by Sandra Brown
“I’ll be right there,” she said briskly.
Hurriedly swallowing what was left of her cooled coffee, she dashed upstairs. Within half an hour, she had bathed and dressed efficiently in a poplin skirt and pullover knit top. Her shoes were low-heeled. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail at her nape and tied a bright printed scarf around it. She never went to the gin dressed in her finest. One reason was because it wouldn’t be practical. The other, the main one, was because she wanted the workers to consider her one of them and not merely the boss’s wife.
She called out her good-bye to Haney, explaining where she was going. Then, catching up her purse, she ran out the front door. Rink was just reining in the stallion. When he saw her, he handed the stallion over to a waiting Steve and jogged over to her.
“Where are you going in such a hurry? The hospital?”
By his expression, Caroline knew he thought the cause for her haste was that his father had taken a turn for the worse. Despite the antagonism between them, she thought, Rink cared for his father and hated the agony he was suffering. She relieved him quickly. “No. I called earlier. Roscoe wasn’t awake yet, but they said he had a fairly peaceful night. I’m going to the gin.”
“Problem?”
“Yes. With one of the stands.”
He nodded. “Bad?”
“I think it might be. The foreman had to shut it down.” She could all but see the wheels of his brain whirring and before she could weigh the wisdom of her impulse she asked, “Would you come with me, Rink?” His eyes flew to hers and she swallowed hard. “Maybe if you looked at it, you could tell what’s wrong. I would trust your judgment. Anyone else might try to take advantage of me right now.”
He stared at her so long and so thoroughly that she thought he was going to refuse. Then he held out his hand. “I’ll drive.”
She dropped the keys to the Lincoln into his palm and they each ran to the car, getting in on opposite sides. He drove as he did everything else, aggressively. The car roared out of the curved drive, leaving behind it a shower of gravel and a cloud of dust.
“Have you been having problems with this machine?” he asked her.
“Some, yes.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
She wished they could keep the conversation going. His nearness was wreaking havoc on her senses. He smelled of fresh morning air, of wind, of horseflesh, of a brisk cologne and of man. The image of him on horseback kept creeping back into her mind.
With stark clarity, she remembered the day he had showed up at their rendezvous riding bareback. She had shrunk from the horse, which had looked enormous to her. Rink had laughed away her timidity and insisted that she ride with him. He had easily hoisted her across the horse’s back. Luckily she had worn a full skirt that day so she had been able to sit astride.
Even now she remembered the feel of the horse’s bristly hide against her bare thighs, of Rink’s middle against her hips as he pulled himself up behind her, the bunching and flexing of his thighs against hers, the strength of his arms as they went around her to hold the reins. His body had been warm and faintly damp with healthy sweat. He had rested his chin against her hair. She could even now feel his breath on her cheek, on her eyelids. He smelled the same today as he had that day twelve years ago.
She didn’t remember much of that horseback ride beneath the canopy of low-hanging trees, only the pounding of her heart as his hand rested just beneath it. She remembered being afraid of nothing save that he might not like the way she felt when his hand brushed against her breast. She couldn’t afford the lacy confections the other girls wore for underwear. Her lingerie was basic, white, functional and unattractive. She had wanted to feel soft and alluring and sexy beneath his hand. She had feared she didn’t.
Now, she looked at his hands as they steered the car. Beautiful hands. Dark and strong, lean and tapered. His nails were bluntly clipped straight across. Dark hairs bristled on his knuckles, the back of his hand, the wrist bone.
“Let me help you down,” he had said, raising those hands up to her.
She had swung her leg over the horse’s back and leaned down to rest her hands on his shoulders. His hands had cupped her underarms as she slowly slid from the animal’s back. But long after her feet touched the ground, he kept his hands there, the heels of them pressing into the fleshy sides of her breasts. And he had spoken her name.
“Caroline. Caroline.”
Now, she jumped, realizing that his voice wasn’t a part of her mental meanderings but reality.
“What?” She looked at him, her agitation evident. Her eyes were smoky and dilated with remembrance of the heady kiss that they had shared then. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, just as it had that day when his hands had moved to cover her breasts, to massage them with slow, rubbing circles that had brought her nipples to peaks.
Rink looked at her strangely. “I asked if there’s any special place you park.”
“Oh. Y-yes. By the door. It’s marked.”
He steered the car into the space where her name was stenciled on the concrete and cut the car’s motor. She was treated to another analyzing stare. “Ready to go in?” He didn’t sound certain that she was.
But she had to escape the car, the memories. Almost shouting her yes, she shoved open the car door and nearly fell out of it in her haste to leave.
The din and dust of the gin were welcome familiarities. She entered with Rink and led him toward his father’s office.
Rink saw that little had changed. Most of the workers who clustered around them were familiar.
“Barnes!” he exclaimed. “Still here?”
“Till they bury me.” He pumped Rink’s hand. “It’s good to see you, boy.”
Others greeted him just as enthusiastically and he inquired after family members by names that another man might have forgotten. But these people were part of Rink’s heritage. They would be as much a part of him as his life’s blood for as long as he lived.
“What’s the problem?” he asked Barnes, walking toward the broken gin stand that stood in a row of many.
“Age, mostly,” the foreman replied uneasily. “Been patching up these machines for years, Rink. Don’t know how much more rigging they’ll stand. Especially if this year’s crop is as good as it’s supposed to be. We’ll be going day and night.”
Rink picked up the cotton fibers that were the last out of the machine and rubbed them between his fingers. There were bits of leaves and burrs enmeshed in the fibers. Both Barnes and Caroline avoided his eyes as he looked at them sharply. “What grade cotton is this?”
“Middling,” Caroline finally admitted when Barnes remained silent.
“Lancaster gins have always produced good-to-strict middling. What the hell is going on here?”
“Let’s go into the office, Rink,” Caroline suggested softly. She turned and led the way, hoping that Rink would follow her and not make her appeal to him in front of the men.
She was seated in the leather chair behind the desk when he came through the office door and slammed it behind him, rattling the frosted glass in its top half.
“This used to be one of the finest spot markets in the state,” he began furiously and without preamble.
“It still is.”
“Not if that’s the best grade of cotton we can produce, it isn’t. If I were a planter I’d sure as hell take my crop to some other gin. Why aren’t we producing better than that?”
“I told you we’re having some trouble with the equipment. It’s—”
“Ancient,” he cut in. “Dammit, hasn’t Daddy done one damn thing to improve or update?”
“He didn’t see the need,” she replied softly.
“The need!” he shouted. “Look at this place. It’s a dinosaur compared to modern gins. We’re not being fair to ourselves or to the growers. It’s a wonder they haven’t started taking their crops to other—” He broke off suddenly and his eyes narrowed. “Or are they?”
“We lost a few last year, yes.”
He hooked the toe of his boot around a chair leg and pulled it toward him. Sitting down, he leaned across the desk and said in a voice she couldn’t disobey, “Tell me about it.”
“A few of Lancaster Gin’s dependable planters have started taking their cotton to other gins, paying the fee to have it ginned and then selling it to the merchants directly.”
She squirmed uneasily in the squeaky leather chair as he studied her. “So they’d rather go to all that trouble and expense rather than let us buy their crop, gin it, bale it and sell it to the merchants.” She nodded and he vocalized the rest of what they were both thinking. “They can make more money doing it that way than by letting us gin it, because we’re paying them for a lesser grade of cotton.”
“I suppose they think so.”
He got out of the chair and went to the window. He turned his hands palms out and slid them into the back pockets of his jeans. He seemed to be studying the landscape, but Caroline knew that he wasn’t seeing it at all. “You knew all this, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” he repeated, spinning around when she didn’t answer him immediately.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t do anything about it.”
“What could I do, Rink? At first I was only the bookkeeper. I learned about the ginning process and the marketing by listening, studying, making a nuisance of myself around the workers. I don’t make executive decisions.”
“You’re his wife! Doesn’t that give you a vote in anything?” He held up both hands. “I take that back. Wives of Roscoe Lancaster don’t criticize him or anything he does, they just remain meekly at his beck and call and administer… wifely comforts.”
Her chin went up as she balled her hands into fists and crossed her arms at her waist. “I told you once that I wouldn’t discuss my relationship with Roscoe with you.”
“And I told you once that I don’t give a damn what you do in his bed.”
They both knew that wasn’t true. Rink almost looked embarrassed for telling such a bald lie. Caroline wisely chose not to challenge it. “If insulting me is the best you can do by way of helping, then I’ll ask you not to bother.”
He spat an expletive and raked frustrated fingers through his hair. Their eyes battled until they tacitly declared a truce. “I’ll do whatever I can,” he grumbled.
“Can you repair the stand?” she asked, putting aside her pride.
“I’ll need some tools, but I think I can. I’ve torn airplane engines apart and repaired them. Surely this can’t be any more intricate than that. But I’m not promising anything, Caroline. What repair I do won’t be an answer to your problems.”
“I understand that.” She softened considerably, letting her rigid posture relax as she smiled that shy, apologetic smile of hers. “Whatever help you can give me, I’ll appreciate.”
This time his curse was even more vile, but silent. And it was aimed at himself for his own culpability. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to hold her, protect her, meld her lips to his, graft his body to hers. What a damn fool he was. It drove him to distraction to think of her body entwined with that of his father. God! Sometimes he thought he’d go mad thinking about it.
Yet, he couldn’t despise her, much as he wanted to. Every time he looked at her, he wanted her more. He should leave. Immediately. Before he did something to disgrace himself. He couldn’t do that, either, for so many reasons. Laura Jane. His father. But mostly Caroline. Seeing her after twelve years, he couldn’t bring himself to voluntarily leave so soon.
“You’ll know where to find me,” he said on his way out the door.
Caroline worked in the office doing paperwork while Rink commissioned the workmen’s help in seeking out the necessary tools. An hour later, she came up behind him where he was studying the entrails of the huge machine. “Rink, I’m going to the hospital for a while. You can ask one of the men to drive you home if you get done before I get back.”
He smiled wanly. “Not a chance. I’ll be here for a while yet.” She grinned and he had the notion that her half-raised hand was going to touch his arm. Instead, she muttered a rapid good-bye and left.
The hospital was cool and quiet after the noise and confusion in the gin. Roscoe was lying in bed, his eyes glued to the television screen, though he had turned the sound off. Tubes were feeding him and ridding his body of wastes. Monitors blinked and beeped and recorded his vital signs. He was pitiable to behold, but Caroline smiled brightly and bravely as she came in.
By an act of will, she forced yesterday’s encounter from her mind. He was in tremendous pain. He couldn’t help his behavior. She had been merely a convenient scapegoat for the terrible frustration he felt.
“Hello, Roscoe.” She kissed his chalk-white cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“It’s too crude to say to a girl of your sensibilities,” he growled. Eyeing her attire, he asked, “Have you been to the gin?”
“Yes. All morning in fact, or I would have been here sooner. We have a problem with one of the stands.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’m not certain. Something mechanical. Rink’s taking a look at it. These flowers from the Sunday school class are lovely.”
“What the hell do you mean, Rink’s taking a look at it?”
She had been looking over the flower arrangements delivered in her absence, collecting the cards so she would know whom to acknowledge. But at his words she spun around in alarm. From their dark sockets, Roscoe’s eyes gleamed fiendishly. She had never seen him look so menacing. Or was it merely his illness that gave him that malevolent expression?
“Answer me, damn you!” he roared with far more strength than she had expected. “What is Rink doing anywhere near that cotton gin?”
She was flabbergasted and had difficulty getting the words out of her mouth fast enough. “I… I asked him to look at the broken equipment. He’s an engineer. He could tell—”
“You took it upon yourself to ask my son back into the gin?” He struggled to sit up. “He gave up any rights he had to Lancaster Gin when he left here twelve years ago. I don’t want him in the gin, near it. Do you understand me, woman?” Sweat had popped out on his brow. His eyes bulged with fury.
Caroline was afraid, both of his ire and for his life. “Roscoe, please calm down. All I did was ask Rink to look at a broken machine. He’s not asserting any rights over the business.”
“I know him. He’ll start finding fault with everything down there, telling you how to spend my money.” He pointed a gnarled finger at her and said stridently, “You listen to me and you listen good. You’re not to spend one damn cent on that gin without my approval.”
She wanted to slap down that finger, which unfairly accused her. “I never have, Roscoe,” she said levelly.
“Rink’s never been around, either.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Her unwise question reverberated off the sterile walls of the room and came back to assail her. For several seconds she failed to breathe, only glared back at the wasted form of her husband, who in his weakness appeared dangerous, like a normally tame animal who had been wounded and would now destroy anyone trying to help him.
He laughed that horrible laugh as he collapsed against the pillows. “Is that what he told you? That I sent him away in disgrace for knocking up that George gal?”
Caroline’s eyes dropped to her hands. Her fingertips were frigid and the hospital’s air-conditioning was only partially responsible. Her palms were slick with perspiration. “No. We didn’t discuss it,” she said honestly.
“Well, just so you don’t go getting the wrong notion, I’ll set it straight. I didn’t ask Rink to run off and stay away for twelve years. He knew I was mad as hell at him, but not for getting that gal pregnant.” He chuckled. “I expected mischief like that. Boys will be boys. They’ll take it where they can get it, won’t they?”
She turned away. His words were like lan
ces stabbing into her. “I suppose so.”
His laugh was snarling. “Oh, believe me. A man will do anything, say anything, to get under a girl’s skirt. Especially if she’s halfway obliging.”
She closed her eyes, willing away the tears, willing away his words, willing away her own shame.
“ ‘Course, they don’t like getting caught at it the way Rink was. When Frank George came to me and said Rink had knocked up his Marilee, I told him right off Rink would marry her. That was the honorable thing to do, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” It hurt to speak the word.
“Well, that scoundrel said he wasn’t having any of it. That was the real disgrace. Not that Rink had been caught with his pants down, but that he wouldn’t face up to his careless mistake. He told me then that if I forced him into marrying that girl, he’d leave and never come back.”
He sighed as though the memory pained him. “I had to do what was right, didn’t I, Caroline? I had to make him marry that gal. It was his choice to stay away after that, not mine. So don’t go feeling sorry for Rink, no matter what he tells you. He made his bed, and for the rest of his life he’ll have to lie in it.”
He fell silent and for a long while she remained staring out the window. If she turned around, he would see her despair, he would know. When she had collected herself, she returned to his bedside. His eyes were closed as she leaned over him and she thought he was asleep. Softly she made to leave, but his hand shot out with uncanny speed and strength and clamped around her wrist. Startled, she gasped.
“You’re still behaving like a wife, aren’t you, Caroline?”
His smoldering eyes terrified her, as did his question. “Of course. What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’d regret it if you did anything that wasn’t in keeping with a grieving, inconsolable wife watching her husband die.” His fingers twisted over the fragile bones of her wrist until she thought they would crack. Where did he get the strength?