by Jodi Thomas
Anna held the door open wide. "P-please come in." She fought down her nervousness and made herself say each word slowly. "It is very kind of you to come."
"Oh, it weren't no trouble. I clean for Zack Larson ever' Wednesday." Bella looked around as if hoping to find something amiss that needed her special touch. "Got that pretty music playing, I see."
"It is the London Symphony Orchestra. I heard them once when I was a child. My mother took me."
"Oh." Bella nodded as if Anna were speaking Italian. "I see you hung your pictures. It looks real pretty in here."
Anna did not meet Bella's eyes. "I was just trying them in a few places. I was about to take them down."
"Don't see no need. They look fine. Add a lot to this room if you ask me."
"Thank you." Anna motioned toward the kitchen. "I am stopping for tea. Would you like to join me, Miss Bella?"
"Just Bella." The older woman held her chin high. "And I'd love some tea."
Anna led her to the kitchen, floored with huge Saltillo tiles framed by dark wood cabinets and walls bricked to the nine-foot ceiling.
Motioning for Bella to sit at the breakfast table, Anna finished brewing the tea as she watched the housekeeper out of the corner of her eye. Silhouetted against the bay window, overlooking the barren land, Bella appeared totally in her element, almost as though she were bred from generations born to this open space.
Bella's purse rested in her lap as if she planned a quick getaway.
Anna pulled down a tin of cookies, then smiled. "Call me Anna, please. And make yourself comfortable."
"All right. Anna it is." Bella set her purse at her feet and pulled off her earmuffs. After all, she was about to have tea. Real English tea, from china cups.
She stroked the white fur. "I won this at bingo in town one cold night last year. Zack always kids me and tells me I'm wearing my mink. They're real mink, too, said so right on the front of the box they came in."
"They are very nice." Anna sat a cup in front of Bella.
"Oh, before I forget, Zack Larson says to give you his regards and hopes you're weathering this storm without any problems."
Before Anna could answer, Bella added, "I told him I wasn't going to pass along that. I ain't one for passing notes. Told him if he wanted to hand out his regards he needs to do it in person."
Anna grinned. "And what did Mr. Larson say?"
Bella smiled back. "He said he might just do that some time."
They sat by the windows and talked about the weather and horses. Bella knew very little about fine horses, but she knew how to ask questions. Anna could not remember having such a delightful tea. From the look on Bella's face, neither could she. Anna had been raised on a horse ranch and Bella on a dryland farm, but the two had many things in common.
Eventually, the conversation settled back on Zack. Bella was not a gossip, but her motherly love for the man was apparent. She bragged about him. "He might be a loner, set in his ways, but he's honest. And he loves his land. He's got a sense of humor that'll tickle your funny bone all the way to your liver."
Anna listened.
"He's had his share of trouble, but ain't many who get through this life without taking their full slice. His mother died while he was still in school, and he had to watch his father drink himself to death within the year. Most thought he'd lose the ranch after that, him not even being eighteen and all, but he's a fighter."
"He is lucky to have you as a friend." Anna patted Bella's hand.
"I'm the lucky one. He's as near to family as I got, I reckon."
Bella stood to leave.
Carlo suddenly plowed his way through the front door. He still wore clothes like he had worn in Italy, making him stand out even more among the cowhands. He might be short, but his stocky build and quick movements made him appear menacing even when he was not angry.
Anna stepped in front of Bella.
Carlo was halfway across the wide living room waving papers before she spoke. "B-Bella, I would like you to meet my brother… Carlo. He takes care of the ranch."
Carlo remembered his manners. He made a quick, slight bow. He had the same coloring as Anna, but his dark hair and eyes made him look sinister.
"This is the woman who cleans?" he snapped.
Anna fought to hide her embarrassment. His English might be broken, but she knew Bella understood every word. "Yes. She stopped by to check on me."
"Well." He switched to Italian. "Tell her we need her to come and clean every week, but we will pay no more than Davis did."
"I can do it," Anna answered in her native tongue.
"No! Everything is to remain the same as before. I will do that for Davis." His words came fast and sounded even more furious in Italian. "You will not disgrace him by having people believe you are too poor to afford a housekeeper."
Anna nodded as he turned and walked out without saying another word to Bella.
Anna faced the older woman. "It was kind of you to come. I am sorry about my brother. He is displeased with me, not you. Back home, the women left the workings of the ranches to the men. He is a little old-fashioned. He resents me always asking questions."
Bella huffed. "I could figure that out without understanding the language. What got him so thorny today?"
Anna smiled at her use of words. She could study language in school forever and never be able to add that kind of color in her vocabulary. "He does not like me hanging my paintings in this room. You see my husband and he were best friends and Carlo knows Davis would not have approved."
"Tell him you don't give a bootlegger's snort." Bella put on her earmuffs.
"I am afraid I have never been able to tell a man in my family anything." She looked at her painting. "Bella, could you come back next week? Maybe every week for a while?"
"Your house don't need cleaning," Bella answered. "It wouldn't be fair to take your money."
"Would you consider coming to sit for me? I would like to paint you. I will pay you the same as I did when you cleaned."
"What? I never heard of such a thing." She rubbed her face as if she could scrub off the blush. "I wouldn't have to take off my clothes or anything, would I?"
Anna laughed, truly laughed for the first time in months. "Oh, no. I want to paint the character in your face. I want to try to capture a little of your spirit on canvas."
"Well…" Bella looked as if she had been asked to try on a two-piece bathing suit. "I guess it would be all right."
"We could have tea while I work," Anna offered.
"With some of them butter cookies you called biscuits?" Bella asked.
"Of course. It will be such fun for me to paint something besides flowers and landscapes."
"Well, all right. I could come when I finish with Zack's place ever' week."
When Anna closed the door, she smiled. It would not be so sad that she had to take all her paintings to the back room now that Bella would sit for her. She could clean her own house, and Carlo would never know.
Just after dark, she took all but one of the paintings down before Carlo returned to the house. He looked as if he had been drinking, but Anna knew better than to say anything. Davis's death and the extra responsibility had weighed heavily on her brother.
Carlo wanted her to sign some papers. When she asked about them, he angrily replied, "It's just the payroll!" Then he changed the subject to the remaining painting.
She signed the papers in frustration and stood, planning to tell him this was her house and the painting would stay.
Only a few words were out before she felt the broad side of his hand against her face. The blow would have knocked her off her feet if she had not grabbed the table.
Anna stepped away from him, shocked. Despite all their arguments, he had never struck her. The sting on her face was nothing compared to the blow against her pride.
He seemed as shocked as she. "I did not mean to do that," he mumbled and headed toward the door. By the time he stood in the doorway, he had regaine
d some of his control. "Have the painting gone before I return. Davis would not have wanted it there. Whenever he talked of your work, it was always to joke."
Anna stared at the closed door for several minutes. How could she have ever hoped her life might be better without Davis? Carlo moved into power one step at a time. And she had let him, Anna realized. She stood by silently, as always, without fighting. She hid away. Even before Davis was in the ground, Carlo had taken the reins of running the ranch and her life.
Anna walked the house for hours trying to think of some way out. But in the end, she knew she could do nothing. First her father, then Davis and now Carlo. All her life she had been trained to stay in the background and say nothing. And now, when she might have stood alone, she realized she was too weak.
As the night aged, Anna felt more anger against herself than Carlo. The thought that he would now control her frightened her more than she wanted to admit. She would fight him in little ways that he would never know. Her mother had done the same thing with their father. Anna never saw her challenge him directly, but she moved behind his back, cutting away at his authority, sabotaging his plans.
Anna stared out into the night at the lone light shining from the north. Carlo would not repress her. Not completely.
She grabbed her coat and walked out the patio door. The ground was frozen, but the moon offered enough light to see. Silently, she moved toward Larson's ranch.
When she reached the walkover, she was almost running. Tonight, she would move into the light of his porch and demand the hug he had offered a month ago.
Snow crunched under her feet as she crossed the road and stepped into the light.
Zack Larson leaned against the door frame with a cup in his hand. She knew he watched her even when she moved in the shadows.
Anna waited. Ready to run.
He did not look surprised. If he made fun of her, or made a joke, her soul would shatter into a million slivers. If he asked her one question, she knew she would stutter too badly to answer.
He leaned inside, and when he straightened, his hand held a coat instead of the cup. He walked onto the porch, putting his coat on as he neared.
Anna did not move. It was too late to turn back. Too late to explain her many reasons for being here.
She expected him to walk toward her, but he just stepped off the porch and waited.
Her heart tried to break through her ribs. She narrowed the distance between them, trying to think of something to say. Wishing she had not come. Wishing he had not been waiting.
"I…" When she was four feet from him, she shoved her hands in her pockets. Warm tears stung her icy cheeks.
"I know," he whispered and opened his arms.
Anna was not sure how she crossed the last few feet. Had he moved? Had she? All she knew was that suddenly she was in his arms, and he was hugging her against him as if their lives depended on it.
Tears came then. She leaned her face into his suede jacket and cried as he circled her with his warmth.
He did not say a word when he lifted her up and carried her to the wooden swing on the porch. With a quilt wrapped around them both, he held her close.
She cried for a while, then rested her head against his damp jacket and closed her eyes, enjoying the slow motion of the swing. The whispered sounds of the wind made it seem like they were totally alone on the planet. Their breath was smoky with frost but she was not cold. Off into the night, she heard the breeze cracking ice from the branches of mesquite trees.
She cuddled closer.
When finally, she stood to leave, he made no protest, but kept his arm across her back as he walked her to the fence.
"Th-thank you," she said as she climbed up the ladder.
"Any time," he whispered.
She was almost home when she turned around and saw him still standing at the walkover. His outline was tall and lean. She could not help but smile. Zack Larson had kept his word. No strings. No questions. Just a hug.
A hug that warmed her still.
November 14
County Memorial Hospital
Most of the time he felt like an alien life-form that had crashed to earth and primitive humans were trying to discover what to do with him. Their methods were painful and heavy-handed at best. At worst, the marrow in his bones still smoldered from the long dead fire.
His vocabulary increased to include words like eschar. He'd heard one of the nurses explain to Crystal that eschar is a nonviable tissue that forms after a burn injury. It has no blood supply therefore antibodies can't reach it. So, eschar makes a fertile breeding ground for bacteria.
He was lost in the hell of an old Twilight Zone episode. Before long, they'd stash him in the basement and grow mushrooms off his charred skin.
Even the spray baths they gave him weren't called baths, but wound debridement. Twice a day a nurse would up his pain medicine enough so he could endure the process, then she'd clean him, removing dead tissue. Only she called the black infected skin devitalized tissue, as if calling it dead might be too personal.
His bodily functions became the small talk of the people around him. Folks used to ask about the weather or the news, but now they told each other of his urine output for the day.
The constant risk of hypothermia loomed like the plague and worried everyone until he wanted to scream.
He longed to escape, to run away where the talk was of other things. But even when he dreamed, the nightmare of his reality crept in, just beneath the surface, waiting to shatter any peace he might find.
Crystal was always around, asking questions until he wanted to jump from the bed and choke her, even if it cost him his last thread-hold on life. She started a notebook of details, so every time a bag was changed she was there, like a reporter, recording amounts and dates.
Sometimes he ignored her completely, acting as if he didn't hear her talking to him or touching his hand. Sometimes she possessed the only sanity in the chaos. He'd hold her fingers long into the night.
When his mind cleared enough for him to think of anything but the pain, he let his thoughts wander to the way her breasts looked. Crystal had the most beautiful round, full breasts. He had always considered himself a leg man, but no man could help but worship such perfection.
He hadn't asked her again to open her blouse. Not that he hadn't thought about it. But with his bandaged hands, he knew he wouldn't be able to feel her, even if he did touch her. And the tear he'd seen slide down her cheek the night she'd sat there with her top wide open…the tear bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
"Shelby?" She broke into his thoughts. "Shelby? Are you awake? I'm sorry I was gone so long."
He had not even noticed. Time was no longer measured in minutes and hours, but by injections.
"I had to go see Mr. Morris again. He had lots of papers he wanted me to look over. I wasn't sure if I should read each page or just glance at them, so I stared at the words until Elliot asked if I was satisfied."
He did not open his eyes. She was calling Morris by his first name. That was fast, even for Crystal. The bed shifted slightly as she sat by his side.
He was not dead yet and she was already looking for husband number two. Elliot wouldn't be a bad choice if Crystal could snag him.
"I signed all the places where he'd marked, and Elliot told me this increase in salary should make Trent happy."
When he groaned, she patted his hand. "Now don't worry. The office girls say Trent has showed up for work every day since the accident. Sometimes he doesn't get there until ten-thirty and leaves for lunch by eleven, but at least he's trying. He even put a hard hat in the back window of his BMW. The girls think he's planning to visit the other drilling sites."
Trent would look ridiculous at a site. Tiptoeing around so that he didn't get oil on his Italian-made shoes.
Crystal chatted on about stopping in to buy two more dresses from Helena. The older woman was quickly becoming Crystal's best friend. Helena Whitworth was always dropping
by the hospital but usually only talked to Crystal or one of the nurses.
The few times she'd talked to him, he noticed that she still spoke of her husband, J.D., as if the old soldier were still alive. No one else seemed to notice that Helena had yet to bury J.D. in her mind. In Southern towns, a little craziness was tolerated as a character trait. Some said only the insane settled in West Texas, so most folks around here must be descended from crackpots. Helena Whitworth talking of J.D. as if she'd had supper with him the night before drew little attention.
Crystal buzzed around him like a fly. Making sure he was comfortable, she said. But in truth, the state no longer existed for him.
He closed his eyes and walked the rig in his mind once more, as he had that morning, seconds before it blew. Every detail was still fresh in his mind, from the way the wind whistled across the land kicking up dust in little whirlwinds, to the sound of the drill as steady as a heartbeat.
Howard Drilling had needed another investor, so he brought J.D. and a young banker named Kevin Allen out. Nothing worked like a meeting at the site. The rancher, Davis Montano stood in the center explaining the workings of a rig like he knew something about the industry. No one stopped him. As long as they were on Montano land he could talk all he wanted.
The crew had found the beer and were all leaning against the car enjoying a long break. They were too far away to say thanks, but one lifted his bottle in salute. A moment later the whole world seemed to explode.
He went over the scene again, repeating every detail. There must have been something amiss-something different about that morning that he should have noticed. He had been standing several feet from the others, feeling a difference even if he could not pinpoint it. The blast knocked him off the rig and sent him rolling across the dirt. He hadn't seen the others die, hadn't heard a sound, only the blast, and then the silence when the rig stopped. Moments later the wind caught the fire.