MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA

by Eileen Wilks

  "I told you. I like blue." He smiled and rubbed his hands over her arms again. "And you'd probably better be going if you're going to find something special for the party. There's bad weather on the way. I'd rather you were back before it hits."

  "Bad weather?" she said, surprised. She'd listened to the radio all morning. "Isn't it too early in the year for the spring storms? The weather report did say something about a thirty-percent chance of rain tomorrow, but it's supposed to be clear tonight."

  "I could be wrong, but the horses are jittery, Abe swears his rheumatism is acting up, and the air has the feel of a storm on the way."

  * * *

  Earl and Susie Navarette lived in a huge, two-story adobe home about thirty minutes away. Cars and trucks were parked all over the place when Nate, Hannah and Mark arrived—in the curving drive in front of the house, along part of the access road and in the flat, weedy area that lay between the house and the rest of the ranch buildings.

  They were running a little late. Abe and the hands were already here. Hannah had vanished into the bathroom about six o'clock, and she'd stayed in there so long, Nate had wondered if he would have to drag her out. When she finally did come out, though, the results had been well worth the wait.

  Earl had told Nate that he would save a parking space for them, and so he had. A makeshift sign on a metal barrel announced that one of the spots in the drive in front of the four-car garage was Reserved for Guests with Broken Legs. If You Don't Have One When You Park Here, You Will When You Leave.

  Nate was smiling as he got out of the car.

  "Your friend has a sense of humor," Hannah said, getting out on her side. "At least, I hope he's joking. Here, let me have the keys and I'll get the wheelchair while you get Mark."

  "Earl's a subtle man in some ways, but his sense of humor isn't one of them." Nate tossed her the keys, and she went around to the trunk.

  The sun was setting, and making a fuss about the business, too. Clouds piled up halfway across the sky, dark and gravid with rain, and painted by the setting sun in lurid shades of purple, orange, yellow and a deep, brooding crimson. The wind wasn't blowing strongly, but it had a bite to it that convinced him he'd been right about the storm headed their way.

  Hannah unloaded the wheelchair, dropping the keys in her jacket pocket. Nate unloaded Mark, lowering his brother into the wheelchair. Mark sat down with a grunt, and Nate turned to say something to Hannah about the keys. And forgot how to speak.

  Silhouetted against the setting sun, bathed in the long shadows of dusk and the last fiery light of the day, she took his breath away. She had made an effort to subdue her hair, pulling it back in some kind of fancy braid. But a few strands had already worked loose. They frisked in the wind now, outlining her face like unruly question marks.

  "I really didn't need this jacket, Nate," she said, hugging it around her. "I don't know why you insisted I wear it. Here, let me get Mark's chair."

  "I've got it." Nate started pushing Mark along the paved drive toward the house. He knew why she hadn't wanted to wear the jacket. It was old and worn and it hid her newly purchased finery. He wished he could have bought her something pretty to wear instead of that parka. "You can take the jacket off as soon as we're inside. When's your birthday?" She wouldn't refuse a gift if it was for her birthday.

  "What?" She laughed as she fell into step beside him. "Are you wanting to know my sun sign? I'm a Taurus. We're not exactly known as party people."

  "Are you worrying about the party?" Mark asked, turning his head to aim a leer up at her. "You can hold my hand if you're nervous."

  "I'm not nervous. I never was. I just needed something new to…" Her voice drifted off as she looked at another set of new arrivals, who were approaching the front door from the opposite direction. There were five of them—three women and two men—and they all wore jeans beneath various sorts of dressy jackets and coats. "I'm overdressed, aren't I?" she asked starkly.

  "No," Nate said without pausing. "You're beautiful."

  She turned a startled face towards him—and promptly tripped over something. "Oh, I am not! Especially not if you're looking above the neck. But thanks."

  He stopped. Surely he'd told her. Or had he only said it while he was making love to her? Did she think only her body was beautiful to him? "Mark," he said, "set the brake on your rig, would you?" And he turned and took Hannah's face in his hands. "You are beautiful," he said firmly. "Everyone but you is aware of this, Hannah. I don't want to hear any arguments from you on the subject." To prove his point, he kissed her.

  * * *

  Mark disappeared into the crowd almost the moment they crossed the threshold, his wheelchair and his attention claimed by several women eager to fuss over his injuries. Hannah kept an eye out for him, but he seemed to be having a great time.

  So was she. The food was fantastic, the people were friendly, and even after Hannah's head had stopped spinning from that kiss, she was prepared to believe she was wonderful, too. And not overdressed at all, she thought with a smile as she followed her hostess to the kitchen two hours later.

  Hannah had paid far too much money that afternoon for a tawny-colored dress she'd found on sale. The soft, sueded fabric reminded her of buckskin. The western-style yoke of the fitted bodice was trimmed in fringe and turquoise beading, and the skirt was full, tiered and deeply fringed along the hem. She felt like a combination of Annie Oakley and Pocahontas in the dress, and she loved it.

  So did her hostess—as Hannah had realized the moment they came face to face for the first time at the front door. The older woman had been wearing an identical dress, only in aqua instead of fawn.

  Susie had been the first one to laugh. Hannah had joined her a second later.

  Susie Navarette was a small, well-padded woman of about sixty with very short, very white hair, a square face and round glasses. She'd come to claim Hannah's help a minute ago, saying she could use a hand in the kitchen. It was an excuse, of course, and a flimsy one. Hannah followed her out of curiosity as much as courtesy. She held the three glass dessert plates and single highball glass that Susie had handed her. Her hostess had three glasses in her hands—and two maids in her home, who circulated constantly through the parts of the house thrown open for the party, offering drinks and picking up used glasses and plates. Susie's need for "help in the kitchen" was as transparent a ruse as any Hannah had seen.

  But it worked.

  Hannah figured she was in for some sort of interrogation, but she didn't mind. For one thing, Susie had greeted Nate at the door with a hug when they first arrived—and Nate had hugged her back. For another, when Susie came to steal Hannah away, Nate had let her go, after sticking by her side all evening like a large, brooding watchdog.

  Hannah was glad Nate had a friend who cared enough to want to check her out.

  The kitchen was large and modern, and presided over by an enormous woman with a mustache and a long, graying braid hanging down her back. The cook sat on a stool at a work island, preparing a bowl of punch. "Here you go, Juana," Susie said, setting her three glasses down near one of the sinks.

  The cook muttered something in Spanish.

  Susie patted the woman's arm and turned to Hannah, smiling. "I suppose you're wondering why I dragged you away from the party."

  "It was neatly done, though I did feel a bit like a cow being maneuvered by a champion cutting horse."

  Susie giggled. "I like that comparison. The thing is, dear, we couldn't talk out there in front of everyone. And I'm dying to talk. I thought Nate would never—" Abruptly, the woman's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, how foolish. No, ignore me, my dear. I cry at weddings, movies, christenings—even commercials, sometimes. There." She dabbed at her eyes with one finger. "All done. I'm just so happy that Nate has found someone."

  "I think—I mean—you may be jumping to conclusions," Hannah said weakly.

  "I've embarrassed you. I didn't mean to. It's just that I was afraid he would never let anyone in again. And it
couldn't have happened at a better time." She leaned forward and said in a low voice. "I heard about the scene in the drugstore yesterday. You handled that well."

  Over by the punch bowl, Juana set a lemon on a cutting board, muttered something unintelligible and slammed a knife through the fruit, halving it neatly.

  "Oh, don't be silly, Juana. Hannah is nothing like Jenny. Anyone can see that."

  Hannah couldn't resist asking, "Did you know Jenny well, then? And Nate—you've known him a long time."

  "Since he was a boy. DanaRae was a dear, dear friend." She sighed and turned on the tap. "Bring some of those plates over here, will you?" Absently she unbuttoned the cuffs on her sleeves and rolled them up. "Such a sad, serious boy he was after his mother died. That's one reason Jenny seemed good for him, at first. She made him laugh. Did he tell you I taught him English his junior year?" She squirted dish soap into the sink and turned the water on.

  Hannah handed her hostess a stack of plates. "Nate hasn't told me much about his past," she admitted. "Um—is the dishwasher broken?"

  "Juana doesn't like it." Susie lowered the plates into the sudsy water. "I've tried and tried to convince her that the dishwasher does a better job of sanitizing things than we can, but she doesn't believe me."

  Juana mumbled something and whacked another lemon.

  "There are some cup towels in that top drawer, if you want to dry for me," Susie said.

  Hannah pulled out a towel. "So you taught Nate in high school," she prompted. "And you were friends with his parents."

  "I don't know if anyone was truly friends with Garwood Jones. He was a difficult man. I suppose I'm prejudiced because of my friendship with DanaRae. He wasn't a good husband to her, not to my way of thinking, but she loved him. Garwood was a hard man. Honorable, in his fashion, but hard."

  "I … heard about Mark." Hannah took the plate Susie handed her and started drying.

  "That's the sort of thing I mean. Garwood did wrong by DanaRae in having an affair, but then he did what he considered the right thing by Mark when the little boy's mother abandoned him. He took him in and provided for him. And DanaRae, bless her, was too tenderhearted to do anything but love the poor little boy. But Garwood never treated Mark as a son. Of course, he didn't really treat Nate as a son, either. Mostly Garwood piled obligations and expectations on that boy until it was a wonder Nate didn't explode."

  "I wonder," Hannah said, taking another plate from her, "if maybe Nate grew up a little confused about how to show affection, since his father was so distant. I mean, he's obviously devoted to Mark, in spite of—of some problems they've had. But he sure has trouble showing it."

  "I knew I was going to like you!" Susie beamed. "That's very perceptive. I've always felt that in one important way, Nate was more his mother's son than his father's. You hear folks talk about how much he's like old Garwood, but people can be dense at times. Oh, if you don't know Nate well, you might not realize that his resemblance to his father is mostly physical. He does hide his emotions behind that stony mask of his, but Nate has his mother's loving heart, not his father's cold need for control. Only the poor boy has never known what to do with all that love. That's his father's training, I'm afraid."

  "He…" Hannah swallowed, and got it said. "He loved Jenny, I think." What she'd done wouldn't have hurt him so badly if he hadn't cared.

  "Very much, at one time." Susie sighed and rested her hands on the counter. "I thought, when they first started dating, that it would work out. She seemed very fresh, very natural—childlike, even, in some ways, and he needed that. His father had tried to make an adult of him much too young. But … have you ever known someone with a thin soul?"

  Susie's phrase startled Hannah. "A thin soul? You mean—someone who's shallow?"

  "More like there simply isn't enough of them. I said Jenny was childlike, but the truth is, she was a child, emotionally. She couldn't seem to grow up. She needed so much attention … it began to seem unhealthy, the way she clung to Nate. She was dreadfully jealous. Then Garwood Jones died." She sighed, handed Hannah the last plate and reached for a towel to dry her hands.

  "That had an effect on his marriage?"

  She nodded. "It was the ranch, you see. Garwood had taken on too much debt—that's so easy for a rancher to do, though who would have thought it would happen to Garwood? But it had, and Nate had the devil's own time bringing everything about. But that was what pushed Jenny rather round the bend, I'm afraid."

  "I don't understand."

  Juana chose that moment to heave herself to her feet. She gripped the enormous punch bowl in her thick, muscular arms, grunted something at Susie and waddled toward the door.

  "I suppose you're right," Susie said, smoothing her sleeves back down. "I'd better get back to the party. Would you mind buttoning this cuff for me, dear?"

  Hannah reached out obediently. "Why did you say Nate's financial problems pushed Jenny around the bend? Was she worried about money?"

  "I don't think so," Susie said thoughtfully. "No, I've always thought that she just didn't want to share him with anyone or anything, not even the ranch. He had to work very long hours to keep from losing it, you see, and she couldn't stand that." She gave a last look around the kitchen. "Now, if you would help me carry some of these plates back out to the buffet? Then it will look as if we were busy with something in here other than a good gossip."

  Hannah grinned and picked up a small stack of the glass plates. "Do you think anyone will believe that?"

  "Of course not. You'd better tell me something about yourself, so I'll have something interesting to mention when they start prying."

  "I'm twenty-four," she said promptly. "My father is a cowboy, has been all his life. He's up in Wyoming right now. I have one sister, Leslie, who's the brain in the family. She's got a degree, but no direction. I've got direction, but no degree. I'm working on that, though it will take me a while. But I can be patient when I have to be."

  Susie laughed and patted her hand. "You forgot to mention your excellent taste in dresses. Did I tell you how much I love the one you're wearing? I am glad to hear you can be patient, though, because I think you'll have to be, if you want to make things work with Nate. Betrayal is never easy to forget, is it?"

  "No. It isn't." Jenny had taught Nate far too much about betrayal, and Hannah reminded herself now that Susie was right. Hannah couldn't expect Nate to unlearn those lessons all at once.

  Susie picked up another small stack of plates and started for the hall, adding almost casually as she pushed open the swinging door, "I've always thought that they put the wrong person in jail that night."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When Nate killed that man. The one who was really responsible was his wife, of course. He did exactly what she wanted him to do, as did the unfortunate man she'd taken as a lover to make Nate jealous."

  "No," Hannah said. "I'm sorry, but you're wrong. It was an accident."

  "Perhaps it was, on Nate's part. I rather think it was exactly what Jenny intended, however. She was the center of attention for the entire town for months. In fact, Jenny got almost everything she wanted as a result of what happened that night. Everything except Nate."

  Susie paused before going through the door to the dining room, where the barbecue had been served, buffet-style, earlier. An assortment of desserts now covered the big dining table. She looked over her shoulder at Hannah, utterly serious. "I do hope you'll be careful, dear. In a manner of speaking, Jenny has already killed once for him."

  * * *

  Hannah stayed by Nate's side after that and tried to forget Susie's last, melodramatic words. At eleven o'clock, Susie decided that no party was complete without dancing. Earl and Nate and several of the other men moved furniture, clearing most of the huge, tiled living area, while she programmed the stereo. Then she turned down the lights and turned up the volume.

  Nate came to stand in front of Hannah and held out his hand. He didn't speak, but he was smiling with his eyes.
He looked happy.

  Her heart turned over. She'd already been glad they'd come to the party, but at that moment, she wanted to sing out her own happiness. Instead, she put her hand in his, and let him lead her out onto the makeshift dance floor.

  The first song was a fast-moving, boot-stomping Cajun number that got everyone's blood pumping. Nate was as smooth a partner as Hannah had ever had, and she was breathless and laughing when the song finished. After a brief pause while the CD player hunted up the next song programmed into it, George Strait started singing about Texas ladies, and she went into Nate's arms. They danced slowly, her head on his shoulder, the music filling her head while love flowed around and through her. She felt light and whole and perfect.

  When the song ended, she stayed in Nate's arms. Maybe everyone felt as dreamy as she did, because no one spoke in the brief silence between songs.

  Then the doorbell chimed. And chimed again. And again. The urgency of that repeated summons had Hannah lifting her head from Nate's shoulder. Others were turning to look, too. Whoever was out there just kept ringing that bell, spreading alarm through the crowd. Hannah and Nate were at the end of the living room nearest the entry hall, and she saw Earl hurrying to answer his door.

  The next song came on, but only for a second. Someone promptly turned the stereo off. In the renewed hush she heard the muted howl of the wind, and she realized that the threatened storm had hit.

  Maybe, she thought, the weather explained the impatience of the person outside. Maybe he had been ringing the bell for some time, unheard over the music, and he was tired of getting wet. Maybe there was nothing really wrong.

  A moment later, Earl came back into the living room, his expression grim. There was a man with him—a man Hannah had met before. His beige Stetson was wrapped in plastic to protect it from the weather. Raindrops glistened on the clear covering, and on the black slicker he wore over his khaki uniform. Sheriff Royce Thompson stopped a couple of steps into the living room. His gaze flicked rapidly over the crowd and came to rest on Nate. "Mr. Jones," he said with a small nod of greeting, "I need to ask you a few questions."