by Sandra Brown
In the early evening she watched the accounts of General Ratliff’s death on the network news shows. As Les had predicted, the entrance to the ranch was thronged with reporters and photographers. Police barricades had been set up to keep back the throng. Only locals or veterans who had served under the general’s command during the war were permitted to parade past the gates. Most of them left sprays of flowers.
Andy’s heart constricted when Lyon was shown coming through the gates to deliver a terse statement to the press. To the people who had come to pay their last respects to his father he was seen speaking softly, graciously, solemnly.
He was dressed as Andy had never seen him, in a dark suit and white shirt. His carriage, his control, the strength he exuded were impressive. Her throat ached with emotion. He put up a good front for the public, but what was he suffering in private? Has Jerri come home to comfort him in his time of need? Andy wondered. Instantly she regretted her peevishness, though the idea of his finding comfort in another woman’s arms continued to haunt her.
The following morning the news programs had little to report about the funeral, except that the President was flying in by helicopter from Lackland Air Force Base to attend the ten o’clock graveside service. The general was to be interred on the ranch.
Andy put on a chamois-colored shirtwaist dress and matching high-heeled sandals. She pulled her hair into a smooth bun and slipped small gold earrings into her ears.
By noon she had packed everything and loaded it in her rental car, planning to leave Kerrville for good as soon as she returned with the signed release and delivered it to Les. The crew, after they had covered the funeral from outside the gates, had gone on to San Antonio in hopes of catching a late-afternoon plane to Nashville. Though none of them spoke of it, Andy knew they had been affected by the general’s death.
At three o’clock Les came to her room to see her off. He had argued for her to leave earlier. She had refused.
“When will you be back?” he asked.
“When I get it signed,” she said. His irritation made his red hair stand on end. To clarify the ambiguity of this, she said, “I don’t know what I’ll find when I get out there. The police may still be there. I don’t know if I’ll get anywhere near the place. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
He was still throwing daggers at her as she wheeled out of her parking space. Her hands were so damp, they slipped on the steering wheel of the car. What she had told Les was true—she didn’t know what she’d find when she got to the ranch, but she almost wished she wouldn’t be able to get in. She dreaded meeting Lyon face to face much more than facing a police barricade.
There was no barricade, only the same guard who had been at the gate the day she arrived. Hundreds of sprays of flowers were wilting in the summer sun. She drove the small car up to the guardhouse and lowered the window.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hidy,” the man said. His eyes were red-rimmed and Andy’s heart twisted with compassion.
“I’m Mrs. Malone. I was with—”
“Yes, ma’am. I know who you are.”
“I was wondering if I might go in for a few minutes.”
He took off his hat and scratched his head. “I don’t know. Mr. Ratliff said no one was to go in.”
“Would you call the house for me? Tell him it’s very important that I see him just for a moment.”
“I guess I could do that.”
He ambled back into the guardhouse, and Andy could see him dialing and then speaking into the telephone.
When he came back out, he was already reaching for the lever that opened the electric gate. “I didn’t talk to Mr. Ratliff, but Gracie said it was all right for you to come in.”
“Thank you very much.” She put the car in gear and drove in. The house and outbuildings were deserted. No ranch hands were evident, as they usually were, going about their chores. Even the cattle grazing on the slopes of the hills seemed abnormally still.
Before she could ring the bell on the front door, it was flung open and Gracie hurled herself at Andy. “God bless you for coming when you did, Andy. I don’t know what I would have done with him. He’s in his office, and I think he’s drinking. He held up so well. Then as soon as everyone left, he went sort of crazy, like. He won’t eat and practically threw a tray at me when I took it in to him. If he wasn’t so big, I’d whip him good for acting so hateful. You’ll go in and talk to him, won’t you?”
Andy looked with trepidation at the door to the room she knew was Lyon’s office. “I don’t think I’d improve his disposition, Gracie. I’m the last person he’d want to see.”
“I have my own opinion on that. I think your leaving is the reason he’s carrying on so.”
Andy turned to her in shock. “He just lost his father.”
“And he’s been expecting to any day for a year. He feels bad about it, no doubt, but it ain’t natural for a man to carry on so. He’s sick at heart, and it ain’t all because of the general’s death.” Her bottom lip quivered, and Andy reached out to embrace her.
“I’m sorry, Gracie. I know how you loved him.”
“I did. And I’ll miss him. But I’m glad he’s not feeling bad anymore. Now please go in and see to Lyon. He’s the one I’m truly grieving for.”
Andy lay her purse and the forgotten release form on the hall table. “You say he’s drinking and won’t eat?”
“Hasn’t had a bite since … I can’t even remember when.”
“Well, first things first. Bring me the tray you fixed him.”
Within minutes Gracie was back with a tray laden with cold fried chicken, potato salad, a gelatin salad, and slices of buttered bread. Andy took it from her and carried it to the door. “Open it, please.” Gracie did as she was asked and stepped back hurriedly, as if she expected to be fired upon from within.
Andy stepped into the darkened room, and Gracie softly shut the door behind her. The drapes on the wide windows had been drawn to prevent any sunlight from seeping in. The leather furniture, the heavy oak desk, and the overflowing bookcases contributed to the oppressive atmosphere in the room. That and the reek of whiskey coming from the opened bottle on the desk where Lyon’s disheveled head lay on his bent arm.
She walked farther into the room, making no effort to muffle her footsteps. When she stepped off the area rug and her heels tapped on the tile, he stirred, then raised his head.
She saw the roar forming on his lips. She also saw it die before it was uttered. Astonishment killed it. He stared at her blankly for a moment, then his bleary eyes focused and he snarled, “What are you doing here?”
Her first impulse was to drop the tray and rush to him, offering her loving condolences. But she knew he would resent that kind of sentimentality and rebuke her for it. She’d have to be tough and meet him head on. “I would think that was obvious. I’m bringing you something to eat.”
“I don’t want anything. And I especially don’t want you, so leave. Now.”
“You may have terrorized your housekeeper, but you can’t frighten me. I don’t scare easy. So why don’t you act like a civilized adult and eat this food. Gracie is sick from worrying about you. Personally I don’t care if you hole up in here and drink yourself into oblivion, but she does. And I do care for her. Where do you want it?” Without waiting for an answer, she clunked the tray down on the desk in front of him.
“I didn’t see you with the rest of the bloodsuckers this morning. Oversleep?”
“Insult me if it makes you feel better, Mr. Ratliff. You’re very good at insults. Also rudeness, stubbornness, and chauvinism. I didn’t know, however, that you were prone to cowardice.”
He lurched out of the chair unsteadily and had to brace himself on the edge of the desk. “Cowardice?”
“Yes. You’re a coward. You seem to think that you have a monopoly on misery. That you’ve been singled out to suffer unduly. You don’t know the first thing about suffering, Mr. Ratliff. I’ve talked to a man witho
ut any hands or feet. Do you know what he does? He’s a marathon runner.
“I’ve interviewed a woman who was paralyzed by polio from the neck down. Her condition is so bad that she lives on her back in an iron lung that does her breathing for her. She smiled during the whole interview, she was so proud of her artwork. Artwork? Yes! She paints by holding a brush between her teeth.”
“Wait a minute! Who appointed you as my conscience?”
“I did.”
“Well, save it. I never said that there weren’t others far worse off than me.” He flopped back into his chair.
“No, but you exult in your martyrdom because your wife left you. You’re holding a grudge against the whole world because of her.” She propped herself on her arms as she leaned over the desk. “Lyon, grief for your father is justified,” she said softly. “But don’t lock yourself away in here and let your wounds fester. You’re too valuable.”
“Valuable?” he asked on a bitter laugh. “Jerri didn’t think so. She was unfaithful even before she left.”
“So was Robert.”
His head snapped up, and his bloodshot eyes looked at her for a long time. Then he dragged his hands down his face, momentarily distorting the ruggedly handsome features, stretching the skin of his face downward like a rubber mask. When it settled back in place, he reached for the liquor bottle. Andy held her breath, then released it slowly when he recapped the bottle and put it in the desk drawer.
Looking boyishly contrite, he said, “Pass the chicken, please.”
She relaxed the tension that was holding her shoulders erect and slid the tray over to him. He laughed. “How many is this for?”
“Gracie said you hadn’t eaten for a while. She thought, you’d be hungry.”
“Join me?”
“There’s only one plate.”
“We can share it.”
Gracie nearly upset her cup of coffee as she jumped up from the table in the kitchen when Andy carried in the empty tray.
“How is he?” Gracie asked cautiously.
“Full,” Andy laughed. “I ate some, but he demolished every morsel. He’d like something to drink. Not coffee. I think with a little encouragement, I might be able to get him to sleep for a while.”
“I’ll fix a pitcher of iced tea.”
“Yes, that would be good. Gracie,”—she paused before voicing her next request—“I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything after what you’ve done for Lyon.”
“Call the Haven in the Hills and leave a message for Mr. Trapper. I don’t want you to give it to him, because he’s going to be upset and you don’t deserve the verbal abuse. The message is that he will get what he’s waiting for in the morning.”
“He’ll get what he’s waiting for in the morning.”
“Yes.” She wasn’t going to mention the release to Lyon now. His mood was mellow, and they were communicating on a level they never had before. She didn’t intend to do anything that would jeopardize this new trust he had placed in her. “You’d better notify the man at the gate that under no circumstances is he to let anyone else in today.”
“Right,” Gracie said smartly.
“I think that’s everything. With any luck Lyon will be asleep shortly.”
“Thank you, Andy. I knew you were just what he needed.”
Andy nodded, but she didn’t say anything before carrying the tray with the pitcher of tea and two tall glasses into the office. Lyon was no longer seated behind the desk, but sprawled on the leather sofa with his eyes closed. His hands were folded over his belt. He was in shirtsleeves. His vest, coat, and necktie were heaped on a chair.
Andy crept toward him on silent feet. She got to within inches of him before he opened his eyes. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Just resting.”
“Would you like some iced tea?”
“Yes.”
“Do you take sugar?”
“Two.” She shuddered. “I take it that means you prefer your tea unsweetened.”
“I was remembering that syrup I had to drink at Gabe’s. He must use three or four teaspoons in every glass.”
“Why did you drink it?”
“I had to do something while I was getting up the courage to speak to you.”
“Robert cheated on you?”
The change of subject was so abrupt that Andy’s face revealed the same sudden shock as it had when she’d first learned, through a “friend,” of her husband’s unfaithfulness. “Yes.”
Lyon sighed and traced patterns on the frosty glass with his fingertip. “I’ve taken many women to bed. I think that most of those times were mutually enjoyable. But never while I was married. I demanded absolute fidelity from both of us. I think that’s the way a marriage should be.”
“You probably learned that from your father. Gracie said that even after your mother died, he had no interest in other women.”
“He loved her up until … until he died.”
That opened the floodgate, and he began talking about his parents, particularly about the father whom he had loved and respected. “It wasn’t easy being the son of a living legend. Sometimes I resented that. Everyone expected more of me because of who my father was. His self-imposed exile had an effect on my youth. For instance we never traveled as a family, never went on vacations. When I was older, he let me go on trips with friends and their families.”
He talked about the funeral, the flag-draped coffin, the President and his kindness.
“Are you a political proponent of his?” she asked.
“Not at all, but he’s an awfully nice man.” They laughed and he asked her about the current President’s predecessor, whom she had interviewed.
She began telling him how the interview had come about, but after she had gotten a few sentences into her tale, she saw that his eyes were closed and his head was listing to one side as it lay against the back of the sofa. She took the half-full glass out of his hand and set it with her own on the coffee table. Waiting a few minutes until his breathing was deep and even, she put her hands on his shoulders and eased his head down onto her chest as she positioned herself in a reclining position in the corner of the sofa.
He stretched out quite naturally in his sleep to lie beside her. She measured the breaths that struck her skin in moist puffs. Her fingers sifted through his thick dark hair, and it curled around them like silken tentacles. She touched his face, loving it. Her hand smoothed down his broad back.
Once he adjusted his head more comfortably on her breast. The word he murmured might have been her name, but it might have been only her wishful imagination. She held him tight, whispering endearments and expounding on the love she’d never have had the courage to speak of if he were awake. Then she, too, slept.
When she awoke, he was kissing her breasts through the cloth of her dress. His hand stroked down her stomach to find her femininity and cup his hand over it.
“Lyon?” she whispered.
“Andy, please,” he groaned, “I want to make love.”
Chapter Ten
I need you. Right or wrong, whether it makes sense or not, I need you, Andy.”
Her fingers burrowed in his hair. There was no resistance on her part as the buttons on her dress fell away, nor when her brassiere was undone. He buried his face in the velvet cleft between her lush breasts. He was like a child seeking sustenance as his mouth planted frantic kisses on her flesh.
The man who was usually controlled and adept became clumsy and incompetent as he sought the hemline of her dress. She aided him in ridding her of restrictive undergarments. He grappled with the zipper of his trousers, haste making his movements jerky and desperate.
He came to her without preamble, but her body was ready to receive him. She sheathed him completely and tightly, taking his pain and sorrow and heartache into herself. With each thrust he emptied himself of bitterness and callousness. She accepted it. If her body could give him this comfort, then she wanted to be the remedy f
or his spiritual illness. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love. And when it was over, she was grateful for the chance to have loved him unconditionally, giving all, receiving nothing.
Not speaking, not moving, she held him fast while he rested, his head a beloved burden on her shoulder. She listened to each breath, cherishing the sound. His heartbeats were absorbed by her breasts, and she gloried in that steady throbbing.
He raised his head. When he saw the tears rolling from the corners of her golden eyes into her hair, he was filled with remorse. “God, Andy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He left her, and the awkward attempts he made to restore her clothing were endearing. He cradled her head against his chest and stroked back her hair.
“I don’t know what happened to me. I didn’t even kiss you before … What a bastard I am. I made you cry. You must feel ravished. Raped. God, I’m so sorry,” he choked out.
She lifted her head and held his face between her hands. “Stop this. Now. I’m crying because I’m glad you needed me.”
“I did. I do. I can’t imagine that after the last two days this would be what I need, what I want.”
Her smile was tender as she smoothed the black brows. “You’ve been obsessed with the thought of death. I think you needed to know you were still alive. To celebrate life.”
His eyes were like glowing coals, gray at the edges but smoldering with fire in their centers. “Is it even possible, that with all that’s happened between us, the animosity, the anger, the mistrust, that I’ve fallen in love with you, Andy Malone?”
“I don’t know. Is it? I hope so. Because I love you very much, Lyon.”
“Andy.” Her name was a reverent whisper as his thumbs caressed her lips. Then he chuckled softly. “Andy. I never thought I’d love someone named Andy. Much less think I was going to die if I didn’t kiss this Andy.”
Then his mouth was open and moving over hers. He made up for the swiftness, the near violence of what had happened moments ago with the gentle leisure of this kiss.