“Just try and rest,” Tucker urged fervently. He released her, his face shadowed and ravaged with his own emotions that were reflected in his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to say something further but thought better of it. “Good night, Cathy.”
“Good night, Doc.” Cathy watched him leave, grateful for his concern. There was nothing Tucker could do to help her and she knew it. Food didn’t appeal to her, but sleep did. After getting cleaned up, she’d go to bed if she could. Cathy had no more than stepped out of the bathroom after a very hot, relaxing bath, wrapped in the white terry-cloth robe, when a persistent knock came at the door. Reporters? They were always hanging around like a pack of wolves. When she saw it was Mac, she opened the door.
“Come in, Mac.”
He gave her a tight smile of welcome and walked in. He appraised her worn features, the puffiness beneath her eyes, the damp tendrils of hair clinging to her cheeks and knew she had been crying. She pushed the door shut and managed to give him a slight smile.
“Thanks. How you doing?”
Cathy followed him into the room and began to towel dry her wet hair. “I’m existing,” she said in a listless monotone, and motioned for him to sit down.
“I can’t stay long, Cathy. Today was a tough one.”
“On everyone,” she agreed softly, sitting on the bed.
“Especially on you.” He rested his hands on his hips, studying her intently.
“You’ve got the weekend off. Today was grueling on you. Medically, you still aren’t a hundred percent.”
She ran her slender fingers through her damp strands of hair. “Things didn’t go well for us today. I’m sorry, Mac. I could see you were disappointed.”
His conscience twinged. “Not with you, Cathy. Look, I want you to go somewhere special for the weekend.”
“Okay.”
How like her to trust him as she always had. She didn’t even ask where. “Will you do it as a favor for me?” he pressed.
Cathy’s green eyes widened slightly. “Of course. What’s the big secret, Mac?”
“No secret.” He steeled himself for her reaction. “I’m sending you to Grand Island, Nebraska, Cathy. I want you to stay with Jim Boland’s parents over the weekend. I think they might be able to help you.”
An involuntary gasp escaped her and she gaped at him. “Jim’s parents? No, I’m not going there. Not now.”
“Listen, it will do you good. Did you realize Jim was writing home to his folks about you?”
Cathy swallowed a sob. “No…I didn’t know. God, Mac, how can I face them after today? I’m in such terrible shape.”
“It will do you some good. They want you there very much. Believe me.” His voice hardened. “Now look, I’ve got the plane reservation ready for you and it’s under an assumed name. If you dress in civilian clothes and hide behind dark glasses, I don’t think the members of the press will recognize you. Buck will take you to the airport tomorrow morning. Buck will pick you up at 0800. Be ready.”
CATHY WATCHED with total disinterest as Arnley placed the small suitcase in the trunk of the olive-green Marine Corps staff car. She got in without a word. Her head ached fiercely and her heart was not ready to meet Jim’s parents. She tried to talk Arnley into dropping her back at the hotel, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
Trying to sleep on the flight was impossible. Cathy kept wondering what she was going to say to Jim’s parents. The whole situation could only prove awkward and embarrassing to all of them. And she would have to wrestle within herself to keep her raw emotions in check. After all, they loved and missed Jim as much as she did.
Realizing how badly she had deteriorated physically, Cathy groped for some way to control her spiral into depression. Somehow, she had to put on a brave front for the Boland’s. But how? She had no strength left with which to resurrect that kind of wall for their benefit. Tears gathered in her eyes and Cathy pursed her lips, fighting them back before they spilled.
Landing at Grand Island in the late morning, Cathy hobbled off the aircraft, refusing a wheelchair. A few people had stared at her behind her dark glasses, but none had identified her from the hearings and, for that, Cathy was grateful. She had chosen a simple black dress with white collar and cuffs that intensified her paleness. Black was for grieving and Cathy felt like the color: empty and bleak. Retrieving her small canvas suitcase and balancing it in her left hand, she limped out of the terminal with the aid of her cane.
The summer temperature was in the mid-eighties, the sky a cerulean-blue with a few mare’s tail cirrus clouds that had always reminded her of angel wings as a child. Cathy felt more of her control slipping. Whatever and whoever she had been was gone. Combat had changed that. And so had Jim Boland, both by his living and his dying.
A friend of the Boland family greeted her at the prearranged meeting spot.
“You Cathy?” he asked hesitantly, coming up to her and smiling.
Cathy nodded tiredly at the older gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties. He had obviously done his best to look presentable in a much worn dark suit that was out of style by twelve or fifteen years.
“Yes. Cathy Fremont. I thought the Bolands were meeting me. Is everything all right?”
“The name is Gabe. Gabe Cannon,” he interrupted with a shy smile while taking off his battered felt hat. “We own the farm next to the Boland family. There was an accident at the Detwiler farm just down the road a piece and they went to help. Said you were to make yourself at home until they got back. Shouldn’t be too many hours.” He picked up her bag in his arthritic hand and hurried to open the door of an old, rusted-out Ford pickup.
Cathy climbed in, vaguely wondering if only tragedy struck around the Bolands’. The wizened farmer hopped in, turned the key in the ignition and the old truck roared to life. It sounded something akin to an old Model-T in dire need of a tune-up. Gabe chuckled indulgently.
“This is a real treat for me, Miss Fremont. I don’t often get to the city with my missus bein’ sick and all. But Cornelia told me I’d better come and get you so you weren’t left standin’ here at this huge airport all by yourself.”
Cathy managed a gentle smile of affection. His white hair stuck out from beneath his brown hat like scattered straw.
“It was awfully kind of you to come, Mr. Cannon. I appreciate your trouble and effort,” she said sincerely.
“Gabe. Just call me Gabe. Nobody goes by last names around here much, missy.” He winked and chewed on a wad of tobacco tucked in his weathered cheek. It reminded Cathy sharply of Buck Arnley.
A feeling of peace stole over her as they left the city behind, heading south on an old rural road. Most of the dark, black soil had been plowed, furrowed and planted with corn, soybeans or wheat.
After five minutes of nonstop commentary about his having seen her on television and how “purty” she looked, Gabe concentrated on chewing tobacco, driving and humming a tuneless song. Cathy closed her eyes, leaning back, the pleasant chunkety-chunk of the engine lulling her to a light sleep. The warm wind gently played against her face and the fresh, crisp country air was like a welcoming perfume to her senses. She inhaled deeply, allowing the tension to give way to the rickety motion of the truck, falling into a fitful slumber.
“We’re here!” Gabe announced, his voice crackling with excitement.
Cathy jerked involuntarily, sitting up and looking around. They were just turning into a long, graveled driveway toward a very large, two-story white farmhouse sitting up on a grassy knoll. Her eyes became misty as she spotted the apple orchard to the right and the faded red swing swaying gently beneath one of the gnarled, gray-limbed trees. To the left, three red towering grain silos stood out like fingers thrust up against the deep blue of the sky. Holstein dairy cows chewed their cud contentedly near the fence as the truck chugged up the steep incline toward the house. A black-and-white collie barked and came running out to greet them.
“That must be Champ,” Cathy said, a slight tremor of excitement
in her voice.
Gabe cackled. “Yup, sure is, missy. He’s a good dog. Si Boland and I still take him huntin’ with us every fall after we get the corn silaged and cribbed.”
Cathy tried to choke down a lump that refused to leave her throat. The Ford creaked to a stop and Gabe hopped out, taking the suitcase. They walked up a narrow sidewalk bordered by brilliant orange geraniums. Gabe opened the creaking screen door, motioning her into the spacious kitchen. He set her bag near the table.
“Well, you’re home now, missy. We’re right glad to have you with us. Now, you just get comfortable. Your bedroom is straight through the kitchen and dining room and to the right. Can’t miss it. Si and Martha’ll be back soon.” He grinned, raised his hat to her and then disappeared out the back door.
Cathy stood silent, almost in reverence, as she carefully took note of the kitchen. There was an ancient wood-burning stove, jars of canned tomatoes and apricots on the drain board.
Champ scratched at the door, whining. Cathy smiled and let him in. She petted the dog’s head.
“So, you’re Champ,” she whispered. “Jim told me so much about you.” Her voice cracked. Touching the dog was almost as if she were touching Jim. “Let’s go see that swing,” she told him.
The dog dashed out the door, leaping playfully around Cathy as she limped toward the fruit trees. The scent of apples growing heavily on gnarled limbs surrounded her and Cathy inhaled deeply. Approaching the wooden swing, Cathy stooped over it, fingering the red paint that was cracked and peeled from the hardness of the winter before. The wood was in dire need of a sanding and a new coat of paint. She looked at the swing closely, remembering Jim telling how painstakingly he had fashioned each piece that went into it’s construction.
Cathy carefully sat down in it, rocking it slightly. The fragrance of newly churned earth, mown grass, encircled her and Cathy closed her eyes, the tension draining from her. Champ’s pink tongue licked her fingers and she looked down at him. Leaning over, she embraced the dog, burying her face in his silky black-and-white fur. Everything was just as Jim had spoken of back in Thailand. This was a special place, meant to be shared, but now she could share it with nothing except her too few memories.
Hot, scalding tears squeezed from beneath her lids, and once again Cathy recalled their time together at Hua Hin. How tightly Jim had held her after they had shared their grief over the loss of Sirikit and her baby. She remembered swimming with him in the ocean, their laughter drowning out the call of the seabirds that rode on invisible air currents above them. How she longed for the warmth written on his face, the husky tenor of his voice when he promised to take her home to Nebraska to see the swing he had made.
Everything she loved about Jim was here, an easiness that had always shown in his smile. A simple life where real feelings counted above everything else. A gentle caress of the wind riffling through the orchard was like his fingers brushing her cheek. Champ abruptly left her side and she bowed her head, hands pressed to her face, and wept unashamedly in the noontime heat, alone and hurting terribly.
She felt, more than heard, someone approach.
“Cathy?” a voice called gently.
She jerked her tear-wet face upward, eyes widening in disbelief. Jim Boland’s ghost stood only a few feet away, his pale features filled with concern, the dog at his side. But the ghost was wearing civilian clothes—a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms and a pair of faded, well-worn jeans. Gasping, Cathy staggered to her feet, clutching at the chain that held the swing. “You—you—you’re dead,” she whispered hoarsely.
“No,” Jim said softly, taking an unsure step forward and holding out his hand toward her. “Cathy, it’s me, Jim. I’m alive. Everything’s going to be all right, babe….”
Cathy’s face drained of what little color it had. She stared down at the open hand he offered her—the hand of a ghost reaching out from beyond the grave to hold her, perhaps take away her pain and replace it with happiness. She saw a multitude of old and fresh scars on his fingers, some white and others pink, denoting their recent acquisition.
“Oh, my God…” she stammered, and her knees buckled as she fainted.
Jim moved forward, breaking her fall. He gathered her into his arms, holding Cathy in a crushing embrace. Her hair swirled across her waxen features and he moved the strands aside, alarmed at her pallor. Grimly, Jim picked her up. He wasn’t that strong yet, himself, but the power of his emotions gave him the necessary strength as he carried her to the house and to his bedroom.
He carefully laid Cathy on the old brass bed covered with a faded blue quilt. Going to the bathroom next door, he retrieved a cold washcloth. His dog, Champ, curled up on the brightly colored handwoven rug next to the bed, quietly watching.
Wringing out the cloth, Jim sat down beside Cathy, quickly opening the collar and first few buttons of her simple black dress. He stilled his anger—black was for grieving. Jim loosened the belt around her narrow waist and made sure her legs were propped up with a pillow beneath them. Her pulse was slow and steady and Jim relaxed a bit. Gently, he sponged her face and neck. Reaching out, he tunneled his fingers through the clean, fragrant strands of Cathy’s hair. It was like silk. In fact, so was she, incredibly strong and breathtakingly rare to him. He loved her. Their love was like silk binding them to each other and tested through the fires of hell itself.
He hungrily absorbed every nuance of her features, from the coverlet of freckles that lay across her cheeks to her slightly bumped nose that was less than perfect but perfect to him. Cathy’s lips were parted and just as full and tempting as he remembered. It was the hollowness beneath her high cheekbones that told him of the private hell she had been living in. There was further evidence of it on her forehead, where small lines, even in her present unconscious state, remained puckered between her clean eyebrows. He ran his thumb lightly across those lines, watching them gently disappear beneath his touch. His gaze moved back to her lips and an overwhelming urge to touch that vulnerable part of Cathy avalanched him.
“Babe?” he called tenderly. Jim placed his hand on her shoulder, giving her a slight shake. “Come on, wake up.” He studied her face, watching as a slight flush of color began to seep back into her cheeks. Very slowly, she was becoming conscious. Leaning over, Jim feathered a kiss across her lips, lost momentarily in the pliancy of her flesh. He called to her again.
“Cathy, it’s me, Jim. You fainted but you’re coming out of it now. Open your eyes, babe.”
Blue paisley wallpaper on the ceiling met her gaze as she slowly opened her eyes. Cathy felt the rough, callused warmth of a hand cup her cheek and jaw, guiding her head to the left. Her eyes began to focus and her heart pounded erratically in her breast.
“Are you okay?” Jim demanded, caressing her cheek. “You’re so pale.”
Cathy frowned, trying to form a coherent sentence. “I—no…I mean, yes.” Cathy swallowed convulsively, her voice trembling badly as she anxiously searched his eyes. “Is it really you?”
“Yes,” Jim whispered gently. He put the washcloth aside on the bed stand and leaned over, his hands bracketing her shoulders. She was looking up at him strangely, as if not trusting what she saw. “I’m not a ghost, Cathy.” His voice was heavy with need. “Come here. I’ve been dreaming for a week of seeing you again. I need you.”
He felt the tension galvanize her as he gently lifted Cathy into his arms. Jim buried his head against her neck, the strands of her hair falling across his face, intoxicating him with the fresh smell of sweetness that was only her. For a moment, he wasn’t sure she was going to allow him to kiss her. It was as if Cathy was making sure it was him and not some impostor or dream. The trembling coolness of her hand against his jaw made him want to hold her and be held. Jim caught her fingertips as she lightly outlined his face and kissed each one of them.
“There, do you believe I’m real or do I spend the next two days proving it?” he challenged, a gentle smile curving his mouth.
He hungrily sought and found her lips, kissing her gently, not willing to leave her warmth or the powerful feeling of love that melded them together at that moment. Outlining her lips with small nips and caresses, Jim couldn’t get enough of her.
“God,” he rasped, “I love you, Cathy. I love you so damn much.” And he drowned himself in the moist, welcoming heat of her mouth.
Eventually, Cathy eased away from him, her hand resting on his chest, her eyes wide with confusion. Jim saw the distrust and fear evident in her wary eyes. She sat there, staring at him. Only the rasp of their uneven breathing broke the silence that hung palpably between them.
Wordlessly, Jim drew her close, never wanting to let her go. He sat there rocking her, absorbing the feminine curves of her body against him. Jim sensed the explosion within Cathy. She began to quiver. And then a sob tore from her. The harder she cried, the more tightly he held her, whispering words of love and comfort. The awful sounds of deep, scarring hurt and pain suffered over the past months of hell filled the room.
Jim’s face contorted with anguish. It wasn’t fair someone like Cathy should have been asked to bear so many burdens alone. Her weakness was also her strength, Jim realized, as he continued to stroke her hair. Cathy pushed her emotionalism to the hilt, wringing every ounce of it out of her before it rebelled and consumed her in its flame. Tears burned in his eyes and Jim buried his face in her hair, crying with her. Together they cried for joy, reveling in life, not death. There would be no more separations.
Quietness eventually stole upon them. The peacefulness of the farm invaded the privacy of his room. Listening to her soft breathing, her head resting against his chest, hair in damp disarray, Jim lay down beside her on the bed.
Danger Close (Shadow Warriors) Page 39