Triple Exposure

by Colleen Thompson

  “For your own sake,” Patsy said, “you ought to head home and go on about your business. You don’t want to get tied up in this. You don’t want to end up hurt for a girl who’s itching to run off to some big city the second she’s able. She’ll do it, too, when she’s wrung everything she can from Marfa. And from us.”

  Zeke stood and pushed in his chair.

  “Guess I’d better get back to it. Lunch was good,” he managed. More words than usual for him, but fewer than the flock that flapped around his head. Questions, mostly. Had Rachel withdrawn from him because she was upset about the lawsuit? Or was the friction within her family getting to her?

  Stay the hell out of it, he warned himself as he climbed back into the old pickup. He’d survived this long by keeping his life simple, clear of the complications that came with other people. Besides, now that he was getting around better, it was time to get back to work in earnest. The kind of hard, physical labor that would take his mind off the gnawing frustrations that took root in idleness. Maybe he’d trailer the horses to the Davis Mountains and ride out today, take an axe and break up some more wood. His mind recalled the twisted, desert deadfall he’d spotted on his last trip out there. It would make a fine headboard. Maybe he could fill in the mesquite’s natural gaps with some more of the turquoise inlay that had caught Rachel’s eye.

  Under the spell of the bed he envisioned, Zeke was jolted by the sight of the access gate to his place standing open. Which, damn it all, meant customers, who would look and talk and eat into his day like termites and at the end of things, might easily drive away “to think about” an acquisition.

  But it was a necessary evil. Since he and his animals all liked to eat and the skinny pinto’s vet care had set him back more than he’d planned, he steeled himself to deal with a tourist, or maybe a couple…

  Which left him completely unprepared for the half-dozen expensive vehicles parked around the building and the well-dressed men and women strolling about the place. Every mother’s son among them looked toward him eagerly as he pulled up by the corral.

  “What the hell?” he asked, his brain struggling to catch up with the reality of this group, this crowd, at his place. Sure, he occasionally found people waiting; he even had a hand-lettered sign on his gate inviting customers to come in (Daylight Hours Only). Other locals, who ran the hotel, the bed-and-breakfasts, or rented casitas to the tourists, sometimes sent guests his way after giving them a rundown of his stipulations. If the workshop door was closed, wait outside. Don’t waste time with a lot of chitchat. And whatever price he set was his price, not a starting point for some drawn-out negotiation.

  As his reputation slowly grew, many of his visitors started tiptoeing around him, their eyes alight with the novelty—or maybe it was the sport—of appeasing a prickly-tempered craftsman who really didn’t give a damn whether or not he got their business.

  But today’s crowd didn’t tiptoe; instead, it all but mobbed him as he walked to his display room.

  “I just love your work,” one woman gushed. “Tell me, do you have another table like that one from the photo essay?”

  “Could you make me one, too?” a small man in tight, black leather jeans asked him. “Only I’d adore one with coral in place of the turquoise. It would go perrrfectly in my loft.” want to end up

  With the ice broken, the other customers bombarded him with questions, picked up smaller items without invitation, and filled the echoing space with so much happy chatter, Zeke couldn’t help remembering the family gatherings—the noisy, boisterous, joyful celebrations—he had long since left behind.

  The thought started an ache, a sick throb that slid from head to stomach like a raw egg. But he couldn’t heed it, not now, could only take the tourists, one by one, or in pairs, and help them so they’d leave him to his work.

  As he did so, there were excited murmurs such as “trend in the making” and “new must-have,” so many that he began to regret giving Rachel Copeland permission to take and use her pictures after all.

  But later in the afternoon, when he realized he had pulled in several thousand needed dollars, he decided it had been worth a few short, uncomfortable hours away from the work that he enjoyed. What he didn’t know—and would have sent him fleeing for the mountains had he guessed it—was that this afternoon was only the beginning of an onslaught far beyond anything he could imagine or control.

  Tuesday, March 4

  The day began deceptively well, with Rachel submerged in a neon-bright dream where Antoinette Gallinardi and her fellow art groupies stood around the planned May opening and applauded Rachel’s brilliance while Terri Parton-Zavala scowled from nearby, acid green. Caught up in their enthusiasm, the art lovers spontaneously took up a collection to buy Rachel’s way out of the lawsuit so she could focus her full attention on her work.

  From there, things went downhill. First off, Rachel woke up. If that wasn’t bad enough, her mind insisted on replaying last week’s horrifying conversation with her newly hired attorney, who had told her an investigator working for the plaintiff had uncovered, in an online storage vault Kyle had been using, a new batch of photos of the two of them “together.” Only these photos supposedly looked different. Rachel pushed back welling nausea, along with a memory of the testimony of one of her other students, part of a small group she had joined for dinner after they had all attended a fine art photography show one evening. Though she’d ordered nothing stronger than a diet cola, her behavior that night had supposedly been “reckless” and “provocative.” Rachel had wept to hear what she’d sworn had been lies—vile lies from a male student who had been a friend of Kyle’s—but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t remember a damned thing about that night, other than starting to feel as if she’d been coming down with something, maybe the flu. She certainly didn’t recall going anywhere with the youngest member of her class. But what if…

  No. I would never do that. Dr. Thomas has it all wrong. Besides, the experts proved the last pictures were fakes. They’ll do the same with these.

  Fear drew a dark curtain, one she opened her eyes to escape. Only to be greeted by the sight of James Dean lifting a leg and watering the pair of jeans she’d left hanging from her laundry bag.

  “Demon spawn!” Other problems instantly forgotten, she tossed a pillow to distract him. The little round head turned her way, its expression a study of contempt in black-and-white.

  Her grandmother’s head poked in the door he had apparently pawed open. “Is Grandma’s little angel being naughty?”

  “Just paying me back for that last bath.” Taking a deep breath, Rachel struggled to put the dog’s act into perspective. She’d wash the jeans, a far easier task than wrestling the scratching, snapping Boston terror anywhere near water. Glaring at the enemy, she said, “If you’d just stay in the yard and out of people’s garbage, we wouldn’t have to go through that ordeal so often.”

  J.D. laid back his ears and bared a set of crooked teeth.

  “And you have a hideous underbite, too,” Rachel added.

  “Well, someone needs her caffeine.” Her grandma crossed chunky arms over the thick, pink terry of her bathrobe. “Shall we start you an IV drip?”

  Rachel smiled. “No, thanks. I promised I’d stop by The Roost this morning.”

  “After checking my medications,” the old woman said peevishly, “so you can give a full report to your spymaster.”

  “Oh, Grandma.” Rachel climbed from bed and went to her, though she had to dodge a snarling J.D. Wrapping her grandmother in a hug, she said, “We worry about your health because everyone wants you around forever. Because we love you, Grandma. I love you.”

  Her grandmother cupped her cheek with stubby fingers. “I know you do. I know, and Walter and Patsy both think they’re doing right, too. It’s just that I’ve taken care of myself for a lot of years.”

  “And now I’m helping out just a tiny bit, so you can take care of me right back.” At the sound of a soft growl, Rachel
looked down. “And your sweet angel J.D., too. Which reminds me, how’d you like me to run him by the vet’s this week and see about that neutering?”

  She’d suggested the procedure in an attempt to curb his wandering, be a responsible pet owner, and even reduce the dog’s chances of getting testicular cancer in the future. But Rachel had to admit there was a smidgeon of payback mixed into the equation, too. Especially since he had just peed on her favorite pair of jeans.

  “James Dean struttin’ around this town without his nuggets?” Her grandma smiled and shook her head. “Now I know I’ve lived entirely too long.”

  After leaving her grandmother’s house, Rachel ended up eating at The Roost with Lili Vega, who felt the need to fill her in on every detail of her recent love life. Or lust life, since it seemed to be comprised of a slew of hot flirtations, some periodic quick gropes, and an occasional sweaty tumble with the odd cowboy or pilot. With the emphasis on odd ….

  “And after the bar closed, he took me out to the viewing area,” Lili went on, referring to the park where visitors watched for lights, “but the only mysteries he was looking for were the ones under my sweater. Such a naughty boy, and such a dirty talker—”

  “Better get to work now.” Rachel’s stomach curled as Lili’s words nudged memories of courtroom testimony and ugly late-night phone calls. She bussed the table herself and said, “Thanks for the great omelet, Patsy. That ought to keep me going all day.”

  When Patsy didn’t look up from the pancakes she was cooking, Rachel wondered if she’d been heard. But Patsy had ignored her enough of late that she didn’t push her luck by repeating herself.

  As she and Lili left, they heard a soft WHO-who-WHO from the rooftop. Though Rachel ignored it, the younger woman shuddered.

  “What is it?” Rachel asked her.

  “Oh, nothing.” Lili glanced over her shoulder, toward the pair of owls, and a flush blossomed, deepening the color of her flawless olive skin. “Just one of my abuelita’s silly superstitions.”

  Rachel smiled, gaze fixed on sleepy yellow eyes. Huge as they were, the horned owls looked frowsy and rumpled at this hour, misleadingly harmless for a pair that picked the area clean of everything from small rodents to jackrabbits. “My grandma’s just as full of those old wives’ tales. Guess it’s an occupational hazard for old wives.”

  Lili twirled the tip of one short pigtail, streaked a vibrant pinkish color against the silky seal brown. Her nails were badly bitten, the polish sadly chipped. “Then let’s you and I don’t ever get old. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Rachel agreed, though stress already had her feeling decades more mature than Lili, who claimed to be twenty-six and not eighteen as she appeared.

  As they walked toward the Copeland Gliders office, Lili continued chattering. Though Rachel had come to agree with her dad’s assessment of Lili as a skillful pilot, her “girl talk” had all the depth of a gentlemen’s club billboard.

  Near the fuel pumps, Lili stopped and grinned a challenge. “Seems to me you’ve paid enough dues doing ground crew grunt work. Don’t you think it’s time to find your wings? Up there on your own, where you can really get into it?”

  “I don’t know if I’m quite ready. My allergies have been acting up again and—” With a shake of her head, Rachel put the brakes on her knee-jerk hesitation. She’d been medically cleared and drilled extensively, then checked both by her dad and an FAA designated pilot examiner. But all the tandem flying in the world had not restored her confidence. Or was she dragging her heels on flying solo for other reasons?

  She sucked in a deep breath. “You’re right—even if I suspect you’d really like me to get comfortable so you can take a day off now and then.”

  Lili mugged a wounded pout. “It’s Bobby who’s wanting more time off lately. His brother and his family moved back to the area—I forget where, exactly—and they’re making up for lost time.”

  “Really?” Rachel was thrilled to hear it, knowing what this chance to reconnect with any family member must mean to Bobby. The tragedy he’d caused twenty years before was terrible. Beyond terrible, but he had suffered so much in the years since. Suffered and worked like hell to rebuild his shattered life from scratch. Facing the wreckage of her own life, Rachel took his progress as a sign that she, too, could work her way back from the brink. “I’d be happy to pitch in if it’ll help him.”

  “You should have known I wasn’t asking for myself.” Lili sounded hurt. “I tend bar two or three nights a week over at the Psychedelic Scorpion—a girl’s got to pay the bills—but the airfield’s the spot for meeting the most gorgeous specimens. Speaking of which, what’s Tall, Dark, and Silent doing here so early?”

  Rachel turned her head toward the slamming of a truck door near The Roost. But instead of heading inside, Zeke shaded his eyes with a hand and scanned the area—until he spotted the two of them.

  “Oh, my God, he’s coming this way,” Lili whispered. “He’s never set foot on the airfield. I’ve done everything but strip naked and spread out in front of his lunch, but he’s never taken any kind of notice. Whoa, he doesn’t look too happy, does he?”

  “Oh, boy.” Rachel felt the blood drain from her face. He knows about the photo. She could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the ruthless efficiency of his stride. “This could be the day I make good on that promise not to get old. Because he’s going to kill me.”

  Lili shot her an alarmed look. “What do you mean, ‘kill you’? What did you do to him?”

  Rachel nearly choked on a hard swallow. Or maybe it was guilt. “You might want to have your ear protection handy. Because there’s about to be a lot of shouting. Very loud and very soon.”

  Head down, Zeke came close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw, the redness of his face. Rachel’s heart pounded with a memory of a male silhouette looming above her. Of the Big Bang that took one life and shattered hers forever.

  Lili stammered, “I—uh—I promised your dad I’d check the schedule, then call him at home to let him know what we have going for the day.”

  “Maybe you should see if Bobby’s somewhere handy.” Rachel glanced at the mountain of muscle bearing down on them before adding, “Or the state militia.”

  Lili backed away, looking nervous, and spoke loudly enough for Zeke to hear. “I think I should probably stay out of this business. I, uh, I’ll just step inside the office, give you two some privacy.”

  “Lili,” Rachel ground out through tightly clenched teeth. She could have strangled the younger pilot, but there was no stopping Lili, who was already heading for the office door.

  “Now it’s official,” Rachel told Zeke. “You’re intimidating children.” And women, too—or this one. But she didn’t mention that, even though her body’s shaking telegraphed her fear.

  He reached out, quick as thought, and grasped her elbow before half-dragging her around the corner of the nearest hangar, out of sight of both the office and The Roost.

  “Hey,” she yelped. “What the hell? Get your hands off me. You have no right—”

  “Did you have any right to take this?” He let go of her to pull a Sunday newspaper supplement from his pocket. Unfurling it, he thrust the photo in her face. “Do you have any damned idea what you’ve done?”

  Something more than fury—could it be fear?—flashed over his expression. But Rachel had all she could to master her own terror—and the intermingling of past and present. Zeke doesn’t hurt women. He isn’t Kyle Underwood, and the kind of candid photos I took weren’t anything like…

  Her own anger blasted to the surface. Anger that she’d been reduced to a quivering, speechless victim by Zeke Pike’s size and booming voice. She thought of her dad’s concern that this past year had “knocked all the starch” out of her. Thought of how she had allowed her fears to keep her grounded.

  “Get out of my face and we’ll discuss this,” she said with every bit of courage she could scrape together. “Calmly, or there’s not going to be a c
onversation.”

  “You damned well owe me an explanation.” Zeke’s green eyes sparked with barely contained rage, and he was shaking, too, with the raw power of it. “If I’d known—if I’d had any damned idea this would be about the area’s ‘artists’ more than the work, I never would’ve—I’ve been overrun this week. Strangers, even some woman who owns a gallery in Dallas, buying every scrap I had to offer. There were a lot of whispers, lots of strange looks—even from—from certain men.”

  He looked so disturbed about that, Rachel might have laughed—if she had dared.

  “But I never understood,” he went on, shaking his head, “until some giggling lady and her boy-toy pulled this out and asked for my fucking autograph.”

  “Soooo…business has been good?” Rachel smiled hopefully, desperate to spin something positive out of the situation.

  “You couldn’t’ve missed the damned point any better if you’d been spun around blindfolded.”

  “Look, I’m sorry you’re upset, but I asked you to look through all of the photos before you signed the release form. And besides, what the heck are you so afraid of? If you don’t want people bugging you, just lock your gate.”

  “You’re full of it and you know it. You were supposed to be photographing the things I make, not me. And I sure as hell had no idea you were sneaking around my place spying on me, shooting pictures when I wasn’t looking.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking around, Zeke,” she said. His words echoed through her brain, as jarring as the clank of the jail-cell door the day she had been booked, as horrifying as the idea of photos shot while she had been incapable of protest. After swallowing hard, she mumbled lamely, “You told me to come back that day.”

  “But you knew—you damned well knew what I meant. And you’ve talked to me enough to know how I feel about my privacy. Hell, I don’t even have a decent sign to bring in business. If it weren’t for the bed-and-breakfast and the hotel people talking—”

  “That photo, Zeke…Can’t you see—”