by Alison Kent
“You mean chase your tail, like you do?” he snapped. “Stay so busy you can’t think or feel, or figure out what you want, what makes you happy? Like with your boyfriend. You said you didn’t even feel it when it was over.”
“You’re right. I didn’t.” The words stung. They were her own and they dug deep. “I don’t know what love is, okay? I can’t do it. I’m empty, okay?” Her voice went high and her heart banged her ribs. “Why would you want a person like that?”
His eyes flared with emotion. Was he going to say what she wanted him to? Because I love you. Because I want to be with you for better or worse, richer or poorer, ranch or high-rise. That was her foolish hope.
“Good question,” he said, pulling back, his blue eyes distant now. “We live completely different lives. It’s stupid to fight it.”
“Right. Exactly. You’re finally making sense.” Deck’s face wavered before her eyes and two tears dropped to the table. She swiped them away, pretending they hadn’t fallen.
Deck ran his thumbs across her wet cheeks, not letting her get away with pretending. “We tried,” he said softly, his anger gone. “At least that.”
She nodded, trying to smile, though more water dripped from her eyes.
Deck wiped it away, too. “My offer stands, Callie. The money’s yours whether you leave tomorrow or never speak to me again.”
“I don’t know…I mean…that would help a lot.” It was true.
“There’s one condition, though. Don’t sign anything with Taylor Loft until I find out what he’s up to. Promise me that.”
“I promise.” She looked into his eyes, their clear blue gone gloomy as a monsoon-stained sky.
They’d had a chance, a moment, to work this out. It was like they’d stood at the edge of a canyon and instead of helping each to safety, they’d jumped off, each alone, giving up altogether.
14
TREMBLING AND MISERABLE, her mind spinning from her quarrel with Deck, Callie wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball on her bed and cry it out. Why did this hurt so much? She’d fallen in love with Deck. Or at least what passed for love with her crippled heart.
Was Deck in love with her? She didn’t know. For all his friendly warmth, there was a wall behind which he hid.
Neither had said the words, of course. They were two poker players trying to bluff each other into folding first.
What kind of love was that?
Callie was a complete mess, but there was no time to feel sorry for herself. She had to talk with her father about Deck’s offer—and Taylor’s—and figure out what to do. She had to apologize for letting him down with the ranch. She’d tried before, but the words jammed in her throat.
Fighting back her pain and sorrow, she forced a smile on her face and headed for his room. Just as she reached it, the door flew open to reveal a terrified Dahlia holding a bloody towel. “Thank God, Callie. He fell and hit his head.”
Callie rushed in to find her father on the floor, holding a bloody washcloth to his forehead.
“I got dizzy…hit the bureau,” he said, but he was clutching his chest, too. “It looks worse than it is. I’ll be—oh.” He bent forward, overcome by pain, gasping for breath.
“Call 911!” she shouted at Dahlia, running for another cloth. When she looked at the injury, the cut seemed too shallow for so much blood. What was wrong?
Her father groaned, opened his eyes, then vomited onto the floor. “I’m sorry, Callie. I don’t want you to see this.” He was in so much pain he couldn’t hide it from her. “I can’t…catch…my…breath.”
“We’ll get you to the hospital, Dad.”
“This can’t be happening,” Dahlia said, sounding more outraged than scared. “I made him better.”
What the hell was she talking about? “Is your car out front?” Callie asked, not willing to argue with the woman.
Dahlia nodded.
“Then let’s go.” They formed a carry hold with their arms and got her father downstairs, outside and into the back seat of Dahlia’s car.
Callie climbed in beside him. “Drive fast,” she snapped, pressing the blood-soaked cloth against her father’s forehead. Was it a heart attack? Had the medicine failed? Why so much blood?
Dahlia drove as Callie had told her to. They didn’t speak to each other and, after what seemed like forever but was only twenty minutes, they jerked to a stop at the emergency entrance. The moment was painfully familiar. Only a few weeks ago, Callie had made a similar trip. This time she was even more scared.
Again her father was rushed away. This time, however, instead of Deck, she had Dahlia at her side, pale as a ghost and wringing her hands.
Callie didn’t deserve Deck’s comfort anymore. Leaning on his strength had been cheating in a way. Taking care of yourself was best.
Once the papers had been filled out, Callie led Dahlia to the now-familiar waiting room. Neither of them spoke. Callie was too scared to even pace this time.
After an hour, the nurse told her she could see her father. The doctor would soon be in to talk with him.
“Can I come?” Dahlia asked, looking so scared Callie had to invite her along.
They pushed quietly into the room. Her father looked puny in the bed, hooked to an IV, getting oxygen, with all the tubes and monitors, grayed by the fluorescent light. The gauze bandage on his forehead was stained with a surprising amount of blood.
“Dad?” she asked softly.
“Callie…Dahlia. It’s so good to see you.” His words were slow, his smile loopy. Pain meds, no doubt. “What a lot of fuss for a blood-sugar drop and an upset stomach.” He tried to pat Callie’s hand, then Dahlia’s, half missing both of them.
“Is that what the doctor said?” Callie asked.
Her father didn’t respond.
“You have to tell me what’s going on, Dad.”
Dahlia patted his shoulder. “We’ll get you out of here and get you treated, Calvin,” she said firmly.
Callie bristled at her bossiness. “What are you talking about? He is being treated. Right here. In the hospital.”
Before Dahlia could respond, a tall man in a lab coat breezed in, studying a clipboard. He looked up and smiled. “Ah, well. You’re all here. I’m Dr. Reynolds.”
They introduced themselves. Barely acknowledging them, the doctor dropped onto a rolling stool and scooted close to the bed. “You feeling any pain, Mr. Cummings?”
“None whatsoever,” her father said, his eyelids drooping. He looked like he would nod off any minute.
“Good…good,” Reynolds murmured, skimming the clipboard with a frown. “Seems like we have a puzzle here, Mr. Cummings, looking at your lab results.”
“We do?” Callie asked.
“Have you been taking the medicines as prescribed?”
“Huh?” Her father seemed foggy and slow to grasp what was being asked of him. “Have I been—”
“He hasn’t taken any pills,” Dahlia interrupted. “I’ve been treating him with herbs.”
“Really?” The doctor turned to Dahlia, rolling a few inches in her direction. “Exactly what have you administered?”
“Herbs to help his heart and prevent clots, of course. Sweet woodruff and foxglove, some white willow.”
“Plant-derived medicines can be as potent as prescription drugs, sometimes more so,” he chided. “Herbs are not to be toyed with.” His patronizing tone annoyed Callie.
“I follow guidelines,” Dahlia said nervously.
“Strength varies, preparation techniques, too. Herbs can interact with pharmaceuticals and each other.” Now he was lecturing. “Amateurs can do more damage than they realize.”
“I’m always very careful—”
“Adulterations are common,” he said, talking over her. “There’s no regulation of the industry to speak of.”
“But I grew the woodruff and foxglove myself.”
Foxglove. With a jolt, Callie remembered that was the purple-and-white flower in the pots Dahli
a had put by the door. Sweet woodruff were the low leaves with white blossoms. Dahlia was growing the killing herbs on her father’s own porch.
“You were poisoning him,” she blurted. She’d thought the teas were just nasty-tasting placebos, not killer plants. She remembered feeling odd after she’d had some of Dahlia’s teas.
“I was healing him,” Dahlia said, tears running down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Calvin. I was careful. I was. Truly.”
“Now, now,” the doctor said, “let’s see what we can find out.” He rolled to a computer terminal and clicked keys. “I’m pulling up a phyto-pharmacology guide. Luckily I took a seminar about this very thing not long ago. Name the herbs again?”
“Foxglove for his irregular heartbeat and sweet woodruff and white willow to prevent clots.” Dahlia’s voice shook. “The white willow came from a very reputable supplier.”
The doctor clicked a few keys, then read out loud. “Foxglove…the dried leaves are a source of digitalis…used to correct arrhythmias.” He clicked again. “Sweet woodruff contains courmarin, a blood thinner. Hmmm.” More clicking. “Same with white willow—the original source of aspirin.”
“I’m so sorry.” Dahlia broke into sobs.
“Don’t cry, Dahlia,” her father said, sounding dozy.
The doctor held up his hand. “Hold on. It’s not that simple.” He flipped a page on the clipboard. “You’d have to pour gallons of tea down his throat to get this result.” He turned to Callie’s father. “What’s the story, Mr. Cummings?”
“Huh? Wha—” Her father’s eyes flew open.
“You’re getting too much medicine, sir.”
“I took the pills, too,” her father said in a low voice.
The doctor gave a pleased laugh. “That explains it then.”
“You what?” Dahlia asked.
“I filled the prescriptions. I wanted to do all I could.”
“You didn’t trust me to heal you.” Dahlia sagged.
“I didn’t think your teas did anything. I was scared. I wanted to be safe, but I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Safe? You could have died, Dad,” Callie said.
The doctor had the grace to stay silent, but she could see by his expression that she was correct. Her father could have killed himself doing what he’d done.
The three of them looked at each other. Callie didn’t know who she was more upset with—her father for risking his life, Dahlia for messing with dangerous drugs or herself for not being more vigilant.
“I was trying to help you, and all the time you were laughing at me,” Dahlia said. “Humoring me.”
“I wasn’t laughing, Dahlia.”
“I never would hurt you.” Dahlia shook her head. “If anything had happened to you because of me—” She put her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with horror, then rushed from the room.
“Go get her, Callie. Talk to her,” her father said. “She’s such a sensitive person.”
“We’re all upset, Dad. Let’s let everyone calm down.” Callie wasn’t sure what she would say to the woman if she caught up with her.
“It was my fault. I took the pills without telling her. Don’t blame her.”
“For now just get well,” she said.
The doctor explained they would give her father medicine to reverse the effects of the excess drugs and give her father’s system time to clear itself.
If all went well, her father could return home the next day. She tried to tell herself she was lucky it hadn’t been more serious, but the thought of losing her father took her right back to the terror she’d felt when her mother died. This time Deck wasn’t here to talk her out of her panic.
When the doctor was gone, Callie gripped her father’s hand. “I could have lost you, Dad.” Tears blurred her vision.
“I was stupid. I thought the teas were harmless.”
“I should have checked on them, paid more attention.”
“That’s not your job, Callie. I should have told Dahlia the truth.”
“But she pressured you about everything—your diet, the ranch, dragging you to Tucson. No wonder you lied to her.”
“That’s no excuse. Dahlia was looking out for me.”
She almost killed you. Callie couldn’t say it, not with her father so upset. Meanwhile she’d let her father down in a terrible way. “I’m so sorry about the ranch, Dad. I blew it, I know, but I’ll make it right, I swear.”
“You didn’t start the fire, Callie. That was an accident. Just like this mess with me was an accident.”
“I should have been more cautious,” she said. “I was in too much of a hurry. I ignored fire hazards to make things look good.” She shook her head, digging her nails into her palms in frustration. “We’ll bounce back, I promise.”
“I’m sure we will. Do what makes you happy, Callie.”
She had to talk to him about the offers. Her father seemed alert now, but still…“I wanted to talk about some options, but maybe we’ll talk once your head clears.”
“What is it, Callie? Tell me. I’m awake.”
“Taylor Loft offered to buy the river acres. The price is good.” She told him the price, explained Deck’s loan offer and how if they doubled bookings they could squeak by. As she talked, she felt her energy drain away.
“You sound exhausted, Callie.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, forcing a smile, taking a deep breath so she could pretend optimism. “Just give me a good night’s sleep and I’ll be ready for battle.” She bit her lip.
“What do you want to do?” Her father’s tone was firm, no-nonsense. “Really and truly.” He grabbed her gaze with his.
“What do you mean? I want to save the ranch for you.”
“What about for you? Do you want it for you? Tell me the truth now. No sugarcoating, like you said.”
She swallowed hard, surprised at the naked concern in his face. “I came here to help you, Dad. I love the ranch, sure, but your whole life is here, your memories of Mom.”
“My memories of your mother are here.” He tapped the side of his head. “They’re always with me. I wanted the ranch for you, Callie.”
“For me?” She stared at him.
“Everyone needs a home. I thought that once you got out here, you would decide to stay.”
“But, Dad, my life’s in New York.” She remembered when she’d first arrived, he’d joked that she might stay. But he’d been serious about it. With a jolt, she realized Deck was right. She and her father hid important things from each other.
“Are you saying you don’t care about keeping the ranch? That you’d sell?” The implications of that trickled through her.
“The ranch gave me a lot. After Colleen died, it kept me busy so I didn’t dwell on how much I missed her. But I realized when I met Dahlia that I’ve been a hermit. If your mother were alive, she’d have kicked my butt for sure.”
“You mean it’s not Dahlia dragging you away, saying the ranch is killing you?” Her voice went high and sharp. “If I’d known that…” Her face burned and her chest felt tight.
“What, Callie?” he asked gently. “If you’d known…?”
She was too upset to fake it. “I never would have come. I would have told you to sell it and be happy. I would have stayed in New York. Avoided all this work and worry and agony and arson charges and—” She stopped herself. She had enough sense not to say heartbreak. “You should have told me, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, Callie.” Her father was clearly hurt by her words. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly.”
Her stomach bottomed out. She hated upsetting her father. “It’s a shock to learn this now, that’s all. And the fire has thrown me off.” She tried to make up for her words. “Of course I want the project to succeed. No worries.”
“Do you want to take the loan and hang on or would you rather sell out altogether? It’s up to you, Callie. Whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what I want,” she blurted. Without warning
, she burst into tears. She knew her crying would alarm him, but she couldn’t help herself. “I’m sorry, Dad. I want to be optimistic for you. You’re ill and I don’t want to make you feel worse, but I’m a complete mess right now.” She wiped her cheeks, swallowed hard, fought for control.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s okay. Did you hear the one about the two tomatoes on a hike…?” His voice shook.
“One was too slow, so the other one turned around and slapped him and said, ‘Ketchup.’” The old punch line came out wobbly, but she managed a smile.
“That’s my girl,” her dad said. “We’ll both be all right.”
That had always been their way. Joke away the sadness, pretend everything was fine. It felt hollow and wrong now.
“Sometimes I feel bad, Dad. That’s how life is. You don’t have to fix it for me. All I need is your love and support.”
“You have it. One hundred percent. A father will always worry about his daughter. If I can save you pain, I’ll do it.”
“I know.” She felt the same about him.
“What do you want to do with the ranch?” her father asked again. “It’s your decision.”
Sell, get out, get away, go home.
But that was her automatic response. She’d invested too much into the makeover to walk away now. She took a deep breath. “I want to accept Deck’s loan and see what happens with the fire. I want to make the resort work. I do. If we sell, it won’t be until we can get the most money for it.”
That meant more time here, but it was the right thing to do. She would see it through. She would not run. Not until she was finished. For her father and for her.
THE BEST THING about investigating Taylor Loft was it kept Deck from moping over Callie. For the first time, he saw the advantage of her system: keep moving, keep doing, never let your mind rest and you’ll never feel hurt or sad or heartsick.
Callie had inspired him after all.
And snapped his heart like a dried twig.
That wasn’t fair. They were just too different. She loved the insanity of the city. He preferred simpler pleasures—desert nights when the stars went on forever, the relief of shade on a July noon, the rolling thunder of a summer storm, the hard work of a good roundup. No field trip to Tucson for a stage play would convince Callie she could be happy here.