Читать книгу Texas Trouble - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 10

“JEEPERS, NORA. I ASKED you to come because I wanted to talk about Sean. But now I think we’d better talk about you, instead.” Jolie Harper, the music teacher at Eastcreek Elementary School, leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “You look awful. Aren’t you sleeping?”

“Not much.” Nora plopped into the visitor’s seat, relieved to be able to drop the brave face for once. She had volunteered in Jolie’s classroom several times a week for the past three years, and had come to trust her completely.

“I try to sleep, but my mind won’t shut off. I keep second-guessing every decision I make. I’ve told Sean he’ll have to work off the damage to the Cathcart place. But am I being too hard on him? Too soft? Does he need more freedom? Less? Evelyn thinks—”

“Ugh. Spare me what Evelyn thinks.”

Jolie stood and went to the window. Using her thumb and forefinger, she wedged a crack in the blinds so that she could peek into the rehearsal room, where her assistant was helping Sean and three other students learn “The Star Spangled Banner” on the guitar, flute, clarinet and bells.

She grimaced. “They sound terrible. Any chance they’d let us have our spring show in August this year?”

Nora smiled, although the joke, obviously meant to lighten the tension, paradoxically set off a new pang of guilt. The guitar was another former love that Sean no longer enjoyed. Getting him to practice was like pulling teeth, and half the time Nora just didn’t think it was worth the struggle.

They couldn’t fight all day, every day, could they? What kind of life would that be for a nine-year-old boy?

Or was she taking the easy way out, craving peace, even at her son’s expense?

She reached up and rubbed her aching forehead. This was the kind of emotional tail-chasing that kept her up all night. For Evelyn, life was so straightforward. In her opinion, Nora was a naive woman who had no idea how to steer her sons through this dangerous storm and should rely on Evelyn for guidance. End of debate.

In those sleepless hours before dawn, Nora sometimes wondered if she might be right.

“So why did you ask me to come in, Jolie?” She braced herself. She might as well know the worst. “Has something else happened?”

Jolie cast one more glance into the rehearsal room. Apparently satisfied that Sean was safely occupied, she leaned against the edge of her desk, close enough to speak softly and still be heard.

“Not really. Nothing dramatic. It’s just that…he seems very remote. He doesn’t volunteer for anything extra, doesn’t go for the chair challenges. He doesn’t hang out with his friends much, either. He sits by himself whenever he has a choice. He doesn’t cause trouble. He just doesn’t…” She sighed. “Doesn’t engage.”

Nora laced her fingers in her lap and squeezed tightly. Out of nowhere, she felt the urge to talk to Harrison. She would like his advice, of course, but she’d also like to be able to tell him that she understood so much better what he’d been through with Paul.

Intellectually, any human being could grasp that it was terrible to watch your son suffer and die. Anyone with a heart could sympathize with a tragedy like that.

But when you actually went through it, when the fear that your child might be hurting, might be in danger, ran through your veins like a fiery poison, threatening to blow your heart up right in your chest…that was a whole new level of understanding.

“I see that apathy at home, too,” she said. “At first I thought it might be an improvement, a sign that he was calming down. But it’s not natural. It’s too bottled up.”

“Right.” Jolie’s shiny blond ponytail bounced jauntily as she nodded, but her face was very serious. “Like a fire behind a tightly closed door.” She glanced toward the window again. “Is he still seeing the counselor?”

“Yes, but he’s down to once a week. It was the psychiatrist’s suggestion. He said it was time to move toward normalcy. I thought it might be too soon, but he said we should try.”

Evelyn had pooh-poohed Nora’s doubts, eager to accept the psychiatrist’s recommendation. The older woman didn’t set much store by talk therapy, which she believed encouraged brooding on your troubles, instead of moving past them. She called it “wallowing.”

“I’ll phone him tomorrow.” Just making the decision loosened the knot in Nora’s chest slightly. She leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath. The varied scents of the classroom were soothing to her. The sharp, alcohol sting of whiteboard markers, the crisp sweetness of new textbooks, the warm musk of children.

And best of all, the muted laughter of students in the next room struggling to make music.

She’d always planned to be a music teacher, like Jolie. She loved working with kids, watching them light up as their clumsy efforts suddenly bloomed into beautiful sounds.

When she first went to visit Harrison at the Bull’s Eye Ranch that summer ten years ago, she’d been only twenty-one, just out of college, still interviewing for teaching positions in South Carolina. By the time she landed a job, she knew she might be pregnant. And by the time classes started in South Carolina that September, she was living in Texas, married to a very rich man twice her age.

Harrison quickly quieted her talk of teaching. Motherhood, he insisted, was a full-time job.

Understanding why he was a bit overprotective, she’d indulged him. He’d bought her a beautiful piano, so that she could keep up with her own music, and she’d appreciated the gesture.

Someday, she’d always promised herself, she’d start over. When the boys were older. When Harrison felt more secure—about her, and about them. She’d earn her Texas certification, and she’d finally stand in her very own classroom.

Guess someday was on permanent hold now.

And she didn’t mind. There was only one goal that mattered anymore. Shepherding what was left of her family through this crisis.

But she didn’t want her worries to monopolize this whole visit. Jolie had problems, too.

“So did the PTA finally agree that you need new sheet music?” Nora knew that the recent budget cutbacks had slashed the school arts programs. Jolie would have had to cancel the Independence Day concert if Nora hadn’t written a personal check for new instruments. She’d write another, if the PTA didn’t come through with funds. She might write one, anyhow. One of the nicer aspects of having money was being able to give it away.

“It’s still under advisement.” Jolie rolled her eyes. “Which means they’re waiting to see what the Phys Ed teacher needs. If it’s a choice between music and sports, we all know who—”

Suddenly, midsentence, she lurched forward, though she must have been reacting to some sixth sense. Nora hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Jolie murmured under her breath. She flung open the door to the rehearsal room. “Madeline, grab Sean.”

Nora was only a foot behind her, so she had just entered the room when Sean’s guitar hit the floor. Obviously the instrument had been flung with force. Contact with the linoleum made a hideous sound, part splintering wood, part ghastly harmonies from reverberating strings.

“Oh, Sean, no,” she said softly.

Her son didn’t hear her. He stood on the other side of the room, rigid as a pole, his eyes sparking with fury. His face shone palely, which made his freckles stand out like copper pennies on his cheeks. His hair was mussed, his collar lifted where Madeline, the assistant music instructor, held it in her fist.

Jolie had one hand lightly but authoritatively placed on the shoulder of a second boy. Nora knew him—Tad Rutherford. He and Sean had played together since the kiddie band in nursery school. Tad was Sean’s age, but twice his size, and something of a bully. Right now, his broad face burned red, his breath coming hard and noisy.

Nora’s heart beat high in her chest. But Jolie, as always, looked completely calm, in spite of the chaos, the wild-eyed boys and the smashed guitar, which was now two splintered halves held together only by the strings.

She owned the situation. She had frozen the potential for trouble right in its tracks with just the force of her silent authority. That was her gift. It made her a wonderful teacher.

She glanced at Sean, then at Tad. “What happened here?”

“I was just kidding,” Tad said, his chest still heaving. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what?”

Flushing brightly, Tad ducked his head and stared at his shoes. Whatever he’d said, he didn’t seem to have the courage to repeat it in front of the adults.

Jolie looked across the room. “Sean?”

Sean didn’t flinch away from her gaze. He met it, his jaw squared so tightly he might have been carved from marble—if it hadn’t been for his eyes, which were alive with emotion.

Jolie’s gaze shifted. “Madeline?”

The assistant shook her head. “They were playing. I didn’t hear it.”

Jolie didn’t waste time with the third degree. She obviously knew what had to be done. She walked over to Nora. Her eyes were sympathetic, but her voice was matter-of-fact.

“I’ll have to call the principal,” she said quietly, touching the phone that hung from her belt. “The rules are very clear.”

Nora understood. “Of course.”

Nodding to her assistant, a message that seemed to speak volumes, Jolie slipped back into her office to make the call. Nora moved slowly to her son’s side, sidestepping the wreckage of the guitar.

“Sean.” She knelt in front of him and took his cold, limp hand. “Honey, can you tell me? Can you tell me what happened?”

For a moment he stared at her. And then, slowly, as if his neck were a rusted joint, he shook his head.

Such an absolute silence. She looked into his eyes, where sparks of fury still flashed and simmered.

And she thought of Jolie’s comment.

Like fire, she thought with a sinking heart. Like fire behind a tightly closed door.

LOGAN’S NIGHT HAD BEEN an unexpected success. Dinner and drinks with Annie…Aden? Arden? Something like that. The office manager for one of the vets he used at Two Wings.

He’d asked her out purely because she was smoking hot, and he was bored with the book he’d been reading. But he got the bonus prize, too. She’d turned out to be witty and sensible, and extremely easy to please. She liked her steak, she liked her wine. She liked his jokes, his car, his jacket and his smile.

It was also pretty clear she liked the idea of coming home with him. It should have been a slam dunk—sex with a woman who was easy to please. And did he mention smoking hot?

But for some reason he would never understand, he ignored all the signals, kissed her politely at her door and drove back to Two Wings alone.

He didn’t try to figure himself out. He’d never been into navel-gazing self-analysis. He was tired. Her perfume turned him off. He hadn’t been in the mood for a blonde. Whatever.

What difference did it make? There was always another night. There was always another Annie.

He poured himself a glass of water and picked up the sports section, which he hadn’t had time to read that morning. He kicked off his shoes and, with a satisfied yawn, settled onto the tweedy sofa that faced the picture window. It was only eleven, but he’d been up since five, and he’d be up again at five tomorrow. He was dog tired, and he had a right to be.

When the doorbell rang two minutes later, he cursed under his breath. But he swung his legs off the sofa and tossed the newspaper onto the floor. It might be someone dropping off a bird.

When he opened the door, at first he didn’t see anyone at all. Then his gaze fell about two feet, and he discovered a kid standing there, the pale oval of his face peering out from a black hooded sweatshirt.

He wore black jeans, too, and black sneakers. He looked like a miniature cat burglar.

“Hi, Sean,” Logan said wryly. “Did we have something else you wanted to bust up?”

The boy flushed, but he covered it well with a deep scowl. “My mom says she’s going to pay you for it. She’s making me work it off. I’m going to have to pull weeds about ten hours a day for a month.”

“Good.” Logan kept his hand on the doorknob, but he scanned the driveway for a car. “Is your mom with you now?”

“No. I came alone. On my bike.”

Oh, great. The moron had ridden a mile and a half in the pitch dark. All in black. Probably didn’t even have a light on his bike.

He needed a good shaking. Didn’t he have the slightest idea what it would do to his mother if anything bad happened to him?

“Does she know you’re here?”

“No. She’s out with my Aunt Evelyn. I didn’t climb out my window this time. I went straight out the front door. Milly’s supposed to be looking after me, but she always falls asleep. She’s got blood sugar.”

“Really.” Logan fought the urge to smile. “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you back, then. If Milly wakes up and finds you gone, she’ll have a heart attack to go with her blood sugar.”

“No. It’s okay. She never wakes up. I’m not going back yet.”

Logan looked at the boy, who clearly had amazing persistence and dogged determination in that stubborn jaw.

He did some quick thinking. He didn’t want to spook the kid. If Sean decided to dart off into the night, in that outfit, Logan would have hell’s own time trying to catch him. He was tired, and barefoot, and about twenty years older than Sean. He didn’t like his chances.

“Okay.” He held open the door. “Want to come in, then?”

Sean hesitated, still frowning. He glanced into the lighted great room, as if he were checking for trap doors and cages.

“Hey, suit yourself,” Logan said, chuckling. Kids were so dumb. Sean had snuck out in the middle of the night, wandered the darkness alone, knocked on a stranger’s door, then suddenly started remembering what Mom said about safety first.

He shrugged. “I have all the snotty kid prisoners I need at the moment, anyhow.”

Sean laughed. It was an awkward, sputtering noise, as if he hadn’t expected to, and hadn’t wanted to. He caught himself and cut it off, but it had undoubtedly been a laugh.

Encouraged, Logan opened the door wider, and ambled casually toward the kitchen. “Want some water? Must have been a dusty ride. Did you come the back way, by the creek?”

Behind him, he heard the door shut softly. Then he heard it open again, and once more click shut. Too funny…the kid must have been testing to make sure it didn’t auto-lock.

The soft slap of sneakers followed him to the kitchen. Then Sean spoke, with the belligerence dialed back a notch. “Water would be very nice. Yeah, I came by the creek. It’s nice in the moonlight.”

Logan slid a filled glass across the countertop. “But it’s a long way. And I’m guessing that if you get caught you’re in a boatload of trouble. What do you want so bad you’re willing to come all this way to get it?”

Sean picked up the water and swallowed about half of it before he answered. “I want the bird,” he said. “I was going to go to the center and poke around till I found it, but that seemed babyish.”

He lifted his small, pale chin. The hood dropped off when he did so, exposing his curly red hair, still sweaty from the ride over. “And I’m not a baby. So I decided I’d come ask you for it. You can’t want it. It’s not worth anything.”

In spite of the absurdity of the situation, Logan felt a stirring of respect. The boy’s behavior didn’t make any sense, and he could definitely use an attitude adjustment.

But that didn’t make it any less brave.

“I’m not sure I understand. What bird?”

“The one I brought over here yesterday.”

“The dead one?”

The scowl appeared again. “It wasn’t dead when I left my house. It flew right into my window, and then it couldn’t fly anymore. I thought maybe you could fix it. But I guess I took too long. When I got here, it was already dead.” His fingertips were white where they gripped the glass. “I…I couldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t breathing.”

Logan watched the boy carefully, recognizing that helpless anger, that bewildered impotence in the face of the implacability of mortality. If he’d had any doubts before about Sean’s culpability in the death of the bird, they vanished now.

“I guess that was a pretty bad moment. When you saw that it was too late.”

“Yeah.” Sean had to take a deep breath to stop his voice from quavering. “Yeah, it was. I wanted to save it. Maybe it was even my fault. Maybe if I’d asked my mom to drive me over—”

“No.” Logan couldn’t allow that thought to exist for a single second. “No. If it flew into your window, it probably broke its neck. No matter how fast you got it here, I couldn’t have saved it, either.”

“Okay.” Sean nodded, staring down at his water. “But your manager took it away from me. I don’t want him just thrown in the trash, you know? I want to bury him. But I don’t want to steal him. I shouldn’t have to. He’s mine.”

He lifted his head and stood ramrod straight. All the regal Archer entitlement was in that bearing, but so was the little boy’s fear and confusion. Those angry eyes were shining with unshed tears. The effect was incongruous, and oddly touching.

“So I thought I’d come over here and ask you straight. Will you let me have his body?”

Goddamn it. For a minute Logan felt his own eyes stinging. Damn it. He was not going to actually go soft over this kid and one silly bird. Birds died on him all the time in the sanctuary. No one wept over it, not even the most naive teenage volunteers.

“I can’t,” he said firmly. Facts were facts. “I’m sorry, but at least I can promise you it wasn’t thrown in the trash. We’ve already incinerated the body. We have to do that to all the birds we lose here at Two Wings. It’s the law.”

“Oh.” Sean bit his lips together, dealing with the disappointment. His throat worked a few seconds as he fought for control. “Why?”

He really seemed to want to know. Logan debated with himself for a second—would it be better to gloss over it, or offer up details as a distraction?

He decided on distraction. He simplified, but he laid out the basic setup, the federal laws that governed rehabbers and sanctuaries like Two Wings. Encouraged by Sean’s absorbed attention, he even included some interesting trivia about how hunters used to kill birds by the thousands because women wanted to wear their elegant nesting plumage in their ridiculous hats.

“There was a period, maybe a hundred years ago, when an ounce of ostrich feathers was worth more than an ounce of gold,” he finished up. “So the government passed laws to protect the birds. We aren’t allowed to keep so much as a single feather.”

The stories, and the time it took to tell them, did the trick. By the time Logan was finished, Sean’s eyes were brighter. The lightening of his fog of unhappiness was palpable. He probably didn’t fully understand most of it, but he was clearly fascinated by the brief glimpse of the rich history of bird lore.

Logan looked him over, above the rim of his own water glass. When Sean stopped all that glowering, he was a fairly nice-looking kid.

“Anyhow, I really should get you home now,” Logan said casually, hoping he wouldn’t rekindle the fire. “Think we can get your bike in the back of my truck?”

Sean nodded reluctantly. Whatever adrenaline had pushed him here was fading now that his anger and tension were gone. He was starting to look like a normal, sleepy little boy.

“Thanks,” Sean said. “Thanks for being so nice to me.”

And then, to Logan’s surprise, Sean suddenly thrust out his hand. Logan took it, feeling the fragile bones in the skinny fingers, and the calluses on his fingertips. The hand felt ridiculously small to be offering such a man’s gesture.

“You’re welcome,” Logan said, but he had to clear his throat to get the words out.

“I won’t bother you any more, Mr. Cathcart.” The boy looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry I lost my temper yesterday and messed up your cages. I wish I could do something to take it back.”

Logan felt himself being drawn into those hazel eyes, so round and so much like his mother’s. He was no psychiatrist, but his instincts told him this kid wasn’t crazy, or mean, or bad. He was just hurting like hell.

Oh, man. Logan felt himself about to say something he’d probably regret. Pull back, Cathcart. Think it through.

Remember the attitude. The flash of temper. The tragedy, hanging like a black wing over everything the boy did. Remember that half his DNA was from his dad, who had always been a jerk, and had ended up a head case.

Everything he’d told himself yesterday was still true. He still had too much to do. He still knew Nora’s sex appeal would be a distraction, an itch he could never scratch.

And he damn sure still didn’t want to jump on the Archer family trouble train.

Besides, would working at the sanctuary really be helpful for Sean? True, Logan honored hard, outdoor, sweaty work, and he believed in the therapeutic value of getting in touch with, and resigning yourself to, the rhythms of nature.

But this was a kid with death issues. A kid who would try to save his dad all over again every time he tried to save a bird. And lose his dad all over again every time he failed.

Logan wasn’t up to dealing with that. Just because, for a minute here, Sean reminded him of Nora, of the forest-colored sadness in her eyes…

That was no reason to—

He tried to apply the brakes, but nothing seemed to have the power to stop the skid.

“That’s the rotten thing about mistakes,” he said, testing to see whether Sean’s belligerence had really subsided. “Once you make ’em, you own ’em. You can’t take them back, no matter how much you want to.”

Sean nodded grimly, but no resentment sparked. “Yeah.” He sighed. “It sucks.”

Logan paused one more time, giving himself another second to come to his senses.

But it didn’t happen.

“I tell you what,” he heard himself saying. “Maybe there is something you could do. Why don’t we see if your mom will let you work off your punishment here with me?”