by Maddy Barone
He glanced around the big room. A few people clustered around the table with the cookie trays and hot drinks. Others, moms, dads, and kids who had come to see the dogs, played with the hopeful adoptees while volunteers led other dogs on leashes around the room to show them off to prospective families. His gaze returned to her with another smile, this one still charming but a little crooked.
“Actually, no. I would love to have a dog someday, but I’m not home enough to give a dog the attention he would need right now. I came to see you.”
Denise wondered if she could flee to the kennels in back. Don’t be a coward. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He looked around again, maybe not as comfortable as he seemed. “Let’s get something to drink.”
She almost protested that she was working, but the guests had thinned and there wasn’t anything for her to do at the moment. It wasn’t that she wanted to hear what he had to say. No, not at all. It was just that the sooner he said it, the sooner he would leave. That was the only reason she followed him to the refreshments and let him get her a Styrofoam cup of cider. She took her cider and cookie a few yards away where they could be more a little private.
“How have you been?” Dusty asked conversationally.
“Good.” The reply was automatic. “How about you?”
“Good.” He bit into a sugar cookie and took a sip of coffee. By the expression on his face, he wasn’t sure where to start. It made his movie star good looks even more adorable. “Brutus is doing pretty good. He’s back at work.”
She wondered what disciplinary action Captain Stewart had taken about the fighting, but didn’t ask. “That’s good.”
“He misses you.”
Now she took her time biting into her cookie and drinking cider. “Does he?” she murmured noncommittally.
Dusty lowered his cup and looked at her with heavy-lashed eyes so dark they were nearly black. “He does. We talked a while back. Me and Gunnison, I mean. About women. He said he wouldn’t trade you for Miss Texas.”
Denise waited, unimpressed.
“Look, you’re his one. The right one. Oh, hell.” Dusty looked disgusted, mostly likely with himself. He crumpled his cup and tossed it in the can behind them. “Believe it or not, I’m usually able to articulate my thoughts pretty well, but I’m messing this up. Denise, he loves you.” In spite of herself, her stomach fluttered. “He told me he’s been calling you. Why don’t you talk to him?”
“Because he lied to me.”
Dusty shook his head. “That’s harsh. He screwed up. He made a stupid mistake. He’s sorry. Haven’t you ever made a mistake and been sorry for it?”
Denise took a long breath, looking down at the small remaining bit of cookie in her hand. “If he lied about this, what else has he lied about? What else will he lie about?” She looked up at him. “Without trust there can’t be love.”
“Aren’t you even willing to talk to him? He has appointments once or twice a week with Colonel Flowers. He’s doing what you wanted.”
“That’s great, but he shouldn’t be doing it just to please me. He has to learn to handle his aggression for his own sake. This last fight could have killed him.”
Dusty shoved a hand through his thick black hair. “He tried hard to avoid the fight. He was keeping his promise. That guy said rotten things about you. No man could listen to that and not respond, but Brutus was leaving when he was attacked.”
Warmth crept over her, nearly bringing tears to her eyes. She stared at the cement floor.
He shifted his weight. “He’s been my friend for nearly fifteen years. I can tell you honestly that he’s not a liar. I’ve never seen him miserable like this. You’re killing him.”
Denise turned mechanically to the garbage can to toss her cup away. “Tell him to quit calling me. It’s better for us to move on.”
He caught her elbow as she turned to leave him. “Denise, don’t throw Brutus away. No one will ever love you more than he does.”
She tugged free. “Good bye, Dusty.”
The semester ended. Brutus stopped calling. Christmas came with a half inch of snow. It was the second white Christmas she’d ever seen. The snow kept her at the ranch an extra day. She tried hard to join in the festive fun, but there was a hole in her heart that made everything seem flat. Her mother cornered her.
“Denise, come into the kitchen and have some coffee with me. It’s a cold one today.”
Denise did, getting a cup and sitting at the table. “It is, but I bet it warms up by tomorrow. I should be able to drive back then.”
“It’s too bad you have to work. It’s so nice having you home.” Her mom brought out a tin of homemade gingerbread men and offered it to Denise before taking one for herself. She held it up to show off the weirdly flat head and the very crooked piped buttons down its front. “I think Caleb made this one. I recall making these with you when you were his age. Remember?”
Denise had to laugh, remembering her own deformed gingerbread men. “Yeah, I sure do. They tasted good though.”
“They did, and they do.” She bit off the mangled head before setting the rest of the cookie on the napkin in front of her, a serious expression on her face. “Honey, what’s got you down?”
She focused on picking a candy button off her cookie. “Nothing,” she said lamely.
“Oh, no,” her mom said softly. “Don’t you lie to me. Tell me straight out what’s bothering you.”
“Lying,” Denise burst out. “That’s the whole problem.”
Her mom took a sip of coffee. “Does this have to do with your young man?”
“He’s not mine. I told you that when I came for Thanksgiving.”
“Uh-huh, you did. What you didn’t say was why. Come on, now, Denise, tell me all about it. You’ll feel better.”
Words flooded out of Denise. She told her mom how much she had liked Brutus. How he made her laugh about her pink chair and how feminine and pretty he made her feel, and that first hard, exultant kiss at the stadium when they watched the Rangers win a perfect game. She described the ritzy dinner at the French restaurant and how neither of them liked that kind of place. Somehow, Denise dropped Stella’s name when talking about the dress she wore. She hurried past that so her mom wouldn’t focus on it, rushing to talk about Brutus’s habit of fighting and his promise to stop. Finally, she told how he lied to her about getting help. “He didn’t say he was seeing anyone, but he let me believe it,” she finished.
“Who’s Stella?” her mom asked, ignoring the important stuff.
Denise mentally kicked herself. “She’s my roommate. She’s moving in with her boyfriend soon.” She toyed with her gingerbread man.
“You didn’t mention her at Thanksgiving. Is she a friend from school?”
Crap. Denise kept her eyes on the cookie crumbs in her napkin. “Actually, she’s, uh, my sister.”
“Your sister,” she bit out. “Yes, I recall that the asshole’s other daughter is named Stella.” Sarcasm edged the loathing in her voice. “What an old-fashioned name. How on earth did she come to live with you?”
Denise stared at her mom, recognizing the tone she reserved for the asshole. It didn’t feel like the right tone to use for Stella. “She contacted me at the end of August. We’re sort of, kind of friends on social media. Her fiancé had thrown her out of their apartment and she wanted to get away from that area and start new somewhere else. She came as soon as I gave her my address. How did you know her name?”
Her mom ignored the question. “You shouldn’t have her staying with you. You should have nothing to do with any of those people.”
It struck Denise that three months ago she would have vehemently agreed with her mom. “When she first came, I didn’t like her. I was planning to not like her,” she added with painful honesty.
Her mom sent her a brittle smile, reaching for another cookie. “You like her better now?”
“Yeah. She is one of those women who always has to have makeup on and her hair fixed u
p. Not like me, you know? But she’s not lazy like I thought. She cleans and cooks most every day. Once she got her job she started paying a little rent too.”
Her mom made a sound of disgust. “I hope she’s moving out real quick.”
Denise almost said that Stella wasn’t like her father, but cut it off before she spoke. Mentioning the asshole wouldn’t calm her mom down. “But that’s not what’s bothering me, mom. It’s Brutus. He didn’t tell me the truth.”
Her mom got up to get the coffeepot and warm up their cups. “You didn’t tell me the asshole’s daughter was staying with you.”
Denise hid a wince.
“You lied to protect me.”
“I didn’t lie,” Denise said quickly. “I just didn’t mention it, because I knew this is how you would react.”
“You kept the truth from me, Denise Anne. Sounds like you and Brutus aren’t so different.”
“What?” Denise protested. “It’s not the same thing that Brutus did. I asked him if he was going to get help, and he implied that he was. You never asked me about Stella.”
Her mom clenched her fists on the table and took a deep breath. “Never mind that. Have you talked to Brutus about his lying?”
Denise shifted her weight in her chair, looking down at her coffee. “No.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no excuse for what he did. He lied. I can’t trust a liar.”
Her mom put her cup down. “Since I met Will, I’ve learned that there are plenty of good men out there. I haven’t met Brutus, but I’d bet the ranch that he deserves to be heard. Whether you forgive him is up to you, but if you’re so unhappy without him, isn’t it worthwhile to talk to him?”
Denise hated to cry, but she was blubbering now like a baby. “I miss him so much,” she wailed. “I thought we’d get married. We didn’t talk about it, but I figured that was where we were headed.”
“Aw, honey.” Her mom got up and hugged her. “If you feel that way, you can’t let him go without talking to him first. Just give it some thought, okay?”
Chapter Eleven
With roads still a little slick from the melted snow, it was a five-hour drive back to Dallas. Denise spent most of it thinking. Her mind bounced from one thought and memory to the next, like a pinball bouncing off bumpers and rolling down the drain, only to be flipped back into play. Dancing with Brutus on the tiny dance floor at Billie’s. Sitting at the kitchen table with her sister, eating pecan pie, while Stella said as long as Brutus hadn’t cheated or beaten her, he could be forgiven. The flex of Brutus’s ass muscles under her hands when he pounded into her. Drinking tepid cider at the shelter while Dusty told her Brutus was talking to Colonel Flowers. Brutus stretched out in her pink chair, suggesting she should reupholster it in a manly color. Her promising to buy a stepstool so she could more easily reach his lips for a kiss. Brutus’s voice lowered to an intimate whisper, suggesting they have some dessert. The calls Brutus had made, begging her to pick up the phone. Brutus accusing her of being a hypocrite.
He hadn’t called once in the past two weeks, ever since she’d told Dusty to tell him to stop calling her. Her breath caught. Had he finally given up? That thought drove an icepick of anxiety through her heart. She had been too stubborn to answer even one of his calls. Why had she been so stupid? Hypocrite was such an ugly word. Maybe she deserved it.
Her hand twitched toward her phone, sitting on the passenger seat. She wanted to call him now, but he could be working. Or … Her foot lifted off the gas as a horrible thought entered her head. He could have found someone else. Just like Dusty had. Oh, God.
The pinball started up at double speed, crashing through memories until she felt almost sick. To distract herself, she turned on the radio. Christmas carols blared, interspersed with chatty snippets of news. She was just passing Waxahachie when the news announcer came on.
“The day after Christmas is a big shopping day in Dallas, with stores offering steep discounts on holiday merchandise. But shoppers will not find the bargains they want in the West End today. A raging fire in the historic district threatens a dozen restaurants and businesses.”
Denise gasped and jabbed her finger on the volume button. If Brutus was working, he was probably there, in danger. Her knuckles turned bone white on the steering wheel.
“There are two reported deaths as of this broadcast, as well as dozens of injuries. An unknown number of people are trapped in the Pink Pussycat Lounge, which may be where the blaze started. When interviewed, Captain Stewart of Dallas Fire and Rescue said only that his teams are well trained and are doing everything they can to contain the fire. He had no comment on eyewitnesses’ statements that they heard an explosion.”
The Pink Pussycat? That was where Stella worked. Was she working today? Denise called her sister’s cell. No answer. This close to the metro area, traffic was getting heavier, but Denise sped up to reach Dallas as quickly as possible.
And then what? Join the ambulance chasers who were probably crowded around the West End, gaping at the fire?
Hell, yes. She would see for herself what was going on.
Not all the snow had melted in Dallas and traffic was heavy, so it took her nearly two agonizing hours to cover the remaining forty miles. She called Stella several times during the drive, and Brutus twice. No answer. Streets were jammed. She parked in the first spot she found. Smoke and some sort of acrid chemical scent grew thicker the closer she got to the Pink Pussycat. Through the press of people, she glimpsed barricades and flashing lights from police cars.
She fought her way to the front of the crowd. Most of these people were tourists. She could tell by the way they dressed. One older gentleman had on a sweat-stained Stetson. Probably not a tourist, she decided.
“Excuse me,” she said, loudly enough to catch his attention. “What is going on? I know about the fire. But is it under control? My sister works in the area and she is not answering her phone.”
His weather seamed face looked concerned. “Why, I don’t know about the fire, miss. But I heard they’re taking the hurt people to the Methodist Hospital. Maybe you should check there.”
A brassy-haired lady with a northern accent broke in. “That’s right,” she shouted. “Methodist or Baylor is what I heard. Too many injured for just one hospital. That’s not all I heard, either. I was eating lunch in this nice little bistro when I heard this roar, like a jet taking off. Next thing I know, me and my hubby are rushed out of the restaurant by some guy in a blue uniform. I have no idea who he was, but there we were, not even done eating, on the street. Let me tell you, this has been terrible. Something exploded in some club. Not the kind of club I would ever go to, if you know what I mean.”
Denise gave her an automatic smile. “Thank you.” She turned to the older gentleman. “Thank you,” she said again, and hurried off.
When she had pushed her way to the back of the crowd, she called Methodist and asked if they had anyone there named Stella Johnson who had been at the fire in the West End. The woman on the phone explained, with what seemed to be strained patience, that they didn’t have names for all the injured at this point and she should call again in a few hours. Denise hung up and called Baylor only to get the same answer.
She couldn’t stay here. She was only another person and car jamming the streets. She drove to Methodist in hope that she would find out more information if nothing else.
When she arrived, it was so crowded she had to park at the edge of the back of the lot, behind the doors where ambulances arrived at the emergency doors. A Dallas Fire and Rescue ambulance idled a few yards away from the door. Denise’s heart did a funny little dip.
Two men in the blue Dallas Fire & Rescue uniforms came out of the building and walked toward the ambulance. She couldn’t mistake the broad shoulders and narrow waist of the one in the lead. His lips soundlessly formed the word, “Dee.”
Her first impulse was to throw herself into his arms. The scowl on his face kept her from it. “Brutus.”
It came out as a strangled sob. “Have you seen Stella? She works at the Pink Pussycat and she’s not answering her phone.”
The forbidding look melted slightly. “She was our first passenger. She’s here.”
“Thank God!” She curled her hands into fists to keep from reaching for him. “Brutus, we need to talk.”
Dusty came to the other side of the vehicle. “No time to chat,” he reminded his partner. “We have more customers to pick up and transport.”
“Right.” Brutus walked right past her to the driver’s side of the ambulance.
“Brutus, I know we can’t talk now. Call me when you’re free, okay? Please.”
He stepped up into the ambulance and paused to stare hard at her over the top of the door. “I called you over and over for weeks. You never answered.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll answer this time, I swear.”
He stared, hard faced, for a moment more. “Okay. It will be hours until I’m free.”
“I’ll wait.”
He got in and slammed the door shut. With a curt nod through the window, he drove away.
Slightly shaky, Denise went around to the front door and went in to the hospital. She went to the information desk.
“Hello. I’m looking for my sister, Stella Johnson. She was in the fire in the West End.”
The woman, iron gray hair cut severely short, frowned. “I’m sorry, we have no information concerning the fire victims available to the public.”
Denise planted her fists on the counter and leaned close. “I’m not the public. I’m a sister. I just spoke with the EMS who brought her here. Now, where can I find my sister or someone who can tell me her condition?”
“Please step back. I will enquire,” she said rigidly, and picked up the phone. After a few minutes of guarded conversation, she hung up and sniffed at Denise. “Ms. Johnson will be transferred to a room in about an hour. If you would care to wait in the family waiting room you will be informed when you may see her.”
It was a long wait. Fifty minutes crawled by like days. Denise kept her phone close, although it was ridiculous to expect a call from Brutus already. When the elderly waiting room attendant called her name, she hurried to the desk.
