Within Reach

by Marilyn Pappano

  From the locked drawer he drew out the folder marked McLaren. He had consolidated the material on Art and Krista into one neat, thick file. He spent the next hour and a half reading the pages that he knew by heart, studying the photographs that were etched in his memory.

  It wasn’t fair. This was an important case—busting Art McLaren was going to look damned impressive on Rafael’s record. It wasn’t fair that Krista had to be involved, that he had to fall in love with the suspect’s daughter, that he had to investigate her along with her dirty father.

  And it wasn’t fair that he was at his desk, his mind on work, while the sweetest, loveliest woman in the world slept in his bed. Rafael returned the file to the drawer, locked it, turned out the light and returned to his bed. To Krista.

  The next ten days were the best Krista had ever lived. She spent her days at Art’s house, working in her second-floor room, and her nights with Rafael. Art knew she was seeing Rafael, but after his initial anger he said little about it. He was too preoccupied with his business to worry about his daughter. As for Krista, she was ridiculously happy.

  Wednesday afternoon found her at work making a dress for Juana. The housekeeper’s anniversary was coming up in a few weeks, and a McLaren original would be Krista’s gift to her. It was a beautiful day, the dress was coming along well, and Krista didn’t have a care in the world.

  Then the air conditioner went on the blink shortly after lunch, and the heat began seeping through the thick walls and the doors and the windows.

  Then came Royce Ann’s phone call. “I have a message for you from Rafael.”

  Krista brushed her hair from her sticky forehead. “Okay, what is it? Is he working late?”

  “No. He said for you to stay there. Don’t go to his house until he calls you. Krista—” Royce Ann’s voice was quavering, and she stopped until it was under control.

  “Royce Ann, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “He and Jim went out today, and Jim was attacked by this illegal, and Rafael saved his life, but…he killed the boy. Oh, Krista, he killed a sixteen-year-old boy!”

  Krista turned out the lights, lit three small candles and opened the balcony doors. The air conditioner was still off, and the house was filled with stifling heat. Her light cotton skirt and tank top were damp, and her skin was slick with sweat.

  She went out onto the balcony, but it wasn’t much cooler there, and the night seemed so still and empty. She returned to her room, switching on the radio as she passed it. Music filled the air, moody, mysterious, and Krista threw herself across the bed to listen, willing her mind to stop working, to shut down completely.

  Rafael stopped his truck about fifty yards from the big house. He cut the engine, switched off the lights and sat there. He knew which room was hers; he picked it out, dimly lit and still. He stared at the open French doors, wishing she would come out, needing to see her, but unable to go to her, to ask for company, for comfort, for her self.

  Krista rose from the bed as the song ended and turned the knob to a country station. Rafael liked country music, so she was going to learn to like it. Tonight was a good time to start. It made her feel closer to him.

  So many country songs were sad, and the mournful tunes deepened her own sorrow. Rafael was out there somewhere, hurting, and he hadn’t turned to her, hadn’t called to tell her what happened, or where he was, or if he was all right. At a time when he needed someone, he hadn’t come to her.

  She was amazed by her capacity for pain. Just when she thought she couldn’t hurt anymore, the ache found deeper roots inside her and filled her again. Surely there was a limit to how much of this she could bear!

  One sad love song followed another, and Krista knew she was going to burst into tears. She wandered out onto the balcony again, leaning against the wrought-iron railing that still held the heat of the sun.

  Where was Rafael?

  Slowly the dark outline of the Bronco took shape. Krista’s fingers wrapped tightly around the railing as she leaned forward to look more closely. Her eyes squinted, then, becoming accustomed to the dark, relaxed again, and she saw the truck clearly—even the man inside.

  Rafael had come.

  She released her grip on the railing and went inside. Through her room, down the hall, down the stairs. She burst out onto the porch and hesitated there.

  He was out of the truck now, standing in front of it. Slowly he started toward her, and she raced down the steps, heedless of her bare feet. She fairly flew out to meet him, throwing herself into his ready embrace near the fountain.

  She was crying and trying to talk at the same time. She cupped Rafael’s face in her hands and placed a half dozen kisses on his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “Sí.” He gathered her against his chest, hiding his face in the fragrant cover of her hair. He held her tightly, unaware that he was crushing her, but she didn’t mind. She stroked his thick, springy hair with one hand, his back with the other, murmuring soft, meaningless words, sometimes only sounds.

  “I was so worried,” she said when he at last raised his head.

  “I—I needed to be alone.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be.” She rubbed her fingers along his unshaven jaw to his mouth, and he twisted his head slightly to bathe her thumb with a moist kiss.

  “I tried to stay away,” he admitted hoarsely, “I went out into the desert so I could stay away from you, but…I had to come.”

  She was hurt. “Why, Rafael? Why didn’t you want to see me?”

  “All I can do tonight is take. I can’t give anything. There’s nothing to give. I can only use you.”

  “That’s all right. I can give tonight, Rafael. I have plenty to give.”

  He laid his hand against her cheek, his rough thumb wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You are so good, Krista, and I…I killed someone today. He was sixteen years old, and he’ll never get any older, because I killed him.”

  “You didn’t mean to.”

  “But the boy is dead.”

  “Rafael, listen to me. I know how much it hurt you to do that—I know how much you care—but it wasn’t your fault. He was sixteen—that’s not a child, not these days. If you hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed Jim, and he would have attacked you. He knew what he was doing, Rafael. He knew.”

  Rafael tightened his embrace again. “Stay with me, Krista. Don’t ever leave me.”

  “I’ll always be here, darling, always.” She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him hard. “My father’s gone. Do you want to come in?”

  He shook his head. “I want to go home, but I can’t face the house without you. Come with me, Krista. Let’s go home.”

  Rafael took her to bed as soon as they got to the house. He hadn’t exaggerated earlier. He took her warmth and her love and her body and gave very little in return, but Krista didn’t mind. She knew he needed her. She didn’t mind giving, because when she needed him someday, he would give it all back.

  She awoke alone Thursday morning, but she could smell Rafael’s scent and feel the lingering warmth of his body on the sheets, so she knew he hadn’t been gone long. She pulled on a robe from the closet and went in search of him.

  He was at the corral with the horses, talking softly. He quieted when he became aware of Krista’s approach, and the horses protested his sudden silence.

  “Go ahead and talk to them,” she invited. “They like the sound of your voice.”

  Rafael’s eyes shifted first; then he turned his head so he could look at her. His face was expressionless, his eyes blank, giving no hint of his mood. She studied him, her own eyes clear and unwavering. He looked all right, she thought, though tired. She suspected that he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. She had tried to stay awake with him, but the warmth of their bodies and her own weariness had drawn her into an easy sleep.

  Rafael hadn’t slept well. Long after Krista had drifted o
ff he’d lain awake, remembering. When he did finally sleep he was tormented by dreams of a lifeless José Ruiz. He had awakened with a start, the softly glowing lights of the clock on the nightstand reading four-thirteen, and had decided that further sleep wasn’t worth further dreams.

  “How do you feel?” she asked softly.

  He didn’t know how he felt this morning. There was a sense of disbelief that he had actually killed someone, along with the sickening knowledge that it was true. He had been grateful to wake up next to Krista, but now he felt ashamed that she had seen him at his weakest, his most vulnerable. Once before he had claimed to be weak in his desire for her, but they had both known it wasn’t true. He couldn’t deny that last night he had needed her, needed her desperately, and he felt ashamed and bitter and defensive.

  “I’m all right.”

  The three words weren’t reassuring. Krista bit her lower lip, unsure what to say. She sensed his withdrawal, and she couldn’t understand it. Last night he had wanted her, had needed her, but this morning he seemed to be erecting some kind of barrier between them, something she could feel as surely as if it were real.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” she offered.

  He would like her to go away and leave him alone, he decided, then immediately changed his mind. He didn’t want to be alone this morning, not yet. It was too soon.

  “Rafael?” She reached out her hand, but the instant it made contact with his arm he stepped back quickly, clumsily, as if burned by her touch. A dull flush appeared beneath his high cheekbones, but he offered no apology or explanation, and Krista knew better than to ask for one. “I’ll start breakfast,” she said. “Come in when you’re ready.”

  She returned to the house, but he remained with the horses. From the window Krista watched him reach out to stroke each animal, his hands moving soothingly over their necks, and she wished he would touch her that way. Remembering how he had repulsed her own touch just minutes earlier, she shivered.

  Obviously he was still troubled about the shooting. Well, that was normal, wasn’t it? she asked herself. But she didn’t know the answer; she didn’t know anyone besides Rafael who had ever killed someone, so she didn’t know what was normal and what wasn’t. She didn’t know how it was going to affect her, if Rafael was going to draw away from her and shut her out. She was very much afraid that he might.

  The coffee was ready, the bacon was fried, and the eggs were almost done, but still he remained at the corral. Krista went to the front door, pushed it open and called his name. He gave no sign of hearing her, but after a moment he turned away from the corral and came into the house.

  They sat at the table in silence. Krista managed to eat a slice of bacon, but Rafael didn’t touch any food; he simply drank the coffee and stared out the window.

  “Talk to me.”

  Rafael looked sharply at her. What did she want? Was she expecting him to behave as he had last night? Did she want him to show her again how weak he could be? There were no answers in her face; she was looking at the ivy she’d given him long ago, her index finger lifting a limp leaf.

  “It needs water,” she remarked, then turned her gaze to him.

  Unaccountably angered, he reached across the table to the pot and jerked the plant from it, scattering clods of dry dirt over the table and their food. “I told you I didn’t have time to take care of any damned plants,” he almost snarled.

  His uncharacteristic outburst both surprised and stung Krista, but she gave no sign of her feelings. She calmly rose from her chair and carried their dishes into the kitchen, returned for the plant and placed it in a glass of water, then returned again with a damp cloth to clean the dirt from the table. Rafael grabbed her wrist, determined to draw some sort of response from her.

  “I can clean up my own messes.”

  “I don’t mind.” She transferred the cloth to her other hand and began wiping the tabletop.

  He shoved his chair back, knocking it over when he stood up. “I don’t need you cleaning up after me, or cooking for me, or feeling sorry for me. I don’t need a damned thing from you, do you understand?”

  He gave her a shake that finally made her look at him. “I understand perfectly,” she said, her voice guarded. “But I need something from you. I know that you’re upset, Rafael. I understand that. I know you need—”

  “You don’t know anything! You think you have the answers to all life’s problems, but you don’t! Tell me, Krista, how many people have you killed? How many times have you shot someone and seen them die right in front of you? You want to play the expert on what I need and how I feel, and you don’t know what in hell you’re talking about!”

  Don’t lose your temper, she counseled herself behind closed eyes. He’s hurt, and he needs to be angry. Let him say what he wants.

  “Since the day I met you, you’ve been pushing in where you don’t belong, trying to run my life. Don’t try to solve my problems, Krista. You can’t even handle your own. You’ve got a mother who ran out on you, a father who can’t stand you. Now you’ve pushed yourself on me. Don’t interfere. Don’t tell me how I feel or what I need.”

  He finally succeeded in getting the response he’d wanted. Blinded by tears, Krista freed herself from his grip without difficulty—he willingly let her go—and stumbled across the room and down the hall to the bedroom.

  Rafael felt angry and frustrated and guilty. He hurt so badly inside, and now he’d passed on some of that pain to Krista, the one person in the world who didn’t deserve his cruelty. He had selfishly used her last night, had taken everything she offered, and then had been unforgivably cruel this morning. He had no right to treat her that way, no matter how much he was suffering.

  He went down the hall to the bedroom and slowly pushed the door open. Krista had gotten dressed and was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her hands folded in her lap. A small overnight bag sat on the floor next to the bed. She refused to look at him or give in to the tears that burned her eyes.

  “Go home,” Rafael said in his raspy, tired voice. If she went home he couldn’t hurt her anymore, couldn’t say anymore horrible things, and he wouldn’t have to see that wounded look in her eyes. “Take my truck and go back to la casa grande.”

  Krista had already made her decision. She couldn’t bear the idea of going back to her father’s house; she was sure Art would have quite a bit to say about the shooting, all of it vicious. So she had called Royce Ann and asked if she could stay at her house for a few days. “Royce Ann’s coming over to get me,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at them with the heels of his hands. He had put that quiver of hurt in her voice, and he despised himself for it. Now that he was calmer he couldn’t believe that he had taunted her about her parents, that he had used things she’d told him in confidence to hurt her. If she asked him again how he felt, he would tell her. Miserable. Tortured. As if he’d been damned to hell.

  “How is Jim?” he forced himself to ask.

  “All right. You can go see him.”

  “I don’t go to hospitals.”

  Krista rose from the bed and smoothed down her skirt. “I’ll remember that if I ever come close to dying,” she coolly responded. She walked past him and into the living room to watch for her friend from the window. Rafael entered the room a short time later, but she didn’t acknowledge his presence until she saw the dust signaling an approaching car. She walked to the open door, then paused with her hand on the knob.

  “Krista?”

  She turned toward Rafael. He looked miserable, and she knew his behavior had hurt him as much as it had hurt her. She wanted to put the suitcase down and run back to him, but she wouldn’t do it, not unless he asked her to stay.

  He couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t. Until he’d worked through this anger and anguish that were eating at him, he couldn’t be with her. “I’m sorry.”

  The words sounded inadequate to his own ears, but Krista appreciated them
. She crossed the room to him, stopping only inches in front of him. “I’ll be at Royce Ann’s,” she said softly.

  He simply nodded.

  “I love you, Rafael.”

  He pulled her into his arms for a fierce kiss that ended as quickly as it began. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Royce Ann was waiting for her at the car. “Is Rafael awake? I wanted to thank him….” Her blue eyes had dark smudges underneath from a restless night.

  “This isn’t a good time, Royce Ann. Maybe in a couple of days.”

  “You want to talk about it?” Royce Ann cast a sideways glance at her friend, trying to read something, anything, in her face.

  “No, not right now.”

  After the car drove away Rafael went out on the porch. The screen door banged a few times behind him before becoming still. For a minute he stood motionless, forcing taut muscles and nerves to relax. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence of the house, to the beat of his heart and the slow steadiness of his breath.

  He was alone. He’d pushed Krista away at a time when she’d wanted only to be with him, to help him. He had hurt her, and she’d left him, but it was better this way. As long as she was gone he couldn’t hurt her anymore. But he knew she would be back.

  He was glad she had gone to Royce Ann’s house instead of back to her father’s. He wanted Krista away from her father, completely uninvolved. That way Houseman and Thompson couldn’t order him to pump her for information on Art, and maybe the distance between her and her father would ease her pain when he was arrested. And when it was all over, when she found out about her father and Rafael, about the investigation and the drugs and the lies and the deceit, she would need a good friend like Royce Ann.

  She’d been gone only minutes, and already Rafael missed her. When he’d dealt with his problems and she came back to him, he would do everything in his power to make sure she never left again. He would give her everything she needed to be happy.

  Most of all, he would love her.

  Chapter 11