by Janet Dailey
'I told you, I'm busy,' she hurried, feeling the pull of his masculine attraction even over the telephone lines. 'I have to wash my hair and—'
'Can't you think of anything more original?' his amused voice laughed in her ear. 'No man believes that excuse any more.'
'You're right,' Susan said with sudden determination. 'I don't need to make excuses. I won't go out with you tonight or any other night, Mitch. I'm engaged to be married.'
There was a short pause before he responded in a quiet voice. 'Is that your final word?'
A muscle constricted painfully in her chest. 'Yes,' she answered, trying to ignore the hurt.
'Okay,' Mitch sighed, reluctantly accepting her reply. 'Maybe I'll see you around some time,' he said in a shrugging tone that indicated he doubted the possibility. 'So long, beautiful.'
'Goodbye, Mitch.'
Something seemed to be burning her eyes as she hung up the telephone receiver. Nervously she ran a shaking hand through her dark silken hair, and blinked rapidly.
Drat the man! Why had he bothered to call? He must have known she would refuse to go out with him. And she had just begun to convince herself that she had heard the last of him. In fact she had even started to forget about him, at least partially, until this telephone call.
Why had she talked to him? she asked herself angrily. She should have hung up the phone the instant she recognized his voice. Or why hadn't she told Warren who was on the phone and let him deal with Mitch?
Since the first time she had met him, Mitch Braden had been disrupting her life, her senses, her emotions, and her relationship with Warren. She wanted to feel the peace and contentment she had known before she met him. Every time she thought she was about to obtain it, Mitch Braden popped up again, disrupting things all over again.
Now he had even confused her to the point where she was sorry that she would never see him again. What was worse, she seemed powerless to stop the sadness from invading her heart.
It was a good thing she wouldn't be seeing or hearing from him again. And it was a good thing that the race would be run this weekend and Mitch Braden would be leaving town within a few days after its conclusion.
Without him around to disrupt her, her life would settle into its previous pattern. The ripples his unexpected arrival had brought into her tranquil life would eventually disappear, without leaving any mark.
The logic didn't cheer Susan.
Her dark hair was caught in saucy pigtails on either side of her head, secured with ribbons of mint green to match the thin fabric of her short-sleeved polka-dot blouse. The wide legs of her white slacks swung about her ankles as she walked down the hospital corridor with Warren, the raised heels of her sandals clicking loudly in the hushed building.
'I told Father we might stop in this afternoon after our picnic,' said Warren. 'He's been waiting for me to bring you each time I've come to see him. I would have suggested it before, of course, except that the doctor thought it would be best to keep visitors at an absolute minimum the first couple of days after the operation.'
'I thought you said the operation took less time than expected and that your father had come through it in excellent shape,' Susan frowned.
'He did, but with his advanced years, it was still a shock to his system. We didn't want to take any risks of complication,' he explained. 'Here's his room.'
He indicated a door ahead and to Susan's right. She waited for him to open it, then walked into the semiprivate room. Robert Sullivan was partially sitting up in his bed, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked over the top of them and closed the magazine on his lap. He looked pale but otherwise in good health.
'Hello, Susan.' He extended his hand toward her and she walked to the side of his bed to accept its firm clasp. 'You certainly are the picture of a summer's day!'
Blinking once in surprise at the rare compliment from the usually taciturn man, Susan smiled. 'Thank you. You're looking quite fit, too. How are you?'
'Stiff, sore, and uncomfortable, but that's to be expected I guess,' he replied, releasing her hand and turning to his son 'Hello, Warren.'
Susan knew she had been dismissed and moved from the side of the bed to an armchair that stood near the foot. The partitioning curtain was drawn, concealing the second occupant of the hospital room, although the loud playing of a radio from the other side made Susan doubt that the patient would possibly be sleeping.
'That radio is awfully loud, isn't it?' Warren frowned in the direction of the curtain.
'Yes,' his father sighed heavily. 'I wish he'd turn the volume down.'
'Would you like me to ask him to do it?'
'No, no.' Robert Sullivan impatiently waved aside the offer. 'The man's half deaf. He can't hear it if he turns it any lower. Besides, I've already told him I didn't object. He doesn't have it on very often.'
With that explanation, Warren's father shifted the conversation to an article he had just been reading concerning a supreme court decision recently made. Susan wondered if he had any interest outside of his profession.
It didn't really matter, she decided, glancing at Warren and smiling to herself. They had had a wonderful time on their picnic. Warren had brought along a bottle of wine to go with the meal she had packed. He had taken her to a secluded spot alongside the rapids of a river. The setting had been idyllic, just the two of them alone, talking about their plans for the future.
Susan had been so contented lying on the blanket in his arms. She had hated it when they had to leave. Yet the rosy afterglow of the moment was still with her, maybe the aftereffects of the wine she had drunk.
Leaning back in her seat, Susan relaxed, not minding now that she wasn't the sole object of Warren's attention. From the other side of the curtain, the radio dial was turned, jumbling music together until it was finally stopped to the sound of a radio announcer's words.
'And now we'll go trackside with Jim Jensen and a report on the status of the Indianapolis 500.'
There was a roar in the background, followed by a second man's voice. 'Hello, ladies and gentlemen, this is Jim Jensen. Let me bring you up to date on the Indy 500. It will be no surprise to you racing fans out there when I say that the leader is none other than Mitch Braden.'
Susan clenched her teeth in frustration at the sound of his name. She wanted to rush over there and turn off that radio. The mention of the man's name seemed to destroy her contentment.
'He's been leading the pack since almost the beginning of the race,' the radio announcer continued.
'The first hundred miles Braden and another veteran driver, Johnny Phelps, jockeyed for the lead before Braden took command. He's been leading by a comfortable margin ever since.'
Trying to close her ears to the man's voice, Susan concentrated on the rainbow colors flashing from her diamond engagement ring. But her hearing seemed to grow more acute.
'The yellow caution flag has only been out three times. Except for those three minor mishaps, the race has been free of accidents. Twelve cars are out with mechanical malfunctions, but none of the drivers of those twelve cars were expected to be among the front runners today.
'If Mitch Braden does receive the checkered flag today,' the announcer's voice raised slightly as the background roar of racing engines grew louder, 'he's going to have to give a lot of credit to the outstanding performance of his pit crew today. They've been phenomenal. I say that because I see Braden is heading into the pits now. Let's take a few seconds to time him, and ladies and gentlemen, with that crew, a few seconds is all it's going to be.'
Suddenly the pitch of the man's voice changed. 'Braden is in the pits, slowing— An accident! In the pits!' Susan's eyes widened in alarm. 'It happened so fast! Braden was coming in, just starting to slow down, when Mark Terry, who was well back in the pack, accelerated out of his pit area. He couldn't have seen Braden coming in! His car ran right into the side of Braden's and rolled up on top of it!'
Her heart was in her throat, all the blood l
eaving her limbs until she felt chilled to the bone. It couldn't be happening! It wasn't really true!
'Terry has scrambled out of his car, seemingly unharmed, but there's no sign of Braden!' The announcer continued his eyewitness account in a fever-pitched tone. 'Emergency vehicles are already on the scene and I can see the familiar blue uniforms of Braden's pit crew. I don't see any sign of fire, but it's impossible to be certain. If Braden is trapped underneath Terry's car—' The thought wasn't finished, to Susan's horror, her imagination working much too vividly.
'I can see men working frantically on one side of Braden's car now! Yes, yes, they're pulling him out! He doesn't appear to be conscious. But of course we can't know how seriously he's been injured. That finishes the race for Braden, though. Johnny Phelps is the new leader. What a tough break, fans! They have Braden on a stretcher and are loading him into the ambulance. The Indy officials can be proud of the speed with which the rescue men reacted. I—'
'Susan. Susan?' Warren's frowning voice broke sharply in.
'Wh—what?' She looked at him blankly.
'You're as white as a sheet.' He walked swiftly to her side. 'Are you ill? What's the matter with you?'
She did feel sick. Her hands were cold and clammy when Warren clasped them firmly in his own. A black nausea was swimming before her eyes.
'I—I think I need a breath of—of fresh air,' she stammered. How could she possibly explain her reaction to the news of Mitch's accident? It didn't make sense to be so violently upset simply because she knew him.
Warren helped her to stand. 'Would you want me to go with you?'
'No.' Her knees were shaking badly as she shook her head in denial. 'I'll be all right in a moment, really. It's just a little stuffy in here. Ex—excuse me, please.'
Her rounded brown eyes bounced away from Warren's concerned gaze and she barely caught the frowning look from Robert Sullivan. She managed to force her legs to carry her into the hallway. Out of sight of the door, she leaned weakly against the corridor wall, breathing in deeply to quell the churning of her stomach.
The long gulps of air seemed to breathe strength into her limbs. The nameless terror that gripped her heart started to ease as her knees stopped their quivering.
'Susan?' Warren stood beside her, his eyes anxiously examining the pallor that remained in her face.
'You needn't have come.' She took another deep breath. 'I'm sorry I—'
'Don't apologize,' he interrupted, circling an arm under her shoulders and drawing her away from the wall. 'Let's get you outside in the fresh air.'
'I'm all right, really,' she protested weakly, but she let his strength carry her along. 'I just felt a little faint there for a moment.'
'Maybe it was the wine,' Warren suggested with a gentle smile.
'Yes,' she breathed, taking advantage of the excuse he offered.
The late spring air did its reviving act, returning color to her cheeks. The shock of Mitch's accident had dissipated, but a feeling of sick dread remained. When Warren suggested taking her home, she made only a halfhearted protest.
'Your father—' she began.
'—will understand perfectly. I'll call in to see him on my way to pick you up this evening, providing you're feeling fit enough to go out,' he said, helping her into his car. His solicitude made her feel even more guilty for not telling him the real cause of her upset state.
When they had driven out of the hospital parking lot, Susan glanced hesitantly at his carved profile. 'Do you mind if—if we turn the radio on?'
'Of course not.' He smiled at her crookedly, a frown of curious confusion drawing his dark brows together as he reached out to switch on the radio.
A news broadcast was on and Warren started to turn the dial to some music. 'No,' Susan rushed to stop him. 'That station is fine.'
Warren shrugged and left it there. Crossing her fingers in her lap that the news hadn't been on very long, Susan listened to a synopsis of the world news and swallowed when the announcer changed to the local scene.
Forcing a stoic expression into her face, she listened to a shortened account of the accident minus the terrorizing adjectives. A cautious glance at Warren caught him listening interestedly, too.
'—We do not have a report on the extent or seriousness of the injuries to Mitch Braden,' the announcer said. 'An ambulance attendant did say that Braden had regained consciousness in the ambulance. When we have more information, we'll pass it on to you.'
Susan's lashes fluttered down in temporary relief.
'Well, our Indy man seems to have had some bad luck,' Warren commented dryly.
Susan winced. 'Don't be flippant, Warren, please!'
'I didn't mean to sound callous.' He slid a questioning look in her direction. 'I may not like the man, but I certainly wouldn't wish him any crippling injury.'
Her heart catapulted into her throat. She hadn't considered the possibility that Mitch might be maimed or paralyzed. Her initial fear had been for his life. The prospect of that vital, handsome man chained to crutches or a wheelchair or a bed sent more sickening chills over her skin.
'I know you don't, Warren,' she replied, suppressing a shudder.
She leaned her head against the back cushion of her seat, closing her eyes and trying to achieve the indifferent interest Warren displayed.
'We'll be at your home shortly,' he said, misinterpreting her action and wanness as another sign of the dizziness she had suffered in the hospital and not connecting it with Mitch Braden's accident.
Soft music from the radio filled the silence. The soothing melody didn't penetrate Susan's thoughts, however. Her mind was replaying the last conversation she had had on the telephone with Mitch. She had been so sharp and so cold with him.
It hurt unbearably now to think that those might have been the last words she would exchange with him. She could have gotten the same message across with politeness and humor instead of being so indignant and rude.
The motion of the car stopped. Susan blinked her eyes open, recognizing the gracefully old brick home, and swung her head to look into Warren's dark eyes. He was half-turned in his seat, studying her quietly, his arm resting along the top of the cushion near her head.
With his forefinger, he reached out to touch the tuft of dark hair held by the green ribbon. 'You look more like a little girl who's had too many treats at the fair than a woman who's had too much wine,' he mused, then tilted his jet black head in concern. 'Are you sure you're going to be all right?'
'I'll be fine,' she smiled stiffly.
'You wait here,' Warren ordered, 'while I get the picnic hamper from the back.'
Susan did as she was told, remaining in the car until his supporting hand helped her out and guided her to the front door of her home. Only when they were inside did Warren release his hold.
'Oh, Susan, it's you!' Her mother appeared in the hallway, from the direction of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. 'I didn't expect you home so soon.'
'Susan isn't feeling well, Mrs. Mabry,' said Warren.
'It's nothing, Mom, really,' Susan murmured quickly as Beth Mabry walked forward with concern in her brown eyes.
'You do look a bit pale, dear.' She pressed a hand against Susan's cheek. 'You don't seem to have a temperature, though.'
'You two are making a fuss about nothing.' Susan tried to laugh. 'It's just a little headache and dizziness. If I lay down for an hour it will go away.'
'I'll call you about six-thirty to see if you feel up to going out tonight,' Warren stated. 'If she isn't feeling better in an hour or so, Mrs. Mabry, I hope you'll have your husband take a look at her.'
'I will,' Beth Mabry promised. 'Let me take that picnic hamper for you, Warren. And Susan, you go and lie down.'
'You do as she tells you,' Warren added, touching Susan's cheek with his hand in a goodbye caress.
Susan stared at the front door for several seconds after Warren had closed it, wishing that she could have shared some of the anxiety she was feeling wi
th him. But he wouldn't have understood. For that matter she didn't understand it very well herself.
'Would you like an aspirin or something, Susan?' Beth Mabry watched the unusual melancholy emotions flitting across her daughter's face.
'No, nothing,' Susan refused absently, and started toward the stairwell leading to the second floor.
A car pulled into the drive, the sound followed immediately by the slamming of doors and footsteps approaching the front door. Susan turned toward it, her hand poised on the banister. Her brother walked into the house ahead of his father. Greg's chin was tucked into his chest, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched forward.
In Susan's shock and subsequent worry, she had completely forgotten that Mitch had mailed complimentary tickets to the race today and that her father and brother had attended.
'Simon?' her mother exclaimed with some surprise. 'Is the race over already?'
'No,' he replied, glancing with concern at his son's bowed head. 'There was an accident at the track. Mitch Braden has been taken to the hospital.'
'No!' Her mother's denial was given in astonishment and fear.
Amy appeared at the top of the stairs, a hairbrush in her hand. 'Mitch is hurt?'
'I'm afraid so, kitten,' her father affirmed grimly, and Susan noticed the tightness of his mouth.
For all his outward control, Simon Mabry was upset, too. In his short acquaintanceship, Mitch Braden had managed to touch all their lives.
'Was it … was it very bad?' her mother asked in a voice barely above a whisper. Susan guessed that she was envisaging a flaming crash and remembered her own surge of terror at that imagined picture. 'Is he seriously hurt?'
'It was bad enough,' Simon answered. 'He was trapped for a short time under another car. We heard a radio report on the way home that he had regained consciousness before reaching the hospital, but nothing about any injuries.'