Although she and Tripp hadn't exchanged words of love, he had been a caring lover in Mississippi. He'd been ardent and passionate at her place right after, too. And then, in a flash, something had changed.
What?
She glanced at the phone, and then at her cluttered desk full of work waiting for her undivided attention. It seemed unlikely that Tripp was going to call. And she couldn't concentrate on work anyway. Perhaps it was time she paid him a little visit and demanded a few answers.
"Going someplace?" Jackson asked as she passed his open door, a sheaf of papers in her hand.
"Darn right I am. It's high time somebody makes a certain stubborn doctor see reason."
Jackson said something encouraging that Amber didn't stick around long enough to hear.
* * *
"Oh, señorita! You must be my replacement! Thank goodness you are here."
Amber looked around. There were several patients in the waiting room. The heavyset woman with the thick Spanish accent appeared to be talking to her.
"Come," she called. "I will tell you what to do."
Amber closed the door and sauntered closer. Tripp hadn't been at the hospital. Fred, the flirtatious orderly, had been pretty sure he was at his clinic this afternoon.
She'd hurried over, and sure enough, his car was among the handful of vehicles in the lot. She'd decided to take that as a good sign. She wasn't certain what to think about the Spanish woman behind the counter who was talking a mile a minute.
"Thank goodness you are early. My granddaughter is sick and I must go home. Come. I will explain what to do. Do not worry. It is a piece of cake."
The woman rattled off instructions regarding the phone, an antiquated filing system and a roomful of patients. "Do you have any questions?"
Amber peered toward the hallway leading to several closed doors. "Is Dr. Calhoun on duty?"
"Sí. He is a gift, that one."
"A gift horse," Amber muttered under her breath.
"Pardon?"
"Oh, it was nothing. Never mind. Goodbye. And good luck with your granddaughter."
Huffing slightly, the woman, whose name was still unknown to Amber, reached for her purse and hurried out the door, her loose-fitting dress fluttering as she went.
The phone rang the instant the door closed. A girl who looked too young to have a baby of her own stared at Amber over the top of an infant's dark head. Chubby-cheeked twins cried from their father's lap, while two other children fought over a toy in the corner. An old man glared at Amber as if the ringing phone and all the noise was somehow her fault.
She didn't know what to do about the rest, but she knew how to put an end to the ringing. She grabbed up the phone. "Mill Creek Medical Clinic."
Winging it, she scanned the appointment book, jotted information. The phone rang again seconds later. She held a baby, fished a toy from behind a row of chairs and struck up a conversation with the crotchety old man. She'd never been in such dire need of more hands. She was still determined that her confrontation with Tripp was going to take place. In the meantime, there was plenty of work to do.
* * *
Amber's hair was tumbling out of its clasp, a corner of her blouse was untucked and one shoulder was wet with one of the twins' drool by the time she instructed the last patient to go on through to the examination rooms. The phones had finally stopped ringing and nearly everyone had gone home. She used the relative quiet to organize the desk and tried to decide what she would say to Tripp.
She had nearly finished straightening the waiting area and was reading the flyer on the wall, advertising the fund-raising dance being hosted by the hospital in a couple of weeks, when she heard a sound behind her. She turned slowly. Tripp stood at the other end of the room. Everything about him was dark, his hair, pants, even his eyes, darkened by an unreadable emotion. Amber's heart fluttered twice, then rose up to her throat.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She'd had warmer welcomes at Macy's. She gestured to the magazines she'd been straightening. "I'm working."
"You don't work here."
"You know what they say about being in the right place at the right time."
Apparently, he failed to see the humor. "Where's Rosa?"
So that was the woman's name. "She had to leave. Her granddaughter was sick."
The last patient of the day came out into the waiting room, her six-month-old baby asleep on her shoulder. Anna Garcia smiled tiredly. Closer to sixteen than twenty-one, the single mother patted her baby's small back. "Thank you, Dr. Calhoun."
Hearing his mother's voice, the baby opened his eyes and began to suck his little thumb. Content and secure, his eyes fluttered closed once again. Amber thought Anna looked equally as tired. She always wished there were more she could do to help in situations like these.
The girl dug into the pocket of her baggy jeans. Placing several coins on the counter, she started for the door. Amber opened her mouth to call her back, but Tripp silenced her with a stern look.
The door closed. And she and Tripp were alone. At last.
His mouth set in annoyance. Obviously he wasn't as happy about that as she was. And yet she swore his eyes were drinking her up.
"It's been a long day," he said. "And I have rounds to make at the hospital."
Subtle, he wasn't. Amber strode to the checkout area, where she counted three dollars and eighty-six cents in loose change. Dropping the coins into the drawer, she said, "This isn't enough money to buy bandages for the clinic, but it would have been enough to buy a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk for Anna and her baby."
An unwelcome tension coiled tighter in Tripp's stomach. He hadn't paid much attention when four-year-old Jose Martinez mentioned a golden angel in the waiting room. It wasn't until an hour later, when old Samuel DeWitt described the new volunteer that Tripp realized they were talking about Amber. His breathing had been unsteady ever since.
Eyeing the loose tendrils of her hair and the mascara smudges under her eyes, he finally said, "Anna's proud. By paying what she felt she could afford, this isn't charity."
"Then it's a matter of pride?"
He glanced around the room. He was pretty sure he knew what Amber was asking, and uncertain how to reply. He'd tried to put an end to this a week ago. He didn't want to hurt her, but he didn't think there was any other way to ensure that she took no for an answer.
"I appreciate everything you've tried to do for me, Amber."
For about a millisecond, he saw hope in her eyes. Leaning down, she retrieved her large purse from the floor near the filing cabinet, then busied herself riffling through a sheaf of papers inside.
"But it isn't a good idea for you to come here."
She straightened, her green eyes delving his, her throat convulsing as her hope gave way to something a lot less pleasant. He was getting through to her. It would have been nice if he didn't feel like something he'd stepped in. He had damn good reasons for ending this. He cursed his body for wanting something it had no business wanting.
She glanced down at a newspaper clipping attached to the top of a sheaf of papers. "You probably don't read the society pages. It seems that Olivia Babcock and Derek Spencer have set a date."
Being careful not to touch her, he accepted the papers from her. "What's all this?" he asked.
"It's everything you'll need to apply for a grant from the Hopechest Foundation. There's an application in the packet, along with specific guidelines. Follow them to the letter. You'll need to supply a statement of need, your financial information, earnings, wages, expenses, as well as documentation on how the clinic will positively affect the people in the area. It will have to be reviewed by the board, and there are no guarantees, but I see no reason for them not to offer some assistance."
He stood perfectly still. "You don't have to do this, Amber. Not for me."
She met his gaze bravely, but he wasn't fooled.
"I'm doing it for Jose and Anna and Manuel and hundreds of others l
ike them."
Tripp had never come across a woman he understood less and who drew him more. He was trying to make it clear to her that what they'd shared was over and she was still offering her family's money. "You're an amazing woman."
If the situation weren't so serious, the face she made would have been comical.
He ran a hand through his hair. It was short now, only one of the things that had changed this past month. He had changed, too, but reality hadn't. That episode with the wife-beater had driven that fact home.
"One of these days," he said, "you're going to make some lucky man very happy."
Amber stared at Tripp for several seconds while her heart cracked open a little further. She refused to whimper. Some lucky man? Gee. What a sweet thing to say. And so original.
Her temper flared, a definite improvement over despair. "What type of man should I be looking for? In your knowledgeable opinion, I mean."
Surely, her sarcasm wasn't lost on him, but he didn't get angry as she'd expected. Instead, he almost smiled. It nearly broke her heart the rest of the way.
"Someone like you. Someone good and smart and funny and kind. A man of wealth and culture. He's going to need patience. And stamina." When he spoke again, his voice was huskier. "And he'd better know how to argue, because you'd get bored with someone who can't hold his own in any discussion."
He knew her so well. She could have cried. This was it. He was ending it. He didn't want her. Or at least he wasn't going to allow himself to have her, or anyone like her. Curious, she said, "What about you? What sort of woman would you look for?"
"Coop said it pretty well when he called me a loner. If I ever do decide to search for a wife, it will most likely be someone of Latino descent. Someone who will fit in in my world."
"There's only one planet, one world, Tripp, and we're already both living in it."
"Are we?" The shutters came down over his eyes again. "In the future, I would appreciate it if you would stay away from places where danger could be lurking."
Something about that last statement lodged in her mind. He didn't want her anywhere near danger. She recalled the way he'd reacted when that car had backfired moments before Rand had called last Sunday. Now that she thought about it, it wasn't the phone call that had interrupted their lovemaking. It had been that sudden, loud noise. It had sounded a little like a gunshot.
Watching as he locked cabinets, she was close to putting it all together. He turned out more lights, bolted the back door and the windows.
"Thank you again for all your help, Amber. Give my best to your father."
Amber didn't know what to say. She'd come for answers, but she was being dismissed. She sensed that he cared about her, but she couldn't get through to him. What else could she do to change his mind? Beaten, she settled her purse under her arm and started for the door.
"Amber?"
Hope surged. "Yes?"
"I'd like your word that you'll stay away from the clinic."
She stared at him for interminable seconds, not moving, not blinking, not breathing. Finally, she drew herself up to her full height and turned on her heel. Instead of giving him her word, she gave the door a loud slam.
* * *
Silas "Snake Eyes" Pike stepped quietly from the shadows on Main Street in Keyhole, Wyoming. His hand shook as he patted the empty pocket where he normally kept a flask for emergencies. Ever since that witch, Meredith Colton had cut off his money supply, he'd been forced to remain sober.
Being careful of his step, he ambled across the street toward Summer's Autumn Antiques. What a one-horse town this had turned out to be. None of the bars would let him run up a tab. He hadn't even been able to hire a hooker to take the edge off his shakes.
Things were looking up, though. He'd tried watching that young punk Sheriff Toby Atkins. The man led the life of a monk. After a couple of days keeping the lily-hearted sheriff under surveillance, Silas had decided to scope out Wyatt and Annie Russell. The Russells, Wyatt in particular, had connections to the Colton family. Silas didn't trust him as far as he could throw him.
He'd heard from one of his drinking buddies that the Russells had befriended a girl with hair an unusual shade of red. Chestnut colored, he'd called it. It so happened Emily Blair had chestnut-colored hair. Silas was playing a hunch that the Russells were somehow involved with Emily's sudden and untimely disappearance.
He'd bet his next drink that they knew where she was hiding. It was up to Silas to get one of them to spill the beans. He'd been watching the place for three days. Who better to spill the beans than the pair of red-haired boys who took their huge monster of a black dog for a walk to the corner every day when they got home from the nursery school or kindergarten or wherever the hell they spent the morning?
Today, Silas was ready for them. He ambled out of one of many tourist traps lining Main Street just as the boys neared. Peering through the wire-rimmed bifocals he'd lifted off an unsuspecting old man yesterday, Silas smiled at the boys. "Mornin', fellers. Oh, looky there. Guess it's afternoon, huh?"
The boys were identical, right down to their cowlicks and suspicious stares. Their big black dog bared his teeth.
"That's a big dog you have there. What's his name?"
The children each placed a hand on the dog's broad back. The boy on the right said, "His name's Chopper. Are you a stranger? Cuz we're not s'posed to talk to strangers."
Silas tugged at the waistband of the polyester pants he'd gotten in the Dumpster behind the Salvation Army store. "I guess that depends. I'm a grandpaw. Are grand-paws strangers?"
The boys conferred the point over the top of the dog's broad back. "Guess not," the designated talker of the two declared.
Silas commended himself on his brilliant disguise. He'd had to shave off his Fu-Manchu style mustache, and he'd taken white shoe polish to his hair and eyebrows. The mustache would grow back and the shoe polish would wash out. It had been worth it. The boys fell for it hook, line and sinker. The dog was another matter. That was okay. Silas didn't need the dog to trust him. He only needed to get the kids talking.
"Me'n Noah don't have a grandpa. We have a new dad, though."
Silas knew all about the boys' new father. Wyatt Russell, the fancy-ass attorney from D.C. had proven to be a thorn in his side.
Reaching a hand into his pocket, Silas brought out a tattered photo. The step he took toward the boys was cut short by their dog's low, menacing growl. "That's a good watchdog you have there. This here's my granddaughter…" Silas had to think fast. "…Penny."
"She looks just like Emily," the quieter of the boys exclaimed.
"Who?" Silas asked, all false innocence.
"Our friend, Emily."
He'd purposefully chosen an old photograph of Emily Blair. "This here's Penny. She's fifteen. Best darn granddaughter in the world. She and her mama moved to Texas a while back."
"Emily moved, too."
"You don't say? She move to Texas, too?"
"Nope. To Montana."
"Yeah?" Silas said, getting dizzy from looking through the bifocals. "I went to Montana once." Making certain the photo faced out, he tucked it back into his pocket. His hand shook. He really needed a drink. Both boys seemed to be mesmerized by his movements. "Were 'bouts does she live in Montana?"
"She lives in Red—"
"Noah! Alex!"
The children turned around at the sound of their mother's voice. Silas slipped inside the sporting goods store, and quietly out the back door.
Life was a crapshoot, no doubt about that. They didn't call him Snake Eyes for nothing. Course, rolling a pair of ones wasn't easy, unless the dice were weighted, that is. Then, it was almost as easy as getting information out of a couple of snot-nosed red-haired little boys.
Silas stuffed the floppy-rimmed fishing cap and bifocals into the first trash can he came to. Cutting through another back alley, he made his way back to the room he was renting by the day. He had packing to do. Emily Blair was in Montana, in a tow
n called Red-something.
Silas "Snake Eyes" Pike was as good as on his way.
* * *
Patsy let the door slam as she rushed through it. "Teddy! Joey!" She shaded her eyes with her hand, searching the gardens for her darlings. The boys were nowhere in sight. But Amber was sitting out by the pool, talking to her father. Sulking.
Patsy shuddered with distaste. "Joe!" she said to the man she'd pretended to be married to for ten long years. "Where have the boys run off to this time? They had better not be mucking out stalls in the barns!"
The boys, eight and ten years old, came running out of the house, Joe, Jr. in the lead, his younger brother in hot pursuit. Patsy beamed as they each did a cannonball into the pool. Her darlings were right here in the garden. If only she could find the baby she lost all those years ago, her life would be nearly complete. There was still the issue of getting rid of Joe and that pesky Emily, but one thing at a time.
Two days ago, she'd received word from the private investigator that a baby girl fitting her baby's description had been involved in a black-market adoption, handled by a shady doctor in Stockton. The records indicated that the baby had gone to live with a couple in Ohio. Patsy had been trying to get that child back all her life. She'd urged the investigator to continue the search.
She wondered what her child, a grown woman now, would look like. Surely, Patsy thought, her eyes narrowing, her lip curling, she wouldn't act anything like either of Meredith's grown daughters, who were both so sickeningly sweet it was all Patsy could do not to retch when she saw them.
"Joe, I need to talk to you."
He spoke to Amber and, laying a hand on her shoulder, rose to his feet and started toward Patsy. His eyes iced over the closer he came. She bet there hadn't been coldness in his eyes when he'd been talking to that simpering Amber. Oh, the things she'd been forced to endure.
"What is she doing here?"
Joe Colton studied the woman his beautiful Meredith had become. If it wasn't for Joe, Jr. and Teddy, he would have left his beloved home a long time ago. Hacienda de Alegria, House of Joy, was a lie, one that was growing increasingly difficult to live. "She's our daughter. This is her home."
The Trophy Wife Page 18