by Lynn, Sheryl
Diana canted her head and lowered both arms, the shirt dangling from her fingertips.
It was rude and obnoxious to stare, but he couldn’t stop.
She raised a hand to the empty side of the bra. “I had a mastectomy.”
He gave himself a shake. His neck and ears burned.
She slid her arms into the shirt sleeves. She was smiling. “I thought I was okay with losing a breast. That I accepted my body and how I look. But I’ve been self-conscious about showing you my scars. Shoot, I’ve been downright scared.” Her fingers trembled while she buttoned the shirt. “Are you grossed out?”
Now that she was covered up, it was easier to look at her. “What…what happened?”
“Breast cancer. I was fortunate. A mammography caught it in the very early stages, before it had metasta-sized—spread through my system. Unfortunately, it was an aggressive form and my oncologist didn’t believe a lumpectomy would be enough. So I had a radical mastectomy, then chemo and radiation treatment. It worked. I’ve been cancer free for over four years.”
All he heard was “cancer.” The Big C, the destroyer, that stinking ugly monster that ripped through healthy flesh and killed beautiful women and ruined lives. His throat felt as if it were swelling shut. His heart pounded so erratically, painfully, he knew he was having a heart attack. He clutched his chest and stumbled away.
“Tate?”
He couldn’t breathe. Gasping and choking, he made it around the house and onto the porch. He slumped heavily on a step. He choked and rasped for breath. An elephant was sitting on his chest.
Diana grasped his chin. “Good lord, you’re dead white. What’s the matter?”
“Chest…hurts…”
She picked up his wrist and pressed her fingers against the pulse point. She asked for specific descriptions of his pain and encouraged him to breathe deeply, slowly. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No!”
“You might be having a heart attack.”
“Don’t care…no…ambulance.”
She ran into the lodge and returned carrying a glass of water and aspirin. She ordered him to take the aspirin and drink all the water. She grabbed his telephone off his belt and began punching in numbers.
He snatched the telephone out of her hand and threw it as far as he could. It landed in a weedy patch of tall brown grass. She stared openmouthed at him, speechless for once.
“Cell transmissions, emergency calls…picked up. No!”
“You are such a stupid, stupid man!”
She grasped his arm and helped him to his feet. Leaning heavily on her, he clutched his chest. Sweat dripped off his face. He was dying.
Chapter Twelve
“Anxiety attack.”
Tate stared at the doctor. Anxiety? The chest pains had stopped during the ride to Durango. By the time he entered the emergency room, he felt perfectly fine. Embarrassed as all get out, but fine. Still, the doctor had insisted on running tests. Now he held a long ECG strip as if Tate could make sense of the jagged print-out.
“You’re in remarkable shape, Mr. Raleigh,” the doctor continued. “The heart of a twenty-year-old. Do you lift weights? Run?”
“Yeah,” Tate said, numb over the diagnosis.
“It shows. Just to be on the safe side, I’d like to schedule a stress test. You are nearing forty.”
Curtain rings rattled and Diana peered into the treatment room. She’d fussed and fumed at Tate all the way into Durango. Her anger touched him as much as it irritated him.
The doctor lowered the ECG strip and peered at Diana. The bemused look on the man’s face made Tate remember the flyers sent to every hospital and clinic in the southern Colorado and Four Corners area. He guessed the FBI had added their own wanted posters.
“May I help you?” the doctor asked.
“She’s my wife,” Tate said. “Honey, I’m okay. No heart attack. I can go home.”
The doctor patted Tate’s shoulder. “Schedule the stress test. If you have another attack, give me a call. There are drugs available to treat anxiety.” He flashed a curious smile at Diana, then hurried away.
“I’m so relieved you’re okay,” Diana said. “But throwing that phone away was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen anybody do. And believe you me, buster, I’ve seen a lot of stupid things.”
“Give it a rest, Red. We’ve got bigger problems. I think the doctor recognized you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! That’s why that orderly…”
He buttoned his shirt and slid off the exam table. “What orderly?”
“He gave me a real funny look then practically ran away.”
“Running to a telephone,” Tate growled. He grabbed her elbow and hustled out of the exam room. He’d have told her to keep her head down, but with all that wild red hair bright as a beacon, it wouldn’t do any good.
They passed the main desk. “You filled out billing information, right? I didn’t give you my insurance card.”
“I used a credit card.” Her face was paler than usual, as if realizing she’d made a mistake.
God save him from innocents. “Let’s hope the orderly calls the cops and not the feds.” He straight-armed through the emergency room door.
Diana glanced over her shoulder and stumbled. “There he is!”
Tate broke into a run, hauling Diana along with him. He demanded the Jeep’s keys and urged her to get in. He slid behind the wheel. The orderly’s white uniform made him easy to spot in the dark parking lot. He appeared to be looking for Diana.
Tate started the engine, but didn’t turn on the headlights, hoping the glow from the parking lot lamps wasn’t enough to illuminate the license plate. He left the lights off until he was well away from the hospital.
Diana twisted on the seat, staring unhappily behind them. “I was so worried about you, I forgot all about Bernie.”
“I should have thought of it. Nothing to do now but hope for the best.”
He didn’t breathe easy until they were out of Durango and on the highway toward McClintock. He breathed easier still when they turned off the highway without a copper appearing in the rearview mirror. The orderly must not have gotten the license plate number. It still didn’t put them in the clear.
As if reading his thoughts, Diana said, “This is crazy. You and Gil are going to get in trouble. I’ll turn myself in. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Can’t risk it.”
If anyone was in danger of arrest, it was Tate. This just kept getting better and better.
She hunkered down on the seat, hugging herself. He turned on the heater. “I’m really glad you’re okay. You scared me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” A stupid anxiety attack. He couldn’t believe it. In the marines, he’d earned the reputation for having ice water in his veins. As a New York City homicide detective, he’d never burned out the way so many others had. Mr. Cool. The man who never lost his head.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” he mumbled.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“No.”
“It’ll help.” She rubbed his shoulder. “It’s the mastectomy, isn’t it? I shocked you.”
Her silence seemed a palpable thing, nudging him, worming its way beneath his reluctance. He’d driven nearly ten miles before conceding that she wasn’t going to fill the silence with chatter.
“Cancer,” he said. The word was bitter. It choked him and made his heart rate rise.
Lights from the dash barely touched her face. Her eyes were dark, gleaming. “Mmm.”
“I never had an anxiety attack before. I thought I was dying.”
“They’ll do that to you. What is it about cancer that makes you anxious?”
He’d never talked about it. Not to his friends, his family or a priest. No one. Guilt over his cowardice festered inside him like a boil, pulsing and painful. Diana would probably be disgusted to know his
shame. Or worse, she’d pity him for his weakness.
There was a dirt road up ahead. He slowed, then turned onto it. He killed the motor and lights. He listened to the hot engine tick tick tick. Without the lights of civilization, the night was inky, the sky overwhelming in its vastness.
“I didn’t know you had cancer.”
“I don’t anymore. Is it ugly, revolting?”
Something in her voice made him look at her. “You think you’re ugly?”
Shifting on the seat so as to face him, she showed her palms in a you-tell-me gesture. “My ex-husband thought so. He insisted I have reconstructive surgery. That’s what he did, erased flaws, repaired imperfections.” She sighed and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I’m not certain exactly why I refused. Partly I wanted the reminder, sort of a badge of honor for finding myself, for finding God. I was humbled by all I’d gained. But mostly, I suppose, he made me angry. He saw me as flawed, mutilated, an imperfect thing that must be repaired or I was unworthy.”
“He must be a real jerk,” Tate said.
“It’s the way he views the world. The path he must explore. Anyway, other than medical professionals, no man has touched me since my divorce. No man has looked at me, made love to me.” She placed a hand on his forearm, letting it rest without pressure. “I almost had myself convinced that I wasn’t afraid of what others would think when they saw the scar. But then I met you…I was very afraid.”
Now he was a double-dirty low-down dog. “I don’t think you’re ugly. Not ugly at all.”
“I gave you a panic attack.”
“I’m—I’m—”
“Shh,” she whispered and pressed a finger against his lips. “Don’t apologize. Never apologize for how you feel. In a way you did me a big favor. Revealing myself was a huge step and I survived. I feel bad for shocking you, but I’m not hurt or depressed or angry. I can handle your opinion.”
He rested his forehead against the steering wheel. “It’s not you, Red, I swear it isn’t. It’s me.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “My wife died of cancer.”
She pulled back, sitting taller. “I’m so sorry.”
He stared out the window at the billions of stars and waxing moon. “I let her die alone.”
“What happened?”
Her gentle question held neither condemnation or horror. He couldn’t look at her. “Her name was Lisa. She was only twenty-eight. God, but I loved her. The first time I saw her, she crawled into my head and set up housekeeping. She was a research librarian. Worked at the New York Public Library. I came up with some really screwy questions just so I had an excuse to talk to her.” He tapped his head. “Smartest person I ever met. We were married for four years. We were saving money to buy a house. Then she started losing weight. Hurting. By the time they diagnosed ovarian cancer, it had metastasized into her liver, lungs and bones.”
“Oh, Tate…”
He knuckled his burning eyes. “The treatments were terrible. Left her puking, all her hair fell out, her face swelled up. Nothing they did touched the cancer. It just grew and grew, eating her up. I couldn’t handle watching her die, seeing her all shriveled and yellow, always in pain. Even touching her hand made her scream. So I…worked. I pulled every minute of overtime I could get. I buried myself in cases. Even went through old files, dead cases, anything to keep from witnessing her agony.”
His gut ached. His heart was racing again. He deserved a real heart attack.
‘Her mother called me. “It’s time,’ she said. I sat at my desk and typed up a report. Typed it real careful, checking for mistakes. When I finally got home, it was all over.”
She snuffled. He whipped his head about. Her face was shiny with tears.
“Don’t cry for me, dammit! She loved me, needed me and I let her die alone. I’m garbage.”
She fumbled around the unfamiliar vehicle, then finally wiped her face with her shirt sleeve. “Once upon a time, I never cried. I was rather proud of myself. I considered it a sign of strength. Avoiding one’s emotions isn’t strong at all. It’s fear, pure and simple. I’ll weep for you, if I must, and for Lisa, and for myself.”
He pushed open the door. In the dome light, he glimpsed her reddened eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. He jumped out and slammed the door. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the sky. Deep breaths of crisp air cleared his head a little. He expected Diana to get out of the Jeep, to pester him into talking, to lay on him a bunch of silly platitudes like Band-aids on a broken bone. He stood in the cold for a long time, until it became clear she wasn’t going to do anything except wait.
Something inside him said she did understand, that she didn’t condemn him or consider him a horrible human being.
Shivering, he slid back behind the steering wheel. He started the engine. He shoved the transmission into reverse, and backed onto the road.
Driving past small farms and ranch houses, he felt oddly lighter. Confession had relieved him, at least a little. He wondered if Diana would give him funny looks from now on. Wondered if she’d drop the kidding around about sexual tension. Wondered if she still found him desirable.
THE CHAIN ACROSS THE driveway was down.
“You didn’t unlock the chain, did you?”
“No,” Diana replied.
“Stay.” He cut the engine and killed the lights. “If you hear me shout, disappear. Got it? The Jeep will block the drive. You just run like hell.”
With his Glock in hand, the safety off, Tate cat-footed up the driveway. He stepped carefully, aware of ruts and weeds and broken branches ready to trip him in the dark. He recognized the pickup parked in the yard. Marlee waited on the porch. Tippy sat beside her, ears raised, letting Tate know he’d been heard. A pair of lanterns sitting on the porch railing lit up the front of the house.
He breathed a long sigh of relief. He hurried back to Diana. Together they drove up to the lodge.
“Where have you been?” Marlee demanded. “I’ve been here over an hour. I couldn’t reach you by telephone. I’ve been worried sick!”
Diana hugged her friend. “I’m sorry. We had a little incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
Diana exchanged a look with Tate. “The less you know…” She let the comment dangle, allowing Marlee to imagine what she pleased. “I really am sorry. I should have left a note.”
Marlee shot a glare at Tate that said she figured it was his fault. “I brought groceries and stuff. Extra blankets, some camping gear. I started a fire for you, too. It’s pretty cold up here. What are you doing with Elaine’s Jeep?”
“I switched vehicles with Ric,” Tate said. “Thought it might be safer. Have you heard anything?”
“I haven’t been to town. Do you want me to snoop around?” Marlee nodded eagerly. “See what people are saying?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, all right.” She gave him a hopeful look as if he might change his mind. “I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
Tate sat on the porch step, watching Diana and Marlee walk to the pickup truck, talking in soft tones he couldn’t hear. Were Diana anyone else, he’d suspect she was gossiping about his cowardly past. He knew, sure as sunrise, she’d never bring the subject up again. A comforting thought.
Marlee drove off. Diana picked up a lantern. “I’m starving.”
He picked up the other lantern and followed her inside. The last time he’d been inside the lodge, he’d been collecting evidence for a homicide. Since then, somebody had cleaned the place. A big cotton rug covered blood stains on the wooden floor. All personal effects—books, papers, an old fashioned dial phone, hunting trophies—were gone. He set the lantern on the dusty surface of a desk. A fire crackling in the big stone fireplace made the place seem almost comfortable.
Diana sorted through grocery sacks.
He approached her from behind and settled his hands on her shoulders. She stilled in what she was doing. Her hair smelled of honey and shampoo.
“I’m emb
arrassed. I don’t think you’re ugly. Or revolting or any of that.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t freak out because of you. The way you look.”
“I know.”
“The cancer…I can’t go through that again. What I did to Lisa…”
Lisa hadn’t actually been alone. Her parents and brother had been there, so had every member of Tate’s family. When he’d walked in, they’d all murmured their sympathies, wept with him, but he’d felt their contempt for his cowardice. No one ever mentioned his desertion, but it was always there. He saw it every time he encountered them. It followed him, ever present, a cloud of guilt and shame. He even felt it at work, saw it in the eyes of other detectives, heard it in the voices of his friends.
He’d taken the first opportunity to get out of New York, away from his family, away from Lisa’s death.
She waited a few beats. “What you did was pretty bad. But understandable.”
He flinched. That was the last thing he’d expected her to say. “I don’t understand it.”
“It’s hard watching a loved one in pain. Especially pain that’s so difficult to manage.”
“I’ve seen people die. I’m no stranger to pain. What I did was pure cowardice. I let her down. I loved her, but I deserted her. Now I can’t…”
“Forgive yourself?”
‘Yeah.
“I know the feeling.” She turned to face him. He let his hands dangle at his sides. “I still haven’t forgiven myself for keeping Bernie away when Mother was dying. Forgiveness isn’t as easy as some would have us think.”
She surprised him again. He’d expected, oh, you didn’t do anything wrong, your guilt is misplaced, Lisa was so out of it because of the drugs that she didn’t know you weren’t there anyway, blah blah blah. “So, uh, how does a person go about forgiving himself?”
“It’s a two-step process. First, you have to make amends. Maybe that’s what this is all about for me and Bernie. Dealing with her is how I’ll make amends.”
“How do you make amends to somebody who’s gone?”
“Sacrifice, good deeds, helping others. Living a godly life.” She tilted her head, staring into his eyes. “You gave up everything, didn’t you? Your home, family, friends, a job you loved. Even God.”
