Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  Sla­de he­ard him­self say, "Edward do­esn't ca­re abo­ut Mi­ra­mar. He ne­ver has."

  "You're right. The only thing he ca­res abo­ut is wo­men and an oc­ca­si­onal ga­me of cards. But he's yo­ung. And he's smart. And he'll do what he has to do." Rick left the rest un­s­po­ken: not li­ke you.

  "Wo­uldn't Vic­to­ria be happy," Sla­de sa­id sar­cas­ti­cal­ly. That wo­man wo­uld do an­y­t­hing for her son, even if it me­ant for­cing him in­to a lo­ve­less mar­ri­age with his de­ad brot­her's fi­an­c­йe so he co­uld in­he­rit the ran­c­ho. Of co­ur­se, con­t­rary to what Rick tho­ught, Ed­ward wo­uld not ag­ree. Or wo­uld he? Ed­ward was lo­yal, too; it was a De­lan­za tra­it.

  "Well?"

  Sla­de felt trap­ped, bac­ked in­to a cor­ner. He didn't want to stay. He didn't want Mi­ra­mar. Mi­ra­mar be­lon­ged to James, who wasn't yet cold in his gra­ve. But… the very idea of lo­sing Mi­ra­mar was ab­hor­rent, sic­ke­ning, frig­h­te­ning. And he didn't li­ke the idea of Ed­ward mar­rying Eli­za­beth any bet­ter.

  "What in hell is so hard abo­ut mar­rying a pretty lit­tle lady li­ke that in or­der to get what you've al­ways wan­ted an­y­way?" Rick as­ked.

  "That's not true," Sla­de sa­id ter­sely. But if he da­red be ho­nest, he wo­uld ad­mit that it was true. De­ep in­si­de, he had al­ways wan­ted what he co­uld not ha­ve. Now, an im­pos­sib­le dre­am was wit­hin re­ach. But only be­ca­use his brot­her was de­ad.

  He tur­ned on his bo­oted he­el. At the do­or he pa­used, his ex­p­res­si­on hard. "I'll think abo­ut it. Gi­ve me so­me ti­me."

  Rick was equ­al­ly grim. "We don't ha­ve ti­me."

  The doc­tor was a thin, wiry man of in­de­ter­mi­na­te age. Re­gi­na sat obe­di­ently in a cha­ir whi­le he pro­bed and prod­ded her he­ad. She did not ha­ve much con­fi­den­ce in him and she wor­ri­ed her hands in her lap. His eyes we­re ble­ary and blo­od­s­hot, and she smel­led a strong mo­ut­h­wash on his bre­ath, as well as the whis­key which he co­uldn't dis­gu­ise. Re­gi­na kept her ex­p­res­si­on im­pas­si­ve, but her he­art was flut­te­ring an­xi­o­usly. Even tho­ugh this man se­emed tho­ro­ughly dis­re­pu­tab­le, he was a doc­tor. Rick De­lan­za, who was wa­iting out­si­de her do­or, had bro­ught him to her. And she was af­ra­id of his di­ag­no­sis. For al­t­ho­ugh it was a new day, al­t­ho­ugh she had go­ne thro­ugh all of her trunks, her me­mory was as blank as it had be­en yes­ter­day when Sla­de had fo­und her. In fact, she hadn't ex­pe­ri­en­ced anot­her mo­ment of re­col­lec­ti­on as she had with the gun­s­hot.

  "Got a ni­ce-si­zed bump on the back of yo­ur he­ad." The doc­tor smi­led at her. He had a kind smi­le. "It hurt you any?"

  "I've had a he­adac­he sin­ce yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on."

  "You got a knock on the nog­gin for su­re, but you don't se­em to ha­ve a con­cus­si­on. Still, you sho­uld ta­ke it easy un­til yo­ur me­mory co­mes back."

  "So it will co­me back?" She co­uld not ima­gi­ne li­ving in such a men­tal abyss for very much lon­ger.

  "Pro­bably." He saw her dis­may and pat­ted her back. "The­re, the­re, don't fret. That won't help. Truth is, I've ne­ver had a ca­se of am­ne­sia be­fo­re. It's pretty ra­re. Still, most folks re­co­ver, gi­ven ti­me."

  Most folks re­co­ver, gi­ven ti­me. Not for the first ti­me sin­ce she had re­ga­ined con­s­ci­o­us­ness yes­ter­day and re­ali­zed that she had lost her me­mory, Re­gi­na fa­ced the pos­si­bi­lity that she might ne­ver re­ga­in her fa­cul­ti­es, that she might ne­ver know her­self. The no­ti­on was shat­te­ring.

  Rick knoc­ked upon the do­or im­pa­ti­ently. "You thro­ugh, Doc?"

  "C'mon in, Rick." The doc­tor be­gan pac­king up his black bag slowly, in no hurry at all.

  Rick wal­ked in, ra­di­ating the kind of energy she had wit­nes­sed in Sla­de, but with a dif­fe­ren­ce. In Sla­de, it was al­most ex­p­lo­si­ve, in the fat­her it was me­rely vi­tal. Aga­in she won­de­red whe­re Sla­de was. She had not se­en him sin­ce he had left her at her ho­tel ro­om yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on. She had tho­ught abo­ut him too of­ten. She was di­sap­po­in­ted he was not with his fat­her.

  Rick smi­led at her but fo­cu­sed on the doc­tor. "Well?"

  Re­gi­na did not lis­ten as the doc­tor told Rick what he had al­re­ady told her. She got up and wal­ked over to the mir­ror, sta­ring at the stran­ger she saw the­re, the stran­ger who was her­self.

  Re­gi­na had bat­hed using a pit­c­her of wa­ter on the bu­re­au and the was­h­ba­sin be­ne­ath. She had dres­sed in one of her su­its, a smart navy jac­ket and skirt with a cre­am-co­lo­red blo­use and a string of pe­arls which had be­en among her things. This mor­ning she tho­ught that she lo­oked mo­re than we­althy and at­trac­ti­ve, she lo­oked re­gal and ele­gant. It was an ob­ser­va­ti­on, de­vo­id of any va­nity or con­ce­it. It was still dis­tur­bing to lo­ok at her­self. Whe­ne­ver she did so, the lack of fa­mi­li­arity ca­used a lump to lod­ge in her chest.

  The­re was anot­her knock on the do­or; Re­gi­na's first tho­ught was that it was Sla­de and she smi­led, her first ge­nu­ine smi­le that day. She sto­le anot­her qu­ick glan­ce at her­self in the mir­ror, but every ha­ir was in pla­ce. She re­ac­hed the do­or be­fo­re Rick and ope­ned it. A ho­tel va­let sto­od the­re hol­ding a bre­ak­fast tray. Di­sap­po­in­ted, she wat­c­hed him de­po­sit it on the small tab­le bet­we­en the two up­hol­s­te­red cha­irs.

  "I know you didn't eat last night so I or­de­red you bre­ak­fast," Rick sa­id. "You lo­ok li­ke a new per­son to­day. How do you fe­el, Eli­za­beth?"

  "Bet­ter." Her reply was auto­ma­tic. She co­uld smell freshly scram­b­led eggs and warm buns, ma­king her re­ali­ze that she was ra­ve­no­us. But she ma­de no mo­ve to sit down. "Whe­re is Sla­de?"

  Rick scow­led. "Still in bed. That boy has a ten­dency to la­zi­ness."

  Re­gi­na glan­ced at Rick in sur­p­ri­se. She did not know Sla­de well, but she was po­si­ti­ve that he didn't ha­ve a lazy bo­ne in his en­ti­re body. Qu­ite the op­po­si­te, in fact. She didn't think she had ever met a mo­re res­t­less man.

  "Go ahe­ad, Eli­za­beth. Eat. We're not much on man­ners he­re."

  Re­gi­na was abo­ut to sit down when, from the open do­or­way, Sla­de sa­id, "You wo­uldn't know go­od man­ners if a bo­ok of them we­re sho­ved right in yo­ur fa­ce."

  Re­gi­na and Rick tur­ned. Sla­de's fa­ce was red and angry; he'd ob­vi­o­usly he­ard his fat­her's de­ro­ga­tory re­mark.

  "And the ap­ple don't fall far from the tree," Rick sa­id. "If s ten o'clock. She's got every right to sle­ep all day. You don't."

  Sla­de stal­ked in, using the toe of his worn bo­ot to sli­de the do­or clo­sed. "You my boss? You fe­ed me, pay me my wa­ges? I don't re­call get­ting a pay­c­heck from you."

  "Char­lie Mann let you sle­ep till ten in the mor­ning?"

  "When I'm in Fris­co, I'm wor­king," Sla­de sa­id.

  Rick ho­oted. "Li­ke hell! May­be if you got to bed at a de­cent ho­ur you co­uld get up in the mor­ning."

  "May­be what I do-at night or any ti­me-is no­ne of yo­ur damn bu­si­ness."

  The two men gla­red at each ot­her. Re­gi­na was grip­ping the back of one cha­ir, her eyes wi­de and ri­ve­ted upon fat­her and son. She was wit­nes­sing what she had no right to wit­ness and she was ap­pal­led by the re­la­ti­on­s­hip she saw bet­we­en them. Why had Rick at­tac­ked Sla­de? How co­uld a fat­her do such a thing-and in front of ot­her pe­op­le? And why had Sla­de ri­sen so eagerly to do bat­tle? In­to the en­su­ing si­len­ce, she sa­id, her smi­le overly bright, "You're just in ti­me for bre­ak­fast! Co­me, sit down. We'll send for mo­re pla­tes."

  Sla­de and Rick both tur­ned the­ir at­ten�
�ti­on to her, which had be­en her in­ten­ti­on. "I al­re­ady ate and the­re's plenty of cof­fee," Rick sa­id. He pul­led up a cha­ir. "Sit down, Eli­za­beth."

  Re­gi­na didn't mo­ve, re­gar­ding Sla­de, who hadn't res­pon­ded to her of­fer. Now that he was no lon­ger fo­cu­sed on his fat­her, his glan­ce had set­tled upon her. His ga­ze was sharp, as she had co­me to ex­pect, me­eting hers. The qu­es­ti­on was the­re in his eyes. "Anything?"

  Re­gi­na un­der­s­to­od what he was as­king. She sho­ok her he­ad, unab­le to lo­ok away-and not wan­ting to. Di­sap­po­in­t­ment sho­wed pla­inly on his fa­ce when he re­ali­zed that she had not re­co­ve­red from the am­ne­sia.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not help ste­aling a mo­re tho­ro­ugh glan­ce at him as she sat down. He lo­oked go­od, and the re­ali­za­ti­on was jar­ring. His dark thick ha­ir was damp and slic­ked stra­ight back. He was cle­an-sha­ven, and it sho­wed off his per­fect fe­atu­res. She re­al­ly hadn't re­ali­zed just how ex­t­ra­or­di­na­rily han­d­so­me he was un­til that mo­ment. His cot­ton shirt was snowy-whi­te and freshly la­un­de­red, his de­nims dark-blue and span­king new. He was not we­aring his gun. His bo­ots had be­en wi­ped cle­an of dirt, mud, and dust. And Re­gi­na tho­ught she de­tec­ted a whiff of a ple­asant, wo­odsy co­log­ne.

  He ca­ught her sta­ring. Re­gi­na smi­led in res­pon­se, be­ca­use she was glad to see him and be­ca­use she hadn't for­got­ten for a mo­ment that he had res­cu­ed her and that he had al­so of­fe­red to be her pro­tec­tor. He did not smi­le in re­turn. His ga­ze was enig­ma­tic. His tho­ughts, wha­te­ver they might be, we­re well-hid­den. The in­ten­sity and fi­re he had evin­ced yes­ter­day we­re se­cu­rely gu­ar­ded and tho­ro­ughly ban­ked.

  "Well, now that the pa­ti­ent has be­en exa­mi­ned, I'm go­ing," Doc sa­id che­er­ful­ly from the po­si­ti­on he'd ma­in­ta­ined ne­ar the bed.

  Re­gi­na star­ted. She had for­got­ten the doc­tor was pre­sent. And he did not se­em at all as­to­nis­hed at the ex­c­han­ge he had al­so wit­nes­sed, or in the le­ast bit dis­com­fi­ted. Rick wal­ked him to the do­or, than­king him.

  Sla­de's ga­ze slid over her, ma­king her skin tin­g­le. Softly, he as­ked, "What did Doc say?"

  "That I'll pro­bably re­co­ver-in ti­me."

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing and Rick re­tur­ned to them. Re­gi­na was in­ten­sely awa­re of Sla­de and had lost much of her ap­pe­ti­te. She po­ured both men cof­fee, as­king them how they li­ked it and fi­xing it for them. She pre­ten­ded to eat. Both men sip­ped the­ir cof­fee in si­len­ce, wa­iting for her to fi­nish, Rick sit­ting in the one cha­ir at the tab­le with her, Sla­de lo­un­ging aga­inst the bu­re­au be­hind her. In the de­ad qu­i­et of the small ho­tel ro­om, she was po­wer­ful­ly awa­re of Sla­de. His pre­sen­ce was strong, de­fi­ni­te. She co­uld fe­el him wat­c­hing her. She was re­min­ded of a ti­ger she had on­ce se­en in a zoo, dan­ge­ro­us if re­le­ased, un­fat­ho­mab­le ca­ged, and pre­da­tory if sti­mu­la­ted.

  "Eli­za­beth," Rick sa­id when she was do­ne, "we didn't get a chan­ce to re­al­ly talk last night. But we ha­ve to talk now, be­ca­use I ha­ve to go back to Mi­ra­mar to­day."

  Re­gi­na star­ted. His words ma­de her re­ali­ze that her si­tu­ati­on was fra­gi­le and un­cer­ta­in. Rick was go­ing to re­turn to Mi­ra­mar. She co­uld only as­su­me that Sla­de wo­uld, too. And whe­re did that le­ave her?

  She clut­c­hed her nap­kin. Had James be­en ali­ve, she wo­uld be go­ing with them, to her wed­ding. But James was de­ad. Whe­re wo­uld she go, what wo­uld she do? Last night Rick had an­s­we­red all the qu­es­ti­ons that she had had abo­ut her ho­me. She had be­en ra­ised in San Lu­is Obis­po al­t­ho­ugh she had be­en at­ten­ding a very ex­c­lu­si­ve scho­ol for yo­ung la­di­es in Lon­don sin­ce she was thir­te­en ye­ars old. Her fat­her had di­ed last ye­ar, and her step­mot­her had al­re­ady re­mar­ri­ed. Re­gi­na won­de­red if her step­mot­her wo­uld wel­co­me her in­to her ho­use­hold. "I sup­po­se I will be go­ing ho­me," she sa­id un­cer­ta­inly, and she fo­und her­self tur­ning so she co­uld lo­ok at Sla­de. Her ga­ze loc­ked with his, qu­es­ti­oning.

  But he sa­id not­hing. His ex­p­res­si­on was grim.

  "That’s what I want to dis­cuss with you," Rick sa­id. "I don't think it's a go­od idea for you to be tra­ve­ling now, when you don't ha­ve yo­ur me­mory. Es­pe­ci­al­ly not alo­ne."

  She ag­re­ed with him who­le­he­ar­tedly. The tho­ught of tra­ve­ling alo­ne was unap­pe­aling when she was in such a vul­ne­rab­le con­di­ti­on, even for such a short trip, but the truth of the mat­ter went be­yond that. She was al­re­ady es­tab­lis­hing a nic­he he­re, whi­le ho­me was not­hing but a con­cept, one that sho­uld ha­ve be­en in­vi­ting, but that, un­der the cir­cum­s­tan­ces, of­fe­red her very lit­tle com­fort. "I sup­po­se," she sa­id slowly, wan­ting to lo­ok at Sla­de who was still be­hind her, "that when my com­pa­ni­on re­co­vers we can tra­vel to­get­her."

  Rick he­si­ta­ted. "Mrs. Schro­ener di­ed yes­ter­day, af­ter the tra­in ca­me in-be­fo­re you and Sla­de even ar­ri­ved."

  Re­gi­na was shoc­ked.

  "I co­uld al­ways send you ho­me with one of my boys," Rick sa­id, "but even with an es­cort, I'm not su­re you sho­uld tra­vel right now. Doc has ad­vi­sed aga­inst it."

  Not be­ing ab­le to re­mem­ber her cha­pe­ro­ne hel­ped Re­gi­na re­co­ver her wits qu­ickly. "I must send word to her re­la­ti­ves, if we can find them."

  "Don't you worry abo­ut that. I've ta­ken ca­re of ever­y­t­hing, but if you want to send a no­te, I'll pass it on for you."

  Re­gi­na nod­ded. "Wo­uld my step­mot­her wel­co­me me if I re­tur­ned?"

  Rick frow­ned. "Su­san re­mar­ri­ed six months af­ter Ge­or­ge di­ed. Sin­ce you re­tur­ned from Lon­don last month you we­re her gu­est, and I do­ubt she was very happy abo­ut it. She's not so much ol­der than you and you're too damn at­trac­ti­ve. I don't think she'd be very happy to ha­ve you mo­ve in with her now."

  Re­gi­na sa­id not­hing. She wasn't sur­p­ri­sed. It only ma­de sen­se that a newly mar­ri­ed wo­man wo­uld want pri­vacy with her hus­band, and the fact that Su­san wasn't much ol­der than she her­self ma­de her even mo­re un­wel­co­me. She had a he­adac­he now. Her glan­ce fi­nal­ly did turn to Sla­de. Now he was sit­ting on the bu­re­au and he was stud­ying the con­tents of her bre­ak­fast tray as if he fo­und them fas­ci­na­ting. She wan­ted to catch his eye, but he se­emed de­ter­mi­ned to avo­id her. If she did not re­turn ho­me to San Lu­is Obis­po, whe­re wo­uld she go?

  "You can stay he­re for a whi­le. With my fa­mily. At Mi­ra­mar," Rick sa­id.

  "That's very kind of you! Too kind!" She tho­ught she he­ard Sla­de snort, but wasn't su­re. "Why wo­uld you ta­ke me in?" Re­gi­na as­ked. "Why wo­uld you do so­met­hing li­ke this? It might be a long ti­me be­fo­re I re­ga­in my me­mory." Or ne­ver, she tho­ught with a to­uch of pa­nic.

  "Be­ca­use I be­li­eve in fa­mily," Rick sa­id. "James lo­ved you. He was my son. As far as I'm con­cer­ned, you are fa­mily. Yo­ur pla­ce is with us, at Mi­ra­mar. We'll ta­ke ca­re of you the­re un­til you get well."

  Re­gi­na grip­ped her hands hard. He was of­fe­ring her a san­c­tu­ary in her ti­me of ne­ed. She was gra­te­ful. And Sla­de was the­re. She co­uldn't help thin­king of that, too. "Thank you," she whis­pe­red. She da­red to glan­ce at Sla­de.

  "You ha­ve every cho­ice." He spo­ke stiffly. "You want to go to San Lu­is Obis­po to yo­ur step­mot­her, I'll ta­ke you. You want to go to Lon­don, I'll find you a cha­pe­ro­ne. You're an he­iress, Eli­za­beth, so you're not wit­ho­ut me­ans."

  She gas­ped. "You don't want me to stay?"

 
; "I didn't say that," he sa­id. "I'm only po­in­ting out to you that you are a wo­man of sub­s­tan­ce."

  He didn't want her to stay. The fact prac­ti­cal­ly blin­ded her. It ne­arly swept her from her cha­ir. Not only didn't he want her to stay, Sla­de was of­fe­ring to help her le­ave. She felt bet­ra­yed. But most im­por­tantly, she was an­gu­is­hed, be­ca­use she trus­ted him, ne­eded him.

  "Can't you be ni­ce to yo­ur brot­her's fi­an­c­йe?" Rick sho­uted. "Can't you see how up­set you've ma­de her?"

  Sla­de was rhythmi­cal­ly tap­ping one bo­oted he­el aga­inst the bu­re­au now, an out­let for the hot flow of la­va-li­ke energy in his ve­ins. The­re was so­met­hing omi­no­us abo­ut the ste­ady thump-thump-thump. "Just how ni­ce do you want me to be?" he sa­id softly.

  Re­gi­na lo­oked from one man to the ot­her. Aga­in she was wit­nes­sing an in­ti­ma­te and po­wer­ful con­f­lict, one she had no right to even be awa­re of. "Stop it," she sa­id.

  They both lo­oked at her in sur­p­ri­se.

  She grip­ped the ed­ge of the tab­le, not lo­oking at Sla­de now, even tho­ugh she knew he was sta­ring at her. She re­fu­sed to lo­ok at him af­ter he had ma­de him­self so cle­ar. "Let me at le­ast le­arn all of the facts. Am I clo­se to my step­mot­her? Or was I, be­fo­re her re­mar­ri­age, I me­an?"

  "No," Rick sa­id bluntly. "Su­san was fu­ri­o­us with the terms of the will. Ge­or­ge knew you we­re go­ing to marry James, and he'd left most of his for­tu­ne to you."

  "Why?"

  "Ge­or­ge and I grew up to­get­her. Ge­or­ge was an or­p­han. He was ra­ised at the mis­si­on at San Mi­gu­el. As kids we ran wild to­get­her and be­ca­me fri­ends. But let's fa­ce it. Ge­or­ge was al­ways awa­re of the dif­fe­ren­ces bet­we­en us, that I was the he­ir to Mi­ra­mar whi­le he was an or­p­han wor­king in our wi­nery. Back in tho­se days, my fat­her was li­ke the old Spa­nish dons of cen­tu­ri­es ago. He was the king of this en­ti­re co­unty and ever­yo­ne knew it. The law an­s­we­red to him. Who­le towns an­s­we­red to him. You co­uldn't bre­at­he wit­ho­ut his oka­ying it. See what I me­an?"