Summer Pleasures

by Nora Roberts

  “No, I don’t think you do, but you could, and I have a basic fear of bruises. Maybe I’m an emotional coward. It’s not a pretty thought, but it might be true.” With a sigh, she lifted both hands to her hair and pushed it back. “Shade, we’ve a bit more than two months left on the road. I can’t afford to spend it being torn up inside because of you. My instincts tell me you could very easily do that to me whether you planned on it or not.”

  She knew how to back a man into a corner, he thought in frustration. He could press, relieve the knot she’d tightened in his stomach. And by doing so, he’d run the risk of having her words echo back at him for a long time to come. It’d only taken a few words from her to remind him what it felt like to be responsible for someone else.

  “Go back to the van,” he told her, turning away to strip off this shirt. “I have to clean up.”

  She started to speak, then realized there was nothing more she could say. Instead she left him to follow the thin moonlit trail back to the van.

  Chapter 7

  Wheat fields. Bryan didn’t see her preconception slashed as they drove through the Midwest, but reinforced. Kansas was wheat fields.

  Whatever else Bryan saw as they crossed the state, it was the endless, rippling gold grass that captivated her, first and last. Color, texture, shape, form. Emotion. There were towns, of course, cities with modern buildings and plush homes, but in seeing basic Americana, grain against sky, Bryan saw it all.

  Some might have found the continuous spread of sun-ripened grain waving, acre after acre, monotonous. Not Bryan. This was a new experience for a woman of the city. There were no jutting mountains, no glossy towering buildings, no looping freeways to break the lines. Here was space, just as awesome as the terrain of Arizona, but lusher, and somehow calmer. She could look at it and wonder.

  In the fields of wheat and acres of corn, Bryan saw the heart and the sweat of the country. It wasn’t always an idyllic scene. There were insects, dirt, grimy machinery. People worked here with their hands, with their backs.

  In the cities she saw the pace and energy. On the farms, she saw a schedule that would have made a corporate executive wilt. Year after year, the farmer gave himself to the land and waited for the land to give back.

  With the right angle, the proper light, she could photograph a wheat field and make it seem endless, powerful. With evening shadows, she could give a sense of serenity and continuity. It was only grass after all, only stalks growing to be cut down, processed, used. But the grain had a life and a beauty of its own. She wanted to show it as she saw it.

  Shade saw the tenuous, inescapable dependence of man on nature. The planter, keeper and harvester of the wheat was irrevocably tied to the land. It was both his freedom and his prison. The man riding the tractor in the Kansas sunlight, damp with healthy sweat, lean from years of labor, was as dependent on the land as the land was on him. Without man, the wheat might grow wild, it might flourish, but then it would wither and die. It was the tie Shade sensed, and the tie he meant to record.

  Still, perhaps for the first time since they’d left L.A., he and Bryan weren’t shooting as separate entities. They might not have realized it yet, but their feelings, perceptions and needs were drawing them closer to the same mark.

  They made each other think. How did she see this scene? How did he feel about this setting? Where before each of them had considered their photographs separately, now subtly, unconsciously, they began to do two things that would improve the final result: compete and consult.

  They’d spent a day and a night in Dodge City for the Fourth of July celebrations in what had once been a Wild West town. Bryan thought of Wyatt Earp, of Doc Holliday and the desperadoes who had once ridden through town, but she’d been drawn to the street parade that might’ve been in Anytown, U.S.A.

  It was here, caught up in the pageantry and the flavor, that she’d asked Shade his opinion of the right angle for shooting a horse and rider, and he in turn had taken her advice on capturing a tiny, bespangled majorette.

  The step they’d taken had been lost in the moment to both of them. But they’d stood side by side on the curb as the parade had passed, music blaring, batons flying. Their pictures had been different—Shade had looked for the overview of holiday parades while Bryan had wanted individual reactions. But they’d stood side by side.

  Bryan’s feelings for Shade had become more complex, more personal. When the change had begun or how, she couldn’t say. But because her work was most often a direct result of her emotions, the pictures she took began to reflect both the complexity and the intimacy. Their view of the same wheat field might be radically different, but Bryan was determined that when their prints were set side by side, hers would have equal impact.

  She’d never been an aggressive person. It just wasn’t her style. But Shade had tapped a need in her to compete—as a photographer, and as a woman. If she had to travel in close quarters for weeks with a man who ruffled her professional feathers and stirred her feminine needs, she had to deal with him directly—on both counts. Directly, she decided, but in her own fashion and her own time. As the days went on, Bryan wondered if it would be possible to have both success and Shade without losing something vital.

  She was so damn calm! It drove him crazy. Every day, every hour they spent together pushed Shade closer to the edge. He wasn’t used to wanting anyone so badly. He didn’t enjoy finding out he could, and that there was nothing he could do about it. Bryan put him in the position of needing, then having to deny himself. There were times he nearly believed she did so purposely. But he’d never known anyone less likely to scheme than Bryan. She wouldn’t think of it—and if she did, she’d consider it too much bother.

  Even now, as they drove through the Kansas twilight, she was stretched out in the seat beside him, sound asleep. It was one of the rare times she’d left her hair loose. Full, wavy and lush, it was muted to a dull gold in the lowering light. The sun had given her skin all the color it needed. Her body was relaxed, loose like her hair. Shade wondered if he’d ever had the capability to let his mind and body go so enviably limp. Was it that that tempted him, that drove at him? Was he simply pushed to find that spark of energy she could turn on and off at will? He wanted to set it to life. For himself.

  Temptation. The longer he held himself back, the more intense it became. To have her. To explore her. To absorb her. When he did—he no longer used the word if—what cost would there be? Nothing was free.

  Once, he thought as she sighed in sleep. Just once. His way. Perhaps the cost would be high, but he wouldn’t be the one to pay it. His emotions were trained and disciplined. They wouldn’t be touched. There wasn’t a woman alive who could make him hurt.

  His body and his mind tensed as Bryan slowly woke. Groggy and content to be so, she yawned. The scent of smoke and tobacco stung the air. On the radio was low, mellow jazz. The windows were half open so that when she shifted, the slap of wind woke her more quickly than she’d have liked.

  It was fully dark now. Surprised, Bryan stretched and stared out the window at a moon half covered by clouds. “It’s late,” she said on another yawn. The first thing she remembered as her mind cleared of sleep was that they hadn’t eaten. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Dinner?”

  He glanced at her just long enough to see her shake back her hair. It rippled off her shoulders and down her back. As he watched he had to fight back the urge to touch it. “I want to get over the border tonight.”

  She heard it in his voice—the tension, the annoyance. Bryan didn’t know what had prompted it, nor at the moment did she want to. Instead, she lifted a brow. If he was in a hurry to get to Oklahoma and was willing to drive into the night to get there, it was his business. She’d stocked a cabinet in the back of the van with a few essentials just for moments like this. Bryan started to haul herself out of her seat when she heard the long blare of a horn and the rev of an engine.

  The scarred old Pontiac had a hole in the muffler you could’
ve tossed a baseball through. The sound of the engine clattered like a badly tuned plane. It swerved around the van at a dangerous speed, fish-tailed, then bolted ahead, radio blaring. As Shade swore, Bryan got a glimpse that revealed the dilapidated car was packed with kids.

  “Saturday night in July,” she commented.

  “Idiots,” he said between his teeth as he watched the taillights weave.

  “Yeah.” She frowned as she watched the car barrel ahead, smoke streaming. “They were just kids, I hope they don’t…”

  Even as she thought it, it happened. The driver decided to press his luck by passing another car over the double yellow lines. The truck coming toward him laid on the horn and swerved. Bryan felt her blood freeze.

  Shade was already hitting the brakes as the Pontiac screeched back in its own lane. But it was out of control. Skidding sideways, the Pontiac kissed the fender of the car it had tried to pass, then flipped into a telephone pole.

  The sound of screaming tires, breaking glass and smashing metal whirled in her head. Bryan was up and out of the van before Shade had brought it to a complete stop. She could hear a girl screaming, others weeping. Even as the sounds shuddered through her, she told herself it meant they were alive.

  The door on the passenger’s side was crushed against the telephone pole. Bryan rushed to the driver’s side and wrenched at the handle. She smelled the blood before she saw it. “Good God,” she whispered as she managed to yank the door open on the second try. Then Shade was beside her, shoving her aside.

  “Get some blankets out of the van,” he ordered without looking at her. It had only taken him one glance at the driver to tell him it wasn’t going to be pretty. He shifted enough to block Bryan’s view, then reached in to check the pulse in the driver’s throat as he heard her run back to the van. Alive, he thought, then blocked out everything but what had to be done. He worked quickly.

  The driver was unconscious. The gash on his head was serious, but it didn’t worry Shade as much as the probability of internal injuries. And nothing worried him as much as the smell of gas that was beginning to sweeten the air. Under other circumstances, Shade would’ve been reluctant to move the boy. Now there was no choice. Locking his arms under the boy’s arms, Shade hauled him out. Even as Shade began to drag him, the driver of the truck ran over and took the boy’s legs.

  “Got a CB in the truck,” he told Shade breathlessly. “Called for an ambulance.”

  With a nod, Shade laid the boy down. Bryan was already there with the first blanket.

  “Stay here. The car’s going to go up.” He said it calmly. Without a backward glance he went back to the crippled Pontiac.

  Terror jolted through her. Within seconds, Bryan was at the car beside him, helping to pull the others out of the wreck.

  “Get back to the van,” Shade shouted at her as Bryan half carried a sobbing girl. “Stay there.”

  Bryan spoke soothingly, covered the girl with a blanket then rushed back to the car. The last passenger was also unconscious. A boy, Bryan saw, of no more than sixteen. She had to half crawl into the car to reach him. By the time she’d dragged him to the open door, she was drenched and exhausted. Both Shade and the truck driver carried the other injured passengers. Shade had just set a young girl on the grass when he turned and saw Bryan struggling with the last victim.

  Fear was instant and staggering. Even as he started to run, his imagination worked on him. In his mind, Shade could see the flash of explosion, hear the sound of bursting metal and shattering, flying glass. He knew exactly what it would smell like the moment the gas ignited. When he reached Bryan, Shade scooped up the unconscious boy as though he were weightless.

  “Run!” he shouted at her. Together, they raced away from the Pontiac.

  Bryan didn’t see the explosion. She heard it, but more, she felt it. The whoosh of hot air slammed into her back and sent her sprawling onto the grassy shoulder of the road. There was a whistle of metal as something hot and twisted and lethal flew overhead. One of the teenagers screamed and buried her face in her hands.

  Stunned, Bryan lay prone a moment waiting to catch her breath. Over the sound of fire, she could hear the whine of sirens.

  “Are you hurt!” Shade half dragged her up to her knees. He’d seen the flying slice of metal whiz by her head. Hands that had been rock steady moments before trembled as they gripped her.

  “No.” Bryan shook her head, and finding her balance turned to the whimpering girl beside her. A broken arm, she realized as she tucked the blanket under the girl’s chin. And the cut on her temple would need stitches. “Take it easy,” Bryan murmured, pulling out a piece of gauze from the first-aid box she’d brought from the van. “You’re going to be fine. The ambulance is coming. Can you hear it?”

  As she spoke she pressed the gauze against the wound to stop the bleeding. Her voice was calm, her fingers trembled.

  “Bobby.” Tears ran down the girl’s face as she clung to Bryan. “Is Bobby all right? He was driving.”

  Bryan glanced over and looked directly at Shade before she lowered her gaze to the unconscious boy. “He’s going to be fine,” she said and felt helpless.

  Six young, careless children, she thought as she scanned those sitting or lying on the grass. The driver of the other car sat dazedly across from them, holding a rag to the cut on his own head. For a moment, a long still moment, the night was quiet—warm, almost balmy. Stars were brilliant overhead. Moonlight was strong and lovely. Thirty feet away, what was left of the Pontiac crackled with flame. Bryan slipped her arm around the shoulders of the girl and watched the lights of the ambulance speed up the road.

  As the paramedics began to work, another ambulance and the fire department were called. For twenty minutes, Bryan sat by the young girl, talking to her, holding her hand while her injuries were examined and tended to.

  Her name was Robin. She was seventeen. Of the six teenagers in the car, her boyfriend, Bobby, was the oldest at nineteen. They’d only been celebrating summer vacation.

  As Bryan listened and soothed, she glanced up to see Shade calmly setting his camera. Astonished, she watched as he carefully focused and framed in the injured. Dispassionately, he recorded the scene of the accident, the victims and what was left of the car. As astonishment faded, Bryan felt the fury bubble inside her. When Robin was carried to the second ambulance, Bryan sprang up.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She grabbed his shoulder, spoiling a shot. Still calm, Shade turned to her and gave her one quick study.

  She was pale. Her eyes showed both strain and fury. And, he thought, a dull sheen of shock. For the first time since he’d known her, Shade saw how tense her body could be. “I’m doing my job,” he said simply and lifted the camera again.

  “Those kids are bleeding!” Bryan grabbed his shoulder again, swinging herself around until she was face-to-face with him. “They’ve got broken bones. They’re hurt and they’re frightened. Since when is your job taking pictures of their pain?”

  “Since I picked up a camera for pay.” Shade let the camera swing by its strap. He’d gotten enough in any case. He didn’t like the feeling in his own stomach, the tension behind his eyes. Most of all, he didn’t like the look in Bryan’s as she stared at him. Disgust. He shrugged it off.

  “You’re only willing to take pictures of fun in the sun for this assignment, Bryan. You saw the car, those kids. That’s part of it too. Part of life. If you can’t handle it, you’d better stick to your celebrity shots and leave the real world alone.”

  He’d taken two steps toward the van when Bryan was on him again. She might avoid confrontations as a matter of habit, take the line of least resistance as often as possible, but there were times when she’d fight. When she did, she used everything.

  “I can handle it.” She wasn’t pale any longer; her face glowed with anger. Her eyes gleamed with it. “What I can’t handle are the vultures who love picking at bones, making a profit off misery in the name of art. There were six peopl
e in that car. People” she repeated, hissing at him. “Maybe they were foolish, maybe they deserved what happened, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to judge. Do you think it makes you a better photographer, a better artist because you’re cold enough, you’reprofessional enough to freeze their pain on printing paper? Is this the way you look for another Pulitzer nomination?”

  She was crying now, too angry, too churned up by what she’d seen to be aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Yet somehow the tears made her look stronger. They thickened her voice and gave it impact. “I’ll tell you what it makes you,” she went on when Shade remained silent. “It makes you empty. Whatever compassion you were born with died somewhere along the way, Shade. I’m sorry for you.”

  She left him standing in the middle of the road by the shell of the car.

  It was nearly 3:00 A.M. Shade had learned that the mind was at its most helpless in those early hours of the morning. The van was dark and quiet, parked in a small campground just over the Oklahoma border. He and Bryan hadn’t exchanged a word since the accident. Each had prepared for bed in silence, and though both of them had lain awake for some time, neither had spoken. Now they slept, but only Bryan slept dreamlessly.

  There’d been a time, during the first months after his return from Cambodia, that Shade had had the dream regularly. Over the years it had come to him less and less. Often he could force himself awake and fight the dream off before it really took hold. But now, in the tiny Oklahoma campground, he was powerless.

  He knew he was dreaming. The moment the figures and shapes began to form in his mind, Shade understood it wasn’t real—that it wasn’t real any longer. It didn’t stop the panic or the pain. The Shade Colby in the dream would go through the same motions he’d gone through all those years ago, leading to the same end. And in the dream there were no soft lines, no mists to lessen the impact. He saw it as it had happened, in strong sunlight.