Rescue Team (18 page)

Ah.
“How’d that go?”

“Not so well.” Kate flexed her toes and a cotton ball dropped to the hardwood floor. “He’s on his way back to California. We’re better via e-mail.”

“Family,” Lauren commiserated. “Not always easy.”

While Kate reached down for the cotton ball, Lauren glanced toward the framed photo on the mantel. A woman with dark hair and Kate’s eyes. Her mother, without a doubt. “I understand family drama, trust me. I may need to go home to Houston before Thanksgiving. To check on things.”

“Jessica?”

Lauren nodded, worry pressing down like a weight. “She’s been missing some school—I think I told you she’s pre-nursing. Anyway, Jess hates it when I go big sister on her. But . . . it’s a fine line. So—” She stopped short as Kate’s phone signaled a text message. “Go ahead. Really.”

“Thanks. I should check. I was expecting . . .”

Barrett Lyon?
Lauren watched Kate’s face as she read, caught the fleeting smile she tried to conceal.

“Sorry ’bout that.” Kate set the phone back down on the table. “You were saying?”

“Nothing really. Another time.” Lauren pushed the pillow aside. “I need to get going. I only wanted to make sure you were good.” She pointed to the nail polish. “In my professional opinion, nail polish is always a positive sign. Even better if you were wearing a killer dress and heels.”

“Black jersey. Italian pumps. Laid out and waiting.”

“Seriously? For what?”

“Dinner. With . . .” Kate’s pause was merciless.

“Tell me now, or I’ll pitch a fit.” Lauren held her breath, tried not to think of the gold Mercedes.

“Wes Tanner.” Kate’s smile returned.

-  +  -

“All settled in?” Wes asked, noting the half-eaten plate of food next to Gabe’s recliner, a cafeteria array of entrées from his neighbors and church family. He spotted one of Lily Braxton’s powdered-sugar cookies.

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” Gabe pressed the remote to lower the volume on the TV. Then nudged his dog’s nose away from the dinner plate. “Thanks for taking Hersh out today; he’d have been bored to tears playing nurse. Clementine did okay with the grove?”

“Yeah. That old trailer’s scheduled for haul out on Friday, I think.”

“The sisters must be relieved.” The compassion in Gabe’s voice reminded Wes once again how unselfish and good-hearted this man was. “Nancy Rae will sleep better too.”

“I expect.” Wes rolled his eyes. “You sure you don’t need me to bunk on the couch tonight? Give you a hand?”

“Nah.” Gabe pointed toward the mounded plate. “I’ve got more food than I need; the crutches are no problem. And Mom’s insisting she’s going to stand by—covering her eyes—when I navigate the shower tomorrow morning.” He shook his head. “In our line of work she’s seen a lot worse.”

Wes snorted. “Don’t count on it.” He glanced toward the door. “Hey, did I see a county car pulling away when I drove up?”

“Yeah.” Gabe nudged Hershey’s nose again, then caved and tossed him a piece of Lily’s cookie. He turned back to Wes. “Corey, from the sheriff’s department; you remember him. Wife’s doing K9 training. Anyway, he stopped by to say hey . . . and give me a little inside information on Sunni’s case.”

“Like?”

“Like there could be another park search. Didn’t we both predict that?”

“Which park? When?”

“Not sure when. Sounds like the DA’s pushing for more information first. But the inmate mentioned the Barton Creek Greenbelt.” Gabe caught Wes’s gaze. “All hush-hush, of course. Which probably won’t keep you from heading in that direction again.”

“Tonight.” Wes smiled at the thought.

Gabe’s brows rose. “I was kidding. In the dark? You wouldn’t.”

“I would. I’ll be heading toward Zilker Park tonight.” Wes stalled, enjoying the look on his friend’s face. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Don’t torture an invalid. I’ll throw a crutch.”

Wes grinned. “Kate lives near there. I’m taking her to dinner.”

“I
T’S AMAZING,”
K
ATE SAID
over the soft clatter of glassware and distant strains of guitar. She peered through the restaurant’s window and across darkened Lady Bird Lake toward the glowing cityscape. “The horizon does look purple now that the sun’s set.”

“Violet, officially. Or so they say.” Wes smiled at her across the linen-topped table. Candlelight played over his freshly shaved jaw and the shoulders of his navy twill jacket, creating smoky shadows beneath his dark lashes. “City of the Violet Crown. Supposedly it was O. Henry who gave Austin the nickname. Back in the late 1800s. Could be a tall tale, though.” His smile stretched. “Folks claim we Texans are prone to that sort of thing.”

Tall tale.
Kate hated that his words made her think of what she’d said to the police scant hours ago. Or rather, what she hadn’t said.
That poor girl was asking me for help. . . .
Had Kate lied?
Was she willing to shift blame to Dana Connor? Do exactly what Barrett Lyon expected of her . . . because she was like him?

“You’re lost in thought,” Wes said, bringing Kate’s attention back.

“No,” she said in a hurry. “Only remembering how much of this amazing city I’ve discovered, thanks to you.” She glanced toward the window again. “That shoreline down there—with Stevie Ray Vaughan himself—the capitol, those crazy food trailers, and Lake Austin.”
Where we kissed.
His eyes met hers and Kate felt her face flush. “And now this spot,” she added, glancing across the casually upscale oak-and-brick dining room toward a lively bar offering spotted cowhide stools. And in summer, apparently the city’s best view of the famous Congress bridge bats. “It’s great.”

He pointed to her empty salad plate. “You were just surprised to find Humboldt Fog goat cheese this far from California.”

“True.” Kate smiled at him, feeling again the persistent quiver that had begun with Wes’s arrival on her doorstep tonight. It wasn’t so much that he’d looked different, though he certainly did: jacket and dress shirt paired casually with nice jeans and boots, and an enticing hint of a scent that had nothing to do with horses. It wasn’t that he’d left his Got Water? truck behind in favor of a comfortable sedan—something she greatly appreciated with her clingy dress and heels. The quivers didn’t even spring from the way Wes kept a protective hand at the small of her back when they crossed the street to this restaurant. The truth was that they came from the sense that tonight was different.
Because I’ve never known a man like him.

Kate blinked, realizing Wes had said something else.

“And if we get the sort of rain they’re predicting this week, you might wish you were eating your salad in California. There’s a good reason we call them gully washers.”

“Will that kind of rain affect your work—the well-drilling business?”

“The drought’s affected it more. We’ve had almost more business than we can handle: extending wells, drilling in new sites, and installing rainwater-catchment systems. Austin needs this rain.” He traced a finger down the condensation on his water glass, his expression sobering. “Though flash floods are possible. Which would affect my other business.”

Kate gave him a puzzled look.

“Search and rescue,” Wes explained. “Travis County has an impressive swift-water rescue team. Central Texas is known as Flash Flood Alley—it’s our number one natural disaster threat. And we’ve had some, trust me. Back in 2001, a supercell thunderstorm, combined with tornadoes, hit Austin during rush hour. Fifteen inches of rain, high winds. Eight of the ten deaths from the storm were vehicle related. Two feet of water will carry away an SUV.” Wes’s blue eyes darkened and Kate suspected he was thinking of his mother. Her death in that river.

He shook his head. “Sorry. Never give an engineer an opening to quote statistics.” He glanced toward the sound of the guitar. “How about I settle up with the waiter and we go enjoy the music? Take back what we lost to that raccoon at Lake Austin.”

“The cupcake wrapper?”

“No.” Wes smiled. “The dance. Let’s finish one this time.”

-  +  -

They stood and Wes stepped aside, allowing Kate to weave through the tables ahead of him. Which also offered yet another glimpse of how great she looked in her dress and heels. He’d been nearly speechless when she opened the door at her house. From jeans
and boots and handily navigating that rusty old Jeep, to . . .
this.
He took a slow breath. Right now Kate Callison would look completely at home on the arm of some Dallas banker, but she was with Wes.
With me . . . not Barrett Lyon.
It felt incredibly good. If only he could manage not to botch things by boring her with more weather statistics. Or mentioning the greenbelt and its possible connection to Sunni’s disappearance. Kate didn’t need to add that to her list of problems. Wes didn’t want to worry her; he just wanted her back in his arms.

Kate stopped at the edge of the small, darkened dance floor. A few yards away, a solitary guitar player leaned toward his microphone in a soft pool of light, eyes closed as he sang.

A bittersweet look flickered across Kate’s face. “That song . . .”

“Van Morrison. ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”

“My father would sing it to my mother,” Kate explained. “She had these big eyes.”

“Like yours,” Wes said, noticing how bottomless they looked in the dim light.
Big, sad eyes.

“I suppose that’s true.” Kate glanced away again. “People have said I look like her.”

Then she was beautiful too.
“Let’s dance,” Wes said, taking her hand.

In moments they’d joined the other couples on the dance floor, Kate managing elegance with the somewhat-awkward twirl Wes attempted in the impossibly small space between other elbows and shoulders. The singer continued the familiar love song:

“Standin’ in the sunlight laughin’

Hidin’ behind a rainbow’s wall . . .”

Kate laughed as Wes barely missed stepping on her foot, and she insisted that he attempt the twirl again, her eyes glittering. He twirled; she spun, stumbled, and recovered. Then returned to his arms, nearly collapsing against his chest in laughter, as if she had no cares in the world, no painful past and no uncertain future. Only laughter and music . . . He held Kate, laughing along with her. And then realized something: maybe more than he’d ever wanted anything, Wes wanted to keep the sadness from ever returning to Kate’s eyes.

He raised her arm and twirled her again.

“You my brown eyed
girl
 . . .”

The singer held the last note and then smoothly transitioned to a slower song. Even more smoothly, Kate moved back into Wes’s arms. As before, it felt like she belonged there. Her small hand curled inside his, her chin at his collarbone and that soft hair brushing his cheek. It smelled of shampoo, maybe some kind of flower or herb. Wes breathed it in.

“Safe,” she said, leaning away. A smile tugged at her lips. “No raccoons.”

“I noticed.” A bald-faced lie, of course. Wes wouldn’t have noticed if there’d been a flash flood through the restaurant. All he knew was that Kate was in his arms, and even as she moved close once again, all he could think of was that the song would soon end. And then the evening, too. He didn’t want that to happen.

-  +  -

Judith crossed the ER waiting room to where Trista was settling her baby’s car seat on a chair. One look at her face and Judith was
glad she’d decided to return for a few hours on the evening shift; the girl’s father had been causing quite a ruckus upstairs.

“They said he signed himself out,” Trista told her, eyes anxious behind her glasses. “I don’t get it. He was supposed to stay two more days. They kept saying something like MAA. What does that mean?”

“AMA, dear.” Judith glanced down at Harley; she was wearing a lavender knit hat and her cherub lips puckered in her sleep. The silver rattle Judith had gifted her was wedged under the car seat’s shoulder strap. “The abbreviation stands for ‘against medical advice.’ Meaning that your father has chosen to leave the hospital against the advice of his physician. Even if it poses a risk to his health. They had your father sign the papers so that he would understand the seriousness of his decision.”

Trista frowned. “And to avoid being sued if he dies at home.”

Judith winced, looked down again as Harley began to whimper.

“I talked to his nurse last night,” Trista continued. “Two thirty in the morning and he was wide awake. Shaky, she said. Talking out of his head for a while. They had to give him a pill. She called it sundowning and said it happens sometimes to older people in strange surroundings.”

Judith bit her lip. Though he was certainly an older parent, Trista’s father wasn’t much older than Judith herself was.

Trista pushed her glasses up her nose and let out a withering sigh. “He wants to come home so he can get drunk. Period. It doesn’t take a doctor to figure—”

“There you are!” A wheelchair appeared at the door to the waiting room. Trista’s father wore a bulky bandage, an arm sling, and a very sour expression. “Let me out of this chair,” he barked to the nurse’s aide, who didn’t appear much happier.

“I need to wheel you all the way to the car, sir,” he said, resting
a hand on his patient’s shoulder as he tried to rise. “That’s policy, so please—”

“I don’t give a—Trista!” her father hollered, rising from the wheelchair. “Grab that baby and get me out of here.”

A woman near the door pulled her toddler protectively into her arms; another patient stood and walked to a seat farther away.

“I’ll carry Harley,” Judith offered as Trista’s father shrugged off the aide’s help and started toward them. “And I’ll wait at the curb with your father if you want to go pull the car up.”

Trista held Judith’s gaze for a moment. Long enough for Judith to clearly understand that the young mother most certainly didn’t want to go get the car if that meant taking her father home. So sad.

Still, it wasn’t realistic to think that all family relationships were happy. She thought of Matt Callison, sitting here this afternoon. Hoping to see his daughter. The love and pride in his eyes were unmistakable. A lot like Judith’s husband and Molly. Something to be treasured.

Life was fragile. You never knew when something wonderful might be lost. She was glad Kate still had that.

-  +  -

“You do look like her,” Wes said, standing in front of the framed photo on Kate’s mantel.

“I like to think that,” Kate told him, carrying the daisy mugs to the coffee table. She felt a pang of guilt. The favorite photo of her mother, wearing a floppy beach hat and a sprinkle of summer freckles, had been snipped in half from top to bottom. She’d left the piece with her father’s face on the sink the day she hoisted her backpack and walked out. No note, just a pair of kitchen shears and a cruel gesture that said,
“I’ve cut you out of my life.”

Kate set the mugs down, glanced up to see Wes looking at the printed card beside the framed photo. “Engagement announcement,” she explained. “A trauma chaplain I worked with at Alamo Grace. She’s marrying an ER physician in March. In a Fredericksburg peach orchard.” Four months away. The thought came without warning: Would Kate still be in Texas then?

“Ten hospitals in six years? Seven different cities, three states?”
Barrett’s words echoed. He’d pegged her in an instant. Did Kate honestly think Wes wouldn’t? Was she foolish enough to hope it could be different this time?

As Wes walked toward where she’d settled on the couch, she wondered briefly if quivers were a sign of hope. They were still here.

“It’s good,” Wes pronounced after taking a sip of the coffee—brewed this time, not instant. She’d made a quick stop at Austin Java on her way home from buying the nail polish. His thumb brushed the flower on the mug. “This cup looks old.”

“My mother’s. She bought them in Carmel on a spring break during college.”

Wes smiled. “About the same vintage as ‘Brown Eyed Girl’?”

“Probably not long after.” Kate slid off her shoes, seeing Wes glance discreetly at her polished toes, and reached for her coffee mug. “There used to be a set, but there are only three left now. They were her favorite mugs.” Kate clucked her tongue. “I remember them filled with my paintbrushes and once with an avocado seed. I poked it with toothpicks and tried to get it to sprout in water on the windowsill. And . . .” Her heart cramped. “I fixed Mom’s herbal tea in those mugs when she was getting chemo.”

“You must miss her.”

She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. Or imagine what her
mother would think of her mistake-riddled, vagabond life. “We didn’t have the big, close family that you have. But she was sort of the glue, you know?” Her father’s words, just today, drifted back.
“The heart of our family . . .”

Wes’s expression said he understood.

“The house is on Happy Hollow Lane,” Kate continued with a smile. “Mom got the biggest kick out of that; she said it made us sound like a family of chipmunks. She’d puff out her cheeks and make this goofy face.” Her smile faded. “Afterward . . . I wanted to rip that street sign down.
Happy
didn’t fit anymore.” She set the mug on the table.