Sidney Sheldon's Reckless

by Sidney Sheldon

  “If you did I’d run away. Why do I need school anyway? Uncle Jeff left school at twelve. He learned all he needed to know on his Uncle Willie’s carnival.”

  “Uncle Jeff is not a good role model.”

  “Why not? He’s rich. He’s happy. He has a great business, traveling the world.”

  “That’s . . . not the point,” said Tracy, increasingly desperately. She didn’t want to talk about Jeff and his “great business.”

  “Well what about Blake?” said Nick. “He’s a good role model, isn’t he?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well he went to work on his daddy’s ranch when he was my age. Full-time.”

  They’d reached home now. It was still only lunchtime. Tracy debated sending Nick to his bedroom—minus his computer, phone and any other means of escape—but the thought of him stuck indoors all day, brooding, didn’t seem right. Instead, she sent him out with two of the hands to go and clear the snow drifts that had built up on the high pastures.

  “You want to work on a ranch full-time?” she told a stricken-looking Nick as she pushed him into the back of the truck. “You may as well get started now.”

  With any luck a few days of backache and chilblains would cure of him of that romantic notion at least. Still, Tracy wasn’t looking forward to explaining Nicholas’s latest shenanigans to Blake Carter. She could already hear the old cowboy’s “I told you so” ringing in her ears.

  “I TOLD YOU SO,” said Blake. “I’m sorry to say it, Tracy, but I did.”

  “You don’t look sorry to say it,” Tracy complained, handing him a bowl of steaming beef and vegetable soup. On stressful days, Tracy liked to destroy things in blenders. “I didn’t tell him to go in there and do those paintings, you know. He’s not a toy that I control.”

  “No,” agreed Blake. “He’s a boy that you influence. And you keep encouraging him to act out.”

  “I do not!” Tracy said furiously. “How did I encourage this?”

  “You told him the artwork was good.”

  “It was good.”

  “Tracy.” Blake frowned. “When Principal Hargreaves showed you the math lady in the hot dog bun, you laughed! Right in front of Nick! You told me that yourself.”

  Tracy shrugged helplessly. “I know. I shouldn’t have, but it was funny. Nick is funny, that’s the problem, Blake. And I love that about him.”

  The truth was that Tracy loved everything about her son. Every hair on his head, every smile, every frown. Becoming a mother had been the great miracle of her life. Creating Nicholas was the one, pure, wholly good thing she had ever done, untinged by regret, untouched by loss or pain. Whatever the boy’s faults, Tracy adored him unconditionally.

  “It was tough to keep a straight face in that office,” she admitted to Blake. “Every time I looked at Hargreaves I couldn’t stop thinking about the farting thing.” She started to giggle. Once she started, she couldn’t stop.

  Blake sat in stony silence as tears of mirth rolled down Tracy’s cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” she said eventually.

  “Are you?” Blake said sternly. “ ’Cause I don’t see it, Tracy. Do you want that boy to wind up like his father?”

  Tracy recoiled as if she’d been stung. Blake never brought up Nick’s parentage. Never, ever. He knew Jeff Stevens was Nick’s real father. Seeing the two of them together that time Jeff came to stay at the ranch had hardened Blake’s suspicions on that score into incontrovertible fact. But he’d never discussed it with Tracy. Never asked for any details or cast any judgments. Till now.

  To her surprise, Tracy found herself suddenly defensive of Jeff Stevens.

  “Do I want Nick to be funny, you mean? And charming and brave and a free spirit?”

  “No,” said Blake angrily. “That’s not what I mean. I mean do you want him to be a criminal, a liar and a thief? Because if you do, you’re going the right way about it.”

  Tracy pushed away her bowl and stood up, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “You know what, Blake? It doesn’t matter what I want, or what you want. Nick is like Jeff. He just is! You think you can lecture it out of him, or punish it out of him, but you can’t.”

  Blake stood up too. “Well, I can try. I’m gonna take him out for a meal tonight in town. Talk to him man to man. One of his parents needs to tell that boy the difference between right and wrong.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tracy shouted. Blake was already heading for the door. “You are so goddamned holier than thou, Blake Carter. Did you ever wonder why I’m your only friend? You’re not perfect, you know.”

  Blake kept walking.

  Tracy yelled after him. “If Nick’s a hoodlum, he’s a hoodlum you raised! Not Jeff Stevens. You! Take a look in the mirror you . . . hypocrite!”

  Blake shot her a look of real pain.

  Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  FOR THE REST OF the afternoon Tracy caught up on paperwork. Then she cleaned the kitchen until every surface sparkled and reorganized the books in her library. Twice.

  Why did Blake have to be so judgmental?

  Worse than that, why did he always have to be right?

  Afternoon turned to evening, then to night. When the hands came back in from the fields, Nick wasn’t with them.

  “Mr. Carter came and picked him up,” one of the men told Tracy. “They were headed into town, I think. Did you want us to bring him back here, Ma’am?”

  “No, no. That’s OK,” Tracy said. “You go on home.”

  It was a bitterly cold night, not snowing, but with a wind blowing that could flay the skin from your bones like a razor blade. Usually Tracy loved nothing more than to curl up in front of the fire on a winter’s night like this, luxuriating in the warmth and savoring the precious hours alone with her book. But tonight she found she would read a page and take nothing in. She wandered into the kitchen to make herself some food, then found she wasn’t hungry. If Nick were here they’d have watched a show together—something mindless and funny like The Simpsons—but Tracy hated watching television alone. Eventually she gave in to her jitters and began pacing the room, going over and over the argument with Blake in her mind like a child stubbornly picking at a scab.

  I shouldn’t have called him a hypocrite.

  High-minded maybe. And rigid. But not a hypocrite.

  He’d looked so hurt when he walked out. That was the killer. Then again, Tracy had been hurt too. Did she really deserve to be punished for loving the free spirit in Nick? For finding him funny and charming, even when he was being exasperating? For being on his side?

  Tracy’s parents, both long dead, had always been on her side. Especially her father. Then again, as a child Tracy had never given them cause to worry. She’d never stepped out of line or been in trouble at school.

  I was the archetypal good girl. And look how my life turned out.

  For all Blake Carter or anyone else knew, Nick might grow up to be a missionary or an aid worker. Rebellious boy didn’t necessarily translate into rebellious man. Did it?

  Still, she shouldn’t have said what she said to Blake. She’d apologize as soon as he dropped Nick home. And thank him for tonight.

  Tracy looked at her watch. 10:15 P.M. They were very late. Most restaurants in Steamboat stopped serving at nine. Tracy pictured Blake ensconced in a booth somewhere, haranguing Nick about moral responsibility until the poor boy’s ears melted.

  I hope he’s OK.

  A banging on the front door broke her reverie.

  They’re back!

  Blake must have forgotten his key. Tracy flew to the door. Pulling it open, the first thing she noticed were the lights of the squad car, blinking blue and white in the darkness. Then she focused on the two cops standing in front of her.

  “Mrs. Schmidt?”

  “Yes,” Tracy said cautiously.

  One of the cops took off his hat. He gave Tracy a look that made her knees start to shake.

  “
I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  No, there hasn’t.

  “It seems Mr. Carter ran his truck off the road up at Cross Creek.”

  No, he didn’t. He didn’t. Blake’s a very careful driver.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Schmidt, but I’m afraid he was killed instantly.”

  Tracy clutched the doorframe for support.

  “What about Nick? My son?”

  “Your son’s OK. He’s been taken to the hospital. Yampa Valley Medical Center.”

  Tracy’s legs gave way beneath her. Blake was dead—her Blake, her rock—but all she felt in that moment was relief. Nick was alive! It shamed her to admit it, but that was all that mattered.

  “He had to be cut out of the truck. But he was conscious going into the ambulance. We’ll take you to him now if you’d like?”

  Tracy nodded mutely. She started walking towards the squad car, stumbling through the snow like a zombie.

  “Do you have a coat, Ma’am?” the cop asked. “It’s pretty cold out tonight.”

  But Tracy didn’t hear him, any more than she felt the cold.

  I’m coming Nick. I’m coming my darling.

  EVERYONE AT YAMPA VALLEY Medical Center knew Tracy Schmidt. She was one of the hospital’s most generous local donors.

  A nurse led her to Nick’s room. To Tracy’s immense relief, he was awake.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  His face was bruised and his lower lip was trembling. Tracy wrapped her arms around him like she would never let go. He started to cry.

  “Blake’s dead.”

  “I know.” Tracy held him. “I know, my darling. Do you remember what happened?”

  “Not really,” he whimpered. “Blake thought someone was following us. A woman.”

  “What woman?” Tracy frowned. “Why would he think that? ”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t really see her. But Blake was kind of distracted I guess. One minute we were driving and the next . . .” He started to cry.

  “Shhhh. It will be all right, Nicky. I promise.”

  Tracy stroked the back of his head. Beneath her palm she could feel a lump the size of a hen’s egg.

  Forcing herself not to panic, she asked, “Do you feel OK?”

  “Sort of. I feel dizzy. And super tired. The doctors ran some tests.”

  “OK,” Tracy said brightly. “You get some rest. I’ll track down that doctor and see what’s what.”

  She didn’t have to go far. Dr. Neil Sherridan was already walking down the hall towards her as she closed Nick’s door behind her. Tracy knew Dr. Sherridan from the hospital fund-raiser she’d been to with Blake last summer. She remembered she’d worn a red ball gown and the diamond earrings Jeff had given her on their wedding day. Blake had beamed with pride to be escorting her, even though everybody knew they were mother and son. It all seemed like another life now.

  “Mrs. Schmidt?”

  “I felt a lump,” Tracy blurted. “On his head. Is he OK?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Sherridan said gravely.

  Tracy felt her stomach lurch, as if she were in an elevator and someone had just cut the cable. “What? What do you mean you’re afraid not?”

  “We need to operate immediately.”

  Tracy blinked, uncomprehending. At the gala, she remembered thinking that Dr. Sherridan was handsome. Now he looked hideous, like a devil. Why was he saying these dreadful things?

  “I have the consent forms here.”

  Tracy looked at the doctor, then at the forms he’d thrust in front of her.

  “B . . . but,” she stammered. “He was talking to me. Just now.”

  “I understand that. It’s not uncommon after car accidents. These sorts of head trauma often take hours to present.”

  “But, he was fine,” Tracy insisted. “He is fine.”

  Dr. Sherridan placed a hand on Tracy’s arm.

  “No, Mrs. Schmidt. We ran the tests. He’s not fine. I’m sorry. The lump you felt is the result of a massive trauma to his brain. He was lucky not to have been killed instantly.”

  Tracy wobbled. I’m going to faint.

  “He still stands a solid chance of recovery,” the doctor informed her. “However, without an operation, your son will die.”

  The word “No” formed on Tracy’s lips. But no sound came out.

  “I’m sorry to be so blunt about it but time isn’t on our side here. I need you to sign these forms, Mrs. Schmidt. Right now.”

  Tracy stared at the pen in her hand. Her throat was dry. She tried to swallow but nothing happened. Looking back over her shoulder she watched an unusually tall nurse slip into Nicholas’s room. She had mud on her sneakers that left a trail on the clean hospital floor. Tracy fixed her eyes on the mud stains, trying to hold on to anything real. Because what Dr. Sherridan was telling her wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

  This is a practical joke. A really, really awful one.

  When I sign my name with this pen, water will squirt in my face and we’ll all start laughing.

  “Right here.”

  Dr. Sherridan pointed to the bottom of the paper.

  Tracy scrawled her name.

  “Thank you. We’ll prepare him for surgery right away.”

  “He will . . . be OK?” Tracy croaked. She hated the fear in her own voice. “Once you operate? You can fix this, can’t you, Dr. Sherridan?”

  Dr. Sherridan looked her in the eye.

  “We’ll know more once the operation’s under way. I’m hopeful. But scans only tell us so much.”

  “But . . .”

  “I promise to let you know as soon as we’re done, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  He walked away.

  TRACY SAT OUTSIDE THE operating theater, praying.

  She didn’t believe in God. But she tried to make a deal with him anyway.

  Let him live and I’ll do anything you ask.

  Let him live and take me instead.

  If only she hadn’t had that stupid argument with Blake! He was always such a careful driver. Had he been distracted because he was still upset with her?

  I shouldn’t have let him take Nick out. Not until he’d calmed down.

  The what ifs rolled endlessly through Tracy’s mind until she couldn’t think anymore. What if I’d sent Nick to his room instead of out on the ranch? What if I’d taken him out instead of Blake? What if they’d taken another route home? Exhausted, she put her head in her hands. She wished Blake were here to hold her hand. But Blake Carter would never be here again. Blake was dead, gone forever, and Tracy hadn’t even found a second to mourn him. Nick filled every atom of her being.

  Just let him live, God. Please, please, let him live.

  Dr. Sherridan was the best brain surgeon in Colorado, and one of the very best in the whole country. Never mind God. Dr. Sherridan would save Nick.

  A shadow fell over Tracy and she jolted awake.

  How could I have fallen asleep at a time like this? she thought guiltily.

  Then she looked up into Dr. Sherridan’s face and the guilt was replaced with something else. Something far, far worse.

  The last thing Tracy heard before she lost consciousness was the sound of her own screams.

  CHAPTER 9

  OH JEFF! JEFF! OH God!”

  Jeff Stevens felt Lianna climax beneath him and grinned. Jeff never tired of the thrill of giving a beautiful woman pleasure. Many women had told him over the years what a wonderful lover he was. But each new girl was a new challenge.

  “What about you, darling?” Lianna rolled over on top of him, her wonderful, heavy breasts resting on Jeff’s chest like twin jellies turned out of their molds. Dean Klinnsman was a lucky man. With her blond hair and endless legs this girl was phenomenally sexy, although in the absolute opposite way to Tracy.

  Jeff never slept with girls who looked like Tracy. They broke his heart.

  “Don’t you want to come too?” Lianna cooed. “What can I do for you?”

  She gave Jeff a knowin
g look and began to work her way down his body, snaking towards his groin.

  “Actually, Angel,” Jeff said, pulling her gently back up, “all I really want right now is some food. I’m starved. D’you fancy a Byron Burger?”

  “But . . . you’re not satisfied?” The girl pouted.

  “On the contrary, I’m very satisfied,” Jeff assured her.

  It was partly true. The simple truth was he was too tired to come. At least not without putting in some effort. Now that Lianna was satisfied, his mind was already drifting to other things. Specifically a bacon cheeseburger with all the trimmings.

  Not that Jeff didn’t still enjoy sex. Jeff adored women. All women, give or take the odd humorless feminist, although even they provided an interesting challenge. But these days he kept his sexual liaisons strictly compartmentalized. He had been in love twice in his life, and had married both women. Louise Hollander, his first wife, was a twenty-five-year-old, golden-haired heiress who’d hired Jeff to work on her yacht and promptly seduced him. Jeff had loved Louise, right up until the day he learned she’d been cheating on him with a string of wealthier lovers. After their divorce, Jeff swore he’d never become vulnerable to a woman again.

  Of course, that was before he met Tracy Whitney.

  Tracy was not so much a woman as a force of nature, the adored love of Jeff’s life. After their last job together in Holland, brilliantly stealing the Magellan diamond from under the nose of both local and international police, Jeff and Tracy had married. Perhaps, with hindsight, that had been their mistake? The beginning of the end? Domestic bliss had certainly proved a lot more elusive once the adrenaline of their old life was gone.

  But if we’d never married, we’d never have had Nick, Jeff reminded himself.

  “You should go home, darling,” Jeff told Lianna, kissing her on the cheek as he pulled on his jeans. On reflection, stunning, twenty-three-year-old Russian models were rarely big cheeseburger fans. “We don’t want your future husband getting suspicious.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But I will see you again? You’ll call me, won’t you?”

  There was already a hint of doubt in her voice.

  “Of course,” Jeff said.

  “Soon?”

  “Just as soon as it’s safe,” he assured her. Which of course would be never if she really did marry Dean Klinnsman. Bedding Lianna once had been dangerous. Making a habit of it would be positively suicidal.