Bailey leaned closer. The coppery color of his eyes had stayed in my mind all these weeks. It was an effort to meet his gaze because I had so many emotions tugging at my heart, and yet, it was harder to look away.
“Have dinner with me,” he said quietly.
I didn’t need to think about it. “My car or your truck?”
“Come with me. You look too tired to drive.”
I was, which probably meant it showed. I glanced in my rearview mirror and groaned. My nose was shiny. My hair was a mess. I’d known we’d be busy at the shop, so I’d worn a comfortable pair of sneakers and blue jeans that were too big.
Bailey opened my car door and held out his hand. “Come on. I can see you’re having second thoughts.”
“Where are we going? I’m not dressed very well.”
“You look fine to me.”
“Oh,” I breathed. Suddenly, I didn’t care that my jeans were baggy. I slipped my hand in his and watched his fingers curl around mine. His touch was strong and warm and comforting. He held my hand all the way to his truck, where he opened the door so I could get in.
For a moment, I hesitated. If I turned and looked up at him would he kiss me? I wanted him to, but I was shy, and I was afraid. His lips on mine could unleash a passion I wasn’t ready to handle. So I climbed into his truck and watched him close the door, hoping I hadn’t missed an opportunity.
Bailey pulled out of the alley. “What are you hungry for?”
I gulped. “Whatever you want.”
“Mexican? Oriental? A juicy steak?”
“Steak sounds good. But nothing fancy. Okay?”
Bailey nodded and drove to a restaurant that advertised family dining. It wasn’t romantic, but the informal atmosphere put me at ease. We sat across from each other in a booth. After a waitress had taken our order, I said, “Even the score.”
“Where do I start?”
“No particular place. Tell me whatever pops into your head.”
Bailey settled back, one arm on the table, the other at his side. He glanced around the restaurant and suddenly smiled. “See that kid? The one giving his mom trouble?”
I followed his gaze. A boy I guessed to be eight or ten was arguing with a woman. She thumped his bulging jeans’ pocket and then pointed to the table. With a disgusted expression the boy pulled out a fistful of sugar packets.
“But they’re free, Mom,” he said in a loud voice.
“Free to use. Not free to steal.”
“But I was going to use them—at home.”
Bailey said, “That’s me, umpteen years ago. I always had something in my pockets, and my mother was always making me empty them. That woman is lucky it was only sugar packets. My mom was confronted with wooly worms, earthworms, toads, frogs, and once, a garter snake.”
The waitress put our salads in front of us. I picked up my fork but didn’t take a bite. “Did your mother make you toss out the snake?”
“No. She let me keep it in the barn. Along with a crippled rabbit, three turtles, a horse, and an assortment of cats and dogs. The number changed often. We lived on a gravel road that was a convenient place for people in town to dump their unwanted pets. In my younger days I saw myself as a healer and a protector of those animals. But sometimes they were beyond my help, and we couldn’t afford to take them to a vet. Mom didn’t have the heart to put them down. Dad didn’t have the time. So the chore was left up to me.”
“That’s a pretty heavy load for a kid.”
“It was the only humane thing to do. I could shoot a rifle as soon as I was big enough to hold one. The kill was quick and clean.” Bailey’s expression darkened. “Unlike some.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“This isn’t pleasant dinner conversation.”
“Please?”
Bailey hesitated, then spoke quietly. “My brother was hooked on drugs by the time he was eighteen. He suffered as a human never should. He served time for dealing. He was in rehab more than he was at home. He was my brother, and I loved him, but I couldn’t do a damned thing to help.”
“Is that why you became a DEA agent?”
“To avenge my brother’s death? To fight the bastards who used his weakness for their gain? It sounds heroic and noble, and if I was trying to impress you, I’d say sure, but it wouldn’t be the truth.”
“Is something wrong with your salads?”
We looked up at the waitress. Our steak dinners were on her tray, but she hesitated setting them down.
“Can you make our meal to go?” asked Bailey. He turned his gaze on me. “I need fresh air.”
The waitress frowned. “I guess I can wrap everything in foil.”
Bailey removed a money clip from his pocket and handed her a folded bill. “That should cover our tab. The rest is yours. We’ll wait up front.”
Five minutes later we walked to his truck with two foil-wrapped packages. Bailey opened the passenger door and stashed our dinner behind the seat. When he turned to me, his eyes were troubled. “Are you all right with this?”
“Leaving? Yes. Let’s put the windows down, turn up the music, and just drive.”
He ran a finger down my cheek and across my lips. “Thanks,” he said before moving back so I could get into the truck. He shut the door and went around and got behind the wheel. “I was listening to this CD when I stopped by the flower shop. I hope you like Kenny G.” He poked a button.
I grinned as the first notes of a familiar instrumental song filtered from the speakers. “I have this same tape in my car. He’s bad. B-b-b-bad to the bone.”
Bailey chuckled as he put the truck in gear, and we headed out of the parking lot.
We traveled up one street and down another, commenting about a house or a yard. Our conversation was easy and comfortable—no earth-shattering revelations or emotional remembrances. Our rambling took us to the outskirts of town, where the heat from the pavement was absent and the air cooler.
“This is nice,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I haven’t been this relaxed in days.”
“Something bothering you?”
“I have a big wedding at the end of the week, but I don’t want to think about that right now.”
Bailey nodded that he understood, and turned onto a gravel road that edged the limestone bluffs that overlooked the Osage River. I feasted my eyes on the view. The multitude of trees swayed as if a chorus line of beauties vied for my attention. A June breeze fluttered the leaves, giving the impression of feathery plumes on elaborate chapeaus.
Bailey turned off the music. “I left you up in the air at the restaurant. You went along with my need to get out of there without question. I’m ready to finish my tale.”
“Only if you want to.”
“It’s part of evening the score,” he said. “I was one of those guys who went to college because he didn’t know what else to do. I played with the idea of becoming a veterinarian, but after the first semester my grades were terrible. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the medical field. For my second term, I enrolled in classes where I thought I might succeed. One was a firearms course. I aced it, and my skill caught the instructor’s interest. He told me I should get a criminal justice degree. It seemed as good a major as any other, so I did as he suggested. I graduated college. Got a job as a security officer in the federal building in St. Louis. I changed jobs but stayed within the system. Federal work interested me, but I wasn’t sure which branch to pursue.”
“You became a drug enforcement agent. Some people would say that subconsciously you were striving for that goal all the time.”
Bailey flashed me a lopsided smile that made my knees quiver. “Have I ever told you that you’re too smart for my own good?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure you will.”
“How about if I told you that we’re being followed?”
I didn’t look around, but accepted what he said as fact. “Really? When did you notice?”
“When we left the restaurant parking
lot.”
“You’re kidding.” I looked at his dashboard clock. “But that was over an hour ago.”
“I know. He or she is persistent but not skillful. A tail doesn’t drive a cherry-red SUV. Nor does he stick like glue to your bumper even in heavy traffic. Out here, he could have dropped back, but he’s eating our dust.” Bailey cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think? I can try to get a look at the license plate”—he tapped his chrome cell phone, which was on the console between us—“and call it in. Or we could confront our stalker.”
“Let’s confront. This tailing business sounds like something my father might do. It would serve him right if we embarrassed him. Turn left, and then right. The road dead-ends at Make Out Point.”
Bailey waggled his eyebrows. “That sounds interesting.”
“It’s also known as Kegger Canyon and Drug Bust Bluff. He’ll have to turn around, and we can nab him—or at least make an ID.”
Bailey followed my directions to a deserted tract of land that was a sinner’s paradise. Trash was caught in the brush at the edge of the road. The dirt lot was littered with bottles and cans that had been tossed out of car windows. A rustic rail fence was the only barrier between wide-open spaces and us. Bailey pulled his truck around, parked parallel to the fence, and cut the engine. Out my window was a fantastic bird’s-eye view of the treetops.
Bailey unbuckled his seat belt. “Here he comes.”
I didn’t bother turning. This was humiliating, but my father had to be taught a lesson.
“What the hell?” shouted Bailey. “He’s gonna ram us.”
My mind was still tracking on my father. “He wouldn’t—” I looked past Bailey, and my eyes widened. The SUV veered toward the back end of the truck.
Bailey grabbed my hand. “Hold on, sweetheart.”
The SUV plowed into the rear fender. The impact whipped the lightweight truck bed into the fence. The back tires dropped, touched nothing, and the truck flipped like a tiddlywink chip.
Bailey’s hand was jerked out of mine. The front of the truck took a nosedive. The air bags inflated. Windows shattered. Metal screeched with outrage at the abuse. The truck careened down the embankment and then came to an abrupt stop that rattled my teeth and jarred my bones.
My body had taken a beating, but I was secure in my seat belt, cushioned by the bag of air.
Seat belt.
The word shot through my brain like a piercing arrow. Bailey had unfastened his seat belt so he could confront the driver of the SUV. There hadn’t been time for him to secure it again before we were hit.
“Bailey!” I screamed, clawing at the bag that protected me but blocked my view. “Bailey!”
The air bags were deflating. I pushed the wad of material out of my way. The driver’s door had been wrenched off its hinges. Bailey was gone.
Chapter Twelve
I was dizzy and nauseous, like I’d been on a carnival ride gone berserk. My hands shook so badly it took several tries before I could unsnap my seat belt. I blessed the safety apparatus that had saved me, but cursed the fact that Bailey hadn’t been wearing his.
The console lid had popped up, and the interior of the truck was littered with CDs, maps, papers, and notebooks, as well as leaves and twigs. Filling the air was the overpowering aroma of the grilled steaks we hadn’t eaten.
I gagged and tried my door. It wouldn’t open. Swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, I worked my way over the console, pushed aside the driver’s air bag, and climbed from the truck.
I saw the giant tree that had stopped the truck’s descent, then looked beyond it into nothingness. The sight made me puke. When I was finished, I leaned weakly against a crumpled fender and used the tail of my shirt to wipe my mouth.
I ignored the bumps and bruises that throbbed all over my body. Turning my back on what might have been, I searched the hill above me for Bailey. I called his name, but there was no answer. The truck had mowed a path down the slope. Bent almost double from the steep incline, I worked my way up, trying not to cry, trying not to imagine the worst.
The sight of Bailey’s chrome cell phone, lying on some leaves, gave me a ray of hope. I picked up the phone absently, still searching. Then I saw him, and nearly strangled as panic gripped my throat. He was so still.
I flew to his side and dropped to my knees. I was afraid to touch him. Afraid of what I’d find. I looked him over. He was on his back, eyes closed; one leg, twisted at an odd angle, was obviously broken. Blood oozed from a gash on his forehead.
I leaned over him, peering into his face, willing him to be alive. Slowly, I lowered my head to his chest and heard soft, shallow breathing.
I dialed 911 and begged them to hurry.
* * *
“Are you Mr. Monroe’s next of kin?”
The doctor stood in front of me, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his white coat. I focused on the stethoscope that hung around his neck, and licked my dry lips. “If it’s bad news, you have to tell me.”
We were in the waiting room at River City Memorial Hospital. I’d been checked over, my cuts had been treated, and I’d been released. I’d spoken with two Missouri Highway Patrolmen, giving them a description of the SUV that had followed us and rammed Bailey’s truck.
My mouth tasted like caffeine-flavored vomit. I’d gotten some coffee from a vending machine and had waited and waited. Information concerning Bailey’s condition had been sketchy up till now. This was the first time I’d been approached by anyone who might have answers. I wasn’t sure I could deal with the news. “Next of kin” sounded too ominous, too foreboding.
The doctor sat in a chair next to me. “My name is Dr. Watkins, and I’m going to be honest with you. Mr. Monroe is in critical condition. We set his broken leg, treated his abrasions and contusions, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. The blow to his head has left a portion of the brain swollen.”
“Oh, no,” I said softly. Tears filled my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but was unsuccessful.
“Now, now,” he said. “Mr. Monroe is in good hands.”
“Can I see him?”
“He’s in the unit where only family members are permitted.”
“I could be his sister.”
The doctor eyed me. “Yes, you could. Since I’m not acquainted with Mr. Monroe, I can’t dispute your claim.” He nodded down the hall. “Tell the nurse at the desk that you have my permission to visit Mr. Monroe. Keep it short. Five minutes—tops. Don’t be afraid to touch him. Talk to him, but be calm and reassuring. Let him know that he’s going to be fine.”
“But you said he was unconscious.”
“That’s true, but sometimes comatose patients can hear, and they’re often aware of what’s going on around them even though they can’t respond. In this case, I think it might be helpful if Mr. Monroe heard optimism in your voice.”
I thanked him with a smile that wobbled around the edges. The nurse didn’t question my request to see Bailey after I’d mentioned Dr. Watkins’s name. She looked at some papers on her desk and said he was in Cubicle 7b.
“Cubicle? Doesn’t he have his own room?”
“This is the Critical Care Unit,” she explained. “No walls, no doors, just curtained cubicles and seriously ill patients. Don’t be alarmed by the tubes and wires. Each has a purpose and is important. You may go in, but keep your visit to five minutes.”
I found 7b and pushed the curtain aside. I hesitated for only a moment before I took a deep breath and walked to the bed. Bailey’s arms were straight at his sides. His right leg was in a cast, and a bandage wrapped his head. A crisp white sheet was smooth over his stomach. His chest was bare except for electrodes attached to a machine that kept up an encouraging beep, beep, beep.
I touched his hand. “Bailey, it’s Bretta. You’re going to be just fine.” Tears threatened, but I forced myself to talk quietly. “You have to come back to me. We have too much to do. I want to sample your cooking. I want to slow dance with you. I want you to m
eet my friends.”
I kept my eyes on the monitor as I leaned closer. “I want you to hold me in your arms.” Saying those words made my own heart’s rhythm increase. Did his? I scanned the peaks and valleys on the screen.
“What are you doing?”
I turned to see a nurse standing at the foot of Bailey’s bed. My cheeks felt hot. “Dr. Watkins said I should talk to Bailey. So I am. Is that wrong?”
She looked from me to him to the electrocardiograph. “Mr. Monroe’s heart changed rhythm, and we were alerted at the nurses’ station.”
“Changed in a bad way?”
“No. Just a hiccup in the pattern.”
“Should I go?”
Again, she studied Bailey’s handsome face. “No. If the doctor told you to talk, that’s what you should do.” She lowered her eyebrows. “Just watch what you say. Don’t make any promises you aren’t prepared to honor.” She left the cubicle chuckling lightly.
Gingerly, I picked up his hand. Speaking softly, I said, “Looks like I’d better not try any more rousing experiments. But you get better, and we’ll—” I dropped my voice to a husky whisper and said something that deepened my blush.
I looked at Bailey’s heart monitor, then glanced behind me. No one appeared in the doorway, but his fingers curled ever so gently around mine.
* * *
“It was not a muscle spasm,” I said to myself. I limped back and forth in front of the hospital, waiting for my ride home. It was late. The parking lot was deserted, which gave me freedom to vent my frustration. When I’d felt Bailey’s fingers move, I’d rushed to the nurses’ station with the encouraging news. After he’d been examined, I’d been told there wasn’t any change and that it was time for me to go.
I’d left the Critical Care Unit, but had gotten only as far as the nearest phone. My car was parked behind the flower shop in the alley. I couldn’t drive it anyway. My purse was in Bailey’s truck, which had been towed away and impounded for an evidence search.
I’d thought about calling Sid, but I didn’t have the stamina to face him. I’d thought about calling Lois, but she had enough on her mind. I’d thought about calling DeeDee, but I didn’t want her out on the roads at this time of night. I had settled on my father.
A Deadly Bouquet Page 11