Thunder at Dawn

by Jill Gregory

  Why was she here with Zach? She could have refused. She could have opened her door, told him she changed her mind, and closed it again.

  But she hadn’t. And the reason disturbed her more than she could say. She hadn’t wanted to.

  Now she had to pay the price. Hours of driving alone with him, to Casper and back.

  And nothing to say.

  He apparently had nothing to say to her either. He drove with ease and surety, slowing around the curves, swerving to avoid a fox that slunk across the road.

  Not like the young daredevil who had often made her scream and gasp as he sped on narrow roads, took hairpin turns at speeds that bordered on mania.

  And, she reminded herself, she was nothing like the idiotically foolish girl who had opened her heart to that wild, lost boy. She was wiser, smarter, harder.

  So why was she letting him call the shots?

  “I really don’t understand why we’re doing this.” A half hour had passed. A half hour in which there was nothing but silence between them, except for the rumble of the pickup’s tires over the road.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Zach, we’re over. We’ve been over for a long time. And that was your choice. So . . . what’s the point?”

  “We have unfinished business.”

  “We’ve had that for ten years.” She stared straight ahead out the windshield at the deepening dusk. “Why the hell do you want to dredge it all up now?”

  “Because you’re back here in Thunder Creek and so am I. At the same time. Maybe someone’s trying to tell us something.”

  “Like one of us should leave?”

  He shot her a frown, then turned onto the highway. “I’m not going anywhere. In case you haven’t heard, I’m building a major branch office of my company right here. Settling down.”

  Those were two words no one who’d known Zach ten years earlier would ever have expected to hear. “Because of your son, I’m sure,” she said slowly.

  “Yes. My son.” His eyes were fixed on the road, but his profile was somber. His five o’clock shadow stubbled his jaw, accentuating the tough handsomeness of that completely masculine face. She ignored the flutter in her stomach and concentrated on keeping the conversation in neutral territory.

  “Dillon seems like a very nice boy.”

  “He thinks highly of you too.”

  She raised her brows, glancing at him. “Oh? Because I whistled and Batman came back?”

  “I’m sure that has something to do with it.” He glanced over at her. “His latest idea, aside from wanting to be a vet and work for Doc Brent in his clinic, is that I should get married. Possibly to you.”

  She stared at him, astonishment sweeping through her. “Is that . . . why you asked me on this date?” she demanded incredulously.

  “Sure. Whatever my kid wants, he gets.” Zach grinned at her. “I’m kidding, Faith. Kidding. I’m starting to believe you’ve been locked up in the DA’s office so long you’ve lost your sense of humor. In case you’ve forgotten, I married someone I didn’t love once. For your information, it didn’t work out too well, and I’m damned if I’m going to do it again.”

  Her throat went dry. Silence whispered between them for a full minute.

  “Alicia?” She licked her lips. “You . . . didn’t love Alicia?”

  “I told you I didn’t—the summer we were together.”

  “That was before you left me high and dry to go back to her.”

  Her voice had returned, thank God. And her wits. The words came out clipped and brisk as if she was saying Your Honor, the people request that bail be denied.

  “Now you’re going to tell me that you weren’t ever happy?” She practically sneered.

  “That’s an understatement.” Beneath the calm of his tone, she heard bitterness . . . and something else, something that sounded like pain.

  “I always thought . . .”

  “What?”

  “That you adored her.” She forced the words out. “There were photographs in the newspapers right after your wedding . . . in USA Today, even in Newsweek once . . .”

  “Yeah, the oil scion and the Dallas debutante. Don’t believe everything you see.”

  But you left me, without ever saying good-bye, she thought. You went back to her. Without a note, without a word . . .

  She’d always wondered if Alicia had been pregnant. Always secretly hoped it was that—and not that Zach loved her more. Over and over after that summer, she’d pictured different scenarios, different reasons . . .

  And Dillon was about the right age . . .

  But none of that mattered now. She wasn’t about to lay her heart on the line for Zach ever again, or even to ask him about that night. She refused to open up the pain. Better to switch to safer territory.

  “Do the two of you share custody? Is Dillon only with you for the summer?”

  “No. He’s mine, full custody.” His tone was firm. “Alicia hasn’t even seen him in about eighteen months.”

  “Why not?”

  Zach’s mouth twisted. “She’s been pretty busy bouncing in and out of detox.”

  Faith stared at him. “Drugs?”

  “Yeah. Among other things.” Zach passed another car on the highway and in the gleam of light she saw grimness in his eyes. “Alicia and her second husband aren’t much into kids and pets and horses and baseball,” he said. “They prefer bourbon and Scotch and the occasional line of coke. Easy to get when they spend their lives partying in London and jetting between South Beach and L.A.”

  “I’m sorry—for Dillon,” Faith said in a low tone.

  “Yeah, me too. They don’t seem to mind showing him off to their friends when he’s around, but on a scale of one to ten, Alicia’s mothering instincts register around negative five.”

  His voice was hard now. And angry. It wasn’t because of whatever pain his wife had caused him, Faith realized with a sharp intake of breath. It was because of how she’d treated Dillon.

  Her heart cracked, an opening that was narrow as a crevice. During those first few years apart, she’d always pictured Zach contentedly married to the daughter of his father’s oldest friend. She’d imagined them on the McCallum ranch in Texas, like king and queen of the prairie, raising children, entertaining friends and business associates, living the good life of those who traded in power and money. She’d even imagined that marrying Alicia had somehow softened his father’s antipathy toward him.

  Maybe she’d been wrong. About his marriage, at least. But not about any of the rest of it, she thought. Not about the fact that he’d left her without a word—and never looked back. Never called her, or wrote. Never hesitated in cutting himself off from everything that had happened between them—and marrying a daughter of Texas royalty without regard to the promises they’d made to each other on Snowflake Mountain during all those sweet, pine-scented Wyoming nights.

  “Well.” She tried to sound casual, indifferent. “Dillon seems to have survived her pretty well. I assume he owes that to you.”

  “He’s not going to grow up like I did.”

  She couldn’t help it—his determination stirred a twinge of compassion. Zach had shared more than French kisses and hot caresses with her that summer. He’d poured out his heart in a way she’d suspected he’d never done before. He’d told her how his father had always compared him unfavorably to his brother, Jock. How Jock had excelled in school, had been the valedictorian of his class, and returned home with an MBA to help run TexCorp Oil, while Zach was still slacking off in high school, getting expelled for telling his physics teacher to go to hell, and running around with girls from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Caleb McCallum hadn’t minded some high-spirited high jinks in his offspring, but he considered Zach much too rebellious and restless for his own good.

  Two months before Zach was shipped off to Thunder Creek for the summer, Jock had been killed when the TexCorp company jet had crashed on landing at the Denver airport. With his death, Caleb’s dre
ams and visions for the future had crumbled like a mountain of dust. Pain had turned to anger and anger to rage—all of it directed at Zach, who had let him down in all the ways Jock had pleased him. Zach could do no right. He wasn’t Jock, he never would be, and in the two months following Jock’s death, Caleb never missed an opportunity to remind his younger son of his shortcomings.

  In response, Zach had grown wilder and ever more defiant. On the day when father and son had nearly come to blows, the decision was made to send Zach away. Zach was only too happy to go—he knew that the very sight of him sliced his father like a knife, and more than ever, they had become like oil and water.

  So Zach was sent packing to his aunt and uncle in Thunder Creek. If anyone could control the boy, Caleb had decided, it would be Ardelle’s husband, Sheriff Stan Harvey.

  But even Sheriff Harvey had been unable to bend or break Zach. Nevertheless, for his aunt’s sake Zach had pretty much toed the line. Until the end . . . until that night . . . the night before the end-of-summer dance—the last night she’d seen him.

  Memories of Pete Harrison in his hospital bed flicked through her mind. She didn’t know why Zach had fought with Pete—they’d always gotten along. She only knew what everyone else knew—that he’d left Pete lying there, unconscious, and caught a flight back to Texas—before Sheriff Harvey arrived on the scene, before he could be arrested.

  People had called him a coward. She had called him that herself, silently, over and over.

  He’d not only hurt Pete and run away, he’d abandoned her and everything they’d shared.

  Back then, it had seemed unimaginable that the boy she loved would do such things, but now . . . today, it seemed even more impossible. The man Zach had become possessed an aura of solidness, of quiet authority and strength. Everything about him exuded steadiness and calm.

  And he was clearly devoted to his son. She had to hand him that, no matter what he’d done in the past.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” she said at last. “I heard about his passing.”

  “He never gave an inch even at the end.” Zach’s gaze was focused straight ahead on the road, but she had a feeling he was looking at something else entirely. “Even in his sickbed, he was as ornery and uncompromising as ever. I told him I loved him. He couldn’t bring himself to do more than grunt. Dillon, now . . .”

  He shook his head. “I brought Dillon in to say good-bye to him. And the old man told Dillon he was the best, smartest, toughest boy in the world, and to never let anyone beat him in a fight. How do you like that? What kind of thing is that to say to a nine-year-old?”

  “He stayed true to form, I’ll give him that.”

  “Ten times over.” Suddenly, Zach smiled, his entire face lightening. “He probably thought if he’d tried to say I love you, even to Dillon, the words would stick in his throat and choke him to death. He did love Dillon though,” he added quietly. “I’ll grant him that.”

  “He loved you too, I’m sure. He just didn’t have a very good way of showing it.”

  A short laugh burst from his lips. “You don’t need to try to make me feel better, Faith. I’m not that wild, hurt kid anymore. And I can handle whatever my father dishes out ten times over, even from the grave. What about you?”

  Startled, her eyes flew to his face. “What about me?”

  “You’re more beautiful even than you were at nineteen.” His tone had changed, it was serious, quiet now. “But you’re nothing like that girl. Her laughter rang out so easily, like lovely music you never want to stop. But . . . you’re different now. Other people might not see it, but I do.” He glanced away from the road then, to look into her face, his eyes keen and gray and searching in the darkness.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Chapter 12

  CANDY MERCK CLOSED HER EYES AND SWAYED to the music in the Tumbleweed. Clint Black sang of love and loneliness and she hummed along, pretending she was dancing with Zach McCallum, when really it was only Owen . . .

  Not that there was anything wrong with Owen—he was cute enough, and sweet as a peck of peaches, even when he was drinking, but Zach was dangerous and sexy and more handsome than Tom Cruise. She’d had a crush on him since the first day he’d ever set foot in Thunder Creek ten years ago.

  The music stopped and she forced herself to open her eyes, peering up into Owen’s face. It was a little flushed, and as friendly and open as ever. And just as uninteresting.

  “How about a game of pool?” he suggested as they walked off the dance floor arm in arm.

  All around them, people milled around, drinking, laughing. One of the waitresses, scurrying back to the bar with a tray of empty glasses and bowls of nuts, nearly collided with her, but Owen steered her gently out of the way. He’d always been a real gentleman.

  “What I’d really like is another beer.” She grinned up at him, batting her eyes just for the hell of it.

  “I can sure arrange that. But only if you let me drive you home. You’re in no condition to be out on the road, Candy.”

  “Sweet of you to worry about me,” she murmured as he held her chair and she sank down at a small round table near the dart board at the rear of the bar.

  Zach wouldn’t worry about me. He only worries about Faith Barclay. Even now. He wouldn’t care if I drove off the edge of Wolf Canyon, she thought with a sad, sinking feeling in her stomach.

  Owen ordered refills for each of them. The noise of the bar pounded in Candy’s head as she swigged her beer and listened to Owen talk on and on about his quarter horses. He was trying to impress her, she could tell.

  But she wanted to dance again. Only not with Owen. With Zach. Damn Zach. And damn Faith.

  “Another one,” she muttered, pushing her glass toward Owen. “Please.”

  He looked worried. “How many’ve you had, honey? It’s only seven-thirty and you’re loaded.” He covered her hand with his. “If you go on much more, you’ll be sick as a dog. Why don’t you let me take you home now, before you lose it.”

  Sure, she thought. You want to take me home. But not because you care about me. You just want to get me into bed. Everyone wants to get me into bed . . . except Zach.

  “I’m going to the little girl’s room now,” she announced, and stood. But the floor tilted. Ooops. Owen grabbed her arm and she got her bearings. She shook off his hand in irritation.

  She wanted to get drunk, wanted to pass out. Anything to forget about the humiliating way Zach was treating her. She wasn’t some shy, dopey high school girl anymore—she was beautiful. Lots of men had told her so, and she could see it when she looked in the mirror. Beautiful. Smart. Successful.

  Maybe she’d invite Owen to her place after all. Let him take her to bed. Maybe having sex with him would help her calm down, get Zach out of her head. Maybe she’d even see a side of Owen she’d never seen before. It might be fun.

  Candy pushed open the door of the women’s restroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  Gawd, she looked like hell. It had been a bad day all around. A client had stood her up, another had backed out of buying the old Trumble place on Beaver Road, and she’d spilled red wine on her favorite powder-blue blazer.

  And now she was at the Tumbleweed with no one but Owen Carey for company and Zach was . . . where?

  Getting it on with good ol’ Faith?

  She hiccupped and dug in her purse. A comb, and cherry-colored lipstick. That helped.

  But she was thirsty. Wobbling a little, she made her way back to the table.

  Another ice-cold beer was sitting there waiting for her. So was Owen.

  She ignored him and grabbed the frosted glass.

  “Thirsty,” she muttered in between gulps.

  “Candy, how about it? Let me take you home now.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Owen? You want to get me in the sack. Admit it.”

  His lips tightened. “I’m trying to make sure you get home safe—”

  But Candy
interrupted him with a loud, ringing laugh that turned heads even in the noisy bar.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire. You want to make sure you get me in bed, don’t you? They all do. All of ’em. But—” She stopped herself. She’d almost said it. They all wanted to take her to bed, but they didn’t want to marry her. She knew it was true. But she didn’t know why. What was wrong with her? Why didn’t anyone love her?

  Tears filled her eyes. She pushed back her chair, staggered away from the table. “I’m going outside. I need air . . .”

  “I’ll come with you—”

  “Who asked you?” she snarled. At the next table, two cowboys from the Double O ranch turned and stared back and forth between her and Owen.

  “I’ll be . . . right back,” she mumbled, scowling at him. “Here, I’ll leave my damned keys. I just need—” To be sick, that’s what she needed. She tossed her car keys in Owen’s lap and rushed for the door.

  Once outside she took deep breaths of the clear night air and tried to keep from barfing. But nausea roiled in her throat.

  She rushed toward the scraggly bushes at the end of the parking lot, bent over, and heaved.

  When she was all done, she shoved a stick of gum in her mouth and knelt weakly on the pavement. She was disgusted with herself, disgusted with the world. Disgusted with Thunder Creek and everyone in this stupid town. She wanted to go someplace else, someplace far away . . . as far away as she could get.

  She heard a car door slam from a distance. Then a man stood over her. Candy squinted up at him, but there was no moon and it was hard to see him through the shadows.

  “Who are you? What the hell are you looking at?” she snapped. The dark shadow of the man moved closer.

  Candy felt the first hint of fear. She tried to stand, but her legs weren’t working properly. She opened her mouth to scream. Help, she needed help.