by Sheryl Lynn
“You’re stinky, Daddy.” She rubbed her cheek against his. “Whiskery, too.”
“I can’t shower and shave with you holding on to me.” He waited for her to ask about her mother.
Instead Abby prattled on about her kitten who’d disappeared somewhere upstairs and how she had hunted for hours before finding the animal in a closet. She told Ryder she’d slept on his bed, “’Cause it smells better than mine.” And she informed him that Mrs. Weatherbee had finally read her the latest Curious George adventure.
Not a single word about her mother.
Ryder’s depression deepened.
Mrs. Weatherbee convinced the child to go finish dressing. After emphatically informing her father that he best stay right here, Abby scampered up the stairs.
“Has she asked about Laura?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Only about you.” She pulled a sliced ham from the refrigerator. “The police came by last night.”
“Did you let them in?”
“No, sir. Should I have?”
His mind first registered her cool gaze as challenge. Then he suspected it was triumph.
Ryder slumped on a stool. He told the woman about Laura’s condition and how she’d gotten that way. When Mrs. Weatherbee failed to exhibit shock at hearing Laura had been shot, his depression turned black. “Any ideas about what Laura was up to yesterday?”
Shaking her head, Mrs. Weatherbee began making sandwiches. “It was shopping day. I picked up Abby and we went to the grocery store. I left around one-thirty or thereabouts. Mrs. Hudson was still in bed. Or at least, she hadn’t come downstairs. The police asked all that and more. I answered as best I could.” Her eyes flashed. “They wanted inside to look around. They even wanted me to open up your studio. No, sir! I watch television, I know what a warrant looks like and they didn’t have one.” Some of the fire faded. “Did I do right, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am. If I do let the cops in, it won’t be when Abby is around to get upset.”
He stayed at home long enough to shower, shave, eat a hearty meal and convince Abby that he’d be back home in time to tuck her into bed. He gave Mrs. Weatherbee explicit orders that if any police officers or detectives arrived, she was not to allow them into the house or anywhere near Abby unless they had a warrant. Even then, she was to contact him and his attorneys immediately. If the press bothered her, she was to let Tom Sorry handle them. If his agent or any gallery owners called, she was to take messages, but say nothing — he had no wish to see his personal life splashed across the tabloids.
When he returned to the hospital, Laura was still in intensive care, still critical. The cop was still posted outside her room. Doctors allowed Ryder into her room for three minutes. The nurses kept an eye on him as if he was about to go berserk and attack his helpless wife.
Laura survived the first twenty-four hours.
After forty-eight hours, she remained in a coma, but the doctors were able to take her off the respirator.
Investigator Becky Solerno obtained her search warrant. She and a squadron of deputies swarmed over and across Eagle Point — his house, studio, barns, vehicles and Tom Sorry’s cabin. They found blood and signs of a struggle in the horse barn. A blood trail showed where Laura had been dragged from the barn to the driveway.
They confiscated all of Ryder’s rifles and shotguns for firearms identification tests. Solerno didn’t gather enough evidence for an arrest, but she assured Ryder that wife killers always got caught.
After seventy-two hours, Laura’s condition was upgraded to serious but stable. When Ryder stroked her thumb, he felt positive her eyes moved behind her swollen eyelids.
Five days after the accident, when Laura had passed out of the acutely dangerous zone, Ryder finally went home and slept. When Mrs. Weatherbee shook his shoulder, he blinked blearily at her, trying to bring her face into focus.
“I’m up,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry to wake you.”
“S’all right. What time is it?”
The housekeeper checked the old-fashioned brooch watch she wore pinned on her bodice. “Near four o’clock.”
Disoriented, he scowled at the light shining around the draperies. “In the morning?”
“Afternoon. You about slept the day away.”
He bolted upright on the bed. He’d never in his life spent more than eight hours in bed. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“No need until now. Even Abby knows you need your rest.” She thrust a remote telephone at him. “But you have a call. It’s urgent.”
He eyed the phone. His heart thump-thudded painfully against his chest wall. “Hospital?”
“Bank. It’s a Miss Monroe.” She placed the phone on the bed beside him and turned away. “I’ll bring you some coffee.”
He picked up the telephone. “Ryder Hudson here.” He raked hair off his face and ears.
“Mr. Hudson? This is Judy Monroe at Colorado First. We have a serious situation.”
His life was turning into one big situation. “What is it, ma’am?”
“It concerns the joint checking account you and Mrs. Hudson maintain with our bank.” Papers rustled faintly in the background, then she read off an account number.
“Okay.” He scrubbed at his aching eyes with a knuckle. His body felt as if he’d gone sixteen rounds with a thousand pounds of angry bull.
“Let me explain in chronological order what happened. On Thursday, the account’s automatic teller machine card was used at the Safeway store in Monument. That was at 5:03 p.m. The card was used again an hour later at the north Academy King Sooper’s grocery store.”
Ryder snapped wide awake. Thursday. Laura’s accident had happened on Thursday. He listened in growing horror as Miss Monroe chronicled the ATM card’s use throughout Colorado Spnngs. On Friday, the card had been used in Pueblo, again only at grocery stores. The account had been emptied and overdrawn.
On Saturday, the card had been rejected by an ATM in Albuquerque. The user had tried to force the card, and the machine had confiscated it.
Miss Monroe cleared her throat. “This morning, one of our processors who read the newspaper story about Mrs. Hudson’s accident realized that your wife could not have used the ATM card at the times in question.”
Anyone could have used it. Despite common sense and warnings, Laura had written her personal identification number on the card sleeve so she wouldn’t forget it. “Have you called the police?”
“Not yet, sir. Have you authorized anyone else to use the ATM card?”
Robbery... Laura had been a victim of a robbery. He blinked stupidly. For the past few days, he’d been making inquiries at the hospital about Laura’s missing jewelry, including a diamond ring worth almost half a million dollars. He’d already contacted the insurance company so they could figure out if the jewelry had been misplaced or stolen by hospital staff. A robber, or robbers, must have come to the ranch and found Laura alone and helpless.
“Call the police. The ATM card was stolen.”
After he hung up, he jumped out of bed. He pawed through his shirts, jeans and jacket looking for Becky Solerno’s business card. He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been—he couldn’t believe how stupid the police were!
He finally found Solerno’s card and called her.
When the investigator came on the line, he told her, “My bank may have a lead on the person who tried to kill my wife.”
Chapter Three
She asked them, Please be quiet. Her head ached terribly and their voices cut across her skull like dull knives. The man and woman ignored her and continued their argument.
“Why are you always here?” His voice rumbled low and thick with unhappiness.
“I was in the area. Just thought I’d drop in to see how Mrs. Hudson is doing.” Her voice was mild, but stubborn.
“Ms. Solerno, we’ve been having these conversations for more than a month. I’m getting tired of you homing in on my visits to my wife. If you’re s
o hot to solve the case, why aren’t you chasing the people who stole Laura’s credit cards?”
“I’ve already explained that to you a hundred times. Those cards were probably sold within an hour of being stolen.”
“You’ve got fingerprints.”
“Not off the ATM card. Besides, fingerprints are only useful if they’re on file—as your foreman’s are. The person who used the card only used ATM machines where there aren’t any cameras. But as long as we’re talking about useful information, why don’t you fill me in about your girlfriend. I’m ready to listen whenever you’re ready to talk.”
He made a rumbling noise thick with disgust.
“Come on. The landlady said Teresa packed up on the spur of the moment. If she was so responsible and loyal to you, why is it you don’t know where she went? Why doesn’t anybody know?”
“She was shy, kept to herself. She wasn’t from around here anyway. She probably went back home. How many times do I have to tell you? Aren’t you about sick of hearing it?”
“She was also deep in hock,” Becky Solerno continued, “skipping out on student loans and hospital bills. People don’t just drop out of sight, Hudson. At least, not unless they have a good reason. A very good reason. From the sounds of it, Miss Gallagher had a good reason to be mad at your wife. She had good reasons for needing the money, too. What I want to know is your good reason for covering for her.”
“It’s real hard being polite to you sometimes, ma’am.”
“Don’t bother with polite. All I care about is the truth. Sometimes I think the truth is, you don’t care if I ever catch whoever shot your wife.”
“I care. But you’ve got it fixed in your head that I did it. Or that Tess did it. Instead of investigating, you’re making up conspiracies and affairs. Or maybe you’re getting all your information out of the newspapers. I’m telling you, it was a robber. If that’s not glamorous enough for you, then I’m plumb sorry.”
“Glamorous?” The woman laughed. “Do I look like I care about glamour?”
“You sure do like seeing your name in the papers. Do you reckon if you hang me, you’ll get yourself a promotion?”
“Ouch! That sweet-talking cowboy act is just that, isn’t it, Hudson? An act. You don’t fool me. And you know what? I bet it doesn’t fool your girlfriend, either. I bet you’ve got her stashed away somewhere while you wait for your wife to die. But just let me find her. How loyal do you think she’ll be when I turn up the heat?”
Heavy footsteps stomped nearby; she felt the vibration in her shoulders. She followed the man with her eyes until he came into focus. He wore a fawn-yellow leather jacket with fringes that swung against his shoulders with every agitated step.
“Her eyes are open. Laura?” he said, his voice gone gentle. “Can you hear me, darlin’?”
I hear you. Where am I?
He leaned over, peering intently at her face. Lovely eyes, she thought, as dark blue as twilight, but melancholy. His sadness touched her and she longed to caress his cheek and soothe him.
“I’ve heard that patients in a coma open their eyes in reflex. It doesn’t mean—”
“Get the doctor, Solerno!” he snapped over his shoulder. He touched the tips of his fingers to her brow. “Laura? You’re looking right at me, honey. Talk to me. Are you in there?”
Shh, she told him. My head hurts very much and I’m so thirsty my throat is filled with sand.
“I swear to God, she’s awake.” He fumbled at the side of the bed and caught a cord. He followed it to the end and pressed a call button.
Within moments the room filled with thuds, thumps, footfalls and excited voices. Hurting so badly she wanted to weep, she closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears. The voices melded into soup and drifted into gray.
When she opened her eyes again, the man in yellow leather sat beside her, his head bowed. Unruly brown curls fell over his forehead. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He’d been here all along, talking to her. He’d spoken of Eagle Point Ranch and horses and costume balls and fashion shows.
Other voices had told her she couldn’t walk.
A lie. She would walk... soon.
As soon as she figured out what was wrong with her body. She couldn’t move — except for her toes. Wiggling them sent cat’s claws scrambling from her feet to her hips. Her head hurt terribly. Her entire face felt smashed, squeezed beneath a heavy plate. The smell of antiseptic tickled her nose.
A hospital. The pink-and-lavender walls had fooled her for a while, as had the jacquard striped draperies over the windows and fine art on the walls. The room was much too pretty for a hospital, but the smells gave it away. Sharp antiseptic, flowery air fresheners and the iron-rich scent of medication meant she was definitely in a hospital.
The slight widening of his eyes said he knew she looked back at him. A thousand words jostled in her throat. A thousand questions. Knowing she hadn’t the strength to say all she needed to say, she chose her words carefully.
“Water... please?”
The man’s expression crumpled and his chin quivered. His beautiful, sad eyes filled with tears.
Her heart went out to this big, rugged cowboy. Oh, but she needed so desperately to drink and soothe her ravaged throat. “Water?” Her voice was as dusty as an August wind.
Her request produced chaos. The room filled with people. Two nurses hustled the man in yellow leather out the door. A short dark man, his name tag reading Dr. Millhouse, lifted her eyelids and flashed a light into her pupils. She tried to pull away, but couldn’t move. All she could do was endure as the doctor poked and prodded her.
He leaned over until his face was only inches from hers. “Mrs. Hudson, you’re awake. I can see you watching me. Don’t bother trying to talk. Blink for me. One blink for no, two for yes. Can you understand me?”
She blinked twice.
All she wanted was a drink, but he continued to question her about how much pain she felt as he manipulated her feet and hands. Gradually she came to understand that she’d been in a coma. Dr. Millhouse appeared highly pleased when she answered his questions.
She still wanted a drink, and finally, painfully, said so.
“Of course, of course,” he said, laughing. He ordered a nurse to help her drink.
Thirst slaked, she drifted back to sleep.
When she awakened again, she looked for the man in yellow leather. She wanted to thank him for his concern. He wasn’t in the room, and disappointment made her sigh. She recognized Dr. Millhouse. He stood at the foot of her hospital bed, holding a chart and speaking in low, earnest tones to a woman wearing a dark suit. She didn’t look like a nurse or a doctor, but her voice was familiar.
“You aren’t appreciating the seriousness of the situation, Doctor.”
“You’re jumping the gun, Investigator. Mrs. Hudson is a fragile woman. That she’s awakened at all is a miracle.”
“I won’t excite her. I won’t hurt her. I need to ask her about the shooting.” The woman thrust her jaw toward the doctor. “I’m convinced her husband tried to do her in.
He’ll try again. Are you going to send this poor woman home with a killer?”
“I’m not impressed by your melodrama.” Dr. Millhouse wrote on the chart with a flounsh and hung it on the foot of the bed. “Mrs. Hudson will remain in the hospital a minimum of five weeks, but probably closer to twelve. That gives you plenty of time to investigate.” He smiled sweetly. “But I think you’re wasting your time. Mr. Hudson strikes me as a devoted husband. He’s been here every single day—”
“He’s hoping to catch her awake before anyone else does.”
“Then arrest him.”
“I don’t have enough evidence. Let me talk...oh. She’s awake.” The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson.”
She mulled over the way strangers kept calling her Mrs. Hudson. It made her want to look around to see if there was someone else in the room. The man in yellow leather called
her Laura. That wasn’t right, either, but since she could not muster enough energy to tell him her real name, Laura it was.
“I’m Becky Solerno, sheriff’s department. I’d like to talk to you about the accident, ma’am.”
Laura looked helplessly at the doctor. He knew fifty times more than she did about how she’d ended up in a hospital bed. She didn’t even know what city she was in. Or what state, for that matter. Panic fluttered in her chest.
“All right, all right, you’ve got five minutes, Investigator. Yes and no questions only. She can blink in reply. Tubes have irritated her throat, so it’s painful for her to speak.”
“Fine.” The woman moved to Laura’s side. She smiled gently. “Do you know who did this to you, Mrs. Hudson?”
Did what? From the snatches of conversation she’d been able to follow, she felt certain she’d been in a car accident. She concentrated, trying to recall the date or even the time of year. Snatches of blue sky beyond the draperies told her nothing.
“I’m going to catch the person who hurt you. You can trust me on that. Do you feel up to talking to me?”
Laura liked the woman’s broad, sun-browned face, dimpled smile and earnest tone. Laura blinked twice.
“That means yes,” Dr. Millhouse said.
“Do you know who shot you, Mrs. Hudson?”
She didn’t understand the question. She blinked once.
“Mrs. Hudson, I have reason to believe your husband tried to kill you. Please cooperate. Did he shoot you? There’s another woman involved. Her name is Teresa Gallagher. She worked for your husband. Did she do it?”
The woman may as well have been speaking Greek for all the sense her words made. Laura couldn’t remember being married, much less having a husband who would shoot her. Perhaps she was asleep and dreaming. That was it. She had a lot of dreams, some pleasant, some horrifying, but all of them seemed at least as real as this pretty hospital room.
“This might be more effective if you’d wait until after I’ve conducted a neurological study,” the doctor said. “She suffered substantial brain trauma. A possibility exists that she’ll never remember anything about the accident.”