She did so quickly, explaining which drawer to look in in her desk, and then which file the title was in.
Wilson moved to the side of the bed and gently cupped the side of her face.
“You gonna be okay while I’m gone?”
“Lord, yes. I can’t get into any trouble just lying here.” “Only if you don’t have any more nightmares.”
Cat looked startled. “What? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” “No, but I was afraid you would.”
She covered her face with her hands. “God, I have made such a mess of my life.”
“No, you haven’t,” Wilson said softly, as he moved her hands away from her face. “Your life was messed up through no fault of your own. You just had a tough time doing cleanup.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Cat mumbled.
Wilson leaned down, and before Cat knew what was coming, he kissed her.
“Miss me while I’m gone,” he said softly, brushing another kiss across her forehead for good measure.
Cat was too stunned by the kisses to answer. By the time she got herself in gear, he was gone. She watched the door swing shut and then closed her eyes.
Miss him? More than he would know.
The FedEx truck was an unfamiliar sight in Adobe Blanco. People paused in the doorways of their homes, staring with curiosity. When the truck sped on through town, they shrugged philosophically and went on about their business.
It was Padre Francisco who was taken unawares when the driver knocked on the door to the tiny church, then entered.
Padre Francisco had been in his quarters, making himself a cup of instant coffee, when he heard footsteps, then someone calling his name. He hurried out, only to find himself the beneficiary of a packet. He signed for it, then sat down on the front pew as the driver left.
At first he didn’t recognize the return address, and even when he did, he was puzzled. It was from the American woman who’d rescued Pilar Mendoza’s baby, Maria Elena. He couldn’t imagine what she would be sending to him and tore into the packet anxiously.
When a set of keys fell out into his lap, he frowned. Then he opened the letter. A car title fell out from between the folds, as did a couple of onehundred-dollar bills. He stared, trying to make sense of the objects, then unfolded the letter and began to read.
Father Francisco, although my business in Mexico is now behind me, at the last minute, I had to change my plans. I flew home instead of driving. As I thought about out how to get my car, it occurred to me that it would be easier to just buy another one than go to all that trouble, especially since I am still healing from some injuries I incurred.
It occurred to me then that you were the ideal person to make good use of the car. It’s free and clear of debt, and I’ve signed the title over to you. It’s parked at the airstrip outside of Chihuahua. The keys are enclosed. The money is for fuel. It will take quite a bit of fuel to get you to Chihuahua, then even more to drive the car back to Adobe Blanco. I hope this isn’t too much trouble for you to go through and that you will be able to put the car to good use. I would suggest that you not delay. It has already been parked there for a couple of days.
One thing…I would ask that you don’t tell anyone where you got the car —ever. If someone asks, just say it was a gift to the church. However, should you have a free moment now and then, it would not be amiss to mention my name in prayer. God knows I need it.
Bless you, Father. Enjoy the car and give my love to Maria Elena. Catherine Dupree
Padre Francisco couldn’t believe what he’d just read and had to reread
the letter twice before he completely understood what she’d done. Then he picked up the keys, the money and the title, and fell to his knees in prayer.
He sensed there was far more to the story than what she’d told, but whatever had happened to Catherine was between her and God. What she’d done for the church and the little town of Adobe Blanco was priceless, but there was still much to be done.
His prayers were fervent, but brief. Something told him not to delay in going after the car. He suspected it would be prudent to remove all signs of her presence from Chihuahua, and after what she’d done for them, it was the least he could do for her.
The next day, he told no one about the bounty that had come their way or where he was going. He just set off for Chihuahua alone, praying all the way that the old station wagon would make it. Hour after hour, he drove— to his surprise, with no car troubles. It was as if God Himself was keeping the old vehicle moving. But by the time he arrived at the airstrip, steam was coming out from under the hood of the station wagon and a tire was going flat.
Immediately, he spied the car that the American woman had driven to their town—the same one that had carried Pilar’s body from the desert. He drove straight toward it.
He’d already cleaned out the old station wagon. It didn’t have a license plate and he’d never had a title for it, so whoever came across it next was welcome to it. He got out quickly, leaving the keys in the ignition, and headed for the fine new vehicle. After a quick check of the extra fuel cans in the back of the SUV, he discovered to his delight that two of them were full. It was enough to get him on his way.
Once inside, he allowed himself one small breath of relief, then put the key in the ignition. The engine fired on the first turn. He said a quick prayer of thanks for the much-needed vehicle that had come to the little church. The woman was a true angel on earth. A quick glance at the gas gauge revealed a tank nearly two-thirds full.
God was good.
He put the car in gear and drove off without looking back.
Art Ball had been one of the first people Wilson called after he brought Cat back to Dallas. Art had been to the hospital twice since, each time fussing about the extent of her injuries. And as Cat lay in her bed, she knew he was back again, because she could hear him talking to someone as he came down the hall. It couldn’t be Wilson he was talking to, because he’d just left to run some errands, so she guessed it was a nurse. One thing about Art, he’d never met a stranger.
Tomorrow she would be released from the hospital, and she was more than ready to go home, yet she was also well aware that taking care of herself was going to be extremely difficult, at least for a while.
She heard a knock on the door and called, “Come in,” knowing it was Art. Sure enough, Art entered with a box of candy and a big smile. “Hey, Missy…you’re looking real good today. How you feeling?”
Cat shook her head. “I look like shit, and we both know it. As for how I’m feeling, I guess just glad to be alive.”
Art frowned. “Now don’t go saying all those bad things about yourself, honey. Lookie here…I brought your favorite candy…chocolate.”
“Is there any other kind?” she asked, as he laid the box in her lap. “As for looking good, what I look like is a fat-faced raccoon.”
Art chuckled in spite of himself. “Well, honey…except for your two black eyes and fat lip, the swelling is going down real good.”
Cat smiled. “Always the optimist.”
Art shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned. “When you gonna get out of here?”
“Tomorrow.”
“If you need, I got an extra bedroom until you think you can stay by yourself again.”
Cat was surprised and touched. He blushed as she took his hand in gratitude.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll manage.”
Art looked at her, then down at the floor. “What about Wilson?”
Cat tensed. “What about him?” “He was real worried about you.” Cat sighed. “I know.”
Art glanced up at her. “I reckon he cares for you a good deal.” “He did,” Cat muttered.
“I don’t know what’s gone on between you two, and I don’t want to. But I can tell you for sure that no one does what he did for you without still having some feelings.”
“I hurt him…more than once.”
Art frowned. “Well, hell, honey…he’s a big boy. And I reckon if he thinks you’re worth it, he can take it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the rub, isn’t it, Art? He may have decided I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“That remains to be seen now, don’t it? So don’t go off half-cocked and make matters worse before they get a chance to get better, you hear?”
Cat sighed, then smiled. “Yes, Art. I hear you.”
He scratched his nearly bald head, then tugged his droopy pants up over
his paunch and patted her leg.
“I reckon I’ll go on home now. Let you get some rest.” “How’s everything going at work? Are you managing okay?”
Art grinned. “Oh, shoot, honey, we’re fine, but whenever you’re ready to come back to work, just say the word. There will always be a place for you there.”
“Thanks, Art. I know I’ve let you down.”
The little man shrugged. “Well, honey, that’s just the way life goes. The only way to get past the bad stuff is to get back up and keep going. So… rest well and take care.”
“I will,” Cat said. “And thanks for the candy.” “You’re welcome,” he said.
A few moments later he was gone, and she was alone with her thoughts again, wondering if it was possible for Wilson to forgive her for all that she’d done to him. Wondering what would happen afterward if he did.
Wilson stood in front of Cat’s closet, trying to figure out what to pack. He’d already made all the calls necessary for what he was planning to do, but this was a little beyond his expertise. He knew certain clothes would
be more comfortable than others, so he opted for anything loose. He wouldn’t let himself think about how pissed Cat was going to be at what he was planning to do. But for the time being, she had called her last shot. Until she was healed enough to take care of herself, he had put himself in charge.
He packed two suitcases, scooped up the makeup and shampoo in the bathroom, tossed her hairbrush in on top of the rest of it and zipped up the last bag. He’d checked the kitchen cabinets, as well as the ones in the bathroom, for any maintenance prescriptions she might be taking. He’d found nothing but a bottle of Tylenol, which he left behind. Where she was going, that would be available, along with anything else she might need.
He glanced around the room again, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t leaving something necessary behind. As he looked, he noticed that the drawer on the bedside table was ajar. Maybe there was something in there that she used every night. Maybe that was where she kept her meds. He opened the drawer, then froze. Five wadded-up twenty-dollar bills lay on top of a phone book, next to a pad of paper and a pen. It was the money he’d tossed on her bed in anger. He knew, because he recognized the happy face someone had drawn on the corner of one bill.
When he’d done it, he hadn’t considered how it might have affected her. He’d just been so angry and hurt that he’d acted without thought. He fingered the bills, then dropped them back in the drawer and pushed it shut. He wouldn’t think about that now—not when what he was going to do was about to piss her off all over again.
It had taken Cat the better part of a half hour just to put on a pair of
sweat pants and an old sweatshirt. She’d asked for them when Wilson had gone to get her some clothes, since she’d come here in a bathrobe filched from the Hotel Uno, which Wilson had promptly taken away and tossed in the garbage because of the hotel monogram, so she’d needed something else to wear home. Her sweats were soft and loose and comfortably familiar. But that was where comfort ended. Her belly and ribs were one solid ache, and the flop sweat on her face was a direct result of trying to getting dressed.
She’d managed to crawl back into bed and was now flat on her back, purposefully immobile as she waited for Wilson to come get her. She might not be able, but she was ready—and more than willing—to get out of here.
She dozed as she waited, drifting in and out on the pain pills in her system. A man’s voice down the hall triggered a memory and, before she knew it, she was back in Tutuola’s mansion, locked in a death struggle with only one bullet left in her gun and no hope of getting away.
She felt the blackness coming over her, pulling her down, taking her fast. Something bucked against her, then they fell.
She woke up, gasping and swallowing a scream, with Wilson right beside her.
“It’s me,” he said quickly. “You were dreaming. Take a breath, baby. You’re okay.”
She was trembling but cognizant as she grabbed for his wrist. “Crap,” she muttered. “I’m okay. It was just a dream.” Her chin was
trembling, but her voice was clear. “I’m sorry,” Wilson said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my own damn fault,” Cat said. “Can we get out of here now?”
He straightened up, then shoved his hands in his pockets. So this was the way she wanted to play it—back to being the tough girl.
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” he said. “They’re getting a wheelchair to bring you down. I’ll be waiting in the car.”
He turned angrily and started toward the door.
Cat could tell by the set of his shoulders that she’d done it all wrong again.
“Wilson. Wait. Please.”
He paused, then turned around. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry. That was bitchy of me. I hurt. I took it out on you. Forgive me?”