Wild Horses

“Miss Nightingale,” he repeated with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes,” she said, opening the door more widely. “Please, come in.”

She stood well back so that his body wouldn’t brush hers as he stepped inside. He stopped in the middle of the foyer and looked about. The living room was gracious, yet homey.

“Nice place,” he said, but he had that same edge in his voice.

“I imagine you had a long trip,” Mickey said, primly as an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “May I get you something to drink? We have coffee, soft drinks, sweet tea, juice, beer, wine—the wine’s local. Made just down the road, in fact. Or water, if you’d prefer.”

“Water’s fine,” Adam said. His eyes drifted to a painting over the fireplace and lingered there. Mickey stole a glimpse at him over the top of her glasses. Most men, seeing that painting for the first time, were bewitched.

Adam Duran also seemed struck by it, but his expression was critical.

“That’s Beverly, Mrs. Trent’s daughter,” Mickey said, keeping her teacherlike tone. “She lives in Denver now.”

He said nothing, just kept staring at the portrait. Beverly looked stunning; she was the sort of woman men could fall in love with at first sight—even if their first sight of her was only a picture.

Mickey turned away sadly from the image, for it made her wonder how Beverly and Sonny were, and if Caro and Vern had reached Denver yet. How was Caro holding up? If anything happened to this baby, Carolyn would be shattered, destroyed—Mickey could not bear to think of it.

Trying to push the fears from her mind, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water. Her job right now was to tend to Adam Duran. He should be told as soon as possible that Carolyn wasn’t there.

Carolyn had invited him to stay at the ranch, but with her gone, there was no need for him to stay. Mickey hoped he’d have the good grace to know it. Who cared about the technicalities of the stupid lease land at a time like this?

She carried the glass back to the living room and handed it to Adam, who still gazed up at Beverly’s likeness. “She looks like the sort that entered beauty contests,” he said. “And ended up marrying a doctor.”

Mickey didn’t like his tone. “She was,” she said coldly. “And she did.”

He smiled, as if smug about his own power of observation. Resentment tore through Mickey’s frayed nerves. Who was he to walk into Carolyn’s home and make a snide remark about her suffering child?

She no longer needed defenses against such a man. And she forgot that Carolyn would want her to be cordial. Almost defiantly, she laid her reading glasses aside and gestured at the couch.

“Sit,” she said, as much an order as an invitation. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

He raised a brow questioningly. But he sat. He didn’t sink back against the couch. He stayed on its edge, his posture alert, gazing at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “Okay. Bad news. What?”

She sat down in the chair opposite him. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands in her lap. “Mrs. Trent and her husband were called away this afternoon. It’s a family emergency. I don’t know when they’ll be back. It may be a few days. It may be longer.”

He straightened his back and frowned. “I have to talk to her. As soon as possible. I can’t hang around here waiting. I’ve got tickets back home for Friday—”

“Nobody foresaw this, Mr. Duran,” she said. “It’s unfortunate for everyone concerned.”

He gave her a piercing look, almost intimidating. “You’ve got no idea how unfortunate. How can I get in touch with her?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably still en route.”

He gritted his teeth and cast an angry glance toward the ceiling, as if demanding that heaven give him patience.

Mickey said, “She invited you to be a guest here, and she’s not a woman to go back on her word. If you can’t change your ticket to go back sooner, you’re welcome to stay on until Friday or—”

“I can’t go back sooner,” he retorted. “The fare would be higher. I tried to get here as cheaply as I could.”

Well, Mickey thought, that was almost a point in his favor. At least he didn’t want to squander the estate money on travel expenses. But, still, his interest was only in himself. He hadn’t even asked about Caro’s troubles.

But then, though he still looked unhappy, he said, “What’s the family emergency? If I can ask.”

Mickey clasped her hands together more tightly. “Her daughter’s just had her first child. A little girl. The baby has a serious heart condition. They’re going to have to operate tomorrow.”

He looked at her, frowning as if such a thing could not be, should not be.

“A serious condition? You mean the baby could…”

Die. He didn’t say it, but the word hung in the air like a curse: The baby could die.

“Yes,” she said, her throat tightening.

“That’s lousy,” he said. “That’s terrible. I—I’m sorry.” The sarcastic tinge had vanished from his voice.

Her throat clamped even harder. She couldn’t speak. Only nod mutely.

He leaned toward her. “I really am sorry.” He paused. “You said it’s a little girl?”

“A little girl,” Mickey managed to repeat. She thought of the dozens of pink outfits Carolyn had bought for the child. They were still wrapped and stacked in the closet.

Her gaze fell to the coffee table. The Saks catalog lay there, still turned to the page picturing the enormous pink-and-white panda with its huge, rosy bow.

Again it flashed through Mickey’s mind: Carolyn’s plan to get off the plane, dressed all in pink, holding that ridiculously large animal, just to make Beverly laugh and not be nervous about the birth…. But now…

Mickey couldn’t help it. Tears welled in her eyes. She’d fought them ever since Sonny’s call, and until now she’d won. Suddenly they overtook her, and she turned her face so Adam wouldn’t see.

But he already had. “Are you all right? Miss Nightingale?”

She heaved a shaky sigh of anger at her own weakness. “I’ll be fine,” she managed to say. But memories cascaded madly through her head.

Carolyn had shopped so lovingly, had refused store gift wrap, because every purchase had to be brought home and shown to Vern and Mickey for approval. Then she and Mickey had wrapped them all, to make them more personal. Carolyn had gone through extravaganzas with paper and imaginative bows…she and Mickey had fussed and giggled and carried on, and Carolyn had been so happy….

Mickey swore to herself and covered her eyes. She’d never considered herself sentimental, but now she was coming apart over booties and ribbons and bows. She should be made of sterner stuff. But the tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks.

Get hold of yourself, dammit.

Suddenly Adam Duran was before her, bending on one knee in front of her, putting a hand on each arm of the chair. “Miss Nightingale?” he said. “Michelle? Mickey—don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

Now chagrin compounded her grief and fear. How stupid to let a stranger see her like this—and his kindness made it worse. It had been easier to be steely when she’d thought him cold and smug.

She kept her eyes covered and bent her head lower, but she could feel more tears coursing down, and her body shook with suppressed sobs.

“Well, no,” he said, sounding flummoxed, “Cry if you need to. Cry if it helps.”

He dug into the pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out an equally faded blue bandana handkerchief. She’d balled her free hand into a fist. He took the clamped fingers in his hands and gently pried them open. He tucked the handkerchief into her palm then closed her fingers back over it.

“Take that,” he said. “It’s old—but it’s clean. Really.”

She raised the handkerchief to her face. It smelled of old-fashioned laundry, the kind that dried by sunlight and breezes. She scrubbed at the offending tears.

“I—don’t—usually—do—this,” she said.

He touched her arm, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “Can I get you something? You want my glass of water? Or a fresh one?”

The sensation of his hand against her flesh sent a strange, new frisson through her. She hazarded a glimpse of him over the handkerchief. His forehead was furrowed, and his eyes were filled with worry that seemed real.

She realized she would do better if he were not so near and so tensed with empathy. “I—I’d like a glass of water,” she said, her voice thickened by crying. “There’s a pitcher in the fridge. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure thing,” he said, patting her arm. “You bet.”

He rose and went toward the kitchen. Perhaps he understood she needed to be alone awhile to pull herself together. He took his time.

She stopped crying. She dried the last of her tears, straightened up in her chair. Taking slow, deep breaths, she got up and went to the coffee table. Without looking at the page, she slapped the catalog shut and thrust it deep into the magazine rack. She would not allow herself to look again at the picture of that damned panda. Not until she knew the baby was well.

And little Carrie Dekker would get well, she told herself. Doctors could do miracles these days, and Sonny knew the finest ones. But still, her mind nagged, but still…

Adam came into the room again, holding a blue glass misted with cold. He offered it to her. “Feel better?” he asked.

She took it. “Much better. Thank you.”

The drink cooled her aching throat. He watched her, concern still etched on his face.

“I really don’t usually do that,” she apologized.

He nodded, hooking one thumb in his belt. “I didn’t think so.”

“I—I’ve been holding it in. I didn’t want to break down in front of Caro. She didn’t need that. She was having a tough enough time herself.”

“I imagine she was.”

“This is her first grandchild,” Mickey said, feeling she owed him an explanation for her outburst. “She’s been planning for months. This really blindsided her. Did I mention Beverly’s her only child? She’s worried about her, too. Beverly’s wanted a baby for so long.”

He cast another look at Beverly’s portrait over the mantel. He no longer looked critical. “How long?”

“They’ve been married nine years.”

“I hope it all works out for them.”

“So do I,” Mickey said with feeling. “They’re good people. All of them.”

He looked suddenly troubled. “I shouldn’t impose on you at a time like this. I’ll go. I noticed a motel when I came through town.”

The motel, she thought dully. Oh, Carolyn wouldn’t want that.

“No,” Mickey said firmly. “You came all this way. You were invited to stay, and the invitation stands. Carolyn would be mortified if you checked into a motel.”

He said nothing. He stared down at the carpet, rubbed it with the heel of his scuffed cowboy boot.

Mickey was starting to feel more like her usual, efficient self. Or at least she thought she was. “Everything’s ready for you. The guest room’s waiting. Bridget’s got everything for supper…”

He looked up, meeting her gaze. Again she was startled by the vivid blue of his eyes. “Bridget?”

“She’s the cook and housekeeper,” Mickey said. “She lives here. We both do. And she likes company. She’s been looking forward to your visit.”

Mickey didn’t add that Bridget was the only one who’d looked forward it. But now she herself was determined to show Adam that the Circle T was a hospitable place, even in crisis.

Adam still looked conflicted, his mouth twisted with doubt.

“It’s a big house,” Mickey said. “You can have all the privacy you want. There’s a den with a TV and—things. And there’re horses, if you ride. Can you ride?”

His chin went up, and he seemed to stand taller. Any aura of uncertainty vanished. “Yeah,” he said. “I can ride.”

“Then it’s settled. Come with me. I’ll show you the guest room.”

A frown line appeared between his eyes, but he lifted the battered duffel bag and slung its strap over his shoulder. She led him down the hall, past Carolyn’s open office and her own. She noticed that he glanced in both rooms. He seemed to be observing the house with unusual keenness.

The guest room was a large, airy room with an adjoining bath. The white curtains had been pushed open, and the windows overlooked a garden of native Texas wildflowers. It was May, and they bloomed in profusion, the delicate gold of the daisies, the bolder gold and scarlet of the Indian blankets and the deep, tender blue of the bluebonnets.

Mickey had set a white vase of the flowers on the antique oak dresser with its framed oval mirror. Matching the dresser was a four-poster bed. It had a long white skirt and was covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.

A bookcase was filled with volumes old and new, from classics with faded spines to recent best sellers, their covers still crisp and shiny. A television sat on a low oak bench across from a pair of chintz-covered armchairs. Framed Audubon prints of songbirds hung on the walls.

She said, “The den’s next to the living room. There’s a bigger TV there, videos, more books and a pool table. If you need me, I’ll be right down the hall in my office.”

She moved to the door and stepped into the hall. “Supper’s at seven-thirty. Since there’s just you and me, I thought we’d eat in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you.”

He looked her up and down, then nodded. “It’s fine.”

She had never before thought of the guest room as womanish. But in contrast to his masculinity, it suddenly seemed so. He looked out of place in the midst of the snowy curtains and polished furniture and delicately framed prints. He didn’t seem a man suited for chintz and flower arrangements.

With his faded jeans and work shirt, and his skin so burnished by the sun, he would have looked far more at home on the deck of a boat on a lonely sea, tugging ropes and raising sails. As she closed the door, she had the uneasy feeling that he was the sort who wouldn’t be comfortable shut up in any room. He gave off the air that he wasn’t quite tame.

What sort of person was he, anyway? Who was this man, really, suddenly sharing the house with her and Bridget?

WHAT THE HELL have I walked into? Adam thought, staring at the closed door. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage.

He’d known this trip was going to be hard. And he refused to lie to himself; he’d felt edgy about meeting Carolyn Trent. What sane man in his position wouldn’t?

During the whole trip, he’d hardened himself to face her. When he’d climbed the front stairs, his heart had pounded like a sledgehammer. He’d supposed she’d be polite—initially. After that, he’d been prepared for anything.

Except for this. The woman he’d come so far to meet was gone. Because of a sick, newborn baby. Maybe a mortally sick baby.

He swore under his breath and pitched his bag onto the bed to unpack it. He’d been thrown off from the first moment by the strange, starchy Mickey Nightingale.

When she’d first opened the door, she’d stared at him as if he were a freak. He supposed that in her eyes he was. She was neat as a pin. The creases in her jeans looked sharp as blades. Her long-sleeved white blouse was ironed to perfection. Almost everything about her radiated purity and order, except her tousled hair. And the wildly startled look in her eyes.

She’d even put on her glasses, as if to make sure of what she was seeing on Carolyn’s respectable porch. He supposed he looked like a bum.

Before he’d come, he’d thought about getting a haircut. He’d thought about buying new jeans, even a dress shirt. Then he’d remembered the maxim: Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes. To hell with upgrading his wardrobe.

He’d meant to show up as himself, not pretending to be anyone or anything else.

Yet he’d been immediately daunted by the Nightingale woman. She was attractive in an odd, unattainable way. In spite of her primness, there was something about her that was—only one word came to him—exquisite.

Her skin was so perfect he’d been tempted to reach out to find if it could possibly feel as smooth as it looked. She wore no makeup except for a touch of pink on her lips. Could her face really be so flawless?

Her hazel eyes were a rich, brownish gold. Her hair was brown slightly tinged with dark gold—a color as mysterious to him as autumn, a season that never came to the Caribbean. Her curls were rumpled, the only slightly untidy thing about her. Yet that one touch of disorder became her. It made her seem human, after all.

Otherwise she was the very essence of a proper, civilized, well-bred young woman. The complete opposite of him.

But as haunting as he found her looks, her manner had set his teeth on edge. She’d seemed snippy and stuck-up.

Or so he’d thought until the moment she’d burst into tears.

He’d been confounded by her news about Carolyn Trent and the ailing baby. He hadn’t noticed Mickey’s growing distress in talking about it. He’d been bewildered, wondering what in hell he was going to do now.

Then, before he knew it, the facade of her primness broke. Who could have thought such storms of feeling could toss within her?

What alarmed him was how deeply grieved she seemed. Her body had heaved in the effort to control the sobs that threatened to break out of control. She said she was a secretary, but she obviously cared a great deal about Carolyn Trent and her family.

Adam was not cruel. When he saw suffering, his first impulse was to ease it. And her tears brought the reality home to him: Carolyn might well be a person worth caring about. And Carolyn, too, was suffering.

He swore aloud again. What to do now? Everything had to be rethought. Everything.

And as for the Nightingale woman, she’d gone from tempestuous sorrow back to cool efficiency so quickly that she’d thrown him off balance yet again. Well, he was stuck here with her until Friday. He supposed that having dropped her guard once she’d be careful not to do it again.

So be it. It’d be easier on both of them.

He hung his two spare shirts and other pair of jeans in the closet. He truly wasn’t much for clothes. For him, living on his small boat, wearing more than a pair of ragged cutoffs was dressing up. What he had on now was like formal wear to him.

The rest of the contents of the duffel bag were books, photos, a videotape, a folder, two sealed manila envelopes with Enoch Randolph’s legal papers and some documents. He put everything but his books into a dresser drawer.

He looked about the room, and homey as it was meant to be, he still felt trapped. He resisted the impulse to pace. He picked up one of his books and flopped down in a chair, draping one leg over the arm.

He opened the book and began to read, although he knew it nearly by heart. His eyes fell on one of the opening sentences.

“At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.”

That’s me, he thought, more restless than before. A sojourner in civilized life. I don’t live here. I’m just here for a temporary stay.

CHAPTER THREE

“VERN?” MICKEY HELD the receiver so tightly her knuckles paled. “Are you in Denver?”

“We got here about two hours ago.” Vern sounded exhausted in body and soul. “We’re at the hospital.”

“How’s the baby? How’s Beverly?”

“The baby…” He paused, as if uncertain how to say it. “The baby’s hanging in there. They—they say she’s a fighter.”

“She has to be,” Mickey said, her throat tightening. “Look who her grandma is.”

“Beverly’s pretty much out of it,” Vern said. “They’ve got her on morphine. She knows the baby has a problem. They haven’t told her yet how serious.”

“Does she know there’ll be an operation?”

“Not yet. They’re scheduling surgery for tomorrow. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“How’s Sonny?”

“Sonny’s Sonny. He’s holding everything together. He’s with Carolyn right now.”

Mickey shifted in her chair and stared at the framed snapshots ranged along her bookshelves. From those frames smiled their faces, all of them—Carolyn, Vern, Beverly and Sonny. She herself was in some of the photos. Carolyn and Vern had taken her on the family vacations to Aspen. In one shot she stood in her rented skis, laughing between Beverly and Sonny.

She had to turn her gaze from the reminders of those happier times. “How’s Carolyn?”

Again Vern paused. “She did just fine until she saw the baby. It’s such a little thing. On a respirator, and all these tubes and wires running into her. Poor Caro just sort of—lost it. Sonny got her pulled together again. She asked him to prescribe her tranquilizers. She wants to stay calm as she can for Beverly’s sake.”

Mickey shook her head in sympathy, unable to speak.

“Listen, Mick,” Vern said. “We took off from home like a pair of bats out of hell. There’s a lot we didn’t tend to. Carolyn had some signed checks in her desk drawer. I planned on depositing them when I went to the courthouse. Could you go to town and put them in the bank? Otherwise we’ll have checks bouncing all over town. And some are paychecks.”

“Of course. I’ll do it right away. But, Vern?”

“Yes?”

She nipped at her lower lip. “Something else got lost in the shuffle.”

She thought of the man with the azure eyes. The man who could look haughty as a king in spite of his shabby clothes, who could be either icy or kind.

Vern sighed. “I’m sure dozens of things got lost, Mick. What is it?”

She took a deep breath and said, “Adam Duran is here. The executor of Enoch’s will.”

“Oh, damn!” Vern almost moaned. “Damn! I never gave him a thought. Neither did Carolyn, I know. Hellfire, she doesn’t need him on her mind, too. Why didn’t I think—”

Mickey, feeling guilty for adding to his troubles, tried to reduce them. “Don’t give it a moment’s thought. He’s here, he’s comfortable, I’ll see to him.”

“I don’t know why he couldn’t have handled this damned will business by mail,” Vern grumbled. “What sort of guy is he? A lawyer? A banker? Or just a friend of Enoch’s?”

Mickey remembered the untrimmed hair and faded clothes, and thought perhaps the less she said the better. “I don’t think he’s a lawyer or banker. Just a—an acquaintance.”

“Well, God knows what kind of acquaintance that old coot would make. Be careful. But feel him out, will you? Maybe there are some strings tied to this lease-land deal. I hope not. I don’t want any nasty surprises sprung on Carolyn. She’s in no shape for it.”

“I’ll find out all I can,” Mickey promised.

“Tell him you’re Carolyn’s most trusted agent. Anything he has to say to her, he can say to you. It’s true, God knows.”

A glow of pride warmed her, in spite of her anxiety. “I’ll be glad to. So rest easy about this, Vern. And don’t let Carolyn fret over it.”

“I’m not even going to mention it to her. She’s got enough on her mind, God knows. You should have seen that tiny child. All those tubes—Lord.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Mickey assured him. She told him to give her love to everyone. They said their goodbyes, and she hung up.

Feeling strangely agitated, she walked down the hall and knocked on the guest-room door. “Mr. Duran, I’m leaving. I have to go into town on an errand,” she said through the door. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Bridget should be along any minute. I’ll call her and let her know you’re here.”

She waited, holding her breath. At last, from the other side of the door, he answered, “Fine.”

That single word was apparently all the reply he was going to make.

She felt odd about leaving him alone in Carolyn’s house, but she had no choice. And what she’d told him was true; Bridget would soon be there.

AS SOON AS Adam heard the car pull away, he opened the door and glanced down the deserted hall. The house had that eerie, empty feeling that houses get when their dwellers are gone, but a lone visitor stays. The place was still and silent with no sign of life—except for him. The unwanted guest.