Oh, dear God. What am I doing?
Vesta groaned, squeezed her eyes shut. She hated—despised to the depths of her soul—what she’d allowed herself to become. A worthless, simpering, useless coward. She wasn’t fooling anyone. And she had no doubt that Riley Hale suspected it even before those groceries were delivered to the door. That lovely, sensitive girl . . .
What would Riley say if she knew about the reality of that night? Maybe she’d agree that it had been too long ago to do anything about it; that, given the darkness and the horrifying confusion, Vesta couldn’t be expected to remember anything helpful. Riley might understand how it felt to get the late-night phone calls afterward. No more than dead silence, but chilling—intimidating. And then to wonder if her dog Corky’s poisoning had been more than a mere sad coincidence.
Vesta glanced up at the wall, past the photos of Alaska and Half Dome, to the gray cedar cross.
Maybe Riley could even understand how hard it had been to pray since that night. To believe that after all that had happened, God was still there for her. And to wonder if he didn’t want her exactly where she was: trapped, sick, and alone. A prison she deserved.
There was no point in this.
Vesta glanced down at her arm, pressed a cotton ball against the seeping blood, and told herself it was best to go back to bed. Riley would be here on Monday to bring the car, then again on Thursday for their scheduled chaplain visit. They’d talk, but Vesta wouldn’t burden her with any of this. Not the nightmares and not what she knew about Dr. Travis. Or . . . Vesta glanced toward the curtained window, fought a shudder.
It wasn’t possible that she’d seen him. That man with the wild hair who stank of fear and fire and still chased her in nightmares after all these years. If Vesta told the Alamo Grace Hospital chaplain that he’d walked down San Antonio Street in the direction of the clinic, she’d simply add
crazy
to her diagnosis of
diabetic recluse
.
It isn’t possible.
Vesta put her testing kit away and headed toward the bedroom. Then went back to the foyer to check the locks. And to get the bat.
16
Riley drove the Mercedes down the Highway 10 off-ramp, its grassy shoulder a Monet canvas of bluebonnets and fiery Indian paintbrush. She coasted to a stop, the breeze tossing her hair and the morning sun warming her bare shoulders. She sighed, feeling it again: the heart-tugging pleasure that came even the first time she drove through the hill country town of Boerne. Each time she’d been here, she’d felt it more.
Charming, arts- and family-friendly, the historic community was only a few miles northwest of San Antonio. It boasted a German band that spanned four generations, an amazing nature center—hosting the upcoming Brandon’s Revue outdoor benefit concert—and, Riley had discovered right away, a quaint bakery called the Bear Moon that had the most delectable frosting-embellished cookies she’d ever tasted in her life. She’d immediately bought one decorated like a daisy. And chased it with a sugary red ladybug.
Riley turned onto Hauptstrasse—Main Street—glancing at shops with colorful canvas awnings and barrels of flowers. She smiled as she passed the charming Read All About It Bookstore—it was on her list of places to explore. But Riley knew, beyond the shops and restaurants and history, it was Boerne’s inexplicable sense of home that had surprised her most. Almost as much as Riley had surprised her neighbor, Wilma, this morning by driving out of the garage in the convertible.
“Oh my. That car suits you. No doubt about it.”
Riley would argue that point. But why she’d chosen the Mercedes and left the Honda behind today was as inexplicable as small-town Boerne’s lure for a big-city Houston girl. Unless it was that she’d wanted to take the TYGRR-mobile for one last spin before leaving it in Vesta Calder’s garage. Or because she was going to church, and somehow it made sense to drive a car with a Scripture-framed license plate. Or maybe . . . it was that her grandfather had intended his extravagant gift as a reminder of courage. And last night Jack had called her beautiful and brave.
Jack.
Her stomach dipped in a way that had nothing to do with the surface of the road. She wondered what Wilma would have thought if she’d seen the huge, black H1 in the driveway, if Jack had dropped her off at home instead of the place they’d arranged to meet for their date. Would her neighbor have thought that the daunting car—and Jack Travis—suited Riley as well?
Do
I?
Her thoughts had tumbled far into the night in a struggle to sort it out. There was no doubt that the kiss—
kisses
—had happened at a moment of emotional vulnerability. For both of them. Riley winced, remembering the pain in Jack’s voice when he’d told her about Abby’s death. And his tenderness when she’d revealed the details of her assault after he saw the scars from her halo brace. Her stomach dipped again as she relived the warm brush of Jack’s lips against her forehead.
“Beautiful and brave.”
And then the feel of his fingers trailing along her jaw . . .
Riley pushed the thought aside as she continued down Main Street. Last night’s unexpected emotional connection with Jack sprang from a mutual attempt to comfort. Simple as that. They were two people who, incredibly, had been forced to cope in the aftermath of similar horrific incidents. In very different ways.
Riley chewed her lip, recalling Jack’s flash of anger when he talked about the assaults, how he was “sick to death” of people who stood by, did nothing to help. He’d insisted that doing nothing to stop injustice and suffering was the same as condoning it. And had implied that same thing before in reference to the attitudes of The Bluffs neighbors toward his clinic: he was helping people; they were hindering that process.
No, it was more than that. It was as if Jack honestly felt they were as guilty as the pimp who had dumped Jane Doe’s battered body outside the clinic.
Riley braked to a stop at one of Boerne’s few traffic lights, thinking that her comparison of Jack’s defense of the clinic to the Alamo siege hadn’t been that far off. Commander Travis had drawn a line in the dirt, asking those who weren’t afraid to die to cross it and stand with him. Wasn’t Jack doing the same thing? Using his reputation as a maverick and his aversion to rules and conventions to divide the community—triage his supporters, separate strong from weak?
Then why am I there? I don’t “spit in the face of fear.”
Riley flexed her numb fingers on the Mercedes’s steering wheel, thinking of Vesta cowering on the floor of the chapel that first day. It had taken so long to ease the woman’s fear, slow her breathing, yet it had all returned the instant Jack appeared. And then Riley thought of the boy who’d tried to snatch her purse outside the clinic. The ferocity on Jack’s face—in his hands—as he dealt with him. He’d mentioned the incident again last night.
“If I’d had a few more minutes with that punk . . .”
A threat she’d interrupted with the prelude to a kiss.
What makes him so angry? And dangerous? Is he really dangerous?
Riley blinked into the sun, caught sight of the church on the corner of Main Street and Johns Road—rugged blocks of Texas limestone, steep metal roof, graceful arches, stained glass, and century-old doors. She’d first found it when she was Christmas shopping and saw a sign on the lawn inviting citizens to “Walk through Bethlehem,” a living celebration of the Nativity complete with robed kings, Roman guards, the holy family . . . and live camels. She’d walked Bethlehem, swept in by the charm, but she’d returned because of the warm, welcoming people and—like the town itself—a soul-stirring sense of home.
Riley pulled into the parking lot, thinking of what Jack had said about Abby, that she’d wanted to work with children, make the world a better place. That she had strong faith. And her family hadn’t been thrilled when she brought Jack home. He’d mentioned having doubts about God. She shook her head, struck by the irony that Jack’s goal was the same as Abby’s, to make the world a better place. Except that he seemed determined to do it in battle mode, with anger and retaliation . . . and without faith?
Riley switched off the engine and felt a sudden achy emptiness despite the scent of breakfast wafting from the church courtyard and the giggles of ponytailed and frilly twins skipping past her car. Regardless of last night’s unexpected emotional connection, she and Jack Travis were far too different on fundamental levels. She still hoped that volunteering at his clinic would help her chance for returning to the ER. But if Jack was to actually draw that line in the dirt—ask her to cross over to anger, defensiveness, and lonely doubt—she wouldn’t do it.
Couldn’t.
Even if for a few breathless and wonderful moments she’d been tempted to skydive in his arms.
The truth was that Riley and Jack suited each other about as much as the TYGRR-mobile belonged in her garage. And she was evicting it tomorrow.
* * *
“Oh yeah . . . let’s fly!” Jack’s tires lost contact with the trail, launching his mountain bike into a gravity-defying moment of flight. Air, floating rush, freedom . . . then smooth impact with earth and dust, tires drifting into the turn. His victorious whoop echoed through the trees.
“Nailed it!” He braked to a stop, unclipped his shoe, and dropped his foot to the rocky trail, then looked back for Rob Melton. Jack grinned, watching as his friend carefully navigated the last steep yards of the cedar-lined slope. “Hey, Sarge. You missed the jump. What’s the matter? Can’t get in the mood without lights and siren?”
“Right . . .” Rob’s round face was flushed, shiny with sweat. “Just plannin’ . . . to be alive for Sunday supper.” He gulped air, grinned. “Which means if you hit a tree, Travis . . . count on someone else to haul your sorry backside outta here. You’ve tasted Rosie’s chicken. I’m not about to be late.”
“The only acceptable excuse.” Jack smiled. “Let’s take a breather.”
“No argument there.” Rob eased back on the seat of his bike. “Wish I could say the same about your clinic situation. Wish we could all take a breather from that battle. Nothing but trouble there.”
Jack bit back a curse. Then reminded himself that he’d come out here to decompress, sort some things out.
He pedaled toward the edge of the rocky outlook and stopped. Pulling off his helmet, he let his gaze sweep the expansive view. White clouds scudding across blue sky. Rolling hills, anywhere from five hundred to more than twenty-two hundred feet in elevation. Anyone who thought Texas was flat hadn’t seen the hill country. Boulders rose from the thin topsoil, small ones like he’d just soared over and far bigger ones, like the huge, pink granite domes of Enchanted Rock near Fredericksburg. Native vegetation: thick stands of cedar, sprawling live oaks interspersed with yucca and prickly pear cactus. And thanks to Lady Bird Johnson’s famous efforts, Texas wildflowers stretching as far as the eye could see: yellow, pink, red, and blue. Fiesta colors . . .
like that hair wreath.
The scenery was replaced by a memory of Riley’s face under the colored lights. The ribbons in her hair, pain in her beautiful blue eyes. Tears. And her warm empathy for him. They’d shared more than he’d expected. Laughter, play, raw emotion . . . kisses. Unexpected things that he’d come here to sort out, but right now . . .
He turned toward Rob. “Was there something new with the action committee? Or just continuing plans to smoke me like a slab of brisket?”
Rob took a long swig from his water bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. “You’re still on the menu. But we’ve had three complaints of vandalism in The Bluffs this past week: a garage door tagged, a streetlight broken, and beer cans jammed into a huge stone planter shaped like a cocker spaniel.”
“Time to get a real watchdog.” Jack clucked his tongue. “Like to see someone try that with Hobo. Bite marks and wheel ruts.”
“Ha! I’d bet on that.” Rob’s expression sobered. “There were two burglaries last night. A garage, with tools and a bicycle taken. And a car was broken into in a driveway—expensive set of golf clubs missing. Both of them within a quarter mile of your clinic. One of the neighbors made sure my officers understood that proximity.”
“Great.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess. My patients did it. Maybe that girl with the penicillin reaction. High on Benadryl . . . and itching for a round of golf.” His fingers clenched inside his biking gloves. “I don’t believe these people, Rob! Did I tell you that Bandy got hold of one of their e-mails? It actually criticized us for trying to resuscitate that pregnant teenager.” Jack shook his head. “Apparently we should have had the common decency to drag her bludgeoned body somewhere out of public view—never mind that doing that could have made her a quadriplegic.” His gut twisted. “Andrea Nichols was trying to connect the crimes to my clinic?”
“Not Andrea. It was the opinion of the man who lives next door to the Paytons.”
“Payton? The developer who’s planning the condo project?”
“Yes, it was his clubs that were stolen. You didn’t know he lives in The Bluffs?”
“Nope.” Jack grimaced. “Small,
suffocating
world.”
Rob was quiet for a few moments. “You’re still going to be there for the city council meeting?”