Promises to Keep

by Rose Marie Ferris

  Even speaking of it in passing, she relived the horror. One moment the bus had been moving powerfully up the steep stretch of highway toward the mountain pass, and the next a huge boulder had plummeted down on it from above. At first it had appeared relatively harmless, bouncing across the macadam surface as lightly as if it were only a stage prop. There had been the squeal of brakes and a few screams as the bus gave a sickening lurch. Its wheels slipped and spun, striving to find a safe purchase on the shoulder of the roadway. Then had come the awful grinding of metal as it lost the battle with gravity and rolled. The passengers were white-faced, their mouths stretched wide in silent terror.

  She'd been thrown clear when the emergency exit by her seat gave way and a stunted pine tree near the top of the ravine had broken her fall. Helplessly she had watched while the bus rolled again and again, like some gigantic beast in its death throes, until finally it was suspended in space, disappearing over the brink of the precipice to fall smoothly away into nothingness.

  When she heard the final agonizing crash—mindless of pain, stumbling and sliding, sometimes clawing for handholds—she worked her way down to the edge of the cliff. She had seen the bright flames blossom until they enveloped the silver metal and when at last the fire had consumed itself, there was no sign of life about the charred, twisted hulk that was all that remained of the bus.

  For a long time she'd stared down at the wreckage, praying that there were other survivors, praying for the impossible. Unable to encompass the loss of over thirty lives, her grief had centered on the girl who'd been seated across the aisle from her. She'd overheard enough of her conversation to know she was on her way to Laramie to enroll in classes at the University of Wyoming. How old was she? Julie had wondered. Seventeen, perhaps. Eighteen at the most.

  Julie wished she'd been more receptive to the girl's overtures toward conversation. She wished she'd known the girl's name. Her face, beautiful in its youthful intensity, glowing with hope and promise, had floated before Julie's eyes, and it was more than she could bear: to think of that hope going unrewarded, the promise denied, the girl dying before she'd ever had a chance to live.

  Anguishing because she was alive when so many were dead, she had questioned why she should have been the one to survive.

  "Why?" she whispered. She'd turned away from the still-smoking ruin at the bottom of the gorge to look up at the implacable heights that had spawned the boulder. Near hysteria, she screamed, "Why?"

  A starburst of pain had exploded inside her head and, for a time, there had been blessed oblivion.

  "Are you all right?" Garth Falconer asked, calling her back to the present.

  She stared at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. His brows were drawn and the bones of his face seemed more prominent, as if they were carved from granite. It was some time before she realized he'd taken her hand in order to slip the ring on her finger. She was still holding his hand, gripping it so tightly that her fingers felt numb and bloodless.

  Still shivering slightly from the awful images he'd revived, she nodded and made a conscious effort to relax her grip on him. The ring, fit perfectly, but its dull gold luster looked out of place against her pale skin, and it was so heavy, it seemed to weigh her down. She jammed her left hand into the pocket of the robe and still she was painfully aware of the ring.

  As if he'd read her mind, Garth explained, "We haven't been married very long."

  "Did we have some kind of disagreement?"

  "No," he replied tersely.

  Her eyes were clouded with perplexity when they met his. "Then why did I leave?"

  "I'm not sure." His expression was shuttered, giving her not the least indication of his emotions.

  "And it took you until now to find me?"

  He nodded. "Nearly four weeks," he said tonelessly.

  And did you care at all? she wondered. Aloud she asked, "Have I other relatives?"

  "Only an uncle, Rupert Hastings, and his wife and daughter. Your parents died when you were a child and after that you lived with your maternal grandmother. She died a little over a year ago."

  Julie was silent as she assimilated this information. After a time Garth observed in a dry voice, "I gather none of these vital statistics spark any memories."

  "No," she said dully. "I'm sorry, but they don't."

  He glanced about them as though calculating whether the few patients remaining in the solarium at this twilight hour could overhear their conversation.

  "I should have thought of it sooner," she reluctantly offered, "but perhaps you'd like to continue this in my room. We'd have more privacy there."

  "This is fine," he replied curtly. "We'll have all the privacy we need tomorrow. Your doctors tell me you're well enough to be discharged, and I'll be taking you home."

  Panic dried her mouth and constricted her throat, making speech impossible. It must have shown in her eyes as well because, for the first time since the beginning of their interview, Garth's expression softened.

  "There's nothing to be afraid of, Julie," he reassured her. "I won't make any demands you're not prepared to meet."

  He touched her face; his palm was warm and hard against the softness of her cheek. It was a soothing, almost avuncular gesture. The last rays of the dying sun burnished his hair and seemed to settle in the tawny flecks in his eyes, and she wondered how she could ever have thought them cold. And when he smiled, his spare features were transformed; they had about them an almost boyish good humor. His face was made for smiling, she thought. She found herself charmed into believing his promise.

  "Where is home?" she asked.

  "In northern California in an area that's known as the Valley of the Moon," he replied. His smile broadened at her startled expression. "It's in the wine country north of San Francisco, not far from Santa Rosa," he explained. "The nearest town is Sonoma."

  He studied her face closely as he told her this, and it was clear that she was discouraged.

  "It doesn't ring any bells, does it," he said and his unexpected gentleness brought a hot rush of tears to her eyes.

  "No," she replied tremulously, "except that I don't think I'm terribly familiar with the general area you've described."

  "Well, that's not surprising. You lived there until you were about five, but you returned for the first time only a few months ago. It will all come back to you eventually."

  "Dr. Ziegler believes I might be helped by hypnosis."

  Garth nodded. "He mentioned it to me too. He also said he'd tried to hypnotize you and found you were resistant to it."

  "I'm resistant to him!" She wrinkled her nose with distaste. "I don't like him."

  Amused by her vehemence, Garth chuckled. "Now I understand why he took his failure as a personal insult! We'll just have to find a therapist you do trust, won't we."

  Chapter Two

  The sight of herself in a mirror was still something of a shock to Julie. Even after four weeks it was like seeing a stranger. Of course for the first couple of weeks her features had been so battered and swollen, she had looked like the loser of a barroom brawl. The doctors kept telling her how lucky she was that her facial wounds were superficial, for she might have been badly scarred. But even when the swelling had subsided, she mostly tried to avoid looking at herself at all, and when it became absolutely necessary, she concentrated on one feature at a time or on the action of combing her hair or washing her face.

  The following morning, however, she studied herself carefully, critical of the hospital pallor of the face that confronted her. It was a small oval of a face that was framed by a silky spill of dark hair. She supposed her eyes were her best feature—or they would be, if they weren't so lackluster. From beneath fine level brows they stared back at her, so velvety and dark a brown that they were almost as black as her hair. They tilted upward slightly at the corners, which gave them a certain piquancy, and they were surrounded by an abundance of long sooty lashes, but they were far too large for the rest of her face—so l
arge, they practically swallowed the rest of her. Their expression was dazed. She thought she looked as if she were sleepwalking even though she was wide-awake.

  She turned impatiently away from her reflection. Taken separately, all of her features were disproportionate. Not only were her eyes too big but her mouth was too full, her nose was too short, and her neck too long. Her chin had a funny little cleft that was slightly off-center. It looked as if it had been added as an afterthought and it made her appear fey and impish.

  She saw nothing in her image that a man like Garth Falconer might find appealing. He was such a magnificent creature, it was only logical that he should have a comparable paragon for a wife. He deserved a woman who never had to worry about dandruff or split ends, who never scratched or perspired—at least in public. His wife shouldn't succumb to nail-biting and if she cried, she should do even that beautifully.

  But then, she knew very little about Garth while he knew a disturbing amount about her. She felt uneasily at a disadvantage with him because of this.

  Yet for all his physical perfection Garth claimed he didn't know why she'd run away. What was it he'd said when she'd asked about this? His reply had been evasive, something about not being sure. He'd glossed over the subject so quickly that she hadn't really noticed it at the time. But certainly his answer implied that he had a good idea what had prompted her to take flight and, for reasons of his own, didn't want to reveal it to her.

  Julie thought that on the surface their reunion had been a strangely emotionless one, especially since they were newlyweds. When he'd left for his motel the night before, he'd drawn her to him with one arm negligently about her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the forehead. For an instant, she'd had an impulse to put her own arms around him and lift her mouth for his kiss. She had wanted to do this so badly, it had taken all the strength of her will not to.

  Instead, she'd met his eyes directly and with an elaborate display of casualness, she'd said, "Good night."

  His arm had tightened about her, his fingers digging threateningly into the soft flesh of her upper arm, and amusement kindled the golden sparks in the depths of his eyes, turning them a fiery green.

  "My name is Garth," he reminded her silkily. "Use it."

  "G-good night, G-Garth."

  "Again," he commanded. "And this time, try to say it like you mean it."

  "Good night, Garth," she complied throatily, making his name sound like an endearment.

  "Good night, Julie," he said softly.

  For a moment she'd thought he might kiss her once more, but he'd only touched a fingertip to the dimple in her chin, turned on his heel, and walked away from her. He'd pushed through the swinging door of the hospital entrance and disappeared into the darkness, leaving her with an empty feeling of dissatisfaction.

  Sighing, Julie turned back to the mirror. She refused to engage in further speculation about Garth Falconer and fixed her attention on arranging the jabot at the neckline of her blouse. He was due to arrive in a few minutes, and intuition told her that he disliked being kept waiting.

  "Yoo-hoo, kiddo." A rapid series of knocks that was a private signal between them preceded Mrs. Jenkins as she opened the door wide enough to pop her head in. With her blue-white hair unconfined by its customary net and her head cocked to one side, she looked more than ever like a jolly sparrow.

  "Come in, Mrs. Jenkins," Julie invited.

  "Got any coffee going begging this morning?" Mrs. Jenkins asked hopefully.

  "Yes, I have. If you'd like to sit down, I'll get some for you."

  "Don't mind if I do."

  Mrs. Jenkins limped to the chair nearest the door while Julie went to the breakfast tray by her bed to fetch the cup. This had become a daily routine, and she no longer needed to ask how her visitor took her coffee.

  "I don't know why the coffee on my tray is always stone-cold," Mrs. Jenkins complained mildly. "Yours is always nice and hot and they serve us from the same cart."

  "And I don't even like coffee," Julie said as she handed the elderly lady her cup. "I much prefer tea, but even though I request it when I mark my menu for the day, they never bring it."

  Mrs. Jenkins sampled the steaming beverage and leaned back in her chair. "Aaah!" she exclaimed blissfully, "you've put in just the right amount of sugar today. I don't know what I'll do for my morning coffee now that you're leaving. Doctor Forsythe says he'd like to keep me here a few more days."

  Her button-bright eyes gleamed above the rim of her cup as she looked Julie up and down. "Fancy you being married to Garth Falconer. I've never met anyone so closely related to a real live celebrity before. I saw Evel Knievel once. It was before his Snake River Canyon jump. But that was only from a distance and I never got to meet him."

  "If you'd like to meet Garth, I'll introduce you," Julie offered. She knew it was what Mrs. Jenkins expected. "He should be here soon."

  "Would you, dear? That's mighty sweet of you." Mrs. Jenkins beamed at her. "My grandson will be so impressed when he hears about this. He was a big fan of your husband's when he was racing."

  "I'm sure it will be Garth's pleasure, Mrs. Jenkins."

  "What will be my pleasure?" called Garth as he strode into the room. He seemed to bring the invigorating freshness of the outdoors in with him, and the atmosphere was subtly charged with his vitality.

  "This is Mrs. Jenkins, Garth," Julie said. "She's been looking forward to meeting you."

  Garth held Mrs. Jenkins's hand between both of his and bowed slightly from the waist, smiling down at her.

  "It is indeed my pleasure, ma'am," he said. He solemnly kissed her hand before he released it.

  "Oh, my! Aren't you the one!" Mrs. Jenkins fanned the air with the hand he'd kissed. "I'm all aflutter. I may never wash this hand again."

  Laughing, Garth turned toward Julie. This morning, making the most of Mrs. Jenkins's presence, he folded her in his arms and whispered close to her ear, "You wouldn't want to disappoint your romantic friend, would you?"

  She was tense within the circle of his arms as he touched his mouth to hers, but he prolonged the soft contact of his lips only until he'd won her rather tentative response to the heady sensation of his kiss. And again she was left dissatisfied when he freed her.

  "We'd better get moving, Julie," he announced briskly. "I've already squared accounts with the business office, and your doctor has signed your release, so if you'd care to finish getting your things together, we can be on our way."

  She crossed to the bedside stand to retrieve the small brown paper bag that contained all of her known belongings. In it were a comb and hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a few toilet articles the hospital had provided. It struck her as a pathetic amount for a young woman of twenty-three or so to be able to call her own.

  Attempting jauntiness, she said, "This is it," as she folded the top of the sack to close it.

  Garth's eyes narrowed as they traveled over her, taking in the disreputable state of her skirt and blouse. Both garments had been bloodstained and badly torn in the accident. Some of the mends were clearly visible, while most of the stains hadn't been removed entirely by the laundry. If one could go by the seam bindings, the skirt had once been a lovely rose-pink, but now it was a nondescript grayish taupe. The jacket that had completed the ensemble had been beyond repair, and she had lost her shoes as well. One of the nurses had given her a pair of down-at-the-heel sandals to wear for the trip home, but they were too large, and she had to walk with a stiff-footed gait in order to keep them on her feet.

  Suddenly she realized how terribly out of place she looked compared to Garth, and for the first time she was embarrassed by her tattered clothing. Her cheeks flamed with the rush of color that flooded them, and she resented being made so aware of the contrast between them by his appraisal of her.

  His eyes were cold this morning: a gray that was unrelieved by any trace of gold or green in spite of the dusky gold of his cotton knit shirt.

  "Could I trouble you to walk me back
to my room before you leave, Mr. Falconer?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, flirting with him quite shamelessly.

  "Certainly," he agreed equably, "but only on the condition that you call me Garth."

  "And you must call me Lydia," she gushed as he helped her out of the chair. "I do appreciate this, Garth. It's hard for me to get about on my own, you see. But I won't take too much of your time. My room is almost next door."

  Actually Lydia Jenkins's room was at the opposite end of the corridor, but no one was likely to quibble with her over her shading of the truth.

  "Good-bye, Mrs. Jenkins," Julie called after her visitor as, shortening his stride to allow for her snail's pace, Garth guided her into the hall.

  "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, kiddo," Mrs. Jenkins advised, favoring Julie with her puckish smile. "But if you can't help yourself, remember what I always say: Anything worth doing is worth doing twice!"

  By the time she was seated in the car Garth had rented, Julie had fanned her resentment into a simmering pitch of anger that destroyed the delight she would otherwise have taken in the blue and gold splendor of Wyoming's Indian summer. As it was, she derived no pleasure at all from the warmth of the sun that angled in through the open window to caress her cheek and forearm.

  Her "thank you" to Garth when he handed her into the sedan was frostily formal, and he slanted a knowing look at her as he climbed behind the wheel. He made no move to start the engine. After jingling the keys a few times in his palm, he sat perfectly still for so long a time that she began to feel foolish in her disapproving pose. She stirred uneasily in the luxuriously upholstered bucket seat.

  "All right," Garth said. "Out with it."

  She glanced at him covertly and saw that a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. Stung by his amusement, she bit back a furious torrent of speech and maintained her stony silence. When he spoke again, his tone was amiable and unconcerned.

  "Perhaps I should inform you that I can outstubborn you any day of the week."