Every Second Counts (19 page)

She found Jessica in the den, sitting on the sofa with a book at her side and rubbing her swollen belly. Skyler was gone for the day, supervising her young equestrians at a daylong show and leaving Ryder on baby-watch. Tory and Leah had gone with her as backup if Jessica went into labor and Skyler had to hightail it back.

“Everything okay? Can I get you anything?”

Jessica sighed. “Get this baby out of my stomach. She’s really restless today and being a pain in the belly.”

“You’re having pains?”

Jessica chuckled. “You and Skyler both look like you’re going to faint every time I say something like that. I’m not in labor.” She leaned forward and rubbed at her lower back. “But I would like to take a walk in the pool. It might help my backache.”

She helped Jessica stand. “Your lifeguard is at your service, ma’am.”

Jessica squeezed her hand. “It’s been wonderful having you here. I can’t tell you how much Skyler appreciates it, even if it did take an awful accident to get you to come home.”

She nodded but didn’t reply. She hovered at Jessica’s side as they went outside and settled into the golf cart for the short ride to the gymnasium.

“This is your home,” Jessica said softly. “Please promise you’ll come back often to visit. We’d love for you to spend Christmas with us.”

“I’ll try,” she said, but knew she wouldn’t. It’d probably be another twelve years before she returned, if ever. She loved her friends, but they were a constant reminder of what she was missing in her life.

The show Skyler had gone to was a big annual event in the next county, so most of the center’s clients were there, too. That meant she and Jessica had the gym and pool to themselves.

Jessica grabbed her swimsuit from the locker and sat on the wood bench nearby. “I’ll just change out here.”

Skyler, protective and a bit possessive with her pregnant partner, usually showed up to take Jessica into one of the small dressing stalls to help her. But Ryder didn’t mind Jessica’s lack of modesty. They were both athletes and had changed in front of other women many times in gyms or cramped, makeshift dressing rooms at horse shows.

“Do you need help?”

“I think I can manage,” Jessica said, frowning and rubbing her belly again.

Ryder politely turned away to her own locker and began to strip off her jeans.

“Oh. Uh-oh.”

Something in Jessica’s voice made Ryder whirl around. She was still dressed, sitting on the bench. But her legs were spread wide to avoid putting her feet in the pool of fluid on the floor in front of her. She looked up.

“I think my water just broke.”

Ryder froze for a second, then jumped into action. “Holy crap. The baby’s coming. I’ll go get the truck.” She yanked her jeans up and fumbled in her locker. “Where did I put the damn keys?”

“We drove the golf cart, remember? The truck keys are at the house.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” She grabbed Jessica’s arm to pull her up. “Skyler. We have to call Skyler. I didn’t bring my cell phone.”

“Wait. Ryder, wait.”

“We have to go. We need to get to the hospital.”

“I need you to get a couple of towels for me.”

“Oh, no. I can deliver baby horses but not baby people. I’ll pass out. I know I will.”

“Calm down, Miss I-don’t-know-nuthin’-about-birthin’-no-babies. My pants are soaked and I don’t want to mess up the seat on the golf cart.”

“Oh. Right.” She raced to the closet then back with an armload of thick white towels. She threw several on the slippery floor and helped Jessica stand. They walked slowly out to the golf cart where Ryder laid the towels out for Jessica to sit on and then drove carefully back to the house. The first contraction hit as Ryder helped her up the steps.

“Tell me what to do, Jess. Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“Heavens, no. Help me inside and I’ll call Skyler and the doctor.”

It seemed like forever before Jessica was ready for the hospital.

Her suitcase was packed, but she insisted on taking a shower before they left. Ryder helped her undress, then stood by while she showered, afraid to leave her alone for even a minute.

Jessica was beautiful, her pregnant body lush with curves and her skin glowing with a softness that begged to be touched. Helping her prepare for the birth of her baby felt intimate but not sexual, and emotion swelled up in Ryder. She regretted that Skyler wasn’t experiencing this moment, this exhilaration of expectation, with her lover.

She was assisting Jessica out of the car at the hospital when Leah’s convertible screeched to a stop behind them and Skyler jumped out. Ryder was relieved to see her.

The pains were coming quicker than expected for a maiden delivery. Everything was happening too fast. At least it seemed that way to Ryder. Then two hours later, everything had slowed to a crawl. Skyler and Jessica were settled into a birthing room while Ryder paced the maternity waiting room like an expectant father.

She was alone. It would be evening before Tory and Leah would be done with the show and could come to the hospital. Jessica’s parents, Kate and Laura, were in an airplane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, returning from their rented villa in Greece. She didn’t want to be alone. Every cell in her body longed for Bridgette to be there in the waiting room with her.

She flopped into a chair and cradled her head in her hands as she stared at the floor. She imagined Bridgette as the pregnant woman in the shower and herself as the anxious partner holding a towel up and begging her to hurry.

Damn. Where’d that come from? She’d never even thought about spending the rest of her life with one woman, much less raising children. Hell, she couldn’t even commit to sharing her life with a dog. She had raised Wind Walker from a baby and hadn’t thought twice about leaving him with Skyler and not returning to see him over the past twelve years. She was truly a chip off the old Ridenhouer block.

*

Bridgette impatiently laid her checklist on the kitchen counter when the doorbell sounded. She should feel happier. The auction was one week away, but everything was falling into place. Even her own contribution to the auction was finished and currently with the framers.

Still, she felt anxious and unsettled. She blamed it on the pressure for this to be a success, but she knew better. She hated that her heart jumped with expectation every time the door to Eleanor’s mansion opened or the doorbell rang. She was irritated that the person she most wanted to see step through the door was Ryder. For what? So she could be reminded that the only thing Ryder cared about was the thrill she got from risking her life?

For the tenth time that day, she brushed Ryder from her thoughts. Obviously, she wouldn’t ring the doorbell. It was probably a delivery person, but instead, she found the slender, elderly woman whom she had seen in the gallery with Ryder the day they met.

“Hello. Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, I hope so.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Trudy Wasson, one of Eleanor’s neighbors. My grandson is one of your students. Richard Wasson?”

Bridgette clasped her hand briefly and stepped back. “Yes, he is. It’s nice to meet you. Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you, dear. I won’t keep you long. The neighborhood is buzzing about the auction you’re planning, so I know you must have a lot to do other than entertain an old lady.”

“Nonsense. I could use a break.”

She led Trudy to the living room, where they settled on one of the large sofas. Although professional lighting had been added to properly display the paintings hanging in the downstairs rooms, little of the furniture had been moved because this was where the pre-auction reception would be held. The actual bidding would take place in the huge formal dining room.

Trudy looked around the room. “It hasn’t changed much in here,” she said. “I feel like Eleanor might barge right in at any moment. She never just walked into a room. It was more like she was leading a charge to take care of some urgent matter.”

“You knew Eleanor well?”

“We were neighbors for years. She was a wonderful, talented woman, but she suffered so much from her illness.”

“You’re referring to her bipolar disorder? Her granddaughter told me about that.”

Trudy was about to answer when Lydia came thumping down the stairs.

“Hey, Bridge, look what I found.” She stopped in the doorway. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone else was here.”

“It’s quite all right,” Trudy assured them, standing to offer Lydia her hand. “I’m Trudy Wasson.”

Lydia set the canvas she carried at her feet and returned Trudy’s greeting. “Lydia Wells.”

“Trudy is a neighbor and was a friend of Eleanor,” Bridgette said.

“Really? Then maybe you can tell me who painted this? I stumbled across another studio upstairs. It doesn’t look like Eleanor’s work. Did she have a lover who was an artist?”

“Eleanor had a lot of lovers but never kept any around very long. I suspect I know the artist, though. Could I see the room you’re talking about?”

“It’s upstairs, at the end of the hallway.”

Eleanor’s studio took up the half of the upstairs area to the right of the staircase, while a long hallway to the left led to a series of bedrooms. Bridgette was aware there was a guest suite on the right before you reached Eleanor’s rooms and that Ryder’s childhood bedroom, where they’d made love, was first on the left. She had taken for granted that the second door much farther down on the left was another guest bedroom. Instead, it was a small studio.

Sketches, taped nearly from floor to ceiling, were portraits of horses—running, show jumping, looking out of stable doors, or grazing in serene pastures. There were also several portraits of young women, all beautiful. The sketches weren’t the work of a professional, but the artist showed a lot of promise. Even the greatest talent required training to reach its potential.

Trudy smiled. “Yes, I thought so. This is Marci’s work.”

Bridgette gasped. “Marci? These are Marc’s sketches?”

“She definitely has some of her grandmother’s talent. It’s a shame she was never interested in developing it. It was horses, horses, horses from the first time she rode one over at Leigh Parker’s place.”

Bridgette scanned the wall of sketches. The horses were beautifully drawn. The portraits of girls were less skilled, but one positioned in at the center of the collage of drawings made her pause. She raised her eyebrows. It was a drawing of a young woman reclined on a bed, one hand on her breast and the other between her legs, her head thrown back in ecstasy. This one had definite potential.

Trudy chuckled. “She liked the girls and they liked her, too. Our little Marci was something of a rogue in her teen years.”

“This is the one you need to see,” Lydia said, drawing their attention to an easel in the corner. She lifted a swath of linen cloth that covered a dark, turbulent abstract so full of passion Bridgette nearly forgot to breathe.

It was good. Very good. The artist’s signature in the bottom corner was simply MR.

Several more canvases were stacked against the wall, and she knelt to flip through them. None were as good as the stormy abstract, and several appeared to be attempts at copying the style of well-known masters. One Van Goghish painting was a portrait of Eleanor applying paint to a canvas. Her back was turned to ignore the shadow-like figure of a child kneeling behind her with arms outstretched.

“Oh, my.” Trudy dabbed at her eyes. “That one just breaks my heart.”

Bridgette suddenly felt as though they were exposing a very private part of Ryder’s life, and the callousness of their invasion sliced at her like a razor.

“Most of these are just the drawings of a child,” Lydia said, oblivious to their intrusion. “But I’m betting I can get a good price for the abstract.”

“No.”

Lydia looked surprised. “What do you mean, no? She said we could sell any paintings in the house. She doesn’t want them.”

“Not this one.” Bridgette covered it again.

“At least ask her about it.”

“I don’t know if she’s still in town.” She herded them out of the room and closed the door. “After the auction, I’ll pack all of this up for her. She might not want it now, but she will someday. I’m sure Skyler will store it for her.”

Lydia frowned. “But—”

“It’s not up for discussion, Lydia. Don’t touch anything in that room.”

“Okay. Don’t get huffy about it.” Lydia disappeared into Eleanor’s studio to continue her inventory, and Bridgette led Trudy down the stairs.

“I think I’m going to pour a glass of wine. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. But I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”

Trudy followed her into the kitchen. “You’re right, you know. Those are Marci’s private things.” She shook her head, her eyes sad. “That poor child. Her parents just left her here and took off.”

The thought made Bridgette’s heart ache. “I can’t imagine what that must have felt like. I don’t see my parents as much as I’d like, but they were wonderful when my brother and I were growing up.”

“Eleanor, bless her heart, was so involved with her art and so consumed by her illness that she wasn’t much of a parent either. I wondered sometimes if Marci was afraid she would end up like Eleanor if she became an artist, too.”

“Marc told me a little about what it was like living with her.”

“I’m afraid it scarred her for life. I came over one Christmas Eve to bring some cookies I’d baked, and Eleanor was locked in her bedroom, having one of her depressions. Little Marci was only eight, so I took her to my house and sent my husband out to buy a list of toys I thought she’d like. We kept her with us so Santa could visit her at our house and she could have a real Christmas dinner. The poor little thing. After that, I always checked on her at Christmas to make sure she wasn’t alone.”

“That was so kind of you.”

“The only time Eleanor really paid attention was when Marci got into trouble or got hurt doing something foolhardy.” She chuckled. “I’m not sure she’s grown out of that either, judging from the cane she was leaning on when I ran into her recently at the college.”