by Janet Dailey
Lauren’s pulse slammed. Too shaken to trust herself on the road, she pulled the Corvette onto the gravel shoulder. What she’d heard was just an ugly rumor, she told herself. Her father was far from perfect, but he wasn’t a crook.
“When reached by this reporter for comment, the Texas attorney general would only say that further investigation would be needed. But according to reliable sources, the allegations are based on solid evidence. Prescott’s colleagues in the U.S. House of Representatives and members of his own party in Texas are already calling for his resignation.”
Where was her father now? The gears snarled as Lauren swung the Corvette back onto the asphalt. If he was home, he’d be drinking, hiding from the reporters who would be waiting outside to rip him apart like a pack of yelping, snapping coyotes. Phoning him would be wasted effort. He’d probably turned off his cell and taken the landline off the hook.
Her boot stomped the gas pedal. Garn Prescott might be an abrasive, manipulating tyrant, but he was her father and he was in trouble. Wherever he was, she needed to be there for him.
Garn Prescott sat at the massive walnut desk in his study, gazing at the portrait on the far wall—a portrait of his father wearing a Stetson and holding a coiled bullwhip in one hand. Ferguson Prescott had been a brick of a man—tough, stubborn, and cunning. As his parents’ only surviving child, Prescott had never felt he was man enough to win his father’s approval. If that portrait could talk, he could just imagine what Old Ferg might say.
You’ve got nobody to blame for this mess but yourself, you lily-livered fool. You must’ve been thinkin’ with your dick when you let that female tramp lead you down the road. Well, this time there’ll be no gittin’ up and dustin’ yourself off. You’re finished, boy. I’m ashamed to call you my own flesh and blood. Hell, a dumb-ass like you doesn’t deserve to live!
Prescott poured another three fingers of bourbon in his glass and emptied it down his throat. He was as drunk as he’d ever been in his life, but an ocean of liquor couldn’t drown his disgrace. He should’ve known what Stella was the first time she’d walked up to him and held out an envelope full of cash. Now it was too late. He was ruined.
Glancing outside between the narrow slats of the closed blinds, he could see the news vans and gangs of reporters that crowded the front lawn. Like vultures in the afternoon heat, they were waiting to pounce on him as soon as he showed his face. Too bad. They could damn well wait all day before they’d get any satisfaction from him.
He poured the last trickle of bourbon out of the bottle, emptied the glass, and set it on the desk. That desk had been his father’s, as had the vintage Colt .45 Peacemaker that lay next to his hand. The gun was a classic. At least Ferg would approve of that.
One shot would end it all—the humiliation, the scandal, the misery of growing old and weak. Lauren would get all he had, which wasn’t a lot by Texas standards but enough to get by. His daughter wouldn’t mourn, at least not for long. Why should she? What kind of father had he ever been to the girl?
And Stella? Hell, he’d strangle her with his bare hands if he could. But that wasn’t going to happen. She would go on as always, weaving her webs like a spider to catch more hapless flies like him.
His father’s stolid features glared down at him from the gilded frame. Ferguson Prescott could forgive sin. But he couldn’t forgive stupidity. Do it! His expression seemed to say. For once in your worthless life, be a man. . . .
Lauren came speeding up the gravel lane to find an army of reporters waiting in the front yard. For an instant she was tempted to turn the car around and drive away. But her father had to be in the house. She couldn’t leave him alone. Slowing down and leaning on the horn, she headed the car straight for the front porch. Legs leaped and arms grabbed equipment as members of the press scrambled out of the way. But as soon as she braked at the foot of the steps, they were on her again, thrusting cameras and microphones into her face.
“Miss Prescott, how much did you know about your father’s campaign funding?”
“Have you spoken with your father, Miss Prescott? Do you believe he’s guilty?”
Fighting panic, she took the keys in her fist, set her jaw in determined silence, and pushed out of the car. It was as if she were drowning in a sea of people, shoving and jostling each other, shouting their questions to get her attention.
“Is your father in the house, Miss Prescott? What has he told you?”
Knowing it was better to say nothing than to open her mouth and lose her composure, Lauren clutched her purse and fought her way onto the porch. Her shaking hand thrust the key into the lock. The door swung open. Stumbling over the threshold, she locked it behind her.
For a moment she allowed herself to lean against the closed door and breathe until her heart stopped pounding. The house was dim and quiet.
Too quiet, even with the cook gone at this hour.
Where was her father?
“Dad?” She moved through the entry, listening for a voice, a footstep, the sound of running water or the opening of a door. All she could hear was the low rasp of her own breathing.
He had to be here. Where else could he go?
“Dad?” She made her way down the hall to his den, the most likely place to find him. The door, usually left ajar, was closed. As her hand touched the knob, a cold dread crept from the pit of her stomach into her throat. Willing herself to move, she opened the door.
She could smell the bourbon from where she stood. Red-eyed and rumpled, his tie askew, her father sat behind the desk. His left hand clutched the empty bottle. His right hand held Ferg Prescott’s heavy Colt revolver. The muzzle was pressed against his temple.
“Please don’t do this, Dad.” She took a step toward him, speaking softly. “Put the gun down. We can talk.”
“Too late for talk, Lauren.” The words slurred drunkenly. “I’m finished. Ruined. This is the only way out.”
She took another step, reaching out with her hand. “I know we’ve had our differences. But you’re the only parent I’ve got. For my sake, if nothing else, put the gun down—or better yet, give it to me.”
Something akin to madness glinted in his eyes. “You hear those bloodsuckers outside? They want t’ rip me t’ pieces. But they can’t have me. I won’t put myself through that.”
“And what will you put me through if you pull that trigger?” Lauren kept moving toward him. “I’ll be the one to see the blood, the one who has to call the police and wait for them to come.”
“I’m gonna do this, Lauren. Get the hell out if you don’t want t’ see it.”
“If you pull that trigger, I’ll be left without a father.” She felt her anger stir and rise until she was almost shouting at him. “But you don’t care about that, do you? You’ve never cared about anybody but Garn Prescott, you selfish son of a bitch!”
As his face froze in shock, Lauren flung herself across the desk. The impact knocked his arm back, shoving the gun away from his head. She’d hoped to knock the weapon out of his hand, but he was more determined than she’d realized. Keeping an iron grip on the pistol, he struggled to get the barrel in position for a fatal shot.
Belly down across the desktop, Lauren was at a disadvantage. But she fought him like a wildcat. He was as drunk with self-pity as he was with bourbon. She had to save him from this insane act that, once done, could never be undone. Mike’s death had taught her that lesson all too well.
His free hand smacked the side of her face. Pain shimmered down her jaw, but she didn’t let go. Lunging with her weight against his arm, she forced his gun hand downward, hoping to pin it to the desk. But he was too strong for her. His hand twisted, angling the pistol upward, aiming it toward his throat. His index finger tightened on the trigger.
In a surge of desperation, Lauren sank her teeth into his wrist, biting down with all her strength. She heard a yelp, a curse, and then, inches from her ear, the deafening bellow of the big revolver.
Head ringing, she collapsed acros
s the desk. For a moment she lay still, too dazed to stir. At last, knowing that whatever had happened was hers to face, she opened her eyes and raised her head.
Her father sprawled in his leather banker’s chair, his face ashen, his jaw clenched. Blood streamed from an ugly wound below his collarbone.
“Damn it all t’ hell, girl,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t you jus’ let me die?”
Lauren could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. Scrambling to her feet, she rushed around the desk, pulled the chair back, and slid him to the floor. So much blood. The den’s wet bar had a store of clean towels. After grabbing the stack of them off the shelf, she wadded them over the wound and pressed down hard. He groaned and swore.
“Hold this in place,” she said. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”
“No!” His hand clamped her wrist. “With those buzzards out front, just waitin’ for somethin’ like this, I won’t have the medics come screamin’ in to haul me away.”
“But you’re losing so much blood.” Pulling her hand free, Lauren leaned her weight over the towels, which were already seeping red. “You’ll die if we don’t get you to a hospital.”
“Then I’ll die, dammit! Rather bleed to death than give those shit-eaters a feeding frenzy!”
And he would do just that if she let him, Lauren knew. But she wanted him to live. He was her father, and time was running out.
Her purse had fallen to the floor in the struggle. Finding it within reach under the desk, she opened the clasp. One bloodstained hand found her cell phone. Whether her father liked it or not, she had to get him to emergency care.
She was about to punch in 911 when she saw the message from Sky. Taking an extra second, she pressed the key.
Lauren, I’m here. Call me.
His voice was like clear water, calming her frantic mind. In that instant there was one thing she knew. Much as she wanted to be strong, she couldn’t do this alone. She needed help. She needed Sky.
He answered on the first ring. “Lauren, are you all right?”
She struggled to keep her emotions under tight rein. “My father’s shot himself. We’ve got to get him to the hospital. The reporters are out front. Can you come around the back in your truck?”
“I’m on my way.” No questions, just enough words to say he would be there. That was Sky.
Sky gunned the pickup, raising a plume of dust behind the wheels as he flew over the rough back road. Lauren hadn’t told him how badly her father was hurt, but if Garn Prescott was refusing to let paramedics come because of the press, how seriously wounded could he be?
Sky’s main concern was for Lauren—alone, scared, and innocent of any wrongdoing. How could Prescott have laid this mess in her lap?
Through the haze of dust he spotted the stately Lombardy poplars that bordered the Prescott home. Driving closer, he could see the small army of vans, equipment, and people from the news media out front. There was even a chopper from the TV station—a chopper capable of getting Garn Prescott to the hospital in a matter of minutes except that, even if asked, they probably wouldn’t do it because of liability.
Short of the house he swung onto the road that circled behind the residence, leading to the working part of the ranch. From there he cut back toward the pool and parked outside the kitchen door. Again he called Lauren’s cell phone.
“I’m out back. Tell me where you are.”
“We’re in the den.” She sounded badly shaken. “Go through the dining room and down the hall. You’ll pass a linen closet on your right. Bring whatever’s there.” Her breath caught in a little gasp. “Hurry!”
Alarmed by the urgency in her voice, Sky raced inside, cutting through the kitchen and dining room. As he passed the linen closet he grabbed an armful of sheets and towels and rushed on down the hallway.
The door to the den was open. Partly hidden by the desk, Lauren knelt beside her father, pressing a blood-soaked towel to the front of his shoulder. Her clothes and arms were streaked with crimson.
“Thank God you’re here,” she breathed.
Sky crouched beside her, his hand brushing her shoulder. “We’ll need to stabilize him before we move him. Have you got scissors?”
“In the desk.” She stood unsteadily and moved to open a drawer. “Right here.”
He tossed her the folded sheet he’d found. “Cut the edge and tear this into strips. I’ll check the wound.”
As Sky bent close, Prescott’s eyes fluttered open. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Fletcher?” he muttered.
“Trying to save your life—and the less you talk, the better.” Sky lifted away the blood-soaked towels, being careful not to touch the bullet hole with his hands. The bullet didn’t appear to have struck a critical spot, but Prescott was in danger of bleeding to death.
After laying clean towels over the wound, Sky applied pressure with his weight over his flat hands. Prescott groaned and swore. “Feels more like you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he rasped. “An’ then you’ll take my girl . . . take it all . . .”
“Keep still.” Sky took the strips of sheeting Lauren had torn and began wrapping them around Prescott’s chest to hold the towels in place. Lauren knelt at her father’s head, lifting his shoulders so Sky could circle his back. There was no sign of an exit wound. Maybe the bullet had lodged against his shoulder blade.
Prescott clenched his jaw, glaring up at Sky with hatred in his eyes. Sky couldn’t help wondering what had happened before he got here, but that story would have to wait.
He knotted the last strip of sheet, holding the towels in place. Prescott’s face was the color of alkali dust. Clearly he’d lost a lot of blood. Somebody should have called for Life Flight, the press be damned, Sky thought. But this last shred of dignity was all the man had left.
“Can you make it to the truck?” Sky asked him.
Prescott nodded, clenching his jaw against the pain. With Lauren bracing his wounded side, Sky pulled him to his feet. His breath reeked of bourbon. Only now did Sky realize how drunk Lauren’s father must be. Cursing and reeling, Prescott allowed himself to be supported through the kitchen and out the back door to Sky’s truck, where they loaded him into the backseat with his head cradled in Lauren’s lap.
Sky passed her a water bottle. “Try to keep him hydrated. What’s the best way past the press?”
“Up toward the main barn, then cut back to the highway. You’ll see the road when you get there.”
Minutes later they were on the main highway, headed for the hospital in Lubbock. Would the congressman thank him for this rescue? Sky wondered as the aging truck’s speedometer climbed toward eighty. But why ask a stupid question? Prescott despised him for who he was and because of Lauren. Nothing about that was going to change.
At the hospital, the emergency team took over, shifting the congressman to a gurney and rushing him back through the double doors to prep him for surgery. While Lauren gave his information to the desk, Sky moved his truck to the parking lot and walked back to the emergency entrance. Glancing inside, he saw that she was still busy. That gave him a moment to leave a phone message for Will, telling him where he’d gone. The details could wait till he knew more.
When she joined him in the empty waiting room a few minutes later, he was still on his feet. Red-eyed, disheveled, and bloodstained, she walked into his arms. For a long, silent moment they held each other. She was quivering like a frightened animal, her heart pounding as he cradled her close. The tenderness that surged through Sky was so powerful that it shook him to the core. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect this woman.
“I’m here, Lauren,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you.” Her arms circled his rib cage, holding tight. She buried her face against his shirt. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come.”
“You’d have managed. You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for, Miss Lauren Prescott. But right now you’re
as shaky as a newborn colt. Let’s sit down.”
He guided her to one of the couches. While they sat with their feet up and her head cradled against his shoulder, she told him what had happened at the house.
When he heard how she’d dived across the desk to grab her father’s gun hand, then bitten his wrist in the struggle to deflect his aim, Sky was horrified. “Good Lord, he could have shot you by accident. He could have killed you.”
“I know that now. But at the time, all I could think of was saving him.”
“I don’t know what you think you owe the man, Lauren, but you don’t owe him your life.”
“Maybe not. But whatever else Garn Prescott is, he’s the only father I’ve got. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him kill himself.” A shiver passed through her body. “And then when he was losing all that blood, and he wouldn’t let me phone for the paramedics because of the press outside—that’s when I knew I had to call you.” She glanced up at him. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“He made it all the way here, still conscious and cussing. Once the doctors get some blood in him and patch up that hole, I’m betting he’ll be on his way to recovery.” Sky could speak with confidence. Earlier that spring, after being shot by Hoyt Axelrod, he’d been in far worse shape than Prescott. But the same team of doctors had pulled him through. “I take it he doesn’t want anybody to know he’s here.”
“I made sure they understood that at the desk,” Lauren said. “He’ll have enough to deal with when he gets home.”
Sky’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “It could be a while before we hear from the doctor. Why don’t you try to get some rest?”
“I don’t know if I can,” she said.
“Try it. You’ve been through hell this afternoon. You look done in.”
With a sigh of acquiescence, she nestled against him. Sky shifted his arms and body to support her, bending his head to feather a gentle kiss on her lips. “Close your eyes,” he said. “I’ll wake you as soon as there’s news.”
