THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING

by Anne McAllister

  When she finally caught a taxi back home after the birthday dinner they shared at Lazlo's and the requisite post-dinner brandy in Antonia's apartment, she'd had every right to congratulate herself.

  Now she woke and yawned and stretched and wiggled her toes, glorying in the late lie-in she'd promised herself this Saturday morning.

  Of course she would have to get to work eventually. There was still the missing reference, after all. But she could take her time going through her desk, and if it wasn't there, well, she could go back to the library at NYU and try to find it again.

  After all, she didn't have anything else planned all afternoon. And no one was going to pester her about Channing Richardson.

  She rolled over, anticipating another half hour's snooze.

  There came a knock on the door.

  Madeleine frowned, then dragged herself out of bed and pulled on her robe. It was probably Alfie, come to return the dress and regale her with the story of her latest heartthrob.

  She padded out to the living room and opened the door.

  "I've brought you a copy of the book," Antonia announced, brushing past Madeleine into the room.

  "Book?" Madeleine stared after her blearily.

  "On puberty in the Marshall Islands." Antonia waved the book in her face. "You were so interested. You did want to read it, didn't you?"

  "Well," said Madeleine. "Um," she said.

  "I was certain you would."

  "Er … of course."

  "Or—" Antonia's brows lifted above the tops of her glasses "—were you just expressing interest to avoid talking about what's been bothering you?"

  Madeleine gave herself a little shake. "Bothering me? Nothing's bothering me. What makes you think something's bothering me?"

  "You didn't even mention him."

  Madeleine felt a distinct sense of foreboding. "Him whom?"

  "Channing, of course."

  Who else? Madeleine thought heavily. "What about Channing?"

  "He came by yesterday, didn't he?" Antonia took off her coat and gave every indication of settling in. She marched into the kitchen and put on the kettle.

  Madeleine followed her and turned it off again. "So what if he did?"

  "I wondered why you were such a scintillating conversationalist last night," her mother said. She smiled like the Cheshire Cat. "I didn't think about Chan until this morning." She turned the kettle back on again.

  "I don't quite make the connection," Madeleine said irritably. "And I don't want a cup of tea, Mother."

  "But I do."

  "You don't drink tea."

  "It is never too late to begin," Antonia said loftily. "Tell me, dear, what did you think of him?"

  Madeleine scowled. "What was I supposed to think? I mean, my God, Mother, he's a cowboy!"

  Antonia smiled. "I wondered if you'd notice."

  "How could I not?" Madeleine said darkly. She got down a cup and saucer for her mother, thumping them onto the counter with rather more force than was actually necessary.

  "Scared you, did he?"

  "Scared me? Of course not!"

  "Of course not," Antonia mocked lightly. "How long did you talk to him?"

  Madeleine reached for the sugar bowl. "Not long," she said to the cupboard.

  "Did he like your apartment?"

  "I don't know."

  "He didn't say?"

  "He didn't come in!"

  "You didn't invite him in?" Antonia was clearly horrified.

  I was naked, Madeleine wanted to shout. "I was getting ready to have dinner with you. I didn't have time. He showed up completely unannounced."

  "I left a message saying he was coming," Antonia said in a wounded tone.

  "I missed it."

  "Well, even so, I would have understood if you'd called and said you'd be late."

  "We had reservations."

  "You should have brought him along."

  "I didn't want to bring him along!"

  "Ah, I see." Antonia perched on the bar stool at the kitchen counter and regarded her daughter pityingly.

  Madeleine scowled. "What do you see?" she muttered after a moment.

  "You really are afraid of him."

  "The hell I am!"

  "Don't swear, darling."

  "I'll swear if I damned well please! And I am most certainly not afraid of him! What a completely ridiculous notion!"

  "He's not at all what you're used to." Antonia went on as if Madeleine hadn't protested at all. "Strong, tough. Not exactly your standard professorial type."

  "That's for sure. But it doesn't mean I'm afraid of him," Madeleine said grumpily.

  Antonia's brows lifted. "No? Well, perhaps not. But you're doing a marvelous imitation of it." Then she smiled gently. "I suppose I should have guessed."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Well, you've always led a rather sheltered life where men are concerned, and—"

  "I have not!"

  At that outburst Antonia did blink.

  "How can you say such a thing," Madeleine protested, "after Malcolm and … and Douglas … and … well, after Malcolm and Douglas." She wasn't mentioning Scott. Antonia had been out of the country during her months with Scott. She wished she hadn't brought up Malcolm or Douglas, either. Nerdy Malcolm and tweedy Douglas weren't in Channing Richardson's league, and both she and her mother knew it.

  "Malcolm," Antonia echoed. "And Douglas." As if that said it all.

  Madeleine was glad her mother didn't know about the fool she'd made of herself over Scott. She squared her shoulders. "I am not afraid of him, Mother."

  "Whatever you say."

  "I'm not!"

  "Fine, you're not," Antonia said agreeably. Too agreeably, damn it. "Perhaps it's yourself you're afraid of."

  Madeleine slapped her palms on the counter. "For heaven's sake!"

  "Well, we do all have these biological urges, dear."

  "You're afraid I might jump his bones, you mean?" The words came out at almost a squeak.

  Antonia smiled blithely. "You said it, not me."

  Madeleine could do nothing more than make an inarticulate sound in the face of that remark. Her face was flaming. Her fists were clenched.

  "Perhaps," Antonia went on, "it's more that you're afraid to be around him? Afraid you might like him just a little?" She gave her daughter a teasing smile.

  Madeleine didn't deign to reply.

  "Well, it does make one wonder."

  The kettle whistled. Antonia lifted the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea, concentrating on trailing the tea bag around in the water, letting Madeleine fume. "Sure you wouldn't like one?"

  Madeleine snorted.

  "Suit yourself. I wonder what Julia will say when I tell her." Antonia removed the tea bag and added a spoonful of sugar to the cup. "Well, I daresay she'll understand," she said sadly after a moment. She sipped the tea and made a face. "She knows it should have been Trevor."

  "It shouldn't be any of them, Mother," Madeleine said firmly.

  "But you wouldn't have been afraid of him."

  "Mother!"

  Antonia sighed. "Well, if you don't want the book, I'll just take it with me." She slid off the bar stool and, fetching her coat, started toward the door, leaving her tea on the counter, still steaming.

  Madeleine stared after her, dazed. "What about your tea?"

  Antonia waved an airy hand. "Oh, you're quite right, dear, as usual. I don't much like it."

  * * *

  Sometimes you whipped the bull. Sometimes the bull whipped you.

  Last night Chan had got a 84 and a win. Tonight he got kicked in the head.

  At least that's what they told him happened. He didn't remember. Didn't remember anything from the time the chute gate opened and he and a dun-colored bull called Clint's Revenge burst out into the arena, until he came around in the medical room with some doctor shining a light in his eyes and asking him his name and the date and where he was.

  Where he was…?<
br />
  Hell, even when he hadn't been kicked in the head, it could take him a while to remember where he was. It wasn't like he stayed in one place very long, was it?

  "Concussion," the doctor decided. "You really should go over for X rays."

  "Don't need 'em," Chan muttered, lifting a hand, wincing as he touched the lump on his temple. His head spun, and he felt sick when he lifted his head. "I'm fine," he said.

  But he began to wonder if he was, when the doctor disappeared momentarily and his face was replaced by another one.

  An unexpected one. A decidedly female one framed with oceans of springy dark hair. She had milky white skin, a smattering of freckles and wide green eyes which stared down at him.

  He shut his eyes, disbelieving. He had never hallucinated before in his life, but he supposed there was always a first time.

  Carefully he opened his eyes again. She was still there, peering down at him doubtfully.

  He squinted, doubting, trying to focus. He lowered his gaze to her breasts.

  By damn, it was her!

  "I've been thinking," Madeleine Decker said.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  "Huh?"

  "I said I've been thinking," Madeleine said briskly, "and I think we need to prove it to them."

  "Who?" he said, still dazed.

  "Whom," Madeleine corrected absently. "Our mothers, of course."

  "Huh?" At this point monosyllables were all he was capable of.

  "We need to prove to them that we don't belong together."

  He tried to bring her into focus. "How?"

  "By being together."

  "Huh?" All right, so he wasn't doing justice to this conversation. But what the hell did she expect, busting in here like this, talking about God knew what?

  He tried to focus again, but suddenly there were two of her. Two Madeleine Deckers? God Almighty. It was more than he could stand. He closed his eyes again.

  "Excuse me, miss." The doctor's voice cut in. "I need to get an ice bag on his temple."

  "Oh. Of course." She stepped out of the way, and Chan felt a towel wrapped around ice press against his temple, over his eyes.

  "Hold this," the doctor said.

  Somebody did.

  "Hey, doc, c'mere. I think maybe Trabert's punctured his lung."

  The doctor moved away. Chan lay there, the cold towel pressed to his temple, covering his eyes, as he listened to the shuffling of feet.

  "Lie down here. Get his shirt off," the doctor said.

  The cowboy coughed, making a gurgling sound.

  "Call for the ambulance."

  More feet shuffling, a door banging shut, then open again. Metal sounds of a gurney being wheeled in. "Here. Careful with him."

  "I got 'im."

  Chan heard Gil curse.

  "Careful, I said," barked the doctor. "Come on. Move it."

  More thumping and shuffling. Another door banging. Then silence. Almost.

  "God," Madeleine said. Her voice was right next to him.

  Startled, Chan reached up and pushed away the hand that held the compress to his head. It was hers.

  Their gazes met.

  There was only one of her again, thank God. One was more than enough. He tried to remember what she'd said. Something about being together?

  No, she couldn't have. He must've imagined it.

  He frowned. "What're you doing here?"

  "I told you. We need to talk. Are you all right?" she asked him for the first time. He saw a sort of perplexed concern in her eyes as she looked down at him.

  "I've been better."

  She pursed her lips. "I don't know why you aren't dead. It's a damned stupid thing to do, riding bulls."

  "Nobody's asking you to do it."

  "Nobody should ask anybody to do it."

  "Nobody does."

  Their gazes locked again.

  God, his head hurt. He let out a long breath and shut his eyes and moaned.

  "Don't faint," Madeleine said urgently. "You can't faint."

  He opened his eyes again and regarded her blearily. "Why not?"

  "Because … because I'm the only one here."

  "So leave."

  "Don't be an ass, Richardson. I'm taking care of you."

  "The hell you are!"

  "I am. I'm putting on the compress. The doctor handed it to me. What was I supposed to do? Hand it back?"

  "Give it to me." He held out his hand.

  "No." She held it against his temple again, glaring at him as if she expected he might try to fight her for it.

  If he'd thought he'd have won, he would have. Tonight, though, all bets were off. He didn't have the strength to fight a kitten. It hurt even to glare at her. He had to shut his eyes once more.

  "Don't—"

  "I'm not going to faint," he growled, his fingers plucking irritably at the plastic on the cot. "Stop worrying. I promise I'll tell you if I'm going to."

  "Thank you."

  "Don't mention it."

  He didn't know how long they stayed there that way. He didn't faint precisely, but he had trouble keeping his eyes open, and he might've dozed.

  Next thing he knew, the doctor was back saying, "Rodeo's over. Everybody's gone. Everybody but you, that is, Richardson, and my roper with the broken fingers. I really think X rays would be a good idea."

  "An excellent idea," Madeleine put in.

  "I don't need—"

  "But I suppose, perhaps, you'd need to have brains to see that," she went on over his protest.

  "Fine," he snapped. "I'll get X rays."

  The doctor flashed him a quick smile. "Good. You'll go with him, won't you?" he said to Madeleine. "St. Luke's-Roosevelt, all right? I'll just give them a call to let them know you're on your way. I've got to see to the roper, so if you'll excuse me…" And he was gone, leaving Chan and Madeleine alone again.

  Chan wished like hell the doc had taken her with him. "I can manage on my own," he said gruffly.

  Madeleine got up and moved away, but she didn't leave, just stood watching him, waiting. Daring him, undoubtedly.

  He gritted his teeth, trying to muster enough willpower to get himself vertical. Finally, slowly, carefully, keeping his head as steady as he could, Chan levered himself to a sitting position.

  The room spun giddily. His fingers tightened on the edge of the cot.

  "Go see if Wiley's out there," he commanded.

  "Who's Wiley?"

  "My buddy. Short guy. Red shirt. Brown hair. And a black eye," he added as an afterthought.

  "He went with the punctured lung."

  It figured. Wiley and Gil Trabert had been down the road together a time or two, and Trabert was in worse shape then he was. "Never mind, then. I'll get a cab."

  "You'll fall over before you reach the sidewalk."

  "So step over me."

  "God, you're a jerk, Richardson. Come on." She grabbed his arm and steadied him as he shoved himself to his feet.

  "I'm all right now," he said, trying to shrug her off.

  "Sure you are," Madeleine said in a tone that meant exactly the opposite. She started hauling him toward the door.

  "I need my rigging bag."

  "I've got it."

  Chan grumbled, but she didn't let go of him all the way down the corridor out of the building and onto the sidewalk.

  The noise was deafening. Cars zipped past, buses lumbered and blew out exhaust. Horns honked, sirens wailed. Underfoot the subway thrummed. His head felt as if someone were pounding a jackhammer right into it.

  Madeleine raised her arm and flagged down a taxi. "In you go," she said and scrambled in after him before he could protest. "St Luke's-Roosevelt," she told the driver.

  Chan leaned his head back against the seat and shut his eyes, not opening them again until Madeleine said, "Here we are."

  Carefully he eased himself out of the cab. "Thanks." He started to fish in his rigging bag for his wallet, but Madeleine had alr
eady paid the driver.

  "This way," she said and took him by the arm and towed him down another long corridor. Chan let himself be towed. It was easier than fighting with her about it.

  Emergency rooms, he'd discovered long ago, were pretty much the same wherever you went. In New York City that was still true, only more so.

  There were more people, more knife wounds, more gunshots, more broken bones, more blood, more paperwork, more waiting.

  Chan filled out everything he could, then sank down on a cracked plastic chair, closed his eyes and let it all wash over him indifferently.

  Madeleine sat beside him. Every time his eyes flicked open he could see her, straight as a fence post, next to him, breathing shallowly, knotting her fingers in her lap until at last they called his name.

  Thank God they wouldn't let her come with him to get his head X-rayed and the cut on his temple bandaged. "So long," he said and smiled as they led him away. He looked forward to coming back and finding her gone.

  When he did an hour later she was right where he'd left her, still sitting rigid as a poker. She looked up and watched as he crossed the room toward her.

  "Thought you'd've left," he muttered.

  She shook her head.

  "Somebody nail you to the chair?"

  "My mother."

  "What?"

  "She would have wanted to know why I didn't stay."

  He frowned at her. "Why would you even tell her?"

  "I wouldn't have to. She'd know."

  It was said with such fatalistic simplicity that Chan couldn't doubt it. Besides, he knew his own mother was capable of the same omniscience.

  "Are you finished?" Madeleine asked him.

  "Gotta wait for the results. Feel free to leave."

  Of course she didn't. She opened the magazine she'd been holding and began to read again.

  Chan slumped once more onto his chair. It was another forty-five minutes before the nurse came toward him.

  "Good news. Your cranial X rays show nothing, Mr. Richardson," she said.

  Chan blinked. Madeleine's lips twitched. She tried unsuccessfully not to laugh.

  The nurse looked at Madeleine reproachfully. "It still isn't a laughing matter, you know. A blow to the head is always serious. He needs quiet, rest, someone to wake him periodically. Can you do that?" she asked Madeleine doubtfully.