Shadows of the Heart

by Lorena McCourtney

  “Miss Bellingham! Then where the hell is she?” Trish stepped forward, suddenly angry with his arrogant attitude, intending to tell him with cool aloofness that she was right here, thank you. But all she got out was his name and then her weakened legs wilted beneath her.

  “My God, Trish, what happened to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He scooped her up in strong arms and she felt herself carried limply to the courtyard gates. She leaned her head against his strong chest without protest and closed her eyes, feeling somehow safe and secure in his arms. She was aware of a vague feeling of regret when he stretched her out on a lounge chair near the pool and released her.

  His strong but gentle hands searched for her pulse, and then she felt them moving over her lightly as he inspected her scratches and bruises. The touch felt somehow soothing, comforting to know she was in competent hands. His fingers massaged her temples and in spite of her weariness, her heart beat faster in reaction to his touch. Her eyes drifted open. He was leaning over her, his dark eyes intent, a frown of concentration on his handsome face. But his slightly brooding expression was hardly what Trish had hoped to see.

  “It wasn’t Armando’s fault,” she said faintly. “I was riding the horse.”

  “What happened?” he asked tersely. “I don’t know. He seemed such a quiet, well-mannered horse. But when I got to the top of the mountain, there was a noise and it was all foggy and the horse went wild. He reared and threw me.” Trish tugged the scraps of her blouse together, suddenly aware of her exposed bra beneath. Marc didn’t seem to notice. “What kind of noise?”

  “I think… no, I’m sure. It was a gun. Several gunshots.”

  His hand still on her wrist was almost painfully tight. “You’re sure?”

  Trish’s strength was returning. “I didn’t see the gun if that’s what you mean,” she said, a little annoyed at his doubt. “But I’ve heard a gunshot before and it certainly sounded familiar.”

  “You were alone?” He didn’t seem to notice the tartness in her voice either.

  “Edith planned to go with me, but at the last minute a cousin of Armando’s was hurt in a car accident and they went to see him.”

  Almost as Trish spoke, the Mercedes pulled up in front of the house and stopped. Armando, evidently recognizing Marc’s pickup, scowled darkly as he got out. He stalked toward the main entrance to the house, saw the open courtyard gates, and pivoted toward them. Edith was a few paces behind him.

  “What is going on here?” Armando demanded angrily as he stepped through the iron gates. His eyes widened when he saw Trish.

  Edith looked pale, almost ill. The accident must have been a bad one, Trish thought, her own painful scratches forgotten for the moment.

  “Trish has been hurt,” Marc said without preliminaries. He looked around, saw a towel hanging on a nearby chair, and flung it at her. She draped it over her torn blouse. Marc turned back to Armando. “What do you mean, sending her up there on that damn fool horse?”

  Armando looked at him with an icy cold expression punctuated by hot hatred in his eyes. “I would prefer to hear what Trish has to say.”

  “First you’re going to hear what I have to say,” Marc said grimly. “You know that horse goes insane when he hears gunshots—”

  “Gunshots!” Armando exclaimed. “I know nothing of the kind! What is this?”

  Quickly Trish explained everything again, keeping a restraining hand on Marc’s arm as he knelt beside her.

  “I see,” Armando said finally. He looked at Marc. “And what has all this to do with you, Seňor?”

  “That horse came galloping into my yard about mid-afternoon. He was lathered with foam from running, his legs all cut up by rocks, the saddle half torn off. My caretaker had no idea where he had come from or what had happened.” Marc’s eyes, grim as his voice, never left Armando’s face. “I was away at the time but the caretaker came to the office after I returned and got me. I recognized the horse immediately. He was born and raised in my stables.”

  “I did not know that,” Armando said stiffly.

  Trish had a good idea Armando would never have bought the horse if he had known Marc had owned it first.

  “I sold the horse to a man who took some fool tourist hunting on him before the horse had any experience around guns. The tourist used the horse’s neck to steady his rifle when he shot. The gun kicked back, and the horse has had an insane reaction to gunshots ever since.”

  “I knew nothing of this,” Armando said coldly. “I am not a hunter and I did not inquire about the horse’s performance around guns when I purchased him a few weeks ago.”

  “Your ignorance came damn near getting Trish killed!” Marc said angrily.

  “Please, you must not blame Armando,” Edith said faintly. “I was the one who ordered the horse saddled for Trish. I had no idea he might be dangerous.”

  Armando, heels together, dipped his head slightly to Marc. “I thank you for your observations and your assistance. I shall post signs or guards, if necessary, to see that we do not have careless hunters trespassing on the property in the future. We will take care of Trish now and see that she receives proper medical attention.”

  “Oh, I’m all right. Just a few scratches and bruises,” Trish said hastily. “There was one other casualty though. I was wearing Edith’s red hat and it was trampled and torn to pieces.”

  Edith waved that small matter away with a gesture of dismissal.

  At least all this explained why no one had come looking for her, Trish thought, since the horse had run to the home where he had been raised rather than the Hepler stables. Armando naturally assumed the shots had been fired by careless hunters, and here in the security and safety of the courtyard that did seem a logical explanation. Her imagination must have been running away with her up there on the mountain, Trish thought shakily.

  Trish glanced over at Edith again. She had slumped into a chair and her usually composed face looked ashen, tight with the effort to control her emotions. Marc was also watching Edith, an odd expression on his face.

  “Was Armando’s cousin badly hurt?” Trish asked sympathetically.

  Edith just sat there, unmoving, and it was Armando who answered aloud.

  “We were misinformed about the seriousness of the accident. My cousin is fine, merely a few cuts and bruises.”

  Trish looked at Edith again, puzzled. If that was the case, why was Edith so upset?

  Then, in a rush, the reason dawned on Trish. Edith knew! Marc and Armando were arguing about the horse and its wild reaction to a hunter’s gunshots, but Edith suspected who had really fired those shots. And it was no careless hunter. It was Edith’s own father!

  Another chilling thought suddenly occurred to Trish. Robert Hepler surely could not have known about the gelding’s peculiar terror of the sound of gunshots. He had fired those shots with more deliberate intent. To kill.

  Trish did not doubt but that he would try again.

  Chapter Six

  A long, stunning period of silence seemed to surround Trish as chilling thoughts about Edith’s father raced through her mind. Evidently she was the only one who felt that strange pause in time. No one else appeared to notice anything.

  Edith was standing now, murmuring thanks to Marc. Armando, his arms folded, stood with his feet belligerently spread, waiting for Marc to leave. Marc was taking his own good time about doing that, Trish noted, as he casually talked to Edith about a coming fiesta in the nearby village.

  Trish thought he had forgotten her, but unexpectedly he turned and looked squarely at her. “Will I see you at the fiesta?”

  Trish felt flustered with Armando staring daggers of disapproval at her and Edith eyeing her nervously. “I… I don’t know,” Trish stammered. “I suppose it depends on Edith and Armando’s plans—”

  “Of course,” he said curtly. His earlier concern and shock over her injuries seemed to have changed to a cold indifference now. He gave Trish a final calculating glance that seemed to measu
re her and somehow find her lacking. Then he turned on his heels and strode out the iron gates without looking back.

  Armando muttered an oath under his breath. Edith put a placating hand on his arm. She still looked unnaturally pale and troubled. She said something in a low voice that Trish could not make out, and then they both turned to Trish.

  Armando forced a smile. “I am sorry. Our neighbor… what is the expression… rubs me the wrong way.”

  “We should get Trish to a doctor immediately,” Edith said.

  “I think a long, hot bath to soak away the soreness and then some antiseptic and Band-Aids will be all I need,” Trish said. No further mention was made of the horse or gunshots.

  Trish struggled to her feet, surprised to find how her sore muscles had stiffened as she lay in the lounge chair. Edith helped her to the bedroom and ran bath water. A little later, after Trish had bathed, Edith brought a dinner tray with medications and bandages. She didn’t leave immediately and Trish had the impression she wanted to talk but didn’t know how to get started.

  “I’m glad to hear Armando’s cousin wasn’t badly injured,” Trish offered for openers as she buttered a slice of home-baked bread.

  Edith nodded almost absentmindedly. Finally she said ruefully, “You must think only terrible things hap-pen here. First the fire and now this awful accident.”

  So that was the way it was going to be, Trish thought slowly as she took a sip of the hot, bracing coffee. The gunshots were going to be treated as an accident and no mention ever made of Edith’s father.

  When Trish didn’t answer, Edith added, “You’re not thinking about leaving, are you?”

  Again her voice held an anxious note, the obvious fear that Trish would desert her. As their mother had long ago deserted her? Trish wondered. She looked at Edith compassionately, wondering what pain, loneliness, and fear of rejection lay hidden beneath her composed exterior.

  “Of course I’m not leaving. My grandmother always said I was accident prone,” Trish finally said lightly. “When I was small I fell out of bed so many times they finally put up a railing.”

  Edith smiled, obviously relaxing. “You’ll enjoy the fiesta,” she said eagerly. “There’s a marvelous parade and games, music, and dancing. Everyone looks forward to it all year.”

  Trish lifted an eyebrow. “What about Marc? Will Armando go if Marc is going to be there?”

  “Everyone goes,” Edith assured her. “All the owners of the surrounding fincas and cafetales will be there, plus all the villagers and workers, of course. Everything else stops while the fiesta is on. I know you will enjoy it. You must think about the fiesta and forget about these… these unfortunate accidents.”

  Trish nodded slowly. She didn’t want to bring up the subject of Edith’s father and yet she didn’t think she could totally ignore him either, after what had happened.

  “How is your father these days?” she finally asked tentatively.

  Edith looked down at her hands, her fingers playing with the engagement ring on her left hand. “I hate the thought, but the time may come when I must take him somewhere else. Someplace where he can receive more intensive treatment for his… problems.”

  Obviously Edith was reluctant to talk about her father. “Would you mind if I asked you to postpone your morning swim until later in the day tomorrow?” she finally asked, as if also reluctant to make the request. “I stopped in to see Father for a few minutes while you were taking your bath and he said he would like to take a swim in the morning. His legs are bothering him.”

  Trish quickly assured Edith that she would keep out of sight until after Mr. Hepler’s swim, but another dismaying thought suddenly occurred to her. Was there some special reason that his legs were bothering him? Such as a strenuous hike up the mountain and back?

  “It’s nice that your father is still able to enjoy swimming,” Trish said uneasily. “I never see him outside.”

  Edith pressed her lips together, as if suddenly realizing that her request had perhaps revealed too much. “Let me know if you need more antiseptic or bandages,” she said, quickly changing the subject.

  Trish finished her dinner slowly, thoughtfully, her feelings mixed. She was not sure Edith was doing the right thing in choosing to ignore the possibility of her father’s involvement in today’s accident, but she couldn’t help but feel a certain admiration for Edith’s unswerving loyalty. After dinner Trish faced the unpleasant task of dabbing antiseptic on her various cuts and scratches. Though the task was painful, she had only to think what injuries she might have sustained to be grateful for these minor wounds.

  The next morning a servant brought breakfast to Trish’s bedroom, evidently having been previously instructed by Edith to do so. Trish washed out a few underthings by hand in the bathroom and manicured what remained of her broken fingernails.

  Then curiosity got the better of her. Carefully she slipped out of her room and around the hallway corner to the one place she knew she could observe the swimming pool while remaining hidden.

  The door to her former room was unlocked and Trish slipped inside quietly. The window had been repaired. The odor of smoke was gone, replaced now by the smell of fresh paint. Even the singed curtains and drapes had been replaced.

  Trish cautiously lifted a corner of the filmy curtain to get a better view, careful to make no quick movement that might attract attention from outside.

  Edith, in a rather heavy, one-piece blue bathing suit, was standing in the shallow end of the water. The middle-aged nurse was kneeling by the edge of the pool. Edith’s father, only part of his head visible to Trish, was evidently hanging on to the side of the pool and kicking slowly to exercise his legs. After several minutes he rested, still sitting in the water, and then slowly swam two laps around the pool with Edith following barefoot on the walkway.

  Finally, using the tubular railing for assistance, he climbed out of the pool. The nurse handed him a towel and he walked partway around the pool to take a lounge chair only a few feet from the window where Trish watched.

  Seen like this, in broad daylight, he was hardly the fearsome monster of the midnight hallway encounter. His tall figure was almost painfully thin, the arms looking disproportionately long and the hands unusually large because of their gaunt boniness. Ill health had taken the flesh from his face, but his deep-set eyes looked more sad than menacing. He did have a rather disconcerting habit of opening and closing his hands, but it was hardly a threatening gesture as Trish had taken it to be in the hallway that night. He reached down to massage the calf of his thin leg and Trish let the curtain fall back into place, doubt assailing her. It was possible, she supposed, that his bad legs today were a result of a strenuous trip up the mountain yesterday. And yet, looking at those wasted muscles, she found that difficult to believe.

  She watched a minute more, thinking of the way he had whispered her mother’s name that night and the panic he had aroused in her. But all she could feel for him now was pity. Obviously once a fine specimen of a man, he was now stooped and weakened by illness.

  Bewildered, Trish let herself out of the room and went back to stare absently out the window of her own room. If Robert Hepler, inflamed by hatred for the woman who had deserted him for another man, had not climbed the mountain to fire those shots at her, who had? She had no other enemies here, nor, she hoped fervently, enemies anywhere who would resort to murder to get rid of her.

  And yet the shots had been fired.

  She lay on the bed, her chin resting on her doubled fists, her eyes seeing but not really noting the horses grazing peacefully in Marc’s pasture. The shots had been fired at close range, she was sure of that, close enough for even a mediocre marksman to hit his target… her… at least once. Since she had not been hit, the aim must have been to frighten the horse into a violent frenzy and let that poor, terrorized animal do the dirty work so that her death would look like an accident. That meant the assailant had to be someone who was aware of that peculiar characteristic about th
e horse.

  Marc knew.

  The thought leaped unbidden into Trish’s mind. Alarmed and dismayed, she tried to push it back. Marc had no reason to harm her. The very idea was ridiculous.

  And yet… he had had the opportunity to fire the shots. He had admitted he was not in his office when the lathered horse galloped in, that the caretaker had notified him later when he returned. Returned from where? A hurried climb on the mountain? Marc’s superb physical condition would have enabled him to make the trip up and down the mountain easily, no doubt about that.

  But he had no way of knowing about her plans, she argued with herself.

  No, that was not true, she realized with a sinking feeling. Marc had already proved, through his knowledge of the fire in her room, that he knew what was going on in the Hepler household. Through the servants he could easily have kept track of her plans and movements.

  No! It simply could not be! Marc had been completely surprised and shocked by her injuries and what had happened to her on the mountain. Or was a consummate acting skill just another of his many and varied talents? Perhaps his real shock and surprise had been in finding her alive and back at the house after he had left her for dead in the fog-filled mountain crater. He couldn’t climb down to check and make certain she was dead, of course. That would have left tracks and raised doubt about the accidental nature of her death. And there had been that odd, brooding look on his face when she opened her eyes in the courtyard.

  Trish sat up abruptly. Now her imagination was really running away with her! She was getting paranoid over what were probably just a couple of unfortunate if oddly coincidental accidents. There was nothing at all to link Marc with the fire and certainly no reason for him to harm her.

  Peculiar accidents were not all that foreign to her anyway, she reminded herself firmly. Her grandmother had once remarked that Trish was the only person she knew who managed to catch her hair in the electric mixer and practically scalp herself. And her high school chemistry teacher had lived in mortal fear of Trish’s lab experiments.