Tainted Gold

by Lynn Michaels

  “Are you sure you haven’t been crying?” Jason asked as they left Reuben’s and paused on the sidewalk under the green and red striped awning.

  Not yet, she thought glumly, but did her best to smile. “Positive. I’m just pooped. I haven’t been out of bed that long, either.”

  “Take care, Quill.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll see you when I’ve got the plans.”

  Hearsay, she told herself as she unlocked the Blazer and got in behind the wheel, you’re trying to convict Taker on hearsay evidence—and you don’t even know what you’re trying to convict him of. So he looks guilty. Guilty of what? There could be lots of perfectly good reasons why he was in Cassil’s office this morning.

  Slowly, Quillen drove home, her right hand on the wheel, her left elbow braced on the door and her fingertips pressed against her temple where the first faint throb of a headache pulsed. With any luck, she thought, sighing as she eased the Blazer up the drive and parked it in the carport, Miss Smythe will move out this afternoon. That’ll cheer me up.

  Definitely looking for things to lift her spirits, she walked up the drive to the front door and looked in her mailbox. There was, as she’d hoped, a check inside for the last cover she’d painted. It wasn’t quite enough to save the farm, but it was a step in the right direction.

  Sliding her key in the lock, Quillen turned it and pushed the door open. With one foot she stepped over the threshold, then fell back onto the porch, gasping and gagging. Her lungs heaved to draw a breath and she tasted—gas!

  Whirling down the steps, she raced toward the house next door to call the fire department, then spun around in the middle of the yard. Tucker was gone, Jason and Paula worked, Miss Smythe volunteered at Cassil Springs Hospital—Mrs. Sipp! Unknotting the sweater from her shoulders, Quillen rolled it with shaking hands and tied it around her mouth and nose by the sleeves as she took the porch steps two at a time. She paused, made sure she had a firm grip on her keys, drew and held a deep breath, and dove into the house.

  On the landing, her hand closed on air instead of the banister and she lurched drunkenly to the left. She groped, found the rail, and, with her head spinning dizzily, hauled herself up the stairs and fell against Mrs. Sipp’s apartment door. Her vision blurred and it took her four tries to hit the lock with her key, two attempts to turn it and the knob and shoulder the door out of her way.

  Veering wildly across the white-carpeted, knickknack-scattered living room toward the windows, Quillen overturned the delicate, French provincial coffee table. Glass and china clashed, broke, and she caught herself on the dotted-swiss priscillas draped over the windows. The rod broke loose from the wall and Quillen fell in a swirl of pink and white organdy. Clawing her way out of it, she pulled herself up on the windowsill, fumbled for the lock, turned it, and shoved with all her strength. The window shot up smoothly on its well-oiled track, and Quillen shoved the screen out of her way as she thrust her head and upper body past it.

  Gagging and nearly vomiting her lunch, she hung there, half-in and half-out the window, until the worst of the nausea making her head spin passed. She dragged the sweater free of her mouth, hoarsely called Mrs. Sipp’s name at least a dozen times, but got no answer. Drawing another lungful of air and clapping the sweater over her mouth again, she backed into the house.

  The kitchen was empty; so were the bedroom and bathroom. Misjudging the doorway as she wheeled out of the bathroom, Quillen smacked face-first into the hallway wall and reeled backward into the doorjamb. The corner of the molding bit into her spine and shot icy-hot slivers of pain through her body. She gasped, her sweater slipped out of her limp fingers, and she fell, a crescendo of noise roaring inside her head.

  The floor rolled underneath her, so did her stomach, and she retched as she dragged herself toward the door. Clawing her way across the carpet, she blinked nonstop to clear the gray splotches swimming in front of her, then cried out as she heaved herself forward, clutched nothing but air, and tumbled down the stairs.

  There was no landing, only blackness that sucked at her and groped for a hold on her arms with warm, sticky hands. She fought it, blind with nausea and panic, kicking and flailing until the blackness won and lifted her in strong arms.

  “It’s all right, Quillen,” it whispered to her in a breathless, echoing voice that sounded uncannily like Tucker’s, “you’re going to be all right.”

  Gee, this isn’t so bad, she thought as her mind swirled away into oblivion. At least I’ll die happy.

  Chapter Five

  Quillen didn’t die, but she almost wished she had when consciousness returned accompanied by a slicing pain in her head. Her eyes fluttered open and she winced at the glare of fluorescent panels in a flat beige ceiling, then blinked at the clear plastic oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Both images wavered and she swallowed hard, tasting the foul, dry ache in her throat, as her mind recalled flashes of searing sunlight, wailing sirens, and warm grass.

  Rolling her head to one side, she half-closed her eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Three blurred shapes swam through her lashes and she fought her way past the splitting pain in her temples to open her eyes again.

  Tucker.

  He sat beside her, his hair dusty and disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed with fatigue. The brown flannel shirt that he’d hastily pulled on in her hall Sunday night was caked with dust. Rumpled, unshaven, and dirty as he was, he was still breathtakingly handsome, and Quillen felt tears swell behind her eyelids. I didn’t dream it, she thought as she raised shaky fingers to touch him; he was really there.

  Catching her hand in his, Tucker closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to her palm. She felt the tremor in his fingers and his whiskers scraped her skin; then she jumped and looked away from him as something cold and hard touched her sternum.

  It was a stethoscope, and Carl Ross—Red, they’d called him in high school, because of his carrot red hair—was on the other end of it. Behind him stood Sheriff Blackburn, the brass buttons on his khaki and green serge uniform glistening in the bright light. He winked at her, and she shivered as Carl slid the stethoscope beneath her left breast and then beneath her right.

  “Well, your heart and lungs sound great,” he pronounced cheerfully as he pulled the stethoscope free of his ears, draped it around his neck, and gently took her right hand out of Tucker’s.

  Beneath Carl’s first and second fingers pressed firmly to the inside of her wrist, Quillen felt her pulse beat. Swallowing again, she tried to speak, but nothing came out except a hoarse croak that only made her throat hurt worse. Carefully, so the elastic strap securing the mask over her nose and mouth wouldn’t pinch, Carl peeled it off her face.

  “I’ll bet your head feels like a split cantaloupe and your stomach like it’s turned inside out, right?” He paused and Quillen nodded. “I’ll send the nurse with some ice chips for your throat, and if you keep those down, we’ll give you a glass of water. Then I want to take a chest X ray, and if that’s clear, I’ll give you something for the nausea and the headache and send you home. Deal?” She nodded again and he patted her wrist. “Okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He turned away, parted the colorless curtain hung around the gurney, then smiled back at her. “You know, you’re very lucky Mr. Ferris carries oxygen in his Jeep.”

  The drape swung shut behind him and Quillen raised a curious eyebrow at Tucker. He picked up her right hand again and hooked his thumb around hers.

  “I’m a spelunker, remember?” He smiled. “Noxious fumes accumulate in caves, too, and I always keep a tank in the Jeep. I never know when I’ll find an interesting looking hole to crawl around in.”

  “Speaking of lucky,” Sheriff Blackburn put in sternly as he pointed one finger at her. “You’re damn lucky that somebody’s refrigerator didn’t cycle or the water heater didn’t kick on while you were in the house. One tiny little spark and that whole place would’ve blown sky high.”

  Quillen hadn’t thought of that. An involu
ntary shiver crawled up her back; she shuddered and Tucker’s hand tightened on hers.

  “That’s a foregone conclusion,” he replied shortly, glancing sharply at the sheriff.

  A woman in surgical greens and a blue-flowered cap stepped through the curtain. She handed Tucker a white Styrofoam cup, and he fed Quillen ice chips with a clear plastic spoon. It took half a dozen mouthfuls, greedily sucked and crunched, to lubricate her parched, aching throat. At last her voice worked—though she was still hoarse—and the questions came tumbling out.

  “Did my house blow up? What happened? Where’s Mrs. Sipp?”

  “Whoa, young lady, one thing at a time.” Sheriff Blackburn held up one hand. “Your house didn’t blow up, the fire department shut the gas off at the meter. Mrs. Sipp is fine, she wasn’t home when it happened—and the it is, somebody burgled your house. All the apartments were messed up pretty good, and the thief apparently broke the safety valve on the furnace which opened the pipe, and there you are—a house full of gas.”

  “Why,” Quillen asked faintly, waving away another mouthful of ice, “would a burglar do a thing like that?”

  “Who knows?” Sheriff Blackburn shook his head, and his leather holster creaked as he leaned one hand on the butt of his service revolver. “Maybe he thought he heard somebody come in and got scared, or careless, or maybe he just decided today would be a good day to blow up somebody’s house.”

  “Don’t you wonder,” Tucker said, frowning, as he dumped the ice back in the cup, “what a burglar was doing in the basement in the first place?”

  “I know what he was doing,” the sheriff replied impatiently. “That’s how he got in, through an open window. You left one unlocked, Quillen.”

  No, I didn’t, she thought; at least I don’t remember. Oh, God. She winced and pressed an unsteady hand to her temple. If only her head would stop throbbing so she could think.

  “Wait a minute.” Tucker plunked the cup down on the gurney, leaned his hand on his knee, and frowned up at Sheriff Blackburn. “Are you calling what happened malicious mischief?”

  “What else should I call it?” he retorted irritably, then glanced at Quillen. “Do you get many poison-pen letters? Has anybody threatened your life lately?”

  “Oh, no, of course—”

  In middenial, Quillen’s voice shriveled and her heart began to thump madly between her ribs. She recalled Desmond Cassil’s reply to her declaration that the only way he’d get his hands on her land was over her dead body—“If you continue to be unreasonable, Quillen, that could become a very distinct possibility.” Oh, God, he hadn’t meant it, had he? He was just angry. Wasn’t he? Sickeningly, the room began to roll end over end. Too late, as her stomach rolled with it, she shut her eyes and clutched at her spinning head.

  “Quillen!”

  Tucker spoke her name sharply and she felt his fingers grasp her wrists. Her ears began to ring, her throat constricted, and she didn’t dare open her mouth for fear the vertigo would cause her to gag or retch or worse. She heard Sheriff Blackburn murmur, “Oh, lordy,” then the curtain scraped on its rod and his footsteps echoed on the floor as he shouted Carl’s name. As suddenly as it began, the spasm passed like a wave sliding down a beach, and Quillen sighed.

  “I’m all right,” she said faintly, easing her death-grip on her temples.

  Likewise, Tucker’s grip relaxed, and she felt the slight tremor in his fingers as he loosed her wrists. Experimentally, Quillen cracked one eyelid. The ceiling stayed put. She blinked her eyes wide open and saw Tucker plant his hands on either side of her head and lean over her.

  “What’s the matter, love?” His voice was gentle but taut and threaded with worry. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

  “Oh, no!” she assured him quickly; too quickly, too adamantly she realized as she watched his left eyebrow and the corner of his mouth quirk dubiously. “Honestly,” she insisted, with all the sincerity she could muster. “It’s just this headache.”

  “Never fear, the doctor’s here,” Carl said cheerfully as he swung the curtain out of his way. “What’s this?” he asked, nudging Tucker aside and taking her pulse with Sheriff Blackburn hovering over his shoulder. “Feeling punkier?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Quillen replied with a plucky smile. “I just got real dizzy there for a minute.”

  “Well, vertigo’s to be expected after what you’ve been through. How’s the tummy feel? Want to try some water?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll stick with the ice. Could we do the X ray now so I can go home?”

  “Sure, you’re fine.” He smiled as he released her wrist and signaled Sheriff Blackburn.

  He nipped outside the curtain and reappeared almost instantly pushing a green vinyl wheelchair. Carl and Tucker helped her first to sit up, and then gradually to stand. Except for a second momentary rush of vertigo and a sharp, four-count twinge of pain between her eyes, getting up wasn’t half bad. While Carl took the chair handles from Sheriff Blackburn, Tucker eased her into the seat and knelt beside her.

  “I’ll wait in the lobby,” he said. “Then I’ll take you home.”

  “Once you and your tenants get up a list of all the stolen items,” Sheriff Blackburn called after her as Carl pushed her toward the X-ray department, “you call me and I’ll send a deputy around to pick it up.”

  “I will!” Quillen answered, tossing him a backward wave over her shoulder. “Thank you, sheriff!”

  After the X ray, a mercifully few minutes of standing unassisted which left her knees feeling like Silly Putty, the radiology technician returned her to the emergency room where she waited on the gray gurney for Carl. There were no clocks in sight, but it seemed to Quillen that she’d no sooner found a comfortable spot for her sore spine on the hard vinyl surface when he came through the curtain. While he gave her a hypo in the hip (less embarrassing and more painful than she’d imagined), Carl told her to stay in bed the rest of the day, and maybe the next depending on how she felt in the morning, to keep out of drafts, and to avoid chills.

  “Though it’s not completely dry yet,” he told her, “the X ray looks clear as a bell. Still, your respiratory system’s weakened and you’ll be susceptible for a while, so watch it.”

  “I will,” she promised as he helped her back into the chair.

  Sylvia Puckett, a pretty but too-thin brunette nurse and one of Cal’s occasional girlfriends, delivered her to a dressing room. Her clothes were inside, but Quillen declined Sylvia’s offer to help her dress. She regretted it, however, when it took her almost five minutes to overcome the tremble in her fingers and button her blouse, and another five to gather strength enough to pull on and fasten her kelly green slacks. Shaking and furious at the quivering weakness in her limbs, Quillen set her jaw and told herself she didn’t have time for this. She had a commission to paint, an apartment to put to rights, and tenants to soothe and reassure.

  Those were the things she fixed her thoughts on as she pushed herself to her feet, determined to walk out of the hospital under her own steam. Steadfastly, Quillen refused to think about the recent, frightening developments—not the least of which was the giddy thrill she’d felt when Tucker had called her love, and the nagging worry in the back of her mind that he hadn’t really meant it, that it was just a casual endearment. She longed to savor it but couldn’t, not in the face of Jason’s very carefully dropped innuendos—and despite his denial, that’s exactly what she thought they were—deliberate aspersions cast on Tucker’s character.

  As for Desmond Cassil, Quillen had nearly convinced herself that the burglary following on the heels of their conversation the day before was nothing but coincidence. An alarming coincidence, but coincidence nonetheless. She’d been angry, he’d been angry; people said all kinds of things they really didn’t mean when they were angry. Furthermore, sane people didn’t do murder over an amusement park. The idea was so ludicrous it was almost funny, and she smiled as she paused in the corridor with her hand on the
green-tiled wall to catch her breath. Thank heaven she hadn’t repeated Cassil’s remark to Sheriff Blackburn. He would have laughed and Carl would have whisked her off to the psycho ward. No one in their right mind would believe that Cassil Springs’ most illustrious citizen wanted to kill her so he could build a roller coaster on her land.

  That’s precisely the point I’d like to make here, her little voice interjected. No one would believe you—and you can bet Cassil knows it.

  The thought sent an icy shiver trickling down her spine. Of course no one would believe her. They’d think she was crazy—as crazy as her father.

  Panic swelled in her chest and Quillen swept a shaky hand over her forehead. A flash of white in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked around at Sylvia, smiling as she came down the corridor pushing the now-familiar green wheelchair.

  “Need a lift?” she asked kindly.

  “Do I ever.” Quillen sighed as she sank gratefully into the seat and let Sylvia push her toward the lobby.

  The clock above the gold vinyl chair where Tucker sat dozing with his arms folded across his chest read three fifteen. Two feet shy of his slumped, lightly snoring form, the left rear wheel of the chair struck something, stuck and squeaked. He jerked wide awake at the loud, rubbery squeal, leaped to his feet, and stumbled a little as he swung toward the chair. Bleary-eyed, he half-yawned, half-smiled, and stretched his arms over his head.

  “Hi, love,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.

  That’s twice, her little voice told her; I’m keeping score.

  Tears prickled behind Quillen’s eyelids: She so desperately wanted to trust this man, so desperately wanted to lean on him—so desperately wanted to love him.

  “Dr. Ross said,” Sylvia told him, relinquishing the grips to Tucker as he stepped behind the chair, “that she’s to stay in bed.”

  “Tell him not to worry,” he replied blithely. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  Bowing her head, Quillen clenched her fists in her lap and tried to quell the fresh surge of panic welling up inside her as Tucker pushed her through the automatic doors. She didn’t trust him—she couldn’t trust him—but she did love him. Was such a thing possible? Oh, God, she sighed wearily. Maybe she was crazy.