by Nina Barrett
The driver of the Humvee had finished his conversation and was pulling away. He shifted gears and moved up to where the ranger was standing patiently, clipboard in hand. Outside the ranger station, two wild burros tugged at clumps of weeds beside a twisted Joshua tree.
He lowered his window.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, sir. Welcome back.”
“Thanks. It’s been a while.” He took the clipboard, signed his name and the time, and showed his identification.
“Thank you, Mr. Marco. I see you’ll be heading over to the Calico Hills area.”
“Right. I’ve got my climbing gear packed. Many visitors today?”
“I’ve checked in two female climbers so far. You should have a straight shot. How’s your water situation?”
“I’ve got some to drink before I start and more to take with me.” He nodded at the cooler beside him.
“Sounds good. Well, enjoy your day, sir.”
“Thanks.” He raised his hand and let the car roll forward onto the loop road that circled the preserve.
He’d discovered the popular nature reserve on the Mojave’s eastern edge shortly after arriving in Vegas. Ten years of army conditioning had left him with no desire to go soft. And demanding physical exercise had helped keep his mind off other things.
Like his missed chance with the slip of girl who’d set his pulse racing years ago, like no one before or since.
The series of colored cliffs dubbed the Calico Hills lay just a mile past the visitors’ center. A favorite for local rock climbers, he was lucky he wasn’t standing in line behind other weekend athletes taking a break from Vegas’s better-known attractions.
He coasted off the road into the pullout and parked. He popped the trunk and found a bottle of water in the cooler. He took his time with it, letting the water in his mouth warm to body temperature before swallowing.
The sun was high enough now to display how the cliff’s red Aztec sandstone contrasted against the frosted gold limestone below it. Strata descended in rippling bands of pinks, yellows, and purples downward to where stunted aspens and bristlecone pines clung to a borderline existence among cliff debris.
On the cliff face, he watched a climber make her way upward. At the base, another climber looked over to wave at him as he got out. He waved back, glancing up, his senses tingling as a shadow passed overhead. A golden eagle? He shaded his eyes to watch it sweep in a wide circle. Objects in the distance shimmered as waves of heat rose from the desert floor.
Centuries before the area had been a lush grassland. Once he’d hiked the Sandstone Quarries trail to see the Indian petroglyphs in Brownstone Canyon that depicted an ancient hunt for Bighorn sheep when rain had been more plentiful. Nowadays, the dry desert vegetation managed to support scavenging populations of gray fox and coyotes along with scorpions, Gila monsters, and several kinds of rattlesnakes.
He collected his gear from the trunk, added two bottles of water to his utility belt, and pulled on his fingerless climbing gloves. Cinching the neck strap to his helmet, he closed the trunk.
The second female climber had begun her assent. Both women were tackling one of the higher sections where the cliffs topped out at over two thousand feet. Needing to be back in town by early afternoon, he had already decided to try a shorter climb.
He hiked over the broken escarpment to the base of the section he’d selected and surveyed it. Not as high as other parts, it still offered challenges. About two-thirds of the way up, the limestone face sloped outward, then back inward just above forming a natural ledge. He wasn’t real familiar with it and it’d require some careful maneuvering.
He uncapped one of the bottles, took a long slow drink, and wiped his forehead. Taking his time to finish most of the water, he plotted his way up. Putting the bottle back in his utility belt, he felt for the first handhold. Still morning, the rocks were reflecting the Nevada heat.
The first part shouldn’t have been difficult, but it required more effort than he remembered. A month away from climbing showed. He concentrated on finding handholds and footholds as he inched upward. Nearing the ledge, he secured himself to the rock wall and finished his first water bottle. Sweat stuck the shirt to his back. He took the opportunity to wipe his face and neck.
He looked up, analyzing what lay ahead. The easiest course up had brought him to six feet below the outcropping. Now he’d have to start moving laterally, stopping to secure his rope before hauling himself around the remainder.
He moved up sideways, secured his line over a protruding rock, and tested it. His fingers and nails were showing the effects of the climb. Maybe when he got back to the Imperial he ought to swing by the spa. Skin like sandpaper sure wasn’t going to get him anywhere with—
Hell! He gasped, holding his breath as the rope above him suddenly frayed and sent him lurching awkwardly. He had seconds to decide—swing for the ledge or belly slide down the jagged cliff face.
His feet caught the edge, one slipping off as he propelled himself forward sprawling onto the ledge, hands scrambling for something, anything to hold onto.
Most of his body was off the slanted outcropping. Limestone. How long would it hold two hundred plus pounds before crumbling? Would moving make it better or worse? He hadn’t seen anyone else since he’d started his climb. Were the two female climbers finished and gone? Would anyone hear him if he yelled?
The arid silence swallowed up his cry.
“C’mon, Marco, remember your Ranger training—think, assess the situation, maximize your resources.” He shut his eyes and counted his heartbeats until they slowed.
Slowly, he reeled in his fraying rope. It caught momentarily before the final fibers snapped where it had separated. He didn’t have much. He couldn’t finish scaling the rest of the cliff or dare working his way down without a rope. The damaged shards of his cell phone prodded his groin. Not that he’d be able to get reception out here anyway. He undid his belt and edged the empty water bottle out, careful to limit his motions. With the downward tilt of the ledge, a wrong move could send him rolling out of control. Tying the end of the belt around the bottleneck, he secured the other end to the frayed fibers of the rope. Plastic would glitter in the bright sunlight. He lowered the rope over the crumbling rock edge and let it swing. Movement and noise were what attracted attention in the wild. A shadow passed over him. Hopefully, it wasn’t a buzzard scouting out his next meal.
Time was slipping away. At sundown, the park closed. Then someone at the ranger station would realize he hadn’t signed out, come looking for him, and find his car. But, by then, he’d have missed picking up Cinna for the banquet. No use to dwell on that now. The rough limestone was doing a number on his face. A drop of sweat made its way down his cheek. He captured it with his tongue, the saltiness actually tasting good. It was clear dehydration was setting in. There was still the second bottle of water. If he paced himself, he could make it through the heat of the afternoon. Surely, the Park Service would find him before the evening chill caught him exposed on the rock.
Swing, sway. C’mon, someone, notice. He let the rope play out.
The pain in his chest was real and getting worse. He took shallow breaths. Hopefully, he hadn’t collapsed a lung. He swung the belt against the rocks and glanced at his watch. Maybe he could take a sip now. The sun, overhead in a cloudless sky, was blazing down. Had he stopped sweating? Not a good sign.
He edged the remaining bottle toward him, tucking it against his shoulder and working off the cap with his free hand. His hands were rough now, his fingers growing numb. The cap didn’t want to move. His throat hurt to swallow. He gave a quick twist.
Shit! The bottle slid away from him, rolling to the edge. He made a final grab for it, speechless with pain. His fingers grazed it as it caught on the edge and cartwheeled off. Droplets of water were thrown up mockingly, spiraling into the air. He shoved his bleeding hand against the limestone to keep his momentum from following it.
Relax, r
elax. He put his head down and closed his eyes. Concentrate on just breathing. He found himself slipping in and out of consciousness, losing track of things. Where was he? Somewhere hot, dry…Afghanistan?
Just breathe. Breathe. Slow and steady, Dougherty. Don’t force it. We’ve all got to ride this out. Wait on help. You know they’ll be coming. We take care of our own. Come on, kid. Hang in there, buddy. The helicopters should be almost here. Think about home, going home. Think about the green hills back home. The rescue helicopter…
There was noise somewhere. He shook himself. Not a helicopter. It had come in time for him, for the rest of them, but not for Dougherty. His platoon would be rotated stateside, but Dougherty would return home to the green hills of West Virginia another way.
Somewhere below there was noise and a shout. He shook his head. He had thought his flashbacks and nightmares had ended once he’d gotten out of Walter Reed and made a new life in a new place.
“Marco, Marco, is that you?”
He gritted his teeth against the pain and drew a shallow breath, the effort filling his lungs with flame.
“Marco! Marco?”
“Polo!” he screamed once before he fainted.
Chapter Nine
Magdalena stood against the bedroom door, bracing it with her back, her dark eyes widening.
“Well?”
Her roommate held up a finger and waited an instant before she spoke.
“Cinna, the only way that man could look better in that tuxedo is if he were taking it off.”
“What happened to David? I thought he was the one who was setting your heart aflutter.”
“Just because I’m smitten doesn’t mean I’m blind, girl,” her roommate said.
Cinna put the comb down and smoothed the fall of the gold lamé dress over her hips. “The more I fool with my hair the more curls I end up with. So what do you think?” She turned to face her friend.
“The pair of you are going to stop traffic. Those honey-butter highlights we added to your hair are just the finishing touch. Here.” She handed her the clutch purse from the dresser. “You may not consider the two of you a couple, but everyone at the convention center will.”
She started to reply, but Magdalena interrupted her as she reached for the doorknob.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Not a couple, not dating, not interested, right!”
She caught her breath as Magdalena held the door for her and Tom turned to greet her. She stopped dead in the doorway buying a minute to compose herself as she fiddled with her skirt.
The midnight-black tux hung on him like it had been custom-tailored. Maybe it had been. As manager of one of the newest and hottest properties in Vegas, he probably had any number of social black-tie events to attend. And she was wearing a dress from a secondhand shop. She automatically extended her hand as he held out his.
He tilted his head, regarding her as he drew her toward him, a smile deepening at the corner of his mouth. The green glint in his eyes that had once haunted her dreams was back.
“You look wonderful.”
“So do you.” She flushed and bit her lip. “I mean…”
“Yeah, it’s a little like prom, isn’t it?”
“I wish I had a camera to take a picture of you two kids.” Magdalena leaned against the doorframe grinning. “But the photographers at the banquet should love you.”
Damn, it wasn’t fair how the tuxedo accentuated the dark line of his brows and lashes, the intensity of his eyes. The sun-brown of his hair seemed infused with gold tonight while the strong planes of his face, even the crook of his nose made an interesting juxtaposition against the simple elegance of his tux. She needed to get out of the apartment. Maybe on the street she could grab a breath of fresh air.
Oh, no, he was watching as she fanned herself with a hand.
“So what are your plans for tonight?”
Tom broke off his gaze to look over at Magdalena who was regarding them with a mischievous grin.
“The ugly stepsister? No ball for yours truly. I’m going back to the shop to help close. My friend from the Silver Strike is pinch-hitting for us along with David Witheroe.”
“Your tea scout? So he made it to town.”
“Last night. He was nice enough to offer to stay with Barbara this afternoon. After we close, I may take him out and show him some of the local sights to thank him.”
“Wait a minute.” Tom reached into his suit coat and took out his wallet. Extracting a business card, he found a pen. “Here, why don’t you take him to dinner at the Imperial? My treat for all you’ve done for Cinna and me.” He wrote a few words on the card and handed it to Magdalena. “Give this to the maître d’ at the Reserve and he’ll find a table for you. It’s got a view of the city that can’t be beat.”
“Thanks, Tom. Well, it looks like a good time for all tonight. I’ll be crossing my fingers for you two.” She winked at Cinna as she held the door for them.
“Don’t hurry home!” Cinna heard her call as they started down the stairs.
In the car, she pushed her hair up off the nape of her neck to cool herself. The sweltering humidity wasn’t helping. Her curls felt damp. She shook her hair out as Tom opened his door and took his time lowering himself into the XK, settling himself in and taking a deep breath.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, fine. Thank God for air conditioning.” He adjusted the controls on the dash.
It seemed she wasn’t the only one feeling the heat.
He shifted gears and pulled out into the street. His hand on the gearshift was inches from where her dress fell away from her bare knee. Her skin still tingled from the heat of his hand on the small of her back as they descended the stairs, his fingers running down the inside of her elbow as he helped her into the car.
“I think I see lightning over there.” He pointed in the distance. “We may be in for some weather later.”
“Is this the right time of year? I haven’t adjusted to life in the desert yet.”
“The end of it. Most of Vegas’s moisture comes in the spring.”
“What brought you out here to live?” Talk to Tom, Magdalena had urged. Give the man a chance for heaven’s sake. Find out what he’s like now. People do change, you know.
“I had two tours of duty in Iraq, one in Afghanistan. The last one ended early, but I’d gotten used to a hot, dry climate.”
“Mr. McMasters said you were wounded.”
“Not as bad as a lot of the guys. Anyway, one winter in D.C. was enough to persuade me I wanted warmer temperatures when I got out.”
“So Vegas?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t like I had a hometown to go back to. Des Moines was probably as much of one as any place I lived. After the service, I had the idea I could play cards while I looked around for something permanent. It didn’t take long to figure out I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. There’s better money to be made working at a casino than playing in one for most of us.”
He was quiet as he negotiated his way onto the highway.
“Have you been to the convention center, Cinnamon?”
She shook her head. “With Magdalena and I running the business ourselves there just isn’t free time for much else. Even when the shop is closed, we’re busy re-stocking, trying new varieties. I did get down to the Strip.” She caught her breath. “I was at the Cote d’Azur the other day for lunch.”
“It’s a lot of work to get a business going.”
“More than I was aware of when I moved out here. My parents, and I guess most everyone, thought it was pretty hair-brained. That’s why the question about our Celestial Harmony blend threw us for a loop. We’ve put so much time and all the money we had between us into SpecialTeas, especially Mags. This whole thing has been her brainchild.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Cinna.” His long, warm fingers found hers, caressing the inside of her wrist, her hand enveloped in his as it lay alongside her thigh.
Come on. This wasn’t t
he kind of thing two non-dating people on their way to dinner did. She closed her eyes. How long had it been since a man had touched her? Did it show how much having someone just hold her hand affected her? And why was she suddenly conscious of the ivory, lace teddy underneath her finery that Magdalena insisted she buy?
Say something!
“So, so how did you meet Jim McMasters?” Her voice sounded husky.
“Oh.” He laughed and actually moved his hand back to the steering wheel.
Great.
“I met him at a bar on the Strip where I was filling in for someone. Working part time was a good way to earn money and arrange my hours while I went to UNLV on the G.I. Bill. Jim was nursing a local beer, bemoaning the lack of a good lager, and we got talking. You’ve seen how friendly he is. He doesn’t know a stranger. He’d come out here looking for an investment property. A realtor had taken him over to the Outpost Casino, which was up for sale, and he asked my opinion about it. About its viability for re-development, you know. I went with him for another look and we started brainstorming.
“He returned to the U.K. and I really didn’t expect to hear from him again. But then he lined up a group of investors there and they made an offer for the Outpost. He asked me to work with him during the renovations. It took the better part of two years before we were ready to open. Construction isn’t finished yet. We’re still working on the new addition where we’ll offer big name shows.” He slowed to turn into the parking garage.
Across the street, the convention center was bright with lights, a sign welcoming the Las Vegas Hospitality Industry Association Dinner. At something over three million square feet, the complex was immense. Tom pulled up to the attendants’ booth and handed his keys to a parking valet while a doorman opened her door for her.
She adjusted her neckline while he came around to offer his arm. It hadn’t gotten any cooler. The air felt close.
