Читать книгу Remember My Touch - Gayle Wilson - Страница 7

Five years later

“YOU GOING TO the wedding?” Chase McCullar asked his sister-in-law. His blue eyes were directed downward toward the coffee cup he held, rather than at Jenny, and his voice was almost innocent of inflection.

“Of course,” Jenny said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

“You think I’ll get an invitation?”

“I think a better question might be, do you want one?”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t want an invitation?”

She laid the dishcloth she’d been using on the counter beside the sink and turned around to face him. Chase was sitting at her kitchen table, a table that had been in his family for three generations. He must have eaten tens of thousands of meals at its scarred wooden surface. Maybe that was why he looked so right sitting there, as if he still belonged here, living in this house instead of the one he had built on his half of the McCullar land.

Or maybe he looked so right, she acknowledged, because he always reminded her of Mac. They even had the same way of sitting, forearms on the table and broad shoulders slightly hunched, both hands wrapped around a mug, as if savoring against their fingers the warmth of the coffee it held.

She banished that memory as she had so many others in the past few weeks. She had even dreamed about Mac last night, dreamed about him making love to her, and that hadn’t happened in a very long time.

There had been too much upheaval lately, too many disturbances in her usually placid existence, she supposed. The kidnapping of Chase’s daughter and his belated marriage to her mother, Samantha Kincaid. Rio’s return from prison. Doc Horn’s brutal murder.

Apparently those things, as unlikely as it seemed, had somehow rekindled the memories of those nearly perfect days with Mac. Or maybe seeing Chase and Samantha finally together had made her remember her own marriage. Or perhaps that had been triggered by the way Rio looked at Anne Richardson, the two of them sitting at this very kitchen table, whatever had been in Rio’s black eyes so much like the way Mac used to look at her. Or, at least, she amended, the way she always remembered his look.

Most things were better replayed in memory than they had been in actuality. The reality of long-ago events faded, and the remembrance of them had a tendency to become more perfect with the passage of time, she reminded herself, trying to be fair to Trent. Anne Richardson’s brother, Trent, was the man she was fortunate enough to have in love with her now. A good man who wanted to marry her. A man who deserved not to have to fight against all those perfect memories.

Not that she minded having only good memories of her marriage, of course. However, she now admitted that savoring those had prevented her from moving on, from getting on with the business of living her life, and she was determined to change that. She had loved Mac McCullar with every fiber of her being, but Mac was dead. He had been dead for almost five years, and she knew it was time for her to begin living again.

She remembered that she had once accused Chase of doing that—of trying to crawl down into that grave with Mac. And instead she had discovered that she was the one who had been guilty of that sin. Once she had had the courage to make that admission, to face what her life had become, she had decided it was time to do something about it.

She realized suddenly that Chase was waiting for her answer, his blue eyes—eyes that were just like Mac’s—studying her face as she stood, lost in memory and regret.

“You and Rio haven’t exactly been…” She hesitated, searching for the right word, thinking about the strange relationship that existed between the half brothers.

“Not exactly bosom buddies,” Chase suggested caustically.

“Not exactly brothers,” she countered. “At least you haven’t acted like brothers.”

“I thought he killed Mac. At least had a part in Mac’s death. How did you want me to treat him?”

“You thought?” she asked, emphasizing the past tense, which was, to her, the pertinent part of that statement. “But you don’t think that anymore?”

“Hell, Jenny…” Chase began, and then he hesitated. “Sometimes even I don’t know what I believe anymore.” He shook his head, eyes lowering again to the steaming coffee. “It just doesn’t…” He shook his head again.

“Feel right to hate Rio any longer? Or to blame him for Mac’s death?” Jenny suggested.

Chase looked up. “You think I was wrong about that.”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Chase’s mouth tightened. It would be hard for him to make that admission, she knew. Almost as hard as it had been for her to make the unwanted one about her own life that she’d recently made.

“If that’s true,” Chase said, “then he probably hates me.”

Rio had tried to warn his half brother about what was going to happen to Mac. He had ridden across the river to tell Chase about a snatch of drunken conversation he’d overheard in a Mexican cantina. Only, he had made that ride the same night Mac’s truck had exploded, and the two events had become inextricably linked in Chase’s mind.

Chase hadn’t believed Rio’s claim that his mission that night had been a warning. Instead, he had interpreted his bastard half brother’s words as threat and had viewed Rio as the messenger of whoever had killed Mac. In the months following the murder, Chase had poured every ounce of his energy into seeing that Rio Delgado was punished for his part in that crime.

“You cost him five years of his life,” Jenny acknowledged. “If he is innocent, as he’s always claimed…”

“Then the wrong man got punished. And whoever killed Mac got away with murder,” Chase added bitterly. “I didn’t stop looking for them, Jenny. I always thought something would turn up. I never believed Rio was the mastermind. I thought he was just their damn messenger boy.”

“But he was the only one of them you could identify.”

Jenny understood all Chase’s motives in pursuing Rio. She had always understood them. She, too, had wanted somebody punished, but knowing Rio now, she had gradually come to realize that he hadn’t had anything to do with what had happened.

“Buck told me nothing else has ever come to light about that night,” Chase said. “There was never any indication that anybody was transporting drugs through this county. Or had even been planning to.”

Buck Elkins had been Mac’s deputy as well as his friend. He had been appointed sheriff after Mac’s death and had thoughtfully kept Jenny informed about the county’s progress, or in this case, its lack of progress, until she had finally asked him not to make any further reports to her about the investigation. There seemed no point in constantly being told that nothing else had been uncovered about her husband’s murder.

“Rio doesn’t seem to think too much of Buck’s detective skills,” Jenny reminded her brother-in-law.

“Couldn’t find his ass with both hands,” Chase said, repeating his half brother’s colorful assessment. Unconsciously, his lips moved, almost into a smile.

“Maybe Rio’s right,” Jenny said, “but I know Buck tried. Mac was his friend.”

“Elkins thinks Mac was wrong.”

“About what?”

“About everything. About the drugs.”

“Somebody approached Mac,” Jenny said, remembering, almost against her will, the argument they had had that night. The night Mac had died. “Somebody made him an offer.”

“Mac didn’t give me any details. Or anyone else, apparently. Not even Buck.”

“He didn’t have time. He would have told you. That’s why he asked you to come down here that weekend. And he had promised to contact the DEA. Officially, I mean. He promised me that night.”

“And instead… Hell, Jenny, we’re no closer than we were five years ago to knowing what really happened.”

The frustration she heard in his voice had played a role, she knew, in Chase’s determination to make certain that Rio, at least, paid for his part in his half brother’s death.

“And in the meantime,” he continued, his tone containing a thread of self-castigation now, “I got my half brother sent to prison for a crime neither of us believes anymore that he had anything to do with.”

“Have you told Rio that?” Jenny asked.

Chase pushed his cup away from him, the sudden motion strong enough to cause the coffee it contained to slosh out over the side. “How the hell am I supposed to tell a man that I’ve just realized my bullheaded stupidity cost him five years of his life? How do I do that, Jenny? How the hell do I ever make up for that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know that you can make up for it, but I do know that admitting you were wrong would be a good first step.”

Chase’s laugh was short and harsh. “Somehow that doesn’t seem to be quite enough,” he said. “It damn well wouldn’t be enough for me.”

“But then you’re one of those hardheaded McCullars. Maybe Rio…” She hesitated, realizing that Rio was a McCullar also, that unmistakable heritage from his father stamped as indelibly on his beautiful Latino features as it had been on the faces of his two half brothers.

“Maybe Rio’s a better man than his brother,” Chase suggested quietly.

“A more forgiving one,” Jenny said, finally smiling at him. “At least I hope so. And you didn’t answer my question. Do you want an invitation to Rio’s wedding?”

The depth of the breath Chase took was visible and audible, but he still didn’t respond.

“If it’s any help to you in reaching that decision,” she said, “I’d really like for you to be there. I think Trent would appreciate your showing up.”

“Trent’s not too thrilled about this, I guess. About Anne marrying Rio.”

“I think he’s trying to make the best of what he’s bound to see as a bad situation.”

“Senator Richardson’s beloved little sister marrying an ex-con.”

“Who shouldn’t have been an ex-con,” she reminded him quietly, feeling the need to defend Rio, even from Chase.

“And who wouldn’t have been, except for me,” he acknowledged.

“That sounds like justification enough for you to feel obligated to show up at his wedding.”

“Obligated,” he repeated bitterly. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

“They wore hair shirts in the Middle Ages,” Jenny said, working at keeping her own lips from tilting, although the teasing note was clear in her voice. “All you’ll need to put on is a suit.”

“You don’t think Rio will throw me out?”

“If you show up, you can probably even dance with the bride.”

“I think I’ll settle for dancing with the groom’s sister-in-law,” he said.

“Samantha will be delighted to hear that, I’m sure.” Chase’s wife, Samantha, was one of Jenny’s best friends and had been long before she married Chase McCullar.

“I wasn’t talking about Samantha,” Chase said. He crossed the small distance between them and leaned down to press his lips lightly to Jenny’s cheek—something she couldn’t ever remember him doing before. Then, without another word, he went out the kitchen door.

Jenny turned back to the dishes in the sink, but she was smiling, and as the long afternoon passed, she found herself remembering that unexpected brotherly kiss, and smiling again.

It was good to have Chase home. And Rio, another of Mac’s brothers, whom she had really never known until he, too, had come back home. Rio had arrived at her ranch, angry and vengeful, determined to make Chase McCullar pay for what he had done, and instead he had ended up becoming part of Jenny’s family.

Two men who were, in spite of all the bitterness and betrayal that lay in their past, finally becoming brothers. She only wished there was some way Mac could know about that. She really believed Mac would have approved.

HE TOOK ANOTHER LOOK into the motel’s mirror. Doing that wasn’t something that ever gave him pleasure, although he thought he had probably done the best he could with his appearance this afternoon. His thick brown hair, brushed with gray at the temples, had just been trimmed. The suit he wore was new and expensive, and it had been expertly tailored to fit the tall, lean body. The white shirt was also a recent purchase, as was the maroon silk tie, its darkly subdued pattern very appropriate, they had told him, for an afternoon wedding.

These weren’t the kinds of clothes he was accustomed to wearing. Not like any he’d ever worn in his life, but then that was really what this was all about, he thought. Disguise and deception. He hated them both, hated the necessity of them, although he couldn’t deny that they were necessary. Just as he knew the brown contact lens he wore was necessary.

Before he left the room, he took the clipping he’d been carrying around with him for the last couple of months out of his wallet and laid it on the top of the dresser, carefully smoothing the creases with his left hand until it lay perfectly flat.

Knowing that he would need the courage it would provide, he made himself read it again, slowly, although by now he knew the words by heart. At least he knew the ones that mattered. The ones that had finally brought him to San Antonio today.

The newspaper column he had so carefully preserved contained the announcement of the engagement that had led to the wedding he would attend this afternoon. An engagement between Anne Richardson, Texas State Senator Trent Richardson’s sister, and a man named Rio Delgado. That announcement had been the crux of the column, but that hadn’t been what had caused him to read and reread this well-worn clipping.

It had been the two-sentence teaser the society writer had included at the bottom that had been branded into his consciousness, that had gnawed at his gut since he’d first seen it. The words he had read over and over concerned the impending nuptials of Senator Richardson himself. To the widow of slain Texas lawman Mac McCullar.

The man’s gaze lifted again to the mirror. He didn’t recognize the reflection there—the black patch that hid the empty socket of his right eye; the strange, reconstructed features; the deliberately altered color of his remaining eye. A stranger in a stranger’s body, and he guessed that was the way it should be. He felt like a stranger.

He picked up the clipping, which was beginning to come apart along the creases from the number of times he had unfolded the paper to reread those words, and he held it for a long time, thinking.

He had given up any rights he’d ever had to interfere in Jenny’s life, he acknowledged, given them up by conscious decision. He shouldn’t be here. He had no right to be. That had been the guiding principle of his life for the last five years. And then…and then he had seen this, and all the reasons he had known and understood had seemed to fade into insignificance in the face of those two sentences.

Finally, he took a breath and allowed his long, brown fingers to close around the small piece of paper, crumpling it between them. He wadded the clipping into a ball, and on his way out the door, he pitched it accurately so it landed in the metal trash can the motel had thoughtfully provided.

CHASE MCCULLAR WAS leaning against the wall watching the crowd at the wedding reception. The dancers were hugging the postage-stamp-size dance floor, working to avoid the long, lace-and-flower-covered tables that were filled to overflowing with finger foods and punch and wedding cake. The other guests were standing, balancing glass plates and cups, most of them managing to talk and eat at the same time, despite those burdens.

“You thinking they’re gonna let an ugly old cowpoke like you kiss the bride?”

Chase glanced up at the soft comment. The man who had asked that sardonic question was standing beside him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet whipcord lean, without an ounce of excess fat on his body. And his face was unfamiliar. Eerily unfamiliar.

Chase couldn’t prevent the telltale reaction that might have given him away if anyone had been paying the least bit of attention to either of them. Chase’s blue eyes had widened, the dark pupils dilating suddenly, and his heart had literally hesitated a few beats before resuming its steady rhythm. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked softly, his breathing uneven from shock. He pulled his gaze away from the man who had spoken and made himself focus instead on the crowd, automatically picking out the figures of his wife and his sister-in-law, who were engaged in an animated, laughing conversation on the far side of the room.

“I’m crashing a wedding,” the stranger said, his tone barely audible under the noise of the crowd, certainly audible only to Chase. “Think somebody’s gonna throw me out?” he asked casually.

That wasn’t something that he seemed to be concerned about, and he was probably right not to be. Given the size of the crowd and considering the impeccable cut of the charcoal gray suit, and the white shirt and maroon silk tie the gate-crasher was wearing, it was certainly unlikely that would happen.

At any wedding of this size, the bride’s friends would assume anyone they didn’t know belonged to the groom’s party, and vice versa. And at this particular wedding, since Rio knew almost no one in the throng, the groom was unlikely to protest the presence of one more strange face.

The features of the man who was now leaning against the wall beside Chase were, in fact, the slightest bit strange. There was nothing obvious, other than the black patch that hid his right eye, but still the alignment of the underlying bone structure was unusual. The angles were strong, almost harsh, and although he was clean shaven, the texture of the skin that stretched over those strong bones was as subtly different as the bone structure itself. What made them unusual, however, would have been difficult to articulate. It wasn’t an unpleasant face, but it was hard, and the black patch gave it an air of danger that was somehow in keeping with the rest.

He looked like a man who had seen a lot, who had endured a lot, Chase found himself thinking, his eyes skimming over the features again as if he had never seen them before. He had, of course, but they were always disconcerting.

“Well?” the stranger asked. The left corner of his mouth moved, twitching with amusement at whatever he saw in Chase’s face.

“Well, what?” Chase asked, deliberately forcing his eyes back to the crowd. Samantha and Jenny had moved away from the place where he had spotted them before, and now he couldn’t find either of them in the colorful, shifting patterns of the mob.

“You think they’ll let me kiss the bride?” the stranger asked.

The same amusement that had briefly touched the harsh features was in his voice. It, too, was unusual. Deep and almost hoarse, like someone getting over a bad case of laryngitis. “That’s not why you’re here,” Chase said sarcastically.

“It just seemed as good a time as any,” the stranger said laconically, his own gaze drifting over the throng.

“To do what?”

This time the corner of the thin mouth lifted, and the one-sided smile revealed genuine amusement. “Renew old acquaintances,” he said softly. The single brown eye continued to move over the crowd, as if searching it. “I heard somewhere that this might be a double wedding.”

“You heard wrong,” Chase said. He turned at that comment, his gaze focused again on the man beside him. His anger was apparent in the set line of his mouth. “I would have told you if that had been the case.”

“You tried to tell me. I wasn’t listening.”

“But you are now?”

“I am now,” the stranger agreed calmly.

Chase took the breath he had missed while he’d waited for that reply. “It’s about time,” he said softly. “What the hell changed your mind?”

“That,” the man said. His gaze was now following one of the couples moving on the crowded floor. A handsome man, tall and blond, his features remarkably well put-together by anyone’s standards, was guiding a small brunette in a slow waltz. They moved together flawlessly, despite the difference in their sizes. Her fingers were on his shoulder, the soft rose of her nail polish distinct against his jacket.

Chase nodded, knowing that there was probably nothing else in the world that would have brought this man here today. Nothing but the feelings that were revealed now in his face as he watched the attractive couple circling the small floor.

“Well, it’s about time,” Chase said again, speaking almost to himself. “It’s about damn time.”

“DID SOMEONE GIVE YOU birdseed?” Jenny McCullar asked. It was a question she had asked, it seemed, a thousand times. The decorated wicker basket over her right arm, which had once been full of packets of seed enclosed in small squares of tulle and tied tightly at their tops with narrow satin ribbon, was almost empty.

The cake had been cut and eaten, the reception line dismissed, and the bride had gone to change clothes for the honeymoon journey. It was almost time to shower the departing newlyweds with the traditional onslaught of rice. Nowadays, of course, the more ecologically correct birdseed had taken the place of grain.

The man she addressed had been standing in the narrow doorway that led from the reception-room hallway to the front of the country club. He was almost isolated from the excitement of the waiting guests who had gathered on the steps below. He hadn’t joined them; instead he stood alone, simply watching the commotion.

From the back, Jenny had been aware of nothing but his height and the width of his shoulders, which almost filled the narrow opening. And when he turned in response to her question, Jenny hoped her shock wasn’t too apparent. Mac used to warn her that she should never play poker because every emotion she ever felt was revealed in her features—as she was afraid they had been this time, revealed at least for an instant before she regained control.

She couldn’t say now why she had found his face so disconcerting. It was…unusual, she thought. There was a hint of gray in the brown hair and weathered skin stretched over strong bones, with a small fan of white lines around his eyes. Eye, she amended.

Maybe that was what she had found shocking. Jenny realized she had never known anyone who wore an eye patch. Those were for cover models on pirate romances, she thought, almost smiling at that sudden image, superimposed over the six-foot-four hunk of male reality standing before her. He probably would have made a damn fine pirate, she thought.

But of course, the patch hadn’t been all she’d reacted to, she realized, her eyes still fastened—fascinated, somehow—on his face. The texture of his skin was different, too. Slightly rough and maybe even…scarred? The light in the hallway was so poor that she couldn’t really be sure about that. She found a smile for him, trying to soften her rudeness if he had noticed the effect he had just had.

For some reason it wasn’t the forced, automatic smile she had been giving to strangers all afternoon as she tried to help Trent see to it that Anne and Rio’s wedding went smoothly. That wasn’t her responsibility, or really any of her business, she admitted; but at some time during the hurried preparations for this wedding, she had begun to feel like the mother of the bride. Or maybe the mother of the groom, she thought, her lips tilting upward a little more when she remembered that Rio still called her “ma’am.”

“Birdseed?” the man questioned, his gaze reacting to the upward tilt of her mouth. The brown eye was suddenly touched with amusement. As was his voice.

Even that was unusual. Deep, but…strained? Jenny wasn’t accustomed to having to search for words, but she was finding it hard to think right now, and she suspected it might have something to do with the intensity of the look this man was directing downward at her. He was taller than Trent. Taller even than Chase, she thought.

“Instead of rice,” she offered.

The left corner of his mouth moved, slowly lifting, and Jenny’s stomach reacted, tilting just as slowly. She couldn’t even decide whether that sensation was pleasant or not.

“No cleanup,” she explained. The words were a little breathless, and she broke contact with that disconcerting dark gaze by looking down into her basket.

She picked up one of the ribbon-tied bundles with her left hand and realized that her fingers were trembling. Recognizing that she didn’t have another option, she held the packet of seeds out to him, willing her normally competent and cooperative hands to stillness.

“The birds eat the seed, and then no one has to worry about sweeping up.”

“Cheap labor,” he said.

“Exactly,” Jenny agreed, smiling at him again, relieved that he’d grasped the idea from her muddled explanation.

He hadn’t reached out to take the little bundle from her fingers, and she realized belatedly that they were still vibrating. Obviously vibrating. She took a breath, striving for control.

What in the world was the matter with her? He wasn’t even handsome—not in Trent’s league by any stretch of the imagination. Her reaction was childish and ridiculous, she chided herself.

“Of course, throwing rice at the newlyweds is considered to bring good luck.” She offered the conversational gambit with the best intentions, just to keep talking until she grew up.

However, her voice was barely above a whisper and she thought he was bound to notice. Despite the crowd, they were almost alone here. Most of the guests had moved down the steps and onto the sidewalk where the car was awaiting Rio and Anne.

“I thought it had something to do with fertility,” he said.

“I…” She hesitated. Fertility? She didn’t think she had ever heard that before, but then she wasn’t thinking too straight right now, and she still couldn’t imagine why.

“Did they throw rice at your wedding, Mrs….?” His voice rose slightly at the end of the question, waiting for her to fill in the blank he’d deliberately left.

“McCullar,” she supplied obediently.

His left hand caught hers, which was still holding out the tulle-covered packet of seed. The smallness of hers was almost lost in the grasp of his long, tanned fingers. He turned her hand over, and they both looked down on the plain gold wedding band she still wore.

She had worn it for almost ten years, since the day Mac had slipped it on her finger. She had never thought about taking it off, not even when she had begun to give serious consideration to accepting Trent’s proposal.

“Mrs. McCullar?” he said.

Her eyes moved slowly up to his face. Its features were less strange now. Less off-putting. As a matter of fact, she found herself wondering what she had found so disconcerting before.

His lips moved, only the left corner inching up. “Did they throw rice at your wedding?” he asked again.

Suddenly there was a thickness in her throat, and her eyes stung. Ridiculous, she thought again. She was about to say yes to planning her second wedding, and an offhand question from a stranger had made her want to cry about her first.

“I don’t remember,” she lied. “That was a very long time ago.”

She pulled her fingers from his. At their first movement, he released her. But his hand didn’t drop to his side. Instead, it opened in front of her, palm up.

For the birdseed, she realized. She placed the tiny package on his outstretched hand.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to manage the ribbons,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind doing that for me?”

Because his fingers are too big? she wondered. The narrow satin streamers she and Samantha had tied did look absurdly small in comparison to his hand. And absurdly feminine against its hard masculinity. Without comment, she pulled on one end of the bow and slipped the ribbon from around the gathered neck of the tulle, which fell open.

“Unless you think the newlyweds would like to be showered with the net as well as the seed, you might want to remove that, too,” he suggested.

She lifted her eyes to his, questioning. Whatever hint of amusement had been in his face and in his voice was gone, wiped out and replaced by an emotion she couldn’t read. She shook her head, her eyes still questioning.

“My right hand doesn’t work too well. Certainly not well enough to pick up something that small. That demands a kind of coordination my fingers no longer have.”

Again she was forced to fight the revelation of her feelings. There was a hollowness in the pit of her stomach when she heard those words, created not by the words themselves, but by whatever had been in his eyes when he’d said them. She fought to keep her gaze on his face, and not to let it drop to his other hand.

He would hate that, she knew instinctively. It was obvious that he wasn’t comfortable even talking about whatever was wrong with his hand. Jenny was sensitive enough to realize that that quiet confession hadn’t been lightly made.

“Of course,” she said. She lifted one corner of the tulle and slid the small pile of seed into his palm.

“Thank you.” The tightness in his deep voice had eased, and she took a breath in relief.

“You’re very welcome.”

She knew that it was time to leave, although, since he was blocking the outside door, she hadn’t quite figured out how she was going to accomplish that. She had already begun to turn back toward the interior of the club, deciding that discretion might really be the better part of valor in this case.

“Was that Mr. McCullar?” he asked. “The blond man you were dancing with?”

She hesitated, again schooling her features before she turned to face him.

“My husband’s dead,” she said. Her voice spoke the words evenly and calmly, words she had learned to say during the past five years without revealing any emotion. It was something that should have gotten easier with time, but it really hadn’t. “I’m a widow,” she added, finishing the rest of that practiced explanation.

There was a minute movement of his head, almost a nod of agreement. For what seemed to be an eternity their gazes held, and then, again breaking the spell, Jenny turned and retreated. She looked back when she reached the shadowed sanctuary of the door on the other side of the big reception room. The man was still standing in the other doorway, looking out on the milling guests, his left hand closed around the birdseed she had poured into his palm.

But by the time she reached the front of the club once again, the doorway where he had stood was empty, and no matter how often her eyes searched the crowd of guests, she couldn’t find any sign of the stranger.