"That sounds like fun."
"I can't wait to see you," Cole said, his voice caressing. "You're hell on my libido and I have a problem only you can fix."
Warmth slid down Brenna's spine, and she wrapped the telephone cord around her finger. "You seem to have a one-track mind, Counselor."
"True." An instant of silence followed. "What about you, fair lady?"
"The same track."
"I love you, Brenna James. I need to get a few things together. I'll be in touch in a little while and we'll do something special tonight."
Michael arrived home a few minutes later. As Jane had, he invited her to go with him and Teddy to pick up the Colonel. After Brenna told him she had other obligations, he said, "Are you sure, sis? It's been a long time since you've spent any time with him."
"I'll have that chance later. He's going to be here a couple of more days, isn't he?"
"Yeah. I just hate to see things keeping going like they are between you two."
"It's the natural order of things," Brenna said without a trace of humor.
"He's not going to change," Michael said.
She felt her hands clench into fists. "He can accept me as I am or he can—"
Michael took one of her hands and uncurled her palm. "I don't mean to upset you. I was just hoping that some time with him might ease things between you."
"That's a nice thought, Michael. I think my best bet is to stay away from him. If we can get through one visit together without a fight, maybe that will be the beginning of better things." She smiled at her brother. "Besides, I have a date."
Michael grinned. "It's no contest then."
He left with Teddy a few minutes later. Less than a minute later, the doorbell rang, and Brenna answered it, assuming Michael had forgotten his keys or something else. The last thing she expected to see was a delivery from a florist shop—a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses, more brilliant than sunshine. She knew they had to be from Cole.
Brenna took the roses into her bedroom, inhaling their fragrance, and set them on the dresser. She pulled the small card out of its envelope, and groaned in frustration. "Dear Brenna" she recognized. The bold scrawl of the rest of the longhand was completely indecipherable to her. Symbol after symbol blurred together, and she could make out only the most rudimentary words. A. The. Of. I Love you, Brenna.
Carefully, she set the card aside. She would give it to Cole later, she decided. She called his office to thank him for the flowers. Myra, his secretary, told Brenna he was gone for the day. She hung up the telephone, suddenly apprehensive, sure that Cole had said he would call.
She left for her housecleaning job a few minutes later, reassuring herself that she had nothing to worry about He had said he would be in touch, and he would. If Cole was anything, he was a man of his word.
* * *
Chapter 21
« ^ »
Cole glanced at his watch and wondered if Brenna had received the flowers yet. Every time her soft "I love you" feathered through his memory, he wanted to shout his elation, wanted to hold her close, wanted to cherish her in all the ways she deserved to be cherished.
On the card he had written, "Grandmom once told me yellow is the color of love and faith. I gave you mine during our golden sunrise. Meet me at the pavilion in Washington Park at six o'clock for a picnic supper. Brenna, I love you. Cole."
He had contacted one of the upscale markets in Cherry Creek to put together the picnic supper. Linens instead of paper napkins. Cold jumbo shrimp instead of hot dogs. Hearts of palm instead of potato chips.
The discipline Cole had forced on himself for years eluded him. Often, Brenna slipped through the cracks of his concentration. She had been happy this morning. He knew it. Her vibrant, warm smile was a marked contrast to the controlled, emotionless person she had been last spring.
Just before noon, Myra appeared at the door of his office, immediately catching his attention when she called him by name instead of calling him boss. "Andrew Mathias is on the line."
Cole frowned, wondering why the district attorney for Zach MacKenzie's case would be calling him. He didn't have any appointments scheduled with the man.
"Do you want the file?"
Cole shook his head and reached for the phone. "Hello, Andrew."
"Cole," the other man responded over the line. "I wanted to let you know that I think you've got a problem."
Cole took off his glasses, appreciating Andrew's getting to the point immediately instead of beating around the usual pleasantries.
"I know your guy is in rehab." He paused.
Cole wondered if it was for effect, or if the man thought he might not know. "It isn't something we tried to hide," Cole responded. "We knew you'd probably find out."
"I've got two more witnesses that will testify as to his drinking problem."
"Either of these witnesses see Mr. MacKenzie the night of the accident?" Cole asked.
"One of them."
Cole swung his chair away from the desk, and he stared through the window, where a steady stream of traffic passed. The attorney on the other end of the line was silent, and Cole recognized the tactic for what it was. He, too, liked using silence to up the ante.
"Do these witnesses have names?" Cole asked.
"It's part of the discovery you're entitled to. Do you want me to fax them to you?
"Yes."
"Ready to talk a deal?"
"My client has entered a plea of not guilty. Nothing has changed."
"I'll tell you what. You talk to my witnesses. Then call me. My office is open to a deal."
Cole knew better than to tell the D.A. he wasn't interested. Bluff or real, the call accomplished what Drew Mathias had intended. Cole felt as though he had just found himself in the middle of a field with an ornery range bull breathing down his neck.
"I'll talk to your witnesses," he said.
"And I'll talk to you in a couple of days," Mathias said, breaking the connection.
Cole set the receiver back in the cradle, at once annoyed and suspicious of what Mathias could have that made him so sure they could plea-bargain the case. All he could do was wait until the fax came with the names. A scant five minutes later, the telephone rang in the outer office, followed by the distinctive whine of the fax machine when the line connected.
He surged out of his chair and went into the outer office where he watched the paper slowly feed through the fax machine.
"Problems?" Myra asked.
"As you damn well knew when you came to my door a minute ago."
"Ah, well, just so long as you don't shoot the messenger."
Her dry tone made Cole look at her, and he managed a smile, responding, "Not likely—all that workman's camp paperwork would be a pain."
The transmission finished, and Cole took the fax out of the machine. The two names on the D.A.'s sheet weren't ones Cole had come across before. He checked his calendar one last time—no appointments until his date with Brenna tonight, which gave him time to track down both persons. Mathias thought he had a bombshell, and Cole needed to know if he did.
When he left the office, telling Myra that he would be gone for the balance of the day.
The first witness turned out to be Pamela's brother. Cole figured any family of Zach's ex-fiancée would pretty much see things the way she did, especially a protective older brother. Cole was one of those brothers himself and knew he'd feel pretty much the same way about anyone who hurt his sister.
By the time he tracked down the second witness, a young woman, at a trailer court at the north end of the metro area, it was late afternoon. She came to the door, a pair of toddlers clinging to her legs. Hoisting one of the kids on her hip, she came outside when Cole identified himself.
The first thing he asked her was why she hadn't been on the original witness list.
She ducked her head. "I was scared," she finally admitted. "A guy from that all-night gas station on the corner called the cops—I know he did, because I asked hi
m."
"When was that?"
"That night," she said, patting her child's head as he stood at her knee solemnly watching Cole. "Right when it happened."
"But you didn't stay."
She shook her head. "What could I do? I mean, I don't know first aid. And the one man was so badly hurt—"
"The one who died?"
She nodded. "And I needed to get home to my kids."
"What about the other driver?"
She looked up at Cole. "Oh, I remember him real well. He kept saying it was all his fault. And he staggered around like he was drunk, yelling and carrying on."
Cole figured shock, more than being drunk, could have been at the root of Zach's behavior.
"Do you think he was impaired?"
"Drunk?"
Cole nodded.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
She stared beyond Cole's shoulder a moment, then said, "Yeah. He staggered when he got out of the car—"
"Was he injured?"
"Not that I could see." She met Cole's gaze. "He didn't look hurt, okay? He looked … drunk. He acted drunk."
If it walks like a drunk, talks like a drunk, it must be a drunk, Cole thought, following her line of reasoning.
"After waiting—why come forward now?" Cole asked.
She met his gaze briefly, the glanced down at her children. "It could have been me—or my kids—instead of that man. I had to do something."
In the quick conversation that followed he learned she worked nights as a desk clerk at a big hotel, that she had been divorced for a year, and that she was genuinely convinced of the truth of her beliefs. She was likeable and credible, and had no personal link to the case.
Cole thanked the woman for her time and headed back into town. Stopping at a convenience store, he called Myra. When his own recording came on, he glanced at his watch and discovered the time was well after five. Time to pick up the basket for his picnic supper with Brenna.
Cole pushed aside the afternoon's complications and the pall they had put on his mood. Time to focus on the evening ahead with Brenna, he thought. He intended to make it romantic and memorable.
On the way to the market, he stopped on impulse at the Tattered Cover and bought a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. Old-fashioned, traditional, and a memento of a memorable day, he thought. He grinned, imagining how she might tell their grandchildren someday how she had been wooed with yellow roses, poems of love, and a romantic picnic. Cole picked up the picnic basket, and by six o'clock he was waiting for Brenna under the wide branches of an elm tree near the pavilion at Washington Park.
* * *
The moment Brenna returned home, she called Cole's office again, hoping he had checked in. He hadn't, but she left a message with his secretary. Then Brenna called Cole's house. He didn't answer there, either.
She was positive he had not said where they would go for dinner, or what time he would pick her up. But he had promised they would do something special.
She went through her closet twice, trying to decide what to wear. Finally, she chose a pale aqua sundress that reminded her of the color of the pond at the ranch just before sunrise.
She fidgeted as she waited, impatient to have the moment she told him she could not read behind her. He would either understand, or he wouldn't. She hoped with all her heart that he would. He had sent her flowers, not just any flowers—but roses. And he had told her that he loved her. Surely, those things counted for something.
The minutes dragged by, becoming one hour, then another. She fretted. Why hadn't he called?
Still later she decided the interview that Myra told her about must have taken longer than he had anticipated. Urging her vivid imagination to take a rest, she took the card that accompanied the roses from her pocket, smoothing her fingers over the words. "He loves you, Brenna," she said out loud. "And, it's going to be okay."
Brave words. She worried anyway.
* * *
By the time seven o'clock rolled around, Cole had to admit to himself that Brenna wasn't coming. He glanced again at his watch, the slow passage of time gnawing at him. Where was she? Had she misunderstood the place? Had she even received the flowers so she knew to come? Was she okay?
After fifteen more minutes passed, Cole gathered up the picnic, neatly packing the food back into the wicker basket with the napkins. He tucked the book of sonnets into the side of the basket and put everything into the Jeep. There, he waited ten minutes more, watching each person who came down the path, positive the next would be Brenna.
Myra had been after him to install a cellular telephone in his car, and he now wished he had done so months ago. A simple telephone call would confirm whether she was on the way. As it was, he had no choice but drive to the apartment and hope he didn't miss her on the way. Even so, he drove slowly, half expecting to see her hurrying down the sidewalk.
At the apartment, Cole got out of the Jeep and strode to the door, worried that something had happened to her. He rang the bell, then paced the narrow width of the front stoop.
When Brenna came to the door, the worry he saw in her expression was a mirror of his own feelings.
"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice harsher than he intended, reflecting his frustration and disappointment. "I waited, but—"
"Waited?" she echoed. "But I've been waiting."
"What do you mean you've been waiting? You were supposed to meet me." He stepped through the open door and the screen slammed behind him.
"Where?"
The constriction around his chest eased. "I should have figured you didn't get the flowers." He stepped close and brushed a soft kiss over her trembling mouth. "I had a wonderful picnic all planned for us, but if you didn't get the flowers, you wouldn't have known to come."
"The yellow roses are beautiful, Cole."
"You got them?"
"Yes. They're beautiful."
"Then the card must have been missing."
Brenna reached in her pocket and pulled out the card. She stared at it a moment, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"No," she said finally, her voice husky. "The card came with it."
"Then you were late getting home and you couldn't get hold of me," Cole said, trying to find a logical explanation, sensing that she was on the verge of crying. "It's okay, fair lady. We can still have our picnic."
"You don't understand," she said.
He took her hand. "Then explain it," he said, bewildered by the conflicting emotions that chased across her face. The Brenna he knew was direct. No evasions, no omissions, no matter the cost to herself.
A hysterical bubble of laughter escaped her lips. She held the card out to Cole. "I—"
He glanced at the note, saw his instructions to meet him were clear. "Brenna?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to meet you."
Cole frowned. "But it says—"
"I can't…" She closed her eyes and tears squeezed out beneath the lids.
"Brenna, what's happened? Something with your father?"
She shook her head.
"What then?"
"I thought you'd call me."
"What does that have to do with this? I wrote you a note instead." She nodded, her gaze diverted. He lifted her chin with his finger, and instead of meeting his gaze, hers slid past his shoulder. More puzzled than ever, Cole watched her. She had always been direct with him—it was one of the qualities he most admired about her.
"Brenna? Has something happened since this morning?"
"No," she whispered.
"No." Her evasiveness set off terrible warning bells that rang through his head. The tenuous hold he'd had on his temper since talking with the D.A. hours ago began to evaporate. All the day's frustrations piled one on another. He stepped away from her, raking his hands through his hair.
"Let me see if I've got this straight so far. You got my flowers. You got my note. You weren't home late from work. And nothing has happened
since this morning. But you're upset, and you didn't come to meet me."
She stared at the floor a long moment, then lifted her gaze to him. The anguish Cole saw there slipped past his frustration and made him reach for her. Just as he would have touched her, she stepped back.
"Fair lady, we can't solve this unless you tell me what's going on."
She swallowed convulsively and wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill. The silence stretched tautly between them.
"Maybe I should go," he said. "If you're not ready to talk, I guess the least I can do is give you some time." Gently, he touched her cheek with the side of his finger and turned around. He was halfway to the door when her anguished whisper reached him.
"I can't read."
Cole stopped midstride and shook his head. I can't read. Slowly, he turned around to look at her. She stood motionless where he had left her. The card from his flowers was gripped tightly in her hand. Suddenly, her fist opened, and the rumpled card fluttered to the floor. He felt an absurd desire to pick it up and smooth out all the wrinkles.
"What did you say?"
Another long moment passed, one that reminded him of the interminable time it took her to answer questions at the trial.
"I can't read," she said, finally, her voice devoid of emotion.
A dozen incidents sped through Cole's mind, each one reinforcing an inescapable conclusion. Brenna knew how to read. She was one of the most articulate people he had ever met. Of course, she could read. He knew she could.
She held out her hand. "I can't. Cole, honestly, I can't."
"I don't know why you would tell me such a thing," he said. She watched his expression close into the granite hardness of the man she had first known, watched the metallic glitter appear in his gold-flecked eyes.
"It's the truth," she said, unable to hold his gaze, dropping her own again to the floor.
"The truth?" Cole closed the gap between them and lifted her face with his hand. "The truth, Brenna, is not this. The Brenna James I know looks me in the eye when she tells the truth. No evasions."
CASSIDY'S COURTSHIP Page 22