Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1)

by Bonnie R. Paulson

  Slate. Oh man. Where had he gone? Becky struggled to free her leg. If she could get the right leverage, she might be able to dislodge John from his perch above her and kick his butt out of her rig.

  Over-heated, moist breath steamed down on her face, spittle landing on her cheek. “We need to be… closer right now, Becky. I researched it. The best way to deal with grief is to have sex. It’s supposed to be the fastest way to get over a loss.”

  Disbelief suspended Becky’s movements. She stared up at the man she’d always considered a close friend. A neighbor all her life and a great help to her parents, John’s out-of-character actions hurt almost more than the recent loss he referred to. “Why are you doing this?”

  He jerked back, concern wrinkling the skin at his eyes. “No, no, Becky, this isn’t bad. We belong together. You and me. Always have. Do you know what your mom asked me when I sat beside her on the bed?” He waited for her to shake her head. “She said, ‘John, why couldn’t you be my son-in-law?’ Do you know what that means? Her dying wish is for us to be together.” He grinned, his words only faintly slurring.

  Becky shook her head. “She only wanted me to marry you for your money, John. Her health gave us so many bills. Both your parents were doctors and you’re the only child. She pushed me from the beginning to be like your mother.” Mom had never cared about happiness for Becky, only about how to maximize her potential.

  Confusion and denial darkened John’s normally optimistic demeanor. “You’re lying.” Anger twisted his lips and he raised his hand.

  Flinching, Becky closed her eyes and covered her face with her one free arm.

  A thud echoed through the cab. Between one breath and the next, he disappeared. All of his weight and heat and uncomfortable grip on her upper shoulder – gone.

  She opened her eyes and sat up. Slate towered over John’s unconscious body, his revolver held backward in his hand. Becky stared, unable to process the scene. “Slate? What happened? Did you shoot him?” She shook her head, as if clearing cobwebs. “Wait, I didn’t hear the shot.” Raising a hand to her temple, she focused on Slate’s eyes, forcing herself to be in the moment rather than staring at the cars driving by or the squirrel in the tree.

  Holy crap, she was still drunk – even with the sobering effects of the attack from John.

  “No, Becky. I didn’t shoot him. I hit him.” Slate glanced around the parking lot. “Which vehicle is his? He needs to nap for a while.”

  But Becky couldn’t find his car. John drove flashy and there wasn’t one flashy car in the whole parking lot. “I don’t know. I might have to give him a ride.” Why did that seem like the wrong answer?

  Slate slid the front seat forward. “Nope. You’re not driving. I’ll drive and you can bring me back to get my truck, when you’re sober.” He sighed as he lifted John seemingly without effort and positioned him to topple into the backseat. “Slide over, Becky, or I’m going to move you over.” He arched an eyebrow, challenge evident even through her alcoholic haze.

  She slid over. “I wonder what that would be like – you moving me. Would you like shove me or something?” Had she just said that out loud? She’d be embarrassed, if she could remember what she should be ashamed about.

  Starting her truck, Slate reached over and snapped her seatbelt across her lap and breasts.

  Leaning into his space, his thick, muscular arms around her, she whispered into his ear. “You’re touching my…” And that was all she remembered.

  ~~~

  Slate slammed his hand on the wall beside the door. “I don’t understand. How did he fall, Amelia? What the hell was he doing outside?”

  Becky blinked against the assault on her senses. She rolled to her side, trying to get the dryness from her mouth, like a frigging ball of cotton the size of a softball had been shoved between her teeth.

  Slate lowered his voice, but the anger bit palpably into the room with an icy chill. “Did you call Roylance? What about Tim? No one’s available?” He growled, pacing back and forth between the door and the window.

  Rolling over, Becky squinted. How had she gotten inside? How had he known where she lived? She slid her hand up her stomach, scratching half-heartedly at the valley of her chest.

  She froze. Wait a minute. Why did she only have skin under her hand? Where had her clothes gone? Huddling under the blankets a little bit more, she took stock of the underwear and bra left on her. Oh, for the love. What had he seen? What had he done?

  Moving across to the only chair in her room, Slate slumped down and rested his elbows on his knees, phone still stuck to his ear. He stared at a spot on the carpet, not at Becky which made her near-nudity a little easier to bear. Watching him, Becky finally caught the urgency to his irritation. She sat up, careful to keep the blankets wrapped around her and tucked under her arms. Studying him, she waited for more of his side of the conversation.

  He nodded. And um-hmmmed. He lowered his head and pressed his fingers to his forehead, rubbing his eyes. Thick dark hair swept across his forehead and she ached to brush it back along with his worries. Becky tried catching his gaze, but he didn’t look up as he nodded and muttered to Amelia.

  The conversation snippets she had heard finally gathered together like dew to create a solid drop of water. She waved her hand to get his attention. She whispered, “Hey.” But he didn’t acknowledge her. She spoke louder, sharper. “Slate, is that Amelia? Did something happen to Mac?”

  Slate finally glanced up, his eyes red-rimmed and bright. “Hold on, Ames. Doc wants to talk to you.” He passed the phone to Becky and tapped his fingers on his knee while he waited, impatience rich in the sharp movement.

  “Amelia? This is Becky. What’s going on?” She watched Slate.

  Breathless with worry, Amelia sobbed. “Oh, thank goodness. Doc, I don’t know what to do. Mac went outside to check on Pig’s foal and he slid on ice by the stairs. He fell to the bottom and landed on the concrete. I brought him inside and he’s been bleeding from his stitches. It looks like they might have torn.” She hiccupped on the last word. “I’m worried.”

  Becky stopped studying Slate and focused on the corner of her blanket while she spoke. “Amelia, I want you to lift up Mac’s shirt and feel his stomach. Does it feel tight and swollen?”

  Rustling and Amelia’s sniffling filled the pause while Becky waited for her patient’s mother to comply. Two more sniffs and Amelia returned. “Yes, it does, not a lot but enough to be noticeable. His face is pale, too. What should I do?”

  Sighing, Becky pushed from the bed, abandoning the blankets where they fell. She ignored the embarrassment at being seen – again – in her underwear, and crossed to a stack of neatly folded jeans and a t-shirt. Holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she shook out her Levi’s and stepped into them. “Look, Amelia, I don’t want to alarm you, but it sounds like he might have internal bleeding. His stitches, where I extracted the appendix, might have pulled or loosened.”

  She grabbed her toiletry bag in the adjoining bathroom and tossed in her toothbrush. She’d been living out of suitcases so long she never bothered unpacking. “Don’t move him. Try getting Dr. Roylance or Tim there.”

  “No, no. Dr. Roylance is still out of town and I can’t get Tim or Ronan on the phone. I even tried your nurses from the clinic, but they’re down with some kind of flu. I don’t know what to do.” Amelia spoke with calm certainty, like she’d passed the point of shock and saddled up on denial.

  Standing in the middle of the room, holding bags in her hands and slung over her shoulders, Becky calculated as fast as she could in her head. “I can be there in three hours at the least and four on the outside. Depending on the roads. I’m coming, okay?”

  Without a second look at Slate, she hustled down the hall as fast as her luggage would let her go. She dropped everything on the tile floor of the kitchen. “Dad! Dad! I have to go back. There’s. An… emergency. What is this?”

  A pile of envelopes with red stamps across the front sat
neatly stacked beside a notepad covered in numbers. Becky yanked the top envelope open and pulled out the bill. Large red letters claimed imminent foreclosure. Another declared avoiding shut off would cost twenty-five dollars to restart the account. Another and another, one after the other, faster and faster, until empty envelopes littered the floor at her feet and papers declaring her family inept and destitute glared at her accusingly from the countertop.

  The overwhelming dominance of all the financial debt smothered Becky and she collapsed to the ground, sagging against the cabinets for a moment to catch her breath.

  “Becky? Where are you?” Her dad padded through the arched doorway from the living room. The hem of his bathrobe whispered over the floor as he walked.

  Slate had disappeared somewhere. Becky deliberately exhaled long and loud. “Dad, I’m down here.”

  Unsurprised, her dad painstakingly worked his way to sit across from her on the floor, using the oven as a back support. He crossed his ankles, the lines of his pajama bottoms angling inward. He clasped his hands over his stomach and peered over his reading glasses. “What’s up, kid?”

  She slapped her hand to the ground. “Dad, did you not see the bills and eviction notices on the counter? Everything is calling in at once. You have nothing left. What are you going to do?” What am I going to do? Becky didn’t have time for the stress her mother had doled out since Becky had been born.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t done anything since your mother needed me to quit working to take care of her.” He stared at the corner of the floor, lost in thought.

  Glancing at the clock above the oven, Becky grimaced. “I have to go. A patient of mine is in pretty serious trouble.” She rolled to her hands and knees. “I wish you could come with me, Dad. You don’t have anything here anymore. But I don’t have time to discuss it. I have to hurry. Love you.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you when I can, okay?”

  Leaving her dad behind took a lot of strength on her part. He’d been her ally growing up, constantly protecting her from her mother’s cynicism and critical remarks. Never letting Becky wallow in the negative attention from her mother, her dad had championed her on more occasions than Becky could count. And there he was, free from his life-sucking wife, but not from her debt. Yet she couldn’t let him see how she’d been living.

  Relief filled her that he couldn’t go with her. One more stressor she didn’t need.

  She deftly grabbed the bags set beside the door, adjusting and hanging and holding in her practiced ways. Slate stepped from the hall bathroom, buttoning his cuffs and nodding her way. “Should we go? I can drive.”

  Becky rolled her eyes but offered a small smile while pushing her energy stores to the limit. Holding her impatience at bay took more than she’d thought it would. She spoke with grateful but rushed abruptness. “No, I’ll need my truck in Colby, but thanks. I’ll meet you there. Most of my supplies will be at the clinic. I’ll swing by there first.” She hefted her luggage out the door and down the steps to the truck. “See you in a bit.”

  Throwing the large and medium-sized cases over the side of the truck bed, Becky glanced at the sky. Overburdened clouds blocked out the early evening light. The radio and news had warned about a storm, but Becky had worried about meeting it on the way into town. Dark, impending snow hung so close to the ground, the tops of the mountains around Spokane had been blurred from sight.

  She climbed into her rig. It was going to be one heckuva ride.

  Chapter 24

  Watching She-Doc return to herself with a vengeance had been inspiring. She’d rushed around getting ready, issuing instructions to Amelia as if she’d never drank a drop of alcohol. The woman was impressive.

  Hell, he’d impressed himself by not overreacting at the sight of her skin as he’d removed each piece of clothing before putting her in bed. She hadn’t questioned it, like she hadn’t noticed. Oh, but he’d noticed.

  She’d been gone so fast, Slate hadn’t had a chance to follow her out. He’d left his keys somewhere by the front door and etiquette dictated he thank her father as well as check on him. Slate pretended not to have heard the conversation between Becky and her father.

  He ducked his head through the doorway. His search for the dad stopped when he heard open sobbing coming from the floor. Uh. Slate turned as if to go, turned back into the kitchen, then back out. He sighed softly, dropping his hand to his side, and turned one last time back into the kitchen.

  Coming around the counter, Slate held in his surprise at finding Becky’s dad sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Crying shook the older man’s shoulders.

  Slate shifted and glanced at the door. Oh, he definitely had some regret about not running out when he had the chance. Tears in any form brought out his nerves.

  Clearing his throat, Slate waited to speak while the upset man swiped at his eyes and cheeks. “Mr. O’Donald? Can I help you, sir?”

  The man worked his legs and arms into a crawling position and then leaned on the handle of the oven to pull himself all the way up. Standing, he faced away from Slate under the guise of washing his hands.

  Immersed in vocal silence, the faucet sounded louder than normal.

  Mr. O’Donald reached for the knob. Thud. Heavy handed, he shut it off and stared out the window into the thickening snow flurry. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Slate shrugged. “No, sir, it’s okay. You just lost your wife. I’d imagine you’ve had a hard time of it.”

  The bereaved man spun, his robe whirling about his legs. “I lost my wife years ago. That woman they buried? She wasn’t my wife. She was a hollowed-out shell of a witch that took her pain and illness out on our only child. Nothing… nothing I did could bring her any happiness. Nothing my little Becky did brought Marianne anything but disappointment.” He slowed his tirade. “I’m sure you heard our conversation.”

  Shaking his head, Slate opened his mouth to deny it, but Becky’s dad held up his hand. “No, don’t. You went in the bathroom but didn’t use it. I’ve lived here quite a while.” He tilted his head in an all-knowing angle.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Slate chuckled. “Alright. You got me. But don’t let Doc find out. She has a streak of pride sometimes.”

  “Yes, she does have that.” Mr. O’Donald took the few steps to the counter and clutched the stack of bills. He sniffed. “I don’t really know what to do. We’ve avoided this point for so long, it’s weird that it would come when Marianne doesn’t have to face it. Fitting but weird.”

  “What’s keeping you here, Mr. O’Donald?” Slate didn’t mean the flippant backdrop to his question. “I’m really wondering.”

  Becky’s dad pushed his glasses up his nose. “Please, call me Bill. And nothing – now.”

  “Why don’t you come back with me? I’m sure you and Becky can return here and pack things before your time is up. You can stay with me until you two figure something out.” If he could get Bill to move to Colby, the likelihood that Becky would leave soon lessened considerably. The more roots she had in the small community, the harder it’d be to move.

  Bill stared at Slate as if he’d suddenly sprouted a tree from the top of his nose. Slowly he nodded. “Okay. Give me ten minutes to get some stuff together. I noticed your car isn’t here. We can get a cab to wherever you left it.”

  Slate moved out of Bill’s way and waited beside the front door. Slate would be home not too far behind Becky and with a surprise for her. Desperation swelled over him that he might be able to pay back some of the debt to her for saving Mac the first time and… now, hopefully the second time as well...

  She was going to be so happy to see her dad.

  ~~~

  Slate slammed his truck’s door. He broke into a trot toward his house. He couldn’t see Becky’s truck anywhere. “They’ll be in here. Leave the bags, we’ll come back for them.” Maybe if she saw her dad, she wouldn’t feel like she’d abandoned him. Or maybe she’d want to thank S
late. That’d be nice – for once.

  Bill had called a taxi for a ride to the funeral home where Slate had left his truck, putting them more than ten minutes behind Becky. She should be at Lonely River Ranch. Where was she?

  The blizzard had dropped another six inches of snow and continued adding to that depth. Heated, the driveway didn’t pose danger for Bill to slip and fall. Just in case, Slate glanced back and found his guest coming up close behind him, bags and all.

  Pushing the door open, Slate grabbed one of the cases. “Here let me, Bill.”

  Glass crashed from the direction of the kitchen, the sound carrying across the expanse of his house. Slate dropped the baggage beside the entryway. Less than two seconds and he filled the doorway to the common area.

  Amelia held her hands together in front of her, straight out as she clenched Slate’s backup revolver tight, albeit a bit shaky. “Back up, Ronan, or so help me, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Our parents are rolling over in their graves right now, Amelia James. This is ridiculous. Let Tim treat my nephew.” Ronan stepped toward her, dropping his hands to his waist.

  Clicking back the hammer with a thumb, Amelia didn’t budge. “Take another step, brother, and you can join them. You’re not touching my son.”

  He stepped back, smacking Tim on the shoulder. “Say something. Do something.”

  Tim didn’t move. “You know, we can report you for neglecting to give care to your child. I think that would warrant custody questions – if nothing else, at least an investigation.”

  Amelia’s shoulders pulled back, her hair whipped at her neck. “You threaten me with my child while I’m holding a damn gun on you? You must be stupid, which only guarantees you won’t be touching him. Ever.” Her hand never shook. Her shoulder-wide stance declared the Mama-Bear was in residence and Amelia’s normally demure character had decided to hell with anything but saving her son.