by Jana Barkley
Sam opened her eyes and caught her reflection in the floor length window. It took a second for her to register the other face staring back at her. He stood back against the opposite wall of the corridor, his hands in his front pockets, watching her.
She flushed and started to turn toward him, but stopped herself. She wasn’t ready for anyone to see her up close, yet.
“I’m starting to see a pattern here,” he said, his voice quiet.
She cast furtive eyes at his reflection.
“If I’m not having to find you buried in a snowdrift somewhere, then I’m having to track you down in some remote corner eating your heart out.”
Sam trembled and wrapped her arms around herself in a desperate attempt for self-control.
He moved close behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders; the warmth of his touch wrenched at her resolve to keep him at a distance.
She could no longer make out the expression on his face in the glass because her blossoming tears had erupted, making everything hard to see.
“That was quite some slide show,” she said, trying to sound amiable and unaffected. “I always wondered what you must have looked like as a kid.” She tried to put on her best smile, but it wasn’t working.
Hank took the side of her face in one hand and turned her head and body toward him. His eyes were intense as they read her face, and she tried to turn away.
“Look at me.”
Sam shook her head, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. His hand turned her face back toward him, and her eyes were prisoner to the strength of his gaze.
“Tell me why you’re crying,” he prompted, searching.
Sam tried to turn her head away, but he held her there.
Her voice was hard to find, making Sam feel even more wretched and exposed.
“Sam…” he murmured in response to a tear sliding down her cheek. He wiped it away with such tenderness, she knew she could no longer hide her feelings from herself or him.
“Those…pictures…” she said, finding it hard to breathe. “Of you and—”
“Tasha?”
She nodded, her eyes unable to escape his gaze, which bored ever deeper into her, insisting on the connection that held them closer than they’d ever been.
“And now you’re planning on leaving,” she said as she choked back a sob, mortified by how hard it was to put words together.
Hank was all tenderness as he held her hot face in his hand, his eyes searching.
“Don’t worry about me leaving,” he said.
Sam frowned and tried to pull away. He was relentless and tilted her chin up to face him.
“And as far as that woman is concerned,” he said with a hint of derision in his voice, “that fire burned out long ago and has no hope in hell of starting again.”
“But the two of you—when I see her with you, hugging you, you seem to fit, like you belong together.”
“Fit? Me and Tasha?” His expression was incredulous, and then somewhere deep within those steely eyes she saw a fire that would have made her step back if she could have.
“You fit,” he said with a vehemence that took her strength away. Then his mouth was on hers, his hand still cradling her face, his other arm pulling her toward his body in an embrace, making her melt into him.
His lips were tender but demanding, searching for a response from her. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer with a passion she had forgotten she could feel. Hank reacted to her embrace with renewed energy and searched her lips, her mouth, as if to drink in the very essence of her.
She told herself not to think, not to worry about anything. There was only this moment; there was only him right then.
His mouth pulled away from hers. They both gasped for breath, but he held her close and buried his face in her hair. She had thought it would be something to be loved by this man. Now her heart and her body ached for nothing less. She sought solace in his willing arms, which held her closer as she clung to him.
His mouth was by her ear, and she could feel his breath.
“I’m not going anywhere without you,” he said. “Don’t ever worry about that again.” He pulled himself back to search her eyes and send the message home.
The depth of feeling in his eyes as he gazed at her, adoring her, made it impossible not to want him, not to love him. She reached a hand up to touch his cheek. His face was absolutely dear to her. At her touch, his eyes closed and he buried his mouth into her palm, kissing it, losing himself in it.
Sounds from the other end of the corridor shook them both back to the present. Yet instead of pulling away in fear of being discovered, Hank’s lips caressed her forehead, and he lingered there to drink in her scent before he released her. His large hand swallowed hers in a secure grip, claiming her as his. His subtle smile told her he was confident of her heart and she had nothing to fear from Tasha or any other woman.
They had to go back to the banquet room, and he led her back by the hand, both of them bound together in the connection they had forged and the precious secret of their embrace.
Returning to the rest of the world as they stepped back into the banquet hall, Sam’s heart seized in panic. What had she done? A silent wail welled up from the center of her soul. But she had been powerless to stop him, hadn’t she?
Hank led her back toward their table, and Mary Kate pulled her down next to her.
“They’re getting ready to give out game pins, you nut. Where were you?”
“Powder room,” she said with a dazed smile.
The calling of falconers one by one to get their pins for game captured by their hawks or falcons at the meet brought back a semblance of normalcy, and she was able to enjoy the proceedings. Still, her heart reached out to the man sitting next to her; she wanted to know the connection was still there, that what had happened in the corridor was real. As if in response to her silent searching, she felt a large, warm hand grasp hers in her lap, and she leaned into his shoulder.
Hank’s name was called, both Remo and Gally’s names, and the prey they had taken during the week. Considering who was coming back up to the stage, the audience erupted with applause. Sam beamed at him as he returned, and his eyes held hers with a new intensity.
They called falconers up alphabetically, and when they made it to the Ls, Sam felt her face flush. Hank grinned at her.
“Samantha Leyton, one black-tailed jackrabbit with Chance, a passage male red tail.”
Her friends at the table let loose with cheers and stood as she rose to go get her pin. It was a simple enameled pin in the shape of a rabbit, but it was priceless considering what she and Chance had worked so hard for. As she came back to the table, everyone there hugged her, including Hank, who stole a moment to plant a kiss on her cheek.
Soon after the giving of the game pins, the banquet ended, and the vending room opened again, giving people a last chance to buy equipment before leaving the next day. Hank led her there by the hand, but as the evening wore on, they split up to give farewells on their own. But every once in a while, when she happened to glance around the room, she caught him staring at her. Sam would blush and smile as if the whole world was aware of what she was feeling, then steal a glance back to see a grin on his face as he continued to talk to another falconer. Look how happy he was. Had she done that?
Sam hardly knew what people said to her, let alone her responses to them. As she wandered around the room, a longing drew her back to the entrance of the hall. Turning toward the doorway, she saw she was not alone. He stood there as if he’d been waiting for her.
He took her coat and put it on her without saying anything, then led her by the hand out of the lodge. Sam couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, afraid the spell would break and she’d wake to find herself alone again.
Hank walked with a quiet resolve, his long legs moving them along until they were outside of a room. Number 16. His room. And although the warning signal went off in her head as before, she felt like someone lost
and powerless in a dream.
Once inside, he slid his coat off and threw it on a chair, then peeled her out of hers. She couldn’t get close enough to him, and his arms crushed her against him without mercy while he kissed her hair, her face, and then found her mouth.
Before Sam knew what was happening to her, Hank had lifted her and laid her on the bed next to him. He caressed her face, devoured her mouth, and made her mind take leave of all reason. His hands moved down her arms and waist and slid over her hips, making her moan with desire. The pulse between her thighs thundered at his touch, and she reached for his shirt.
There was no doubt in her mind about what was going to happen. No sense or rational thinking could control the passion they had ignited. Hank responded to her desire to touch him, his hands moving upward to cover her breasts. Then, moving one hand behind her, he found her zipper and began to pull. Panic shot through Sam’s consciousness as she realized he was going to touch her, and touching her like that meant he would feel the port-a-cath above her left breast.
How could she do this to him? Make love to him with this wretched lie still between them. “Oh, God,” she moaned aloud, shaking her head.
“Hank,” she murmured, her voice filling with despair. “I can’t.”
He seemed to recall himself but held onto her still, his mouth by her ear. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
She began to wriggle herself free and off of the bed.
“Not now, not like this.”
Pulling away from him was agony.
Hank sat up, ready to spring toward her, but he stopped when he saw her standing there ready to flee.
“Sam, wait,” he said, panting, his voice heavy with feeling.
She swayed a little on her feet and her eyes sought the door.
“Sam, for God’s sake, don’t run away from me!”
The desperation in his voice mirrored the longing in her eyes as she turned back to him.
“Please,” he whispered, reaching out for her hand. “Come here, sweetheart.”
She allowed herself to step back toward him, and as she did so he grasped her hands in his like a falling man desperate to catch hold of something secure. He struggled to steady his breathing and gain control of himself.
Tell him now. Get it over with. But her heart rebelled like a wild animal.
Hank leaned over to turn on the bedside lamp and pulled her closer to where he sat on the edge of the bed. Raking a large hand through his truant hair, he looked up into her face with eyes full of longing mixed with fear. And for a moment, she thought she could feel him trembling. They both were.
Sam’s eyes filled with tears again, and she pulled her hands free to try to zip her dress up, conscious of holding up the left side so her chest was covered. As she fumbled with the zipper, he reached around and did it for her, then rested his hands on her waist, holding her in front of him.
Everything in her wanted this, wanted him, and she knew he could see the desire in her eyes. His face told her he was confused and didn’t know what to do. A surge of pain Sam was sure was her heart breaking welled within her, and she reached out to touch his face, wanting nothing more than to kiss it and hold it. Instead, she spoke the words she knew would hurt her more than anything to say to him.
“Don’t fall in love with me, Hank.”
Instead of reacting with pain or anger, he shook his head and gazed long and hard into her eyes. “Too late.”
She gave up inside, and cradled his head to her breast, so thankful for the strong arms encircling her like his life depended on it. They stayed there for many minutes, and then he moved back and motioned for her to sit next to him.
Turning on the bed, he reached out and made her look at him.
“We don’t have to rush,” he said, thoughtful, all the while scrutinizing her face. “I’ve known for quite a while there’s something you’re afraid to tell me.”
Sam started, feeling like a wild, threatened creature, but he was an expert at calming wild things. In his hands, she was helpless.
“Sam, sweetheart,” he said with a tenderness that made her heart cry out for him as he touched her face, “I don’t think there’s anything in this world you could tell me that would make me love you less.”
A great sadness welled up in her eyes.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” He didn’t let her answer. “If you can’t be with me,”—his voice was hoarse—“because of whatever this secret is, I’ll wait.” His face showed hope and desire mixed.
“When you’re ready,” he said, “I’ll be here. But promise me one thing…”
She watched him with yearning, tear-filled eyes.
“Don’t run away from me.”
“How about this,” she said, finding her voice at last. “I promise to stay with you as long as you want me to.” Or until you tell me to get lost because you feel I betrayed you.
Relief washed over his face, and all she wanted was to hold him close.
“I never want to hurt you, Hank.”
He stood and pulled her to him in an overwhelming embrace.
Sam finally pulled away to reach for her coat.
“You don’t have to go, Sam.”
She gave him a sad smile. “Yes, I do.”
He helped her with her coat, taking great pains to zip her up in its warmth to protect her against the cold of the freezing night air. Then he reached for his sheepskin-lined field jacket.
“I can get back okay,” she said with a flicker of humor. “I’m two doors down, remember?”
He came to rest his hands on her arms and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to walk you back, anyway.”
She encircled his waist with her arms. He responded in kind, holding her so tight to his body it was torture to let go. But they were walking out of his room and to Sam’s door, lost in this crazy dream of passion and regret and longing. As she turned to say good night, he kissed her tenderly, and then turned with energy to go back to his room. The closing of his door was a little too sharp, telling Sam he had his own struggle to deal with that night.
Cast: Two hawks flown together making it easier to subdue difficult quarry
Chapter Thirty-Six
As Sam pushed her room key into its slot, she paused to listen to the night. She was numb. For some crazy reason, all she could think about was the pristine silence of the snowy desert night. The cold air was welcome for a few moments. She tried to breathe it in, and then started coughing.
Pushing the door open, she was surprised to find a light on, meaning Mary Kate had been back to the room. Knowing the social nature of her friend, she doubted she’d see her until well after midnight. But the night was full of surprises.
Her friend sat on the edge of the bed, still in her dress-up clothes, as she had called them earlier in the evening. Sam came in and closed the door, sensing something wasn’t right. Mary Kate’s tear-filled eyes confirmed it.
“Mary Kate…what’s wrong?”
This wasn’t the carefree spirit she was accustomed to, the one prone to chat and smile about anything. Her friend’s gaze fell to the floor. Sam pulled off her coat and tossed it to her bed and took a step closer.
“There was a phone message when I came back to the room. I needed to get some more money for the vending room.” She glanced back at Sam, unsure.
“I listened to the message. I didn’t think I was prying or anything.”
Sam’s heart pounded in her ears.
“It could have been a phone call for me, too, you know.”
Mary Kate’s auburn curls fell forward, covering her face. She swiped away some tears. Reaching over to the nightstand between their two beds, she picked up a piece of paper.
“I wrote it down,” she said. “They had to move your chemotherapy appointment from Monday afternoon to the morning.”
Sam felt the room fall out from under her. She collapsed into the chair next to her as if she weighed a thousand pounds.
“I’m so sorr
y, darlin’,” said Mary Kate.
“No, Mary Kate. I’m the one who should be sorry.” Sam’s voice was flat, evidence the battle was over. At last.
Her friend came closer to sit on the end of the bed across from Sam.
“When did you find out?”
“Last May, before I knew any of you, I went to the doctor for a routine physical. Blood tests—that sort of thing,” Sam said, hearing her voice as if it were coming from another person. Mary Kate watched her with unflinching attention. “I was having a lot of night sweats. Of course, being a middle-aged woman, I thought maybe the change of life was coming on early for me, so I thought I’d better get to the doctor to see what I should do.
“He found this small lump here,” she said, touching an area on the side of her neck, “I hadn’t noticed it before. The doctor thought my lymph node was infected, so he put me on antibiotics. Only the lump didn’t go away after two weeks.”
Sam kicked off her heels and slumped back into the chair.
“They started with a needle biopsy. They found the wrong kind of cells. So they went back in and removed most of the lymph node. If you look close you can see the tiny scar here,” she said, leaning forward toward Mary Kate.
Her friend sat stunned but nodded.
“After lots and lots of tests, they came to the conclusion I have large-cell, Stage II non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Large-cell means it’s aggressive and requires heavy-duty chemotherapy to keep it from spreading to other organs. Because it’s a lymphoma, it affects the formation of my blood cells. Lymphoma cells try to replace my healthy red and white blood cells, and the end result is fatigue and susceptibility to infections. If the chemo doesn’t work, they may have to do a bone marrow transplant. But whatever the outcome of either therapy, the whole truth in a nutshell is I will never be ‘cured.’ I may live in remission for years—which means the symptoms go away and you feel like a normal person—but there’s always the threat of a relapse or worse hanging over your head for the rest of your life.”
Both women sat silent for a while, the sounds of happy people from the meet talking outside in the normal world, magnifying the blatant discrepancies of these disparate realities. When Mary Kate spoke, her voice was quiet against the muffled backdrop of this foreign, outside world.