Seconds later, she knelt beside her grandmother, who roused enough to sip and swallow. Rachel held her hand and kissed her temple. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. This sugar’s going to help, and the ambulance is coming. You’re going to be all right.”
By the time the ambulance showed up, Benita Copeland was far more alert and responsive. As her vitals were checked, she called Rachel “Cora” once or twice, then caught herself and said, “I’m sorry, Rachel. Of course, I know who you are. It’s just that you look so much like her…the way I remember her…”
The paramedic, a clean-cut, dark-haired man whose name tag read “Alvarez,” nodded in approval. “Heart rate, BP, and respirations all look good, but blood glucose is still a little on the low side. Just to be safe, you might want to have her transported and checked out in Alpine.”
“I don’t need to go to Alpine,” Rachel’s grandmother protested. “I’ll make an appointment at the clinic here.”
“That could take a while,” Alvarez said. “Your sugar needs to be stabilized today.”
“But an ambulance ride—that costs—”
“Let Medicare worry about that,” Rachel interrupted.
“But they don’t cover the half of—”
“Forget about it, Grandma. You scared the hell—heck—out of me this morning, and you’re going to the hospital right now.”
Benita was still arguing that she wasn’t so old she couldn’t make her own decisions when Rachel’s father and Patsy arrived.
“You’re going, Mama,” Walter Copeland insisted. “If the doctors give you a clean bill of health, you don’t have to stay overnight, but you need to get checked out—for our sake.”
“They’ll give me a bill, all right. Like as not, a huge one.” Benita gave a petulant frown, which on her round face looked strangely childlike.
“Please, Grandma,” Rachel pleaded.
“Fine. If that’s what you all want,” she said before she gave them the silent treatment.
As the paramedic’s partner shut the ambulance door and climbed into the cab, Rachel noticed a woman in dark glasses sitting in a black sedan with rental plates, parked behind her father’s pickup. Rachel sucked in a breath, then let it go as she realized the blonde wasn’t Kyle’s mother.
So who was she, and why did she keep darting glances in Rachel’s direction before looking away?
Rachel caught Patsy by the elbow. “Look. Is she the one who was asking for me earlier?”
Never one for subtlety, Patsy whipped around to shoot the woman a hard stare. “What the—She must have followed us. Walter, you need to go talk to that person. Find out what she wants.”
“Her voice—was she the same woman who’s been calling the café?” Rachel asked Patsy.
But the blonde was already opening the car door, unfolding her long, lean legs and striding toward them. No older than her late twenties, she wore a funky, fringed, pink sweater over tight, black leggings and carried a business-sized envelope. She didn’t look particularly dangerous, thought Rachel, just determined.
“Not sure. Don’t think so,” Patsy said before raising her voice and edging in front of Rachel. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re intruding. Can’t you see a family member’s ill?”
The blonde looked over Patsy’s shoulder. “Are you Rachel Copeland?”
She sounded somewhat nervous, but behind the gray translucence of her lenses, her gaze bored into Rachel’s.
Rachel’s father stepped beside his wife. “What do you want with my daughter?”
Embarrassed by the human barricade, Rachel edged into the open. The blonde’s lilting Southern accent sounded nothing like the Psycho Bitch, and she looked sane enough. And soft enough to send packing if she turned out to be some on-the-make reporter out for a follow-up story. “What can I do for you? I’m Rachel.”
“Good,” the stranger said, sounding relieved and breathless as she handed off her envelope. “I’m just here to tell you, Rachel Copeland, you’ve been served.”
“What?” Rachel demanded. This was impossible. The nightmare was all over. Her lawyer had explained that since she’d been acquitted, prosecutors could never come after her again.
Head tilting, the blonde shrugged and said, “Sorry, Ms. Copeland…nothing personal. Toodeloo, y’all.”
With a ripple of pink, polished fingers, she spun on her high heels and scuttled back to her black car.
Rachel felt like waving back, using fewer fingers. But still stunned—and unwilling to make a scene in front of the neighbors with the gesture—she tore into the letter instead…
Then cursed like a trucker as the disaster unfolded in her mind. Civil lawsuit. Wrongful death. Ten million dollars—ten million dollars—for the “reckless behavior” that had led to the death of Kyle Underwood.
His bereaved, berserk blonde mother had found one last, legal avenue for her revenge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers.
—Henry David Thoreau,
from Walden, Chapter V: Solitude
Monday, February 18
Three days later, Rachel met Antoinette Gallinardi at the old Army barracks, which had been closed by the government after World War II. Terri Parton-Zavala followed them through the installation, a sour, silent counterpoint to the lapdog that pranced happily at her employer’s side.
“You’ve done an amazing job renovating this place.” Rachel’s words echoed from freshly replastered white walls, where ceiling-mounted swivel lights stood ready to illuminate displays. “It’s the perfect location to hold showings.”
Art Deco Woman smiled. “We’re so pleased, and we’re hoping this spring’s event will help us raise the money we need to complete our work here—and continue promoting ordinances to keep Marfa the charming oasis that it is.”
“Do you really think it’s possible,” asked Rachel, “to keep progress at bay?”
“I’m not certain, but I truly hope so.” Gallinardi looked directly at her as she spoke, her dark eyes misting with sincerity. Earlier, she’d explained how she had fled here from a busy life as a fundraiser for a Manhattan museum, how the relentless pace and pressure of it had damaged her health and destroyed two marriages.
Rachel nodded, liking her. “I hope so, too, Antoinette.”
“Unfortunately, it won’t happen unless we find a way to bridge the gap between the newcomers from the art community and the longtime locals. We’re well aware they look on us as unwelcome outsiders. And interfering nuisances at times.”
“Which is where I come in,” Rachel guessed, “as an artist who was born and raised here.”
Gallinardi nodded. “That’s certainly one of the factors that first drew our attention to you. That and your teaching background.”
“My teaching background?” Rachel echoed.
“We’ve been hoping to find someone to coordinate a series of after-school workshops open to high school students and their parents. Monthly offerings featuring various artists, as a gesture of goodwill to the community.”
Gallinardi must be seriously out of touch with Old Marfa’s conservative streak if she thought locals would allow someone with her recent history anywhere near a classroom. But Rachel decided to cross that bridge another time and instead focus on the business that had brought her here this morning. “I—I have something I’d like you to see. I—I’d like your opinion on a proof of one of the shots you commissioned, one of the area’s artists.”
She swallowed past a knot of tension and pulled an envelope from the leather portfolio she carried. Though Rachel had enjoyed touring the facility, she’d come this morning specifically to see if someone else would recognize the magic in Zeke’s image. If Gallinardi didn’t, Rachel had promised herself she would pull his photo from the series—or at the very least, go back to his place and come clean with him about it.
Handling the proof by its edges, she passed it to Gallinardi and waited, heart in throat, for what seemed like an eternity. Terri edged closer, attempting to look indifferent while she peered over the taller woman’s shoulder.
“Oh. Oh, my.” Antoinette’s perfectly polished nails trembled against her neck. While she gaped, her little dog slipped like a wraith between her slender ankles.
Terri pointedly looked away, arms crossed over her overflowing bosom.
“This is—it’s amazing, Rachel, astonishing.” Gallinardi went on, “We knew, of course, that you’re an extraordinary talent. But this…Why, even Annie Leibowitz would be proud to claim this. And I have to admit, I’m not only incredibly impressed, I’m relieved. A few of the foundation’s board members have had…some reservations about honoring your invitation. It’s been pointed out our reputation could be damaged if people start whispering that we’re capitalizing on a tragedy. Especially considering our plans to offer a program at the school.”
Terri’s venomous glance left Rachel with no doubt whatsoever as to who was working to undermine her with the board. So there was no way, no way in the world, she could refuse Gallinardi’s breathless excitement. Enchanted by the shot, she looked through the other proofs, gushing over some beautiful images of a local glassblower plying his craft in a restored adobe workshop, an old weaver creating intricate designs from carefully sorted, colored grasses while a cataract of gray hair spilled over one thin arm, and the profane, acid-tongued sculptor conducting light and metal in a symphony that both astonished and appallewant to end upd.
“You were good before,” Gallinardi told her, pulling the shot of Zeke from the stack to look at it again, “but this work proves you’ve truly come into your own—and I promise you, I mean to use every contact at my disposal to see your genius is recognized. And rewarded as it should be.”
“Thank you, Antoinette. I can’t tell you what this means to me. I…” Rachel hesitated, on the verge of admitting there was a problem with the permission form Zeke Pike had signed. But at the thought of the lawsuit and all the money she owed her father, she hesitated until Gallinardi mentioned an appointment.
Rachel nodded guiltily and let the moment pass.
Thursday, February 28
Hampered by his healing foot, Zeke was forced to take things slowly over the next two weeks. He tended his animals and worked on crafting smaller pieces he could manage while seated, and after driving to The Roost for lunches, he lingered longer than usual.
He was resting, that was all. Resting and healing, not hoping to catch a glimpse of Rachel, or maybe share a meal with her if she wandered in while he was eating. But it seemed that since he’d seen her last, she’d ripped a page out of his playbook. Most times when he spotted her, it was at a distance, usually while she was working as ground crew for the gliders. On those few occasions he did manage eye contact—as he had several minutes ago, when she had run inside the café to snag a bottled water—she barely gave a tight nod and a “How’s the foot?” before saying “Gotta run.”
What the hell had happened to the smiles, the friendly banter, her offer to take him flying? Over at his place on that chilly morning with the horses, he’d felt something—some connection. Hadn’t he?
It occurred to him, as he dutifully polished off his weekly salad, that maybe he’d misread the signals, or worse yet, whipped some pathetic fantasy out of a mirage. When it came to anything more subtle than the blunt offers he rebuffed from time to time, he was seriously out of practice. Or had he said something wrong, something unintended before she’d left? Once more, he struggled to recall his side of their last real conversation. Had he remembered to thank her for her help that day or for the pictures that would be used to publicize his work? He’d gotten bad at that, he knew. Gotten to the point where each word cost him.
Patsy looked up from the table she was wiping. “Ready for that pie yet? Pecan today.”
Probably trying to move him along, he thought, so she could finish her day. The Roost had never served dinner, and lately, she’d taken to closing earlier. Checking on her mother-in-law, she’d told him, until Rachel got home to her. Apparently, Rachel had moved out of the guest casita she’d been using and into the older Mrs. Copeland’s house.
He shook his head. “I’ll just get out of your hair.”
She paused to stare at him, her broad face disbelieving. “Made with genuine Fort Davis pecans, the way you like. I could box a slice up for you to take home.”
Manners wouldn’t kill him. He’d been taught once, hadn’t he? So there was no damned reason he couldn’t teach himself again.
“No, thanks.” He gave his stomach a pat. “Foot’s better, but all that sitting’s caught up with me.”
Patsy squinted, offered a scant smile. “Not so I can see. Sure there isn’t something else the matter? Something—or somebody—who’s out there motioning the tow plane to take up slack?”
On the nearest landing strip, the plane rolled slowly forward until Rachel spread her arms to indicate that it should stop. Turning back to the glider, she lifted the towrope for the pilot’s inspection. When he signaled his approval, she moved alongside the sailplane to lift and level its wing before making a circular motion with one arm.
The tow plane pilot—Zeke thought it was the relentlessly flirtatious Lili Vega—buzzed its engine louder and started down the runway. Pulled behind, the glider followed, but Zeke’s gaze clung to Rachel as she trotted along for a few steps before slowing to watch both planes take off.
She wore faded jeans with a light denim jacket, and her russet hair was falling messily from where she’d tucked it up beneath a blue “Soar Marfa” cap. But her focus was complete, her movements graceful as those of the pronghorns that grazed the pale, golden grasses outside the airfield, and he could barely tear his eyes away from her.
Patsy must have noticed, for she pulled out a chair at the next table and sat near him. “I’ve seen the way you watch, the way you’ve changed since she showed up here—”
“Don’t have any idea what you mean,” he said.
“I’m telling you,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “you don’t need that kind of trouble in your life.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He didn’t need Rachel Copeland. Wanted her, maybe, and dreamed about her often, but as for needing her—or any woman—he couldn’t. Damned well wouldn’t.
“I’ve known you a long time,” she said. “Almost as long as I’ve known that girl. Tell you the truth, we get on better. You and I, that is.”
He looked at Patsy, saw the disappointment, the frustration twisting her mouth.
“She’s always had a way of stirring things up. And now she’s finally poked one hornet’s nest that won’t die down.”
“You’re blaming her for that mess? Jury said she’s—”
“Walter always did encourage her. Thought that willful streak of hers was cute or, what did he call it, high-spirited or something. Went easy on her when she could have used a swift kick, time to time.” Patsy held up her hands. “Not literally, I don’t mean, but just a wake up. A little taste of consequences.”
It seemed to Zeke that Rachel had faced a lot of consequences lately. Thinking about it, he felt guilty for the twenty years he had avoided his. Had it really been for his mother’s sake, or had simple cowardice kept him rooted to this speck on the Texas roadmap?
“What do we do?” An anguished, young voice rose from the distant past. “We can’t let anyone—oh, goddammit. My scholarship—my dad’ll kill me.”
Zeke forced back the memory.
“Rachel’s being sued, you know that?” Patsy flicked her cloth across a tiny salt spill at the table’s center. “Civil court, for damages. Ten million, by the mother. That boy’s mama, she’ll destroy us. Destroy everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ll ever have. Bad enough, coming up with bail and keeping Rachel out of prison. But now we have to—”
“I don’t understand.” He s
hook his head in confusion. “Can they come after you, too?”
But he was thinking about Rachel, who had come here to regroup, recover. Rachel, who had helped him catch his horse and made him laugh.
Patsy gave a snort. “Course not, but that doesn’t matter. She hasn’t got a pot to pee in, but she still needs defending. And her father’s hired a new lawyer to file a response, since the old one says civil courts aren’t his ‘specialty.’ What’s Walter’s is Rachel’s, he tells me—which means what’s ours is hers, too, including the business I’ve worked at like a damned dog all these years, every bit of it on my own dime and my own steam. And I’m supposed to just put it on the table? Use it for collateral, all for a girl who can hardly stand to be in the same state with me?”
Patsy’s resentment made sense to Zeke. Day after day, he’d watched her work like a rented mule to run this place on her own, a business she’d built years before she’d married Walter Copeland. Still, he felt the need to put in, “I’ve never heard her say a word against you.”
“Doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought ’em. Rachel’s never seen me as any more than a piss-poor substitute for the mama she lost. Pretty mama, and oh so perfect—one hell of a lot better than Plain Patsy from the café.”
Zeke had no idea what to say to that, but Patsy expected no comment. He was a sounding board and no more. It was all he had to offer any woman, even a woman who’d been the closest thing he’d had to a friend for all these years.
Another glider swooped gracefully and landed. It was Walter Copeland with what Zeke thought was a student pilot. Patsy glanced at Rachel jogging in her father’s direction, then looked back at Zeke, her expression sour. Jealous, he thought, and wishing her stepdaughter had remained back East where she belonged.
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