Читать книгу Wednesday's Child - Gayle Wilson - Страница 13

JEB UNSTRAPPED the weighted belt from his ankle and tossed it on the stone floor, waiting for the familiar agony to subside. Damaged muscles still trembling in the aftermath of exertion, he picked up the towel that he’d draped across his waist and used it to wipe sweat from his eyes.

Despite the warnings of Dr. Duncan McKey, the rehabilitation genius at Southeastern Rehab whom he’d come down here to work with, he had increased all the weights this morning as he’d gone through the routine he did twice a day. And he knew he would pay for that senseless bit of bravado.

In spite of McKey’s continued encouragement, however, Jeb hadn’t been able to detect any improvement either in strength or flexibility during his last few sessions. With the medical board’s reevaluation in a few days, he desperately needed to believe there would be.

Although McKey had warned him that overdoing could be as harmful to his progress as slacking off, Jeb had taken matters into his own hands. If he wasn’t able to demonstrate progress this time, he wasn’t sure the Army would give him another shot. After all, he had just about used up the special leave he’d been granted. And the military experts had been skeptical from the first, given the extent of his injuries, that he could get back into the kind of shape necessary to resume his duties with Combat Applications Group, the elite Delta Force team he’d been part of for over ten years.

Actually, he was the only one who had ever believed that was possible. With encouragement from McKey, however, he had given it his all during the six months he’d been in Mississippi.

He’d known from the first time he walked into the surgeon’s office that he’d found a kindred spirit. Between the framed degrees and awards had been an old poem Jeb had remembered reading as a child. It hadn’t made much of an impression then, but the final lines “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul” had, at the time, seemed to reflect his own determination. And obviously McKey’s philosophy as well.

The problem was determination apparently wasn’t going to be good enough, he acknowledged bitterly, running his palm down the scar that bisected his thigh. Although that was now the most visible of the injuries he’d sustained when the land mine had exploded under his Humvee, it was the mangled foot and ankle that had defied his attempts—and those of his doctors—to regain the mobility he’d had before the injury. That was what the Army was demanding before they would consider returning him to CAG.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their insistence. Or accept it. He did. After all, the lives of others might one day depend on how well he was able to perform. What he couldn’t seem to accept was that no matter how hard he worked, he might not be able to change what he feared was going to happen during the upcoming review at Walter Reed.

Disgusted with how skewed his thinking had become this morning, he put the evaluation out of his mind. He wiped perspiration from his neck before he ran the towel across his hair.

From upstairs came the familiar sounds of Lorena fixing breakfast. The soft clink of china. Water churning through the ancient pipes. And no voices.

He glanced at his watch. It was only a little after six. Probably too early for their guest to be up. Which meant that if he didn’t want any further disruption to the routine he’d established since he’d been here, he should go up now and have his breakfast before she came downstairs.

He didn’t bother to analyze why he wanted to avoid Susan Chandler. All he knew was that even after he’d cut out his bedside lamp last night, certain things about their meeting had replayed over and over, stuck in his mind like the notes of some half-forgotten melody. The way the dim light of the old-fashioned chandelier had put threads of gold in her hair. The way her eyes, their irises an unusual blue-gray, held on his, determined not to look at his damaged leg.

He was doing it again, he realized. Dwelling on those few awkward minutes they’d been thrown together last night. It had been a long time since he’d been this conscious of a woman. Actually, Susan Chandler was the first woman he had reacted to this way since he’d been wounded.

Just horny, he assured himself, his mouth relaxing into a grin. And a good sign. An indication of returning normality.

In truth, she was a damn fine-looking woman. He should be worried if he wasn’t aware of her sexually—and therefore aware of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

There was another sound from upstairs, one he couldn’t quite identify. Head cocked, he listened with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, but again there were no voices.

He dropped the towel, running his left hand across the top of his hair as if to groom it. Then, balancing on his right leg, he pulled his sweatpants up over the gym shorts he wore.

He could smell the biscuits as he climbed the basement stairs, his muscles still trembling from the routine. The area where he’d set up his equipment had at one time served as cold storage for things like apples and potatoes. It was always ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

Lorena’s age and the steepness of the stone steps prevented her from using it anymore. Since he’d been here, the basement under the kitchen had become his domain. One he would probably retreat to more often than before if their guest spent many more nights in the house, he acknowledged.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into the light and warmth of the kitchen. His great-aunt was standing at the stove, brushing melted butter over the tops of the biscuits she had just taken out of the oven.

“Morning,” she said without turning. Whatever frailties of aging she suffered from, Lorena’s hearing was excellent.

Despite his belief their guest wouldn’t be up yet, Jeb took time to check out the small table that stood before one of the windows. It was set, as usual, with only two places. Relief he couldn’t quite explain washed over him in a flood.

“Those smell good.” He limped over to kiss Lorena’s cheek.

“I thought this morning we’d have some of that home-cured ham Isaac brought with the eggs yesterday rather than bacon. You can’t get ham like this at the store.”

Several slices of it lay sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, its scent mingling with that of the biscuits. Underlying both was the inviting smell of coffee, which perked gently on the back of the stove. In the months he’d lived here, he had become accustomed to having it prepared this way, so that he’d finally packed away the electric coffeemaker he’d brought with him.

Using a hot pad, he picked up the pot and poured a stream of black coffee into his mug, which Lorena had already set out on the counter by the stove. He stood sipping it, watching as his aunt broke eggs into the same pan from which she’d just taken the steaming slices of ham. The bits that had stuck to the bottom were churned into the eggs as she scrambled them.

“You go on and sit down,” she ordered as she did every morning. “Drink your coffee in peace.”

They had come to an unspoken understanding shortly after he’d arrived, one that satisfied them both. Lorena had desperately wanted to wait on him. At mealtimes he let her. She would bring the platter over when everything was ready, and then she would sit down opposite him, bowing her head as she invoked the Lord to bless their food.

The first few weeks he had waited through her prayer, eyes defiantly open. After a while he’d given in to her devotion and his own upbringing, bowing his head now as a matter of course.

Carrying his coffee, he made his way to the sunlit table. It was going to be another warm day, despite the calendar.

For some reason, that reminded him of Susan Chandler. Maybe it was the memory of her crushed-linen skirt. Or the sleeveless silk blouse she had worn with it. Or how damp tendrils of hair had curled at her temples and against the back of her neck.

“I thought I’d go into town,” Lorena said right beside him, startling him out of those memories. She set the platter of eggs, ham and biscuits down and then slipped into her place. “I can’t feed a guest what we eat.”

“Why not?” he asked, putting a biscuit onto his plate.

“Not fancy enough. That was one thing the bed-and-breakfast association told me. Folks that pay good money to stay in a home expect something special when it comes to food.”

“There’s nothing more special than what you fix every day,” Jeb said, smiling up at her. The crease between her brows smoothed with the compliment. “I mean it, Lorena. You serve Mrs. Chandler what you serve me, and I guarantee you she’ll be happy as a pig in mud.” His great-aunt wouldn’t have put up with the usual description in that phrase. “Besides, she isn’t a guest in the strictest sense of the word. I don’t think she expects you to go out of your way to cater to her every whim.”

“She certainly does not.”

Hearing Susan Chandler’s voice produced a jolt of sheer physical reaction. Jeb raised his eyes to find her standing in the door of the kitchen. She was dressed less formally today in a pair of brown knit slacks and a brown-and-white striped top.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said apologetically. “I smelled the coffee and hoped there might be enough for me.”

“Of course you’re not intruding.” Lorena pushed her chair back to stand. “You come right over here and sit down. The eggs are still hot. I’ll pour you a fresh cup of coffee.”

“I can’t take your place,” Susan protested.

“Yes, ma’am, you sure can. I just sit here to keep Jeb company. I ate a while ago.”

It was a lie. And since he was already dreading the unpleasant meal this was apt to turn into if their guest did sit down opposite him, Jeb was tempted to call his great-aunt on it, despite knowing how much that would embarrass her.

“You go on, now,” Lorena urged, starting toward the stove where coffee still occasionally perked up into the glass button on top of the pot, although it had been removed from the burner.

“I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

Still hesitating in the doorway, Susan seemed no more eager to join him at the table than he was to have her there. In spite of his own sense of dread, Jeb was suddenly—and bitterly—conscious of the probable reason for her reluctance.

“Have a biscuit,” Lorena went on, oblivious to the tension between them. “I made that apple butter myself. Or if you’d rather have it, there’s peach preserves in the icebox. I always put the other out because that’s what Jeb likes…”

The sentence trailed as she poured a stream of steaming coffee into a cup she took from the cabinet. Finally the lack of a response made the old woman turn to face her guest, brows raised questioningly.

Jeb looked down at the breakfast he had been anticipating only minutes before. He knew he would have a hard time forcing a bite of it through the angry tightness in his throat. And that was a reaction he again couldn’t quite explain.

“Apple butter’s fine,” Susan said, bringing his gaze up.

She had started toward the chair Lorena had deserted. Her eyes touched on his for the first time this morning. Again, the same heat of sexual awareness he’d felt last night roiled through his lower body, tightening his groin.

As if she were conscious of what had just happened, Susan quickly looked away, her gaze fastening on Lorena. The old woman crossed the kitchen and set the cup at the side of the plate she had intended to eat from herself.

“There now,” she said, beaming at Susan and then at him.

For an instant, Jeb wondered if his great-aunt could possibly be matchmaking. Even Lorena, die-hard romantic that she was, must realize any effort in that direction would be highly inappropriate. Although, according to the local paper, the body they’d found in the river had been there for years, that man had been Susan Chandler’s husband.

She was again looking at him, he realized, obviously as uncomfortable with the situation as he was, but for far different reasons. Angered by that as well, he mockingly inclined his head toward his aunt’s empty chair. Susan’s eyes held his a heartbeat before, lips tight, she slipped into it.

She picked up the linen napkin and unfolded it across her lap. Lorena dipped eggs onto her plate and then a slice of ham from the platter. When she reached toward the covered basket of hot biscuits, Susan again attempted to protest.

“I’m really not very hungry.”

Jeb had tried the same argument when he’d first arrived. It was probable that the first bite of Lorena’s cooking would convince her, as it had him, that she was mistaken.

“And a biscuit,” Lorena said, continuing to draw the basket closer. “Jeb, if you’ll pass that apple butter…”

He obeyed, watching as his great-aunt placed the apple-shaped glass dish near Susan’s plate.

“Now then,” Lorena said again, stepping back, her hands crossed in front of her apron as if she had performed some sleight of hand and was waiting for her audience to respond with the proper amount of awe.

Susan looked as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened. She took a breath, deep enough that it lifted her shoulders. Then she put a biscuit on her plate, split it deftly, and began filling it with the apple butter. She glanced up, finding his eyes on her.

“My aunt and I were wondering how long you plan to be in town, Mrs. Chandler.”

Not only did he really want to know the answer to that, Jeb also knew the question would constitute polite conversation in Lorena’s eyes. Never let it be said that he hadn’t done his part to make their guest feel welcome, he thought dryly.

“I’m not sure. I suppose it depends on how long it takes for certain things to happen.”

Like getting the autopsy results? Or the accident report? If they even did one of those for something like this.

“Like what?” Lorena asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Lorena,” he warned softly.

“Did I say something wrong, dear? Don’t mind me. I’m just a nosey old woman who never knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

“It’s all right. I want the medical examiner’s report, of course, but…Actually, I need to stay until I can find out what Richard was doing here.”

“In Linton?”

Susan nodded, looking from one of them to the other.

“You don’t know?” Jeb asked.

“I have no idea. I can’t imagine why he would come somewhere like this—” She stopped, conscious of how that must sound. “I don’t mean to be insulting. It’s just that Richard was very much a big-city person. He’d take the freeway even if a local route were much quicker. It was just the way he was.”

“Maybe he was visiting someone,” Lorena suggested.

“If so, I need to find out who. As far as I know, he didn’t know anyone around here.”

What the hell difference could it make why he was here? Jeb wondered. The guy had been dead for seven years.

“In the circumstances,” he said aloud, “I understand your being curious about what brought him to Linton, but…” He lifted his hands, the right still holding a biscuit, in a gesture that questioned why it could possibly matter.

“He took my baby with him that morning.”

Into the river? If that’s what she meant, her phrasing was macabre. It also didn’t make any sense, he realized quickly. The papers had mentioned only one body.

“When he left home,” Susan clarified, as if sensing his confusion. “I was out of town for the weekend, and Richard was keeping Emma. When I got back, they were both gone.”

“And you think he brought her down here?” Lorena’s tone expressed her puzzlement.

“I don’t know. All I know is the authorities have been looking for her for seven years. I’ve questioned everyone either of us ever knew. No one saw them after that weekend. So if she was with Richard…”

Then she must also have been with him when the car went off the entrance to the bridge. Jeb looked down at the cooling breakfast on his plate, trying to imagine how a mother could deal with something like that.

“Her body should have been in the car,” she went on after a moment. “And apparently, it wasn’t. So…it’s possible she’s still alive. Maybe even right here in Linton.”

It was understandable that she didn’t want to accept the death of her daughter. But after this length of time, and especially after her husband’s body had been found, it must be very hard to cling to any kind of hope.

“And you think you’ll be able to find her?” Despite Jeb’s attempt to keep the skepticism out of his question, it obviously came through.

“All I want right now,” Susan said, her voice steadier, “is to know whether or not she was with him when he got to Linton. I just want to talk to someone here who saw them.”

Without a body, maybe a witness that the child was in the car with her father would help her find closure. There didn’t seem to be any other way for that to happen now, given the time that had passed and the ultimate destination of the river.

“I can’t imagine that coming to Linton was in Richard’s plans when he left that weekend,” she went on. “Something—or someone—sent him here. If I can figure out what that was…”

The soft voice faltered. Jeb looked up to find that she was looking at him. Hoping he could supply some kind of answer? He couldn’t. After all this time, there probably was no answer.

“Truck stop, maybe,” Lorena offered. “Maybe somebody there sent him into town.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he had car trouble. Maybe he needed a part for the car.”

Susan nodded as if that made sense. Maybe it did, but to Jeb there was something wrong with his aunt helping her with this hopeless quest. It was also macabre, just as he’d thought before.

The reality, whether either of them wanted to accept it or not, was that her daughter’s body had probably been washed downriver by the current. All the other what-ifs Susan Chandler wanted to consider seemed to him only attempts to deny the inevitable. A denial he didn’t intend to be a party to.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, pushing up from the table.

His leg had stiffened during the few minutes he’d been sitting, which would make his limp more pronounced. And why the hell should I give a rat’s ass if it does?

“Land’s sake, Jeb. You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

“Why don’t you take my place and keep Ms. Chandler company? I’m not really all that hungry this morning.”

“Why don’t I leave instead?” Susan began to rise, but Lorena put her hand on her shoulder.

“Nonsense. You stay right there. We haven’t thought of half the people you ought to talk to. The truck stop on the interstate like I said. The two mechanics in town, of course. And the drugstore. Maybe he needed something for the baby.”

As he crossed the room, Jeb could hear his aunt pull out the chair he’d just vacated to take her place across the table from her guest. He had had too much experience with the brutal finality of death to play this kind of game, however.

Even as he walked away, he knew he was judging both of them too harshly: a mother who wanted to know what had happened to her baby and an old woman who always wanted to right the wrongs of the world. And if what they were doing helped Susan Chandler deal with the loss of her daughter, who was he to begrudge either of them that comfort?