Читать книгу Rancher's Redemption - Beth Cornelison - Страница 10

Chapter 4

Tamara struggled to regain her composure, find her professional detachment. She’d seen enough corpses through her job to stomach the grisly sight and even tolerate the smell to an extent. But the shock of finding the body so unexpectedly, the eerie shadows her key-ring light cast, having nearly fallen on top of the dead man…

She swallowed the sour taste that rose in her throat. Clenching her teeth to endure the sharp pain, she pulled herself to her feet. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase to climb out of the pit. By using the toes of her shoes to dig footholds, she managed to pull herself out of the sinkhole, one excruciating inch at a time.

Overwhelmed by the pain, the stench of death, the horror of what had happened to her, she braced on shaky hands and knees and retched—which sent fresh paroxysms of pain through her chest. The unforgiving Texas sun beat down on her and made her head swoon. Common sense warned her she had to get to her car, had to get out of the heat, had to get help for her injuries.

She had to report finding the dead man.

She shuddered.

A body.

The driver of the stolen car? Maybe. But if so, who put him down in that hole?

After struggling to her car, holding her aching ribs as still as possible, Tamara drove slowly toward the ranch’s main house. The idea of facing Clay again hurt almost as much as the jarring bumps and jolts of the uneven pasture and pothole-riddled driveway.

She blasted her horn as she approached the house. Within moments, two irritated ranch hands stalked toward her car, shouting for her to quit honking. Others looked on, clearly curious about what she wanted. She scanned the approaching ranch workers, looking for the one man she wanted most to see and yet dreaded facing.

Finally she spotted Clay, hurrying through the front door of the white house and crossing the wide porch. A familiar beagle rose from his nap on the porch and romped across the yard at Clay’s feet.

Tears of relief pricked her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to force them down. She swore to be strong in front of Clay if it killed her. Gaze fixed on her ex-husband, she waved off the ranch hands when they opened her door and offered her help.

The moment Clay realized who was behind the wheel of the Accord, his gait faltered for a second. His irritated scowl morphed into a look of shock then concern. He sprinted the remaining distance to her driver’s side door.

Pushing aside one of his workers, he squatted in the V of the open car door. “Tamara, what’s wrong? Why—”

“I fell…into a sinkhole. Out by the ravine.” She closed her eyes and waited out a new wash of pain.

Clay mumbled a curse. “How bad are you hurt? Can you walk?”

Before she could answer, he shoved to his feet and leaned in to check her. Taking her chin in his fingers, he swept her face with his gaze, then touched a scrape on her temple.

Wincing, she grabbed his wrist to stop his ministrations. “I found a body.”

Clay’s thick eyebrows dipped, his dark eyes homing in on hers. “A body? Where?”

“In the pit. A man. He’s been dead at least a couple days, judging from the stink.”

Clay stiffened at the news, barely brushing her chest, but the contact sent a fiery spasm through her. She gasped and gritted her teeth.

“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, snatching his hands away from her.

A prick of self-consciousness filtered through her haze of discomfort. She must look frightful, scratched, bleeding and covered in grime. And after baking in the heat for hours, wallowing in a dirt pit, then dragging herself to her car, she had to be ripe.

By contrast, even breathing shallowly as she was to avoid pain, the aroma of sunshine and leather clung to Clay and filled her nose. Her heart gave a hard thump. So many precious memories were tied to his seductive scent. Memories that now left her emotionally raw.

“I…may have cracked…a rib or two. I can hardly…breathe. It hurts…every time I move—”

“Can you walk or should I carry you inside?”

Just getting to her car had hurt like hell. She was tempted to let him carry her, but she hated to seem needy. “I can walk.”

“Hobo, get back,” he told the beagle, who stuck his nose inside the car to greet the ranch’s visitor.

Tamara smiled through her pain at the sight of the mutt, her old friend. She held her fingers out for him to sniff and scratched his head. “Hi, boy.”

Clay placed a hand under her elbow to steady her as she rose slowly, stiffly from the car. New aches from the tumble into the pit assaulted her. Muscles cramped, joints ached, scrapes throbbed.

She hobbled a few steps and couldn’t stop the groan that escaped her dry lips.

“That’s it,” Clay said and carefully lifted her into his arms.

She clutched the shirt at his shoulder when pain ripped though her chest. “No, Clay, I—I’m okay.” She stopped to suck air in through her teeth. “Really. L-let me down.”

He scoffed. “You can barely stand, much less walk.”

“But if I move slowly, I can—”

“Don’t argue.” His penetrating espresso gaze silenced her.

Cradling her ribs, she rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his shirt. Being this close to him again stole her breath. Feeling the power of his arms around her, hearing the thud of his heart left her a bit dizzy. With Hobo barking excitedly at his feet, he strode with smooth quick steps, mindful not to jostle her, and soon had her in the blissful air-conditioning of his house.

He bypassed the living and dining rooms, heading straight down the long hall, through the kitchen and into the family room at the back of the house.

“Marie!” Clay called as he settled her on a cool leather couch.

A Mexican woman came out of the laundry room and appeared in the kitchen. “Sí, Mr. Clay?”

“I need the hydrogen peroxide and a damp cloth.”

Tamara met the woman’s startled expression and gave her a strained smile.

The woman pressed a hand to her cheek and hurried closer. “Oh, my! What happened?”

“I fell in some kind of sinkhole…out in the south pasture.” She opted to leave out the detail about the dead body until the sheriff had a chance to investigate.

Clay made quick introductions between Tamara and his housekeeper. If the woman found it odd that Clay’s ex-wife had been hanging around one of his pastures, she hid it well.

Tamara winced as she tried to find a more comfortable position.

Marie waved a hand toward her. “Mr. Clay, she needs to see a doctor. She’s hurting.”

Clay unclipped his cell phone and started dialing. “I know. I’m calling Doc Mason right now.”

The older woman shook her head. “But Doc Mason is not here. He went on vacation, I heard.”

Clay scowled and closed his phone. “Vacation? Doc never takes vacation. It’s hard enough to get him to take off a day to go fishing.”

Marie shrugged then hurried toward the hall bathroom.

“Clay, we have to call Jericho…about the body I found,” she whispered so Marie wouldn’t overhear.

“I will. First I need to make sure you’re okay. If Doc is out of town, I’ll have to call an ambulance, but the nearest one could still take almost an hour to get you to a hospital.”

He stroked his stubbled cheeks, and the scrape of his callused palms on the bristles slid over her like a lover’s caress. She knew so well the sandpapery scratch of his unshaven chin against her skin, gently abrading her during lovemaking. The sensation was tantalizing, thrilling.

Tamara took a deep breath to clear the erotic memories from her head and was rewarded with a sharp stab from her battered ribs.

Her grunt of discomfort darkened Clay’s concerned stare to the shade of midnight. “Try not to move.”

She quirked a grin. “Ya think?”

Her attempt at levity bounced off his tense jaw and stress-tightened muscles. He began to pace.

When Marie returned with the cloth and antiseptic, she sat on the edge of the couch and began dabbing the scrapes on Tamara’s face. “Call the clinic,” she said. “There is a doctor filling in for Doc Mason, I think.”

Clay’s eyebrows lifted, and hope lit his eyes.

His housekeeper nodded. “That’s what I heard at Miss Sue’s. Everyone was as surprised as you.”

The mention of the local diner brought a smile to Tamara’s face. “Gossip central. Is the pecan pie there still as good as it used to be?”

Clay gave Tamara a worried frown, as if her interest in the best pie in Texas were a sign of head injury. Flipping open his cell, he punched redial. His concern for her both touched her and chafed her independence. In their marriage, Clay’s take-charge, assume-all-responsibility mode of operation had always been a mixed blessing.

Once arrangements had been made to meet the doctor on call at the Esperanza clinic and Clay had her settled in his pickup, Tamara shifted her attention once more to what she felt was a more pressing issue.

The dead man on Clay’s property.

She borrowed Clay’s phone as he drove her to town and called Sheriff Yates.

After Jericho assured her he’d start an immediate recovery and investigation of the body, she inquired what he’d learned about the money.

“Nothing yet. The serial numbers didn’t turn anything up,” Jericho said. “None of the banks in the area have a record of a withdrawal of that size or any other unusual activity. I’m checking the rest of the state now, but so far that money’s proving a dead end.”

The truck hit a bump, and she inhaled sharply.

Clay winced. “Sorry. No way to miss ’em all on this road.”

“Tamara, is something wrong?” Jericho asked.

“Did I mention how I found the body?” She explained about her fall and that Clay was taking her to the medical clinic in town.

“Ouch. Broken ribs are a bear. Sorry ’bout that.” She heard another voice in the background, heard Jericho reply. “Well, we’re headed out to the Bar None now. I’ll keep you posted.”

“For the time being, you’ll have to reach me on Clay’s cell.” She gritted her teeth as they lurched over another pothole. “But if you find my cell at the scene, I’d appreciate getting it back.”

“Sure thing. Take care, Tamara.”

When they reached Doc Mason’s clinic in Esperanza, Clay helped her out of his truck and into the wheelchair a nurse brought out. He parked the wheelchair in the waiting room and walked up to the desk to check her in.

Tamara was grousing to herself about take-charge Clay’s latest crusade when the clinic door opened and a familiar blond-haired man walked in from the street. He slipped off his sunglasses and headed straight for the front desk.

“Billy? Billy Akers?” Tamara asked.

Her longtime family friend and former neighbor turned, and when he spotted Tamara, his face lit with an effusive grin. “Well, I’ll be! Tamara the Brat! How are you?”

She smiled at his use of the nickname he and her older brother had given her growing up. Billy, who still had the build of a linebacker from his high-school days, hurried over to her and bent to give her a hug.

Tamara held up a hand to stop him. “Oh, uh…don’t squeeze.” She winced and pointed to her midriff. “Possibly broken ribs.”

Scrunching his freckled nose, Billy made an appropriately sympathetic face. “Yikes. What happened?”

She waved his question off. “Long story. Gosh, it’s good to see you. It’s been years. How are your parents?”

Billy’s face fell. “Well…not so good. Mama’s been diagnosed with ALS…Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“Oh, no!” Grief for the woman who’d been like a second mother to her and her brother plucked Tamara’s heart.

“Seeing her suffering has been hard. Especially on Dad.”

Tamara took Billy’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “I can imagine. Oh, Billy, please give her my best. Tell her I’ll be praying for her.”

“I will.” He hitched a thumb toward the front desk. “In fact, I’m here to refill one of her prescriptions.” When he spotted Clay at the counter, a speculative gleam sparked in Billy’s eyes. “Are you here with Clay? Does this mean you two are—” He wagged a finger from Clay to Tamara.

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

When she saw her denial hadn’t satisfied his curiosity, she tried to work out the simplest explanation that would stave off the rumormongers. “I was on his property when I fell, and his house was the closest help.”

“Why were you on his property? I thought you lived in San Antonio now.”

“I do. I—” She sighed, then gave him a watered-down version of the truth. Knowing this town, word had probably already spread about the Taurus being found at the Bar None. “So I was looking around his south pasture and…boom, fell in a sinkhole. Thus the possibly broken ribs.”

A bit of the color leeched from Billy’s face. “You fell in a hole?”

She flashed a chagrined smile. “Klutzy me.”

Clay strolled over and stuck out his hand toward Billy. “How ya doing, Akers?”

Billy shook hands with Clay. “I’m…uh, fine. You?”

“Good.” Her ex shifted his gaze to her. “They’re ready for you.”

Billy excused himself, promising to give her regards to his parents and offering well wishes for Tamara’s speedy recovery.

As Clay rolled her to the exam room, Tamara grinned. “That’s a small town for you. Can’t go anywhere without running into a neighbor or a lady from church or your parents’ bowling partners.”

“Which is why we always drove away from town for our dates in high school.”

“Dates? You mean when we went parking.” She wished she could recall the words as soon as she said them. No point reminding Clay of the car windows they’d steamed…or the first time they’d made love.

“Yeah. That’s what I meant.” His voice had a thick seductive rasp that told her those memories still affected him. Her pulse stuttered. Maybe he hadn’t totally wiped her from his life after all.

Doc Mason’s nurse, Ellen Hamilton, stuck her head into the hall from an exam room a couple doors down. “Right in here, Ms. Brown.” After Clay wheeled Tamara into the exam room, the petite gray-haired woman laid out a sheet and a paper gown. “Would you like help changing out of your clothes, honey?”

Tamara tried to push herself out of the wheelchair and fiery needles stabbed her chest. She muffled a moan. Instantly Clay tucked his arms under hers, lifting her and helping her to the exam table.

Tamara glanced to the nurse. “Yeah. I think I’ll need help.”

“Fine.” Ellen turned to Clay, her expression patient.

Unmindful of the nurse’s stare, Clay took Tamara’s foot in his hand and unlaced her shoe. After sliding it from her foot, he moved to the next shoe.

Tamara was so stunned at his presumptuousness that she could only gawk. When he gave her foot a soft rub, her breath snagged in a hiss of surprise.

Foot massages after a full day tending the ranch had been one of Tamara’s greatest pleasures when they were married, a relaxation treat that often led to full body contact, clothes shed, lusty appetites sated.

Clay’s eyes locked with hers, and he grimaced. “Sorry. I was trying to be gentle.”

She started to tell him the gasp hadn’t been one of pain, but the nurse cleared her throat.

“I meant that I’d help her change.” Now her expression was challenging. She lifted a sculpted eyebrow and tipped her head toward the door.

Her ex-husband wasn’t stupid and wasn’t easily cowed. He straightened his spine and set his jaw in a manner that Tamara knew well. He had no intention of backing down.

Tamara almost laughed at the standoff, until she realized that Clay thought he still had a right to be in the exam room with her, that it was natural for him to help her change into the hospital gown. A warm swirl of nostalgia flowed through Tamara followed closely by a shot of irritation.

Clay had lost any claim to such marital intimacies when he signed their divorce papers without blinking, without so much as a tremble of his hand. She, on the other hand, had been shaking so badly she barely recognized the signature she’d scratched as hers.

And now he wanted those privileges of familiarity back? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Would you please step outside, Mr. Colton?” Ellen Hamilton asked.

A muscle in Clay’s jaw twitched. He raised his chin, his eyes determined.

“Clay.” His name squeezed past the lump of regret that clogged her throat.

He snapped his rich coffee gaze to hers, and the stubborn glint faded, replaced by a wounded expression, a chagrined acceptance that plucked at her heart. He hid it well. Someone who didn’t know Clay and his take-no-prisoners attitude, his stubborn cowboy pride, would have missed it. But Clay had been her husband, half the blood and breath that made her whole. An ache wholly unrelated to her injuries pulsed through her chest.

He ducked his chin in a quick jerky nod of understanding and concession that broke Tamara’s heart. “I’ll be in the waiting room when you’re ready to go.”

He left without a backward glance, and the room seemed infinitely colder and more lifeless with him gone.

A moment later, a lean man in his late forties with thinning dark hair stepped into the room and shook Tamara’s hand. “Ms. Brown, I’m Frank O’Neal, Dr. Mason’s fill-in. I hear you took a nasty tumble.”

“You heard right.”

The doctor flashed a polite smile. “Well, let’s see about getting you all fixed up.”

Over the next hour, Dr. O’Neal X-rayed and examined Tamara from head to heel. He taped her ribs, gave her injections for pain and to relax her cramping muscles, all of which made it far easier for her to move unassisted. While the X-rays developed, she redressed by herself, though the process wore her out.

She sat in the exam room alone, remembering Clay’s earlier hurt expression, when the sound of raised voices filtered through the door left cracked open.

Concerned that something was wrong, Tamara strained to hear the exchange between Ellen Hamilton and Dr. O’Neal.

“How long…—azine…missing…” Dr. O’Neal groused.

“I don’t know.” The nurse who’d stood up to Clay sounded shaken.

“…your job to…any idea…hell we could catch if…missing?”

“…well aware…accounting of…narcotic. Doc Mason always…himself.”

“Have any…—peared before?”

The nurse’s answer was too quiet for Tamara to make out.

The scuff of hard-soled shoes drew closer then hesitated just outside the exam-room door. Tamara looked up, and through the narrow opening, she met the doctor’s shaken gaze. The man’s brow furrowed, and he rubbed a hand over the nearly bald spot on his head. Appearing agitated, he glanced away for a moment before schooling his expression and entering the exam room.

He plunked two bottles of pills on the exam table and gave Tamara a tight grin. “I want you to take one of these every four to six hours when you need them for pain. The other is a muscle relaxant. Since people react differently to this medicine, it’d be wise for you to have someone stay with you while you recuperate.”

She studied the bottle of pills. “I occasionally get migraines. These won’t trigger a headache, will they?”

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t. This is one of the best pain meds on the market. However some people report getting sleepy, some get loopy, some feel a little dizzy.”

Clearly the man didn’t want to acknowledge that she’d overheard his heated discussion with his nurse. Tamara took the hint and dismissed the issue.

Dr. O’Neal shoved his hands in his lab coat’s pockets. “Do you have a roommate?”

“No. I live alone in San Antonio.”

A knock sounded on the door before it was opened. Clay peered into the room. “Ms. Hamilton said to come back, that you were ready to go?”

The doctor nodded. “I was just telling Ms. Brown that the prescription I’ve given her for pain could make her sleepy or one of several other side effects. She needs to get plenty of rest and to have someone with her for the next couple days until she knows how her body reacts to the meds.”

Clay nodded. “She can stay with me.”

Tamara shot him a startled glance. “No, Clay, I couldn’t… I—”

“I could admit you to the hospital for observation if you’d rather.” Dr. O’Neal gave her a teasing grin, but also arched an eyebrow, telling her the threat wasn’t idle.

“No, I—”

“Good. Make sure she takes it easy,” Dr. O’Neal said with a nod to Clay. “And I’d like to check in with you again in a couple days to see how you’re doing.”

Holding his Stetson, Clay fiddled with the brim. “When do you expect Doc Mason back?”

The doctor glanced up from scribbling a note on Tamara’s chart. “Not sure. He didn’t give us a time frame. Just said he needed to get away for a while.”

Clay cocked his head. “Well, good for the Doc. He’s sure earned a vacation. Can’t say I remember the last time he took off longer than an afternoon to fish.”

The nurse bustled in with Tamara’s X-rays and clipped them on the light board.

Dr. O’Neal stepped over to study the images. “Well, I don’t see any fractures. All in all, I’d say you were quite lucky to walk away from a fall like that with no more than bruised ribs and some superficial lacerations. If you take it easy over the next few days, limit your activity and take your muscle relaxants, you should make a full recovery in a couple weeks.”

Tamara thanked the doctor, paid the bill, and soon she and Clay were headed back to the ranch.

Staring at her hands as they drove, she considered Clay’s invitation to recover at the Bar None. He hadn’t so much asked her as declared that was how it would be. Did he really want her there? Or was he motivated by guilt and responsibility because she’d fallen on his property? Either way, sharing the same roof with Clay, even if just for a few days, would be awkward at best.

“Clay, I—” When his dark brown eyes met hers, her argument drowned in their fathomless depths. She fought the mule-kick loss of breath. “I…think I’ll be fine at my place in San Antonio. I appreciate the offer, but—”

His brow lowered. “You have someone in the city who can stay with you?”

“Well, no.”

“You heard the doctor. You need rest and someone to keep tabs on you.”

“I know, but—”

Clay’s cell trilled, cutting her off.

“Hello? Hey, Jericho.” Clay glanced at Tamara. “Yeah, she’s with me. We’re headed home from Doc Mason’s clinic. Why?” When he frowned, Tamara’s pulse kicked up. She didn’t need more bad news.

“Maybe. Let me ask her.” Clay held the phone against his chest. “Feel up to a short side trip by the south field? Jericho is out there with Deputy Rawlings, and they haven’t found the body you saw. They need you to show them where it is.”

The injection she’d gotten for pain at the doctor’s office was already making her drowsy, but she had a duty to her job and to the deceased man’s family. She stroked a hand over her taped ribs. “Sure. I can manage.”

Ten minutes later, she and Clay were standing with Jericho and Deputy Rawlings beside the sinkhole. The sheriff shook his head. “We’ve been down with searchlights. Turns out this hole is an offshoot cave from the old tunnel Clay and I used to play in when we were kids.”

“A tunnel? For what?” Tamara asked.

Clay shrugged. “Don’t know what it used to be, but the tunnel’s been there for decades. When I bought the ranch, I put barbed wire across the entrance of the tunnel so none of my horses would wander in there and get stuck.”

“The point is, ma’am,” Rawlings said, narrowing a look at Tamara that suggested he thought she’d lost her mind. “Sheriff and I have been all up and down the passages of the tunnel, and there’s no body in there.”

All three men turned toward her. She bristled. “I saw the body myself! I touched it, not more than four hours ago!”

She shuddered at the memory.

The sheriff looked skeptical. “Did you hit your head when you went down?”

“There was a body, Jericho!” Nausea swirled in her gut. Did they think she was lying? Or hallucinating?

“I’m sure you were in shock,” Jericho said. “Maybe—”

“No maybes, Jericho.” His shoulders squared and stiff, Clay took a step closer to her side. “If Tamara says there was a body, there was a body.”

Her protest stuck in her throat. She turned to Clay, wide-eyed, her mind reeling, her heart full. They’d been on opposite sides of so many issues in the final months of their marriage, she’d grown used to butting heads with this stubborn man. Having him back up her story, believe her on something as important as this, touched her deeply, warmed her soul.

Suspicion furrowed tiny creases at the corner of Clay’s eyes. “The only real questions here are who moved the body…and why.”