Summer Shadows

by Gayle Roper

  Why was Snelling himself in Craig’s little cabin at the edge of the small spring lined with cottonwoods? Wasn’t he too important to be there? What had Craig done to rile the man to the degree that he risked such actions? And, my, my, my, did Craig resent Snelling, not only for trespassing on his little patch of heaven and for hurting all the ranchers in the area, but also for catching him off guard.

  The small spring that burbled not far from the cabin door gave the ranch its name. It wouldn’t suffer if Snelling dammed off the Anasazi Creek, the major source of water that flowed down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of New Mexico on the way to the Pecos River and eventually the Rio Grande. However the spring wasn’t sufficient in size to water anything except the people who lived and worked on the property. The Frost Spring cattle needed the water of the Anasazi as did the cattle and people downstream. That was only one of the reasons Craig was determined to help Mr. Frost stand up to Snelling, though as yet Marsh had no idea what the other reasons were.

  How would Marguerite react when she saw the cabin under the cottonwoods? Marsh knew that Craig had built it with his own hands and was fanatically proud of it. Marsh nodded. More conflict between the two. Maybe Craig had built it on her favorite spot by the spring, and she resented his usurping her space. How dare he, she’d think in true queen-of-the-realm fashion.

  What would happen when she saw the faith her father put in Craig? The more Mr. Frost’s health failed, the more Craig was the de facto authority at Frost Spring. Marsh grinned, anticipating the trouble he could develop. Even though Marguerite had been back East for several years at school, she’d assumed things would stay the same until she came home to change them. Was she about to be surprised!

  Marsh rubbed his hands together. He loved it when a story began coming together.

  The phone rang, making him frown. He’d been at Frost Spring Ranch with Randall Craig and Marguerite Frost in the year 1890. Now he was back on his porch, staring at his flickering laptop screen. He waited for the answering machine to pick up to hear who was on the phone. Whoever it was, it’d better be good, breaking into his world like that.

  “This is Memorial Hospital calling for Marsh Winslow.”

  Four

  AT THE WORD hospital Marsh forgot all about Marguerite and Craig.

  “We have an Abby Patterson here who gave us your name as her next of kin.”

  What?

  “She is unable to drive herself home. Would you please come for her at your earliest convenience? Come to the emergency entrance.”

  Marsh rushed to the kitchen and lunged for the phone. “What’s going on here?”

  “Is this Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with Mrs. Patterson? Why is she at the emergency room? Was she in an accident of some kind?” He thought of her limp. “Did she fall and break something?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what her problem is.”

  Like you’d tell me even if you did know. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He ran outside, grabbed his laptop, shut it down, and rushed inside to drop it on the couch. Fargo followed him in and looked at him in question.

  “You can’t come this time, guy.”

  Fargo snuffled his disappointment and collapsed with a thud.

  “Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming. It’s not my fault they don’t let dogs, especially giants like you, into the emergency room.”

  Fargo looked unconvinced.

  A half hour later Marsh sat in an uncomfortable green plastic chair in a little curtained cubicle, staring at the woman lying on the hospital gurney. He’d known she was thin—no, make that skinny—but he hadn’t realized how truly small she was. She barely lifted the sheet. She looked so pale and frail and defenseless that he had to watch her chest to make certain it was rising and falling. One arm was outside the covers with an automatic blood pressure cuff and a finger clip to monitor pulse attached. A drip of some kind flowed into the needle taped to the back of her hand.

  It was disconcerting to see her like this. She’d been so fiery, so forceful back at the house. She’d all but ordered him and Fargo off her porch—and he owned the house! Now she was small, helpless, and needy. Every protective instinct he had was on alert. He wanted to pick her up, to somehow shelter her.

  He knew that he had to have a scene where Craig saw Marguerite when she was physically and emotionally vulnerable. As he knew Abby would be much distressed if she knew he saw her as fragile, so Marguerite would resent Craig for seeing her that way too. Then he’d even things out by having Craig come to the end of himself somehow. He’d be in a difficult spot, and Marguerite would rescue him. Except she wasn’t physically strong enough for an action scene. How about a secret? Secrets were always good. She could find out Craig’s secret and help him come to terms with it. All Marsh needed to do was figure out this secret, a secret Craig would go to great lengths to protect, just as Marsh protected his.

  His eyes settled on Abby. Just like that, fictitious Craig was forgotten in the face of her reality. How had she gotten her limp? Was it congenital, or the result of an accident of some kind? At least the ER nurse had assured him she hadn’t hurt her leg today. They hadn’t told him what she had hurt in spite of his frequent inquiries, but if he was patient, he was bound to find out soon enough.

  Dear God, lying here unconscious she looks more child than woman, except for the lines that fan out from her eyes. Please be there for her, giving her Your comfort and peace.

  He’d been sitting beside her for fifteen minutes before she blinked, her eyes unfocused for a second. Then he saw panic flare when she realized where she was. She pulled her other arm out from under the sheet and threw the covering off. Frantically she tried to rise, threatening the attachments on her arm. The pole holding the IV bag tipped, and Marsh made a grab for it, steadying it.

  “Sam?” Abby breathed. “Maddie?”

  He stood and leaned over her, placing one large hand over her small one, the other on her shoulder. He pushed her back down with gentle hands. “Easy, Abby, easy. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  She looked at him a minute without recognition.

  “It’s me, Marsh.” He smiled.

  “Marsh?”

  “You know. The big black dog. You live in my upstairs apartment.”

  She blinked several times. Then her eyes stilled and she nodded. “Marsh,” she repeated. “Fargo.”

  “Right.” A burst of relief rushed through him at her recall. “Fargo.”

  A nurse brushed the cubicle’s curtain aside and peered in. “Did I hear you two talking?”

  “Sort of,” he said, ever the stickler for accuracy. “She whispered. I spoke.”

  Abby eyed him strangely, then turned to the nurse. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

  “How do you feel?” the nurse asked. She checked the instrument readouts just behind Abby’s head.

  Abby lifted her unfettered hand to her forehead. “I think I feel fine.” She hesitated. “At least as fine as usual. What happened to me? Why am I in a hospital? Am I hurt?”

  When the nurse didn’t respond, Abby turned anxious eyes to Marsh.

  “You’re fine,” he told her, squeezing her hand.

  She didn’t argue with him, but it was obvious that she was confused. “I feel fuzzy.”

  “Sedative hangover,” the nurse said as she pinched off the IV and pulled the needle from the back of Abby’s hand. She pressed gauze to the bead of blood that rose and snugged a Band-Aid over it to hold it in place. “It’ll pass in no time.”

  “Sedative?” Abby turned her hand over, grasping Marsh’s as she stared wide-eyed at the nurse. “Why did I need a sedative? I just went to the grocery store.” She looked at Marsh. “Didn’t I?”

  Marsh nodded, patting her shoulder with his free hand. “I heard you leave.”

  She frowned, concentrating, looking into her mind for answers. “But how did I get from there to here?”

  A policeman st
uck his head into the cubicle. “Can I talk with her now?”

  “She’s all yours.” The nurse busied herself disconnecting the instruments that had monitored Abby’s vital signs.

  Abby struggled to sit up, and Marsh took her arm to help. She swung her legs over the side of the gurney, swaying slightly.

  “Dizzy?” asked the nurse.

  Abby shook her head. “Not really. Just confused.”

  “I’m Greg Barnes.” The policeman held out his hand.

  She took it. “Abby Patterson.”

  Greg turned to Marsh. “Mr. Patterson?”

  He shook his head as Abby flushed. “I’m Marsh Winslow. Abby rents the upstairs half of my house.”

  “Ah,” Barnes said. “So tell me all about it, Mrs. Patterson. Describe it just as you saw it.”

  Abby stared at the cop, her face white, her eyes haunted. “Describe what, Mr. Barnes?”

  He cocked his head. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “The last thing I remember is leaving the house to go to the Acme. Then I woke up here.”

  “When you left home, were you driving?” Barnes asked.

  “Yes.” Abby seemed certain of that much. “I drove down Central Avenue.” She turned to Marsh. “Didn’t I?”

  He smiled. “At least you started off on Central. You had to. The house is on Central.”

  “Central and?” Barnes asked.

  “Forty-third,” Marsh said. “4311 Central.”

  Barnes nodded and turned to Abby. “And then?”

  Abby stared at him, stricken.

  Barnes sighed. “Mrs. Patterson, we desperately need your help here.”

  “I want to give it, believe me. I just don’t remember anything between leaving the house and seeing Marsh loom over me.”

  “I didn’t loom,” he muttered. “I never loom.” His father loomed.

  “You loomed.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Patterson.” Barnes called her back to the issue at hand.

  “What happened that I don’t remember?” Abby asked, dark eyes wide. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I? Tell me I didn’t hurt anyone!” Her voice shook as she gripped Marsh’s hand so hard it hurt, like it was a lifeline to save her from drowning.

  “Easy, Mrs. Patterson.” The policeman held up his hand to stop her jumping to conclusions. “You didn’t hurt anyone.”

  Her shoulders slumped in relief and Marsh thought he heard her mutter, “Thank You, Lord.”

  “Do you remember stopping at the traffic light at Thirty-fourth and Central?” Barnes asked.

  Abby stared at her lap, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. Her free hand moved in little circles, like she was telling herself to hurry up and get with it. With a look of frustration, she shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “You were at the light when the ambulance crew arrived.”

  “Ambulance? But I’m not hurt, am I?”

  Marsh, the nurse, and the policeman all shook their heads.

  “So who is?” Abby rubbed her hand down her leg and winced.

  “What?” Marsh asked.

  “Easy,” said the nurse.

  “I am hurt.” Abby opened her hand and looked in disbelief at the four red slashes traversing the center of her palm. Marsh turned the hand he held over. There were four slashes across that palm also. Slowly she closed her hands, and Marsh watched in fascination as her fingernails matched up with the slashes.

  “I did this to myself?” Abby stared in disbelief.

  “You were clutching your steering wheel so tightly the police had to pry your hands loose,” Barnes said.

  She was shocked. “But why?” she whispered.

  Barnes looked at Marsh. It was obvious he didn’t want to answer her question. Marsh moved a little closer to Abby, like he could protect her from the unpleasant news, whatever it was.

  “You were the eyewitness to a hit-and-run, Mrs. Patterson.”

  “What?” Her voice was stark, more a breath than a word. Marsh wouldn’t have thought it possible, given her pallor, but she paled even more. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Who was hit?” Marsh asked when it became obvious that Abby’s emotions rendered her speechless.

  “A little girl named Karlee Fitzmeyer.”

  “A little girl?” Abby cried. “Oh, dear God, please, no!”

  Marsh started at the unexpected and terrible anguish in Abby’s voice. Certainly he expected distress but not at this emotional level. The nurse and Barnes looked at her in surprise too.

  “She’s going to be all right,” Barnes hurried to say. “The car swerved and almost missed her. It was more like it sideswiped her, sort of tossing her out of its path. When she fell, she broke her arm. Besides brush burns, that’s about it.”

  It was obvious Abby hadn’t heard any of the policeman’s explanation. She dropped her face to her hands and shuddered. “Maddie! Oh, Maddie, baby!” There was a keening sound of such deep pain to her near whisper that the hair rose on Marsh’s arms.

  “Who’s Maddie?” Barnes asked Marsh.

  “I don’t know. I only met Abby today.”

  “Mrs. Patterson.” Barnes’s voice was loud, firm. “Mrs. Patterson, Karlee will be fine. And that’s Karlee, not Maddie.”

  Abby continued to sob.

  Marsh and Greg Barnes looked at each other, at a loss about what to do.

  “Maybe she knows Karlee?” suggested the nurse.

  “But she just moved here,” Marsh said.

  “Do you know Karlee Fitzmeyer?” Barnes asked.

  Abby didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, but she did manage to shake her head no. Marsh watched her weep and ached for her.

  “Abby?” He slid an arm around her shoulders. He could feel her trembling. She turned into him, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and hung on. “Shh.” He stroked her back. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “Did she die?” Abby asked in a cracked voice, her face still buried in Marsh’s chest. “Is she dead? How old was she?”

  “She’s got a broken arm and brush burns,” Barnes repeated, his voice soothing. “That’s all. Her life isn’t in danger. She’s very fortunate.”

  “Thank You, God,” Abby muttered, her voice quivering with emotion. Slowly her trembling eased, then stopped, and her breathing returned to a normal cadence, though she remained with her cheek resting on Marsh’s chest. “Thank You, thank You, thank You. Not Maddie.”

  “Who’s Maddie, Mrs. Patterson?” Barnes asked.

  “My daughter,” Abby whispered. “She’s dead.”

  Marsh felt another great shudder pass through her and wrapped both arms about her. How did you offer comfort for what was obviously such an immense hurt?

  “Hit-and-run?” asked Barnes.

  “A man trying to dial a cell phone ran a stop sign.”

  “Were you driving?” The policeman’s voice was gentle.

  Abby pulled away from Marsh and shook her head. “My husband. He’s dead too.”

  Marsh flinched.

  “How long ago?” Barnes asked.

  “Three years last month. May 12.”

  “How old was your daughter?” Barnes’s eyes were kind.

  “Two.”

  For several minutes no one spoke. Marsh found himself staring at Abby’s bent head, wondering how so fragile a person could survive such pain.

  “It’s important that I remember so that you can catch the driver who hit that little girl, that Karlee, isn’t it?” Abby asked in a tired voice.

  Barnes nodded. “It would be a great help. We’ll pursue other avenues of investigation, of course, but there’s nothing like an eyewitness account.”

  The ravaged face Abby lifted to Greg Barnes tore at Marsh’s heart.

  “But what if I never remember?”

  Five

  WHERE HAD SHE come from, that little girl? He had turned the corner like he’d turned millions of corners, and there she was, right in the middl
e of the road. What in the world was she doing there?

  He could feel himself still shaking as he remembered. Adrenaline surge. It was a wonder the steering wheel wasn’t vibrating in his hands. Instead he forced himself to focus, to keep himself centered.

  Concentrate!

  Drive!

  Get away! Get away! Get away! Fast!

  He ground his teeth, torn as he was between fury and relief. He was furious with that little pink girl for the trouble she was causing him. It couldn’t have come at a worse time for him personally. So much was at stake. On the other hand, he was relieved because he didn’t think he’d hurt her badly.

  He had swerved to avoid her and almost succeeded. When he glanced back in his rearview mirror, he saw her somersault through the air, but she hadn’t gone far or high. She’d be all right in the long run.

  You hope.

  “She’ll be fine!” he shouted at his conscience.

  Which was more than he could say for his car. In the process of saving her bothersome little life, he’d smashed the car’s right side to a pulp scraping along the vehicles parked against the curb. The screaming whine of metal scraping metal raised goose bumps, even in memory.

  He knew the right front fender was pressing against the tire. It pulled as he drove, forcing him to wrestle with the wheel. But he could still drive.

  He had raced around the block, over the bridge, off the island, and away from the scene as fast as he could drive.

  No one knows, he assured his jangled nerves. There’s no way anyone’ll ever know.

  He took big breaths, trying to slow his breathing before he began to hyperventilate. He inhaled slowly to the count of fifteen, pulling the air deep into his diaphragm. He held the breath for fifteen, then exhaled over the same count. By the third time, he was dizzier than ever, gasping for oxygen.

  Where was a paper bag when you needed one?

  As he tried to calm himself, his mind raced with one big question: What should he do now? He couldn’t go back and admit guilt. Even the thought made him nauseous. He swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat.