip.

  “Thank you for traveling here on such short notice,” Julia said.

  “So, I have to ask,” he said, “are all of these paintings the same horse?”

  “Yes and no.” Claire had predicted this question and told her to be honest, even if it sounded farfetched.

  He raised an eyebrow
.

  “The horse in the Night Mares came from in here.” She tapped her temple and wished she hadn’t, as it set her headache throbbing harder. “It kept coming at me and coming at me, so I kept painting it. Then I came here and found my Night Mare in the flesh. Turns out he’s a stallion, but Night Stud didn’t sound quite right.”

  Hayes’s lips thinned into an almost smile. He nodded toward Darkside. “So this is the real horse.”

  “Up close and personal.”

  “Interesting story,” he murmured, his eyes on the portrait. “The Night Mares are all about power and fear. This one is subtle.” He turned back to Julia. “Quite a range.”

  “Thank you,” she said, although she wasn’t clear if it was a compliment or not.

  A rise in the volume of conversation made all three of them glance toward the front of the room. Julia gasped when she saw Paul cleaving through the crowd, headed straight toward her. As he passed, people looked him up and down and turned back to their companions to comment. She understood their agitation because he was dressed in his leather motorcycle jacket, faded jeans, and heavy black boots. He carried two helmets and another leather jacket. He paid no attention to the disturbance behind him, his eyes never leaving her face.

  The room tilted, and the voices faded to a murmur. She fought against it, locking her gaze on Paul like a lifeline, but she felt her knees begin to buckle as blackness closed over her.

  Paul shoved a tall, thin man out of the way and caught Julia just before her head would have banged onto the floor.

  “Julia!” Carlos pushed through the crowd and knelt on the other side of his niece’s limp body. He tried to take her out of Paul’s arms, but the younger man held on as he lowered her gently to the floor. Carlos pushed at his hands, saying, “She has—”

  “Fainted,” Paul interrupted, giving Carlos a level stare before he lifted Julia’s head and slipped the folded leather jacket under it.

  “No, she’s having a—”