Collision Course: A Romantic Thriller

by Susan Donovan

  “We’re about to come to the place we first met, no pun intended. Are you up for that?”

  He turned to see her nod in silence. She sat very straight in the seat now, her hand in her lap, her posture perfect. She always seemed to sit like that, as if it were natural for her, he’d noticed.

  “Do you want to stop here for a minute or go straight to the house?”

  She swallowed hard. “Go to the house, please.”

  As he pulled onto the ranch lane and into the casita driveway, he realized he shouldn’t have told her he cleaned. Maybe it didn’t even look like he cleaned. She was probably used to places with windows that matched and floors that were level. As she got out of the truck, he grabbed the plastic bag that held her things and watched her walk around the dirt courtyard.

  It was the first opportunity he’d had to see her move in an open space, and he was fascinated at the way she strolled between the old pear trees. She looked like a sleek wild animal that could take off in an instant, and she’d be too fast for anyone to catch.

  Maybe that’s exactly what she was doing on the motorcycle that day. Until the accident.

  She reached out and touched the bark with a flutter of her hand. The way she moved seemed languid but precise at the same time. She turned to him with a smile.

  “What does Pura Vida mean, Ruby?”

  “It means pure life,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness. He closed the truck door and watched her shyly from behind the cab.

  Zia looked out past the blue fence across the road. “What’s that sound?”

  “Geese,” Ruben said with disdain. “Gina’s watchdog geese.”

  Zia laughed.

  This was also the first time he’d seen her standing in anything other than bare feet, and the black boots with the heel made her look even longer through the leg. God, she was perfectly formed – a small, round butt, nice shoulders and arms, and gorgeous breasts, not too big and not too small. But it was the face that did him in, knocked him flat, with her wide smile and eyes the color of faded denim, all set in a halo of gold hair.

  He leaned the front of his body against the cool metal of the truck and told himself to chill out. It wouldn’t make a good first impression if he showed her around her safe haven with a rocket in his pants.

  “It’s beautiful!” She was walking toward him. “Can you show me inside?”

  He nodded helplessly. “Sure.”

  Ruben looped the shopping bag handle on one wrist and carried the cactus into the house at belt level. Thank God he’d purchased the biggest yucca the florist had.

  Explaining how to flush the temperamental toilet and how his shower did and did not function put an end to Ruben’s uncontrollable lust.

  Since it was still sunny outside and she had nothing much to unpack, he asked Zia if she’d like to take a walk along the arroyo.

  “What’s an arroyo?”

  He chuckled. “An irrigation ditch used by the farms around here. There’s a walking path alongside. It’s peaceful.” Ruben saw her frown. “Unless your knee hurts.”

  “Actually, it kind of does,” she said. “Can I have a rain check? Tomorrow maybe?"

  He smiled awkwardly. “Of course.” He closed his eyes for just a moment. If you’re still with me tomorrow. If you’re still mine.

  “Ruby?” Zia had wandered into the kitchen and was inspecting the uneven grouping of pine cupboards and the aged porcelain drainboard and sink. “I’m starving. Do you have anything to eat?” She nearly touched the old cast iron stove.

  “Don’t touch that!” he called out.

  She gasped and pulled back her hand.

  “Didn’t mean to yell, but it’s hot. That’s my furnace.”

  Zia’s eyes went wide as she scanned the rectangular box against a half-wall of adobe bricks, its thick black pipe soaring straight up through the ceiling.

  “You heat with this?”

  “And sometimes cook with it.”

  She grinned at him. “Can you cook anything for me now?”

  “Uh, no. I probably just have coffee. I kind of forgot about food.” He smiled at her weakly. “What would you like to eat?”

  Zia continued to check out the little kitchen and she slowly smiled. “I want another one of those enchiladas, maybe two, and a big glass of beer.”

  “Let’s go to Sadie’s, then.”

  “But I don’t have my money yet,” she said.

  “I think I can swing it.”

  They talked and talked that night, which was amazing, considering Zia couldn’t answer any of the usual questions: Where did you grow up? What do you do for a living? Where did you go to school? What are your hobbies?

  Instead they talked about New Mexico, and Ruben enjoyed telling her everything he knew about his home state, everything from Coronado’s invasion to the “aliens” at Roswell to the hippie artist colonies around Taos. He told her quite a bit about his childhood and his parents and his perfectly New Mexican medley of Anglo, Hispanic and Indian blood.

  “I wish I had something to share with you,” she said on the way home from dinner. “I wish I could tell you all about me.”

  “Maybe you will soon,” he said.

  As Ruben lay wide awake on the couch in the darkness that night, he counted the times they’d touched since the accident: eight, counting the hug she gave him before she went to bed.

  Bed. His bed. That woman was in his bed. She was curled up or stretched out–how exactly she slept he didn’t know—between his clean sheets. Her hair, the color of sand and sun, spilled out all over his pillowcase. She was there and he was here.

  Ruben looked over at the clock radio he’d moved to the living room. It was already one-thirty in the morning. What was the point? He had to get up in two hours and go to work.

  He stood up and stretched. He’d get a good book—no his books were in his bedroom. He’d make coffee—no the coffee grinder would wake her. He’d watch TV—no he hated TV.

  Before he could stop himself he was already walking across the living room. He’d made his decision.

  “Hey, Bob.”

  “Ruby? What the hell? You’re two hours early.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s up? Did the paper change your hours or something?”

  “No.”

  Bob was clicking his computer keys and shuffling papers. “Well, it’s good you called. There’s a hostage situation going on right now in the six hundred block of San Mateo. Shots fired.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay? Ruby, what’s with you? You sound weird or something. Are you sick?”

  “Bob, I just need somebody to talk to.”

  The line was silent or a moment. “You do? What’s the problem?”

  Ruben sighed. “The problem is that I’ve met this amazing woman who’s not going to be in town very long. I feel like I have to try to know everything about her before she leaves. I don’t want to waste a second on anything but her. I just want to be with her, you know? And she’s in my bed right now and I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

  Bob sucked in air. “I’m just a police dispatcher, Ruby. This is way out of my league.”

  When the alarm went off at three-thirty, Ruby was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea. Suzie would be in by now. He’d decided to do it.

  “Suz, I’m not coming in today. There’s a hostage situation still going on out on San Mateo. You’ll have to wake up Cooper. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you speaking in code? Has someone kidnapped you? Say “banana” if you’re in trouble.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just a guy who wants to take a couple of days off for the first time in six years. I’m just not feeling like myself.”

  Understatement of the century.

  Chapter 5

  Friday, March 17

  Zia opened her eyes and luxuriated in the feel of her legs and arms flopped wide in the big bed. It took her a second to remember where she was, rememb
er that she’d been in the hospital, and remember that there was little else to remember.

  Through her drowsy haze, she smelled coffee and the sharp tang of burning wood and took a deep breath of the cool air. She was in Ruby’s house.

  The light in this room was magical – big blocks of sunshine cut through the mismatched windows and bathed the white walls and earthen tile floors in a warm glow. The light poured onto an iridescent watercolor on the opposite wall depicting an adobe house surrounded by trees and flowers. The painting’s beauty made Zia sigh.

  She took a good look around. In addition to the big pine bed, Ruben’s bedroom was furnished with a rough pine armoire, a worn leather reading chair and ottoman, and a built-in bookcase overflowing with books, magazines, junk mail and old spiral notebooks. The desk held a laptop computer, a monitor, and the police scanner Ruben had unplugged last night so as not to wake her.

  Zia looked up and stared at the intricate network of cracks along the old ceiling, and noticed how the whole thing seemed to slope ever so slightly toward the middle of the house. Something about the unabashed quirkiness of the place made her smile, and in her mind she compared it to something more familiar—clean and straight white walls and polished wood floors. Where exactly those walls and floors were, she couldn’t say.

  Maybe today it would happen. Maybe today she’d remember. Maybe today she’d know why she killed that man.

  So. It was a man she’d killed.

  Zia swung her legs over the bed and headed down the little hallway and around the living room.

  “Ruby?”

  He wasn’t on the couch. She rounded the doorway to the kitchen, calling his name.

  “What? God!”

  He’d fallen asleep at the table. His hair was disheveled and a large red brand marked where his face had pressed against his watch. Zia felt awful for disturbing him but couldn’t stop herself from giggling.

  Ruben scrubbed his face with his hands and wondered where he’d left his glasses. Not that he needed them—he could see well enough what Zia looked like in the old UNM tee shirt and running shorts he gave her to sleep in last night. He slammed his eyes shut.

  “I’m sorry for waking you.”

  Zia sat down across the table from him and reached for his hand. That made nine times she’d touched him.

  “This is obviously not going to work, is it? You didn’t sleep at all and I’ve made you late for your job. It’s halfway through your day by now, isn’t it?’

  He shot her a lopsided grin and blinked. “I took the day off. I took a couple days off, actually. I have them coming.”

  “You did?” She squeezed his hand and let go. “Then what are we going to do today? My knee feels a lot better—maybe that hike? But first, I have some big news.”

  “Did you remember something?” He hoped to God it wasn’t anything connected to the murder.

  “I did. I remembered it was a man I killed. I cut a man’s throat.” She seemed quite proud of herself and leaned back against in the chair. Ruben could clearly see the outline of her breasts and nipples through the thin cotton.

  He abruptly got up to hunt for his glasses.

  “Ruby, that’s good isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Great.” He found them on the floor next to the couch. He didn’t turn around. “I’m going to take a quick shower and get dressed. Help yourself to coffee and we’ll go out for breakfast, okay?” He was already gone.

  Zia sat by herself at the table and stared at the mountain outside the double glass doors. Ruby had taken time off for her. It made her happy. It scared her.

  She poured herself a mug of coffee and went back to the bedroom to get dressed. As she bent over to root around in the shopping bag for underwear, she caught a glimpse of herself in Ruby’s mirror. She almost gasped.

  For an instant—a flash—she knew herself. She knew the woman looking back at her. She knew her eyes and her hair and her face!

  Zia stood up tall and stared at the reflection. The flash of knowledge was already gone, but it left a shadow of joy inside her, of hope.

  She removed the sling and gingerly took off the tee shirt. The wrist didn’t ache as much today. She slipped off Ruby’s old shorts and stood before the mirror, naked. She cocked her head to look at the woman there in the bright morning light, how the tiny hairs glistened on her arms and between her thighs. She was pale, but not a sickly pale. Her coloring was a light peach, from her toes to her forehead.

  How old was she? The answer came immediately. She was twenty-eight. She had no reason to doubt that.

  She pressed her palm against the plane of her abdomen and down around the solid curve of her hip. She was willowy, but looked powerful somehow. Zia thought of flight. Soaring. She smiled at the idea and arced her good arm over her head.

  She turned to examine her backside in the mirror and grinned with approval at the lean and muscular form. This was her body. This was a beautiful, strong body, a body that could do anything, be anything.

  “Oh, holy shit,” Ruben said.

  He’d opened the door, and there she was. He spun around and closed it immediately, sinking to his knees in the hallway. All he wanted was to get clothes out of the drawer! She was supposed to be in the kitchen! Oh, holy shit.

  Zia clamped her eyes shut and moaned softly with embarrassment and sadness. That was bad. She didn’t want to tease him. She didn’t want to hurt him. This was unfair to him. He liked her, she could tell.

  She slipped on her jeans and shirt and walked out to the kitchen. Ruben sat at the table where he’d been before, but this time he was wide awake.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She leaned up against the doorway to the kitchen. “I was looking at myself.”

  Ruben sat perfectly still and stared at her.

  “I recognized myself for a second, Ruby, and it was wonderful. I had to see who I was. I had to keep looking.”

  Ruby nodded. “I can understand that.”

  Zia smiled at him. “I think you’d better take me to the shelter today, all right? I don’t think my being here is such a good idea.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “You aren’t comfortable? You don’t feel safe? What is it?”

  She could smell the clean scent of soap and shampoo on him. She saw how he’d thrown his rumpled tee shirt over his wet body and it stuck to his arms and chest in spots. He was a solid man, not overly muscular, but long and strong. His shoulders were wide and his skin was a warm caramel color. And she remembered the feel of him against her—reliable, firm, loving. A refuge.

  “I am afraid I’ll hurt you, Ruby.” She stayed in the doorway. “I don’t know to whom I’m connected and what promises I’ve made. I don’t know if I’m free to respond to you. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Please. I’m not asking you to respond to anything. And you won’t hurt me.” He stood to walk past her, and felt his arm brush across her hip. That was ten.

  “I’m going to throw on some clothes,” he said. “We’ll get something to eat and get some fresh air.”

  Just as he entered the hallway, Ruben stopped. He turned around and found her watching him.

  “I’m not asking you for anything, Zia, okay? But I really don’t want you to go.”

  She sighed with relief. “I’m so glad.” She smiled. “I remembered I’m twenty-eight.”

  The wind was whipping up pretty good out on the West Mesa and Zia’s hair flew around her face in alternating stripes of dark honey and sunlight.

  They’d walked for hours, and Ruben had taken her to a few official petroglyph sites and a few that were technically off-limits to the public.

  Zia rattled off a series of questions about the strange rock carvings and what they meant and how old they were. It made Ruben foolishly happy that he could answer every one of her inquiries.

  He told her the black volcanic rock came from long-ago explosions of the five volcanoes west of the city. Ancient Pueblo Indians had lived along this ri
dge for twelve thousand years, and some of the carvings dated back at least two thousand years, but maybe a lot more.

  The designs included squiggles and geometric shapes. There were suns and stars and mountains and animals. There were human shapes, shapes of movement and prayer, and hundreds of handprints.

  Zia stared at one rock for several moments. She turned her feet until they pointed outward from her body, bent her knees and crooked an arm in imitation of the crude carving.

  “Nice.” Ruben nodded. “I think you’ve got it.”

  Zia’s smile faded and she brought her arm down. “So these are all religious symbols?”

  “Yup. The Pueblo cultures all over the area have similar symbols that are part of their written history and spiritual practices. They represent the forces of nature and man’s place in the natural world, and the sacred connection between the two.”

  Zia nodded. “How does it feel to a part of this, Ruby? I mean, you said your mother’s father was a Pueblo Indian, right? So these are your ancestors.”

  Ruben shrugged and slid his hands inside his pockets. “I don’t really do the Native American thing. It just seems forced to me, not really a big part of who I am or who my mother was.”

  “Why is that?” She brushed a thick section hair from her cheek.

  Ruben looked north along the river valley below. “The Taos Pueblo people are very old-fashioned, even compared to the other Pueblo groups. I didn’t grow up in that culture, and I’ve never felt I really belonged.”

  She frowned at him, and he saw the little ridges rise up between her brows.

  “I can’t believe it’s not more important to you,” she said. “That you can see this and not feel special, feel like you belong here and always have.”

  She turned away from him and faced into the wind. Ruben watched the hair whip out behind her head and her face glow in relief against the dusty ridge of the mesa.

  “It’s going to happen soon, Zia,” he said. “You’ll know where you belong. It’s starting to happen already.”