Tough Enough

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “I never approved of my father’s tactics against you or your family. Yes, I left when I was eighteen. I became a hotshot firefighter with the forest service. I didn’t want to be a part of how my father was acting or behaving. I didn’t approve of it then and I don’t now. I’m doing what I can, Kate. But I’ve got a father who rants and raves, who’s out of his head half the time. Then he stirs up my two brothers, who believe he’s a tin god and would do anything he told them to do. They don’t stop to think about the consequences of their actions.”

  Kate wrapped her arms against her body and stared at him, the silence thickening. “Since you’ve come back, things have gotten worse, not better.”

  Releasing a sigh, Jim rested against the edge of the desk. “Do you know what happens when a diabetic doesn’t watch his diet or doesn’t take his meds?” he asked in a calm tone.

  “No,” she muttered defensively. “Are you going to blame your old man’s lawsuit and everything else on the fact that he’s sick and won’t take the drugs he’s supposed to take?”

  “In part, yes,” Jim said. “I’m trying to get my brothers to work with me, not against me, on my father taking his medication daily. I’m trying to get our cook to make meals that balance my father’s blood sugar and not spike it up so he has to be peeled off the ceiling every night when I get home.”

  Kate nodded. “If you think I feel sorry for you, I don’t.”

  “I’m not telling you this to get your sympathy, Kate,” he said slowly. “I’m trying to communicate with you and tell you what’s going on. The more you understand, the less, I hope, you’ll get angry about it.”

  “Your father is sick, all right,” Kate rattled. “He hasn’t changed one iota from when I was a kid growing up.”

  “I’m trying to change that, but it takes time.” Jim held her defiant gaze. “If I can keep channels of communication open between us, maybe I can put out some brushfires before they explode into a wildfire. I’d like to be able to talk with you at times if I can.”

  Snorting, Kate let her arms fall to her sides. “You just saved Rachel’s life. Your blood is in her body. I might be pigheaded, Cunningham, but I’m not stupid. I owe you for her life. If all you want in return is a little chat every once in a while, then I can deal with that.”

  Frustration curdled Jim’s innards. He’d actually given one and a half pints of blood and he was feeling light-headed, on top of being stressed out from the rescue. But he held on to his deteriorating emotions. “I told you, Kate—no one owes me for helping to save Rachel’s life.”

  “I just wonder what your father is going to say. This ought to make his day. Not only did you save a Donovan’s neck, you gave her your blood, too. Frankly,” Kate muttered, moving to the door and opening it, “I don’t envy you at all when you go home tonight. You’re going to have to scrape that bitter old man of yours off the ceiling but good this time.”

  Jim nodded. “Yeah, he’ll probably think I’ve thrown in with the enemy.” He said it in jest, but he could tell as Kate’s knuckles whitened around the doorknob, she had taken the comment the wrong way.

  “Bad blood,” she rasped. “And it always will be.”

  Suddenly he felt exhausted. “I hope Rachel doesn’t take it that way even if you do.” There was nothing he could do to change Kate’s mind about his last name, Cunningham. As her deceased father had, she chose to associate all the wrongdoings of the past with each individual Cunningham, whether involved in it or not. And in Jim’s case, he was as much the victim here as were the Donovan sisters. He’d never condoned or supported what his father had done to Kelly Donovan over the years, or how he’d tried to destroy the Donovan Ranch and then buy it up himself. But Kate didn’t see it—or him—as separate from those acts of his father. She never would, Jim thought tiredly.

  “Rachel’s a big girl,” Kate muttered defiantly. “I’m not going to brainwash her one way or another about you Cunninghams.”

  “Right now, Rachel needs peace and quiet,” Jim answered. “She was in pretty deep shock out there. If you could give her two or three days of rest without all this agitation, it would help her a lot.”

  Kate nodded. “I’ll make sure she gets the rest.”

  The office turned silent after Kate Donovan left. Sighing, Jim rubbed his brow. What a helluva morning! His thoughts moved back to Rachel. Old feelings he’d believed had died a long time ago stirred in his chest. She was so beautiful. He wondered if she had Kate’s bitterness toward the Cunninghams. Jim cared more about that than he wanted to admit.

  First things first. Because he’d given more than a pint of blood, he’d been taken off duty by the fire chief, and another EMT had been called in to replace him on the duty roster. Well, he’d fill out the accident report on Rachel and then go home. As he sat down at the desk and pulled out the pertinent form, Jim wondered if news of this event would precede him home. He hoped not—right now, he was too exhausted to deal with his father’s ire. What he felt was a soul tiredness, though, more than just physical tiredness. He’d been home almost a year now, and as Kate had said, not much had changed.

  Pen in hand, the report staring up at him, Jim tried to order his thoughts, but all he could see was Rachel’s pale face and those glorious, dark green eyes of hers. What kind of woman had she grown into after she’d left Sedona? He’d heard she’d moved to England and spent most of her adult life there. Jim understood her desire to escape from Kelly Donovan’s drunken, abusive behavior, just as he’d taken flight from his own father and his erratic, emotional moods. Jim’s fingers tightened around the pen. Dammit, he was drawn to Rachel—right or wrong. And in Kate Donovan’s eyes, he was dead wrong in desiring Rachel.

  With a shake of his head, he began to fill out the form. Why the hell had he asked Rachel out to lunch? The invitation had been as much a surprise to him as it had been to the Donovan women. Kate was the one who’d reacted the most to it. Jessica was too embroiled in worry for Rachel to even hear his teasing rejoinder. And Rachel? Well, he’d seen surprise in her green eyes, and then something else… ?. His heart stirred again—this time with good, warm feelings. He wondered at the fleeting look in Rachel’s eyes when he’d made his sudden invitation.

  Would she consider going to lunch with him? Was he crazy enough to hold on to that thought? With a snort, Jim forced his attention back to his paperwork. Right now, what he had to look forward to was going back to the Bar C and hoping his father hadn’t heard what had happened. If he had, Jim knew there would be a blisteringly high price to pay on his hide tonight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I HEARD you gave blood to one of those Donovan bitches.”

  Jim’s hand tightened on the door as he stepped into the Cunningham ranch house. Frank Cunningham’s gravelly voice landed like a hot branding iron on him, causing anger to surge through Jim. Slowly shutting the door, he saw his father in his wheelchair sitting next to the flagstone fireplace. The old man was glaring at him from beneath those bushy white eyebrows, his gray eyes flat and hard. Demanding.

  Jim told himself that he was a grown man, that his gut shouldn’t be clenching as it was now. He was over thirty years old, yet he was having a little boy’s reaction to a raging father. Girding himself internally, Jim forced himself to switch to his EMT mode. Shrugging out of his heavy jacket, he placed it on a hook beside the door.

  “Looks like news travels fast,” he said as lightly as possible. Judging from the wild look in his father’s eyes, he guessed he hadn’t taken diabetes medication.

  “Bad news always does, dammit!” Frank punched a finger at Jim as he sauntered between the leather couch and chair. “What are you doing, boy? Ruining our good name? How could you?”

  Halting in front of him, Jim placed his hands on his hips. He was tired and drained. Ordinarily, giving blood didn’t knock him down like this. It was different knowing who the accident victim was, though. He was still reeling from the fact that it was little Rachel Donovan, the girl he’d had a mad crush on
so long ago.

  “Have you taken your pill for your sugar problem?” Jim asked quietly.

  Cursing richly, Frank Cunningham snarled, “You answer my questions, boy! Who the hell do you think you are, giving blood to—”

  “You call her a bitch one more time and it will be the last time,” Jim rasped, locking gazes with his angry father. “Rachel doesn’t deserve that from you or anyone. She could have died out there early this morning.”

  Gripping the arms of his wheelchair with swollen, arthritic fingers, Frank glared at him. “You don’t threaten me, boy.”

  The word boy grated on Jim’s sensitized nerves. He reminded himself one more time that he’d come home to try and pull his family together. To try and stop all the hatred, the anger and fighting that the Cunninghams were known for across two counties. Maybe he’d been a little too idealistic. After all, no one had even invited him back. It was one thing to be called home. It was quite another to wonder every day whether he’d have a home to come back to. Frank Cunningham had thrown him out when he was eighteen and Jim had never returned, except for Christmas. Even then, the holidays became a battleground of sniping and snarling, of dealing with the manipulations of his two brothers.

  “Look, Father,” Jim began in a strained toned, “I’m a little out of sorts right now. I need to lie down for a while and rest. Did you take your medicine this morning at breakfast? Did Louisa give it to you?”

  Snorting, Frank glared at the open fireplace, where a fire crackled and snapped. “Yes, she gave it to me,” he muttered irritably.

  A tired smile tugged at the corners of Jim’s mouth. “Did you take it?”

  “No!”

  In some ways, at seventy-five, Frank was a pale ghost of his former self. Jim recalled growing up with a strapping, six-foot-five cowboy who was tougher than the drought they were presently enduring. Frank had made this ranch what it was: the largest and most prosperous in the state of Arizona. Jim was proud of his heritage, and like his father, he loved being a cowboy, sitting on a good horse, working ceaselessly during calving season and struggling through all the other demanding jobs of ranching life.

  Pulling himself out of his reverie, Jim walked out to the kitchen. There on the table were two tiny blue tablets, one for diabetes and one for high blood pressure. He picked them up and got a glass of water.

  He knew his father’s mood was based directly on his blood sugar level. If it was too high, he was an irritable son of a bitch. If it was too low, he would go into insulin shock, keel over unconscious and fall out of his wheelchair. Jim had lost track of how many times he’d had to pull his father out of insulin shock. He could never get it through Frank’s head that he might die from it. His father didn’t seem to care. Frank’s desire to live, Jim realized, had left when their mother died.

  Jim walked back out into the living room. It was a huge, expansive room with a cathedral ceiling and the stuffed heads of elk, deer, peccary and cougar on the cedar walls. The aged hardwood floor gleamed a burnished gold color. A large Navajo rug of red, black and gray lay in the center of the room, which was filled with several dark leather couches and chairs set around a rectangular coffee table.

  “Here, Dad, take it now,” Jim urged gently.

  “Damn stuff.”

  “I know.”

  “I hate taking pills! Don’t like leaning on anything or anyone! That’s all these are—crutches,” he said, glaring down at the blue pill in his large, callused palm.

  Jim patiently handed him the glass of water. Neither of his brothers would ensure that Frank took his medicine. If they even saw the pills on the kitchen table, they ignored them. Jim had once heard Bo say that it would be just that much sooner that the ranch would be given to him.

  As he stood there watching his father take the second pill, Jim felt his heart wrench. Frank was so thin now. His flesh, once darkly tanned and hard as saddle leather, was washed out and almost translucent looking. Jim could see the large, prominent veins in his father’s crippled hands, which shook as he handed the glass back to him.

  “Thanks. Now hit the hay. You look like hell, son.”

  Jim smiled a little. Such gruff warmth from his father was a rare gift and he absorbed it greedily. There were moments when Frank was human and compassionate. Not many, but Jim lived for them. “Okay, Dad. If you need anything, just come and get me.”

  Rubbing his hand through his thick silver hair, Frank grunted. “I got work to do in the office. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay… ?.”

  JIM WAS SITTING ON HIS bed and had pushed off his black boots when he heard someone coming down the hardwood hall. By the sound of the heavy footsteps, he knew it was Bo. Looking up, he saw his tall, lean brother standing in the doorway. By the state of his muddied Levi’s and snow-dampened sheepskin coat, Bo had been out working. Taking off his black Stetson hat, he scowled at Jim.

  “What’s this I hear about you giving blood to one of those Donovan girls? Is that true? I was over at the hay and feed store and that was all they were talkin’ about.”

  With a shake of his head, Jim stretched out on top of his double bed, which was covered with a brightly colored, Pendleton wool blanket. Placing his hands behind his head, he looked up at the ceiling.

  “Gossip travels faster than anything else on earth,” he commented.

  Bo stepped inside the room. His dark brows drew down. “It’s true, then?”

  “Yeah, so what if it is?”

  Settling the hat back on his head, Bo glared down at him. “Don’tcha think your goody-two-shoes routine is a little out of control?”

  Smarting at Bo’s drawled criticisms, Jim sat up. “I know you wish I’d crawl back under a rock and disappear from this ranch, Bo, but it isn’t going to happen.”

  Bo’s full lips curved into a cutting smile. “Comin’ home to save all sinners is a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

  Tiredness washed across Jim, but he held on to his deteriorating patience. “Someone needs to save this place.”

  “So you gave blood to Rachel Donovan. Isn’t that a neat trick. You think by doing that, you’ll stop the war between us?”

  Anger lapped at him. “Bo, get the hell out of here. I’m beat. If you want to talk about this later, we’ll do it then.”

  Chuckling indulgently, Bo reached for the doorknob. “Okay, little bro. I’ll see you later.”

  Once the door shut, Jim sighed and lay back down. Closing his eyes, he let his arm fall across his face. The image of Rachel Donovan hovered beneath his eyelids. Instantly, he felt warmth flow through his tense body, washing away his irritation with his father, his anger toward his older brother. She had the most incredible dark green eyes he’d ever seen. Jim recalled being mesmerized by them as a young, painfully shy boy in junior high. He’d wanted to stare into them and see how many gold flecks he could find among the deep, forest-green depths.

  Rachel had been awkward and skinny then. Now she was tall, elegant looking and incredibly beautiful. The prettiest, he felt, of the three sisters. She had Odula’s face—high cheekbones, golden skin, dark brown hair that hung thick and heavy around her shoulders. Finely arched brows and large, compassionate eyes. Her nose was fine and thin; her mouth—the most delectable part of her—was full and expressive. Jim found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss that mouth.

  At that thought, he removed his arm and opened his eyes. What the hell was he doing? His father would have a stroke if he suspected Jim liked Rachel Donovan. Frank Cunningham would blow his top, as usual, and spout vehemently, “That’s like marrying the plague!” or something like that. Donovan blood, as far as Frank was concerned, was contaminated filth of the worst kind. Jim knew that to admit his interest in Rachel would do nothing but create the worst kind of stress in this household. His older brothers would ride roughshod over him, too. He was sure Frank would disown him—again—as he had when Jim was eighteen.

  Jim closed his eyes once more and felt the tension in his body. W
hy the hell had he come home? Was Bo right? Was he out to “save” everyone? Right now, he was trying to juggle his part-time job as an EMT and work full-time at the ranch as a cowboy. Jim didn’t want his father’s money, though Bo had accused him of coming home because their father was slowly dying from diabetes. Bo thought Jim was hoping to be written back into the will. When Jim had left home, Frank had told him that the entire ranch would be given to Bo and Chet.

  Hell, Jim couldn’t care less about who was in the will or who got what. That didn’t matter to him. What did matter was family. His family. Ever since his mother had died, the males in the family had become lost and the cohesiveness destroyed. His mother, a full-blooded Apache, had been the strong, guiding central core of their family. The backbiting, the manipulation and power games that Bo and Chet played with their father wouldn’t exist, Jim felt, if she were still alive. No, ever since his mother’s death when he was six years old, the family unit had begun to rot—from the inside out.

  Jim felt the tension bleeding out of him as he dwelled on his family’s history. He felt the grief over losing his mother at such a young, vulnerable age. She had been a big woman, built like a squash, her black, flashing eyes, her copper skin and her playful smile so much a part of her. She’d brought joy and laughter to the ranch. When she died, so had the happiness. No one had laughed much after that. His father had changed drastically. In the year following his mother’s death, Jim saw what loving and losing a person did to a man. Frank had turned to alcohol and his rages became known county wide. He’d gotten into bar fights. Lawsuits. He’d fought with Kelly Donovan on almost a daily basis. Frank Cunningham had gone berserk over his wife’s passing. Maybe that’s why Jim was gun-shy of committing to a relationship. Or maybe Rachel Donovan had stolen his heart at such a young age that he wanted no one but her—whether he could ever have her or not.

  All Jim could do back then was try to hold the rest of his suffering, grieving family together. He hadn’t had time for his own grief and loss as he’d tried to help Bo and Chet. Even though he was the youngest, he was always the responsible one. The family burden had shifted to Jim whenever their father would disappear for days at a time. Frank would eventually return, unshaven and dirty, with the reek of alcohol on his breath. The weight of the world had been thrust upon Jim at a young age. Then, at eighteen, right after high school graduation, Jim had decided he had to escape. And he did—but the price had been high.