by Anne Mather
She decided to ring Janie Spencer. She'd only spoken to her friend once since she'd left for the States, and that was over two weeks ago. Janie deserved to know what was happening and when she might expect some assistance at the shop.
The phone rang for some time before Janie answered, and when she discovered who was calling, her relief was at once evident. "Hey, am I glad to hear from you," she exclaimed as soon as she had assured herself that Caitlin was back in England. "You don't know how much I've missed you. When are you coming back to work?"
Caitlin sighed. "I'm not sure."
"You're not sure?" Janie uttered a little gasp. "But I thought you told me Nathan wasn't seriously hurt. I assumed, now that you're back in London, that there wasn't any problem. Don't tell me he needs nursing. I need you at the shop."
Caitlin hesitated. "It's not that simple." She wished now she'd been more forthcoming when she'd spoken to Janie from her hotel in New York. "Nathan—Nathan's not ill exactly, but he—well, he's lost his memory. He doesn't remember anything that happened before the crash."
Janie's breath gushed out in a low whistle. "You're kidding!"
"No, I'm not." Caitlin wished she were. "I didn't tell you before, because it could have been a temporary condition. Well, we hope it will be a temporary condition," she added swiftly. "But he hasn't recovered his memory yet."
"Are you sure?"
"What do you mean, am I sure?"
"Well…" Janie was sardonic. "How do you really know he's amnesiac? It could be just an act."
"And what would he have to gain by it?" protested Caitlin, realising that once again she was defending him. "Janie, believe me, he's not acting. He hates the uncertainty as much as I do."
"Huh." Janie didn't sound convinced, but she quickly got the underlying message. "So—you're saying you can't leave him on his own, is that it? Oh, Cat! What are you going to do?"
"I don't know." That was the truth. "It—it may be that I'll be able to come back soon. It—depends what Nathan wants to do."
"That sleaze!" Janie had no time for Caitlin's husband. "Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for him. If you ask me, it serves him right. And maybe if he stays that way, you'll find it an advantage. Your father can't expect you to stay married to someone who doesn't remember who you are."
"Janie!"
"Well…" Janie snorted. "He's made your life a misery long enough. It's time you finished with him and started having some fun. You're nearly thirty, Cat. The old biological clock is still ticking."
"I know." Caitlin was defensive for herself now. "But I can't walk out on him just like that. Besides, he's changed, Janie. I can't explain, but he's different. He'd not half as-well, disagreeable—as he used to be before."
"Oh, please!" Janie's voice rose an octave. "You're not telling me you're having second thoughts about leaving him, Cat, surely? Oh, I can see he needs you right at the moment. But he's just using you, for all that. God knows, if I had the things on my conscience that he has on his, I'd probably wish I could lose my memory, too."
"Janie!"
"Don't Janie me, Cat. Characters are formed in childhood, you know that. People don't change. They can't."
"All the same—"
"You know that old saying about a leopard not being able to change his spots. Well, it's true. Once a sleaze, always a sleaze, Caitlin. You'll regret it if you forget it now."
"All right."
Caitlin wished they were not having this conversation, but Janie wasn't finished yet. "What about Lisa Abbott?" she asked. "Or was she just a figment of your imagination? Have you forgotten how he hurt you? Don't let him hurt you again."
"I won't." Caitlin caught her lip between her teeth, wondering whether there was any point in saying anything more. Janie was a good friend and she meant well, but she didn't understand the situation. "He doesn't remember anything," she reminded her. "And I'm certainly not going to bring it up."
"There'll be someone else," declared Janie indifferently. "Sooner or later, we'll have this conversation again. I'm just thinking of you, Cat. I'm very fond of you. I don't want you making a fool of yourself over a man who doesn't care."
Caitlin shook her head. "Just because I'm feeling sorry for him doesn't mean I'm going to fall into bed with him," she exclaimed irritably, ignoring the sudden quiver that shook her stomach. "But you must see how it is. He—he's depending on me. Until he knows what he's doing, I can't abandon him."
"Oh, he knows what he's doing," replied Janie unsympathetically. "Whether he's lost his memory or not, men know exactly how to behave to get what they want. He needs you—ergo, he's playing the nice guy. But as soon as he finds his feet, you'll see I'm right."
"Well, I'll deal with that when—if—it happens," said Caitlin, eager now to get off the line. Janie's warnings had struck far too close to home for comfort, and the truth of the matter was, she didn't want to know.
8
Fletch sat alone in a corner booth in Casey's bar and stared broodingly at the row of empty beer bottles lined up on the table in front of him. He hadn't intended to drink so much. He'd just called in for a beer on his way home from the pool hall, but his mood was blacker than a witch's tit, and he'd needed some consolation. Dammit, he deserved some creature comforts, he told himself indignantly. Outside of getting drunk, he didn't have much in his life.
The trouble was, nobody cared about him. Four daughters, he brooded, and not one of them gave a shit for their old man. If it wasn't for his grandchildren, he wouldn't know what they were up to. And the kids just came around when they were broke.
This bar and the pool hall were his only means of entertainment, and he couldn't afford to come down here more than a couple of times a week. In a town like Blackwater Fork, the recession had dug deep and lasting, and most of the menfolk lived on welfare like himself.
It was ironic, really, he thought, but the only person who felt any responsibility for him was Jake. For all he'd treated the boy so bad, he still came around most every week. And he wasn't afraid to put his hand in his pocket. Not like his daughters' husbands, all of whom made sure they were looking the other way when it was their turn to buy the old man a beer.
Thinking of Jake reminded him that it had been the better part of two weeks since he'd seen him. Dammit, he'd forgotten that, and now he felt a rising sense of indignation. He hadn't spoken to him since that afternoon when that punk of a brother of his had turned up to see him. Supercilious jerk, Fletch thought contemptuously. It was amazing how two brothers could turn out so different from one another.
Yeah, he mused, but that was his doing. He felt an unaccustomed glow of self-congratulation at the thought. Okay, so maybe he had been hard on the boy, but that was what he'd needed. His brother had been treated like a prince, and look how he'd turned out.
'Course, Jake's running away to join the army when he was sixteen might have had something to do with it. He remembered when he'd been in the military, they'd taught him to have respect. But all that bootblacking and saluting and sucking up to officers hadn't done anything for his career. And Jake had been in a God-awful mess when he'd gotten back from 'Nam.
He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of small bills and some coins. Enough for one more beer, he figured, grunting, if he could get by without buying any more cigarettes for the rest of the week. He pushed himself up, ambled over to the bar, and ordered a Budweiser. What the hell, the doc was always telling him to cut out smoking, and in spite of the cool fall afternoon beyond the leaded windows, his throat still felt as scratchy as hell.
With a fresh bottle clutched in his hand, he resumed his seat at the table, his mind returning to Jake and his unfamiliar absence. He couldn't believe anything he'd said to Nathan could have caused a rift between them. Dammit, the boy knew what his brother was like, and he had no time for him.
Jake was the only one who cared if he was alive, he brooded lugubriously. It'd probably be a lot easier on all the rest if he was dead. Ever si
nce Andy Peyton passed away, he'd been waiting his call to join him. And if he drank any more of that 'shine he brewed in his back yard, it wouldn't be long.
Bitterness soured his tongue at the thought of what was facing him, with no one to shed a tear over his coffin now that Alice was gone. Would she be waiting for him like she was supposed to have waited for him all those years ago? Or had she found someone else—just like she'd done before.
He'd blamed Jake for that, he recalled ruefully. He'd beat the shit out of the boy because his mother had spread her legs for someone else. Of course, it hadn't been the boy's fault, but dammit, he'd had to take his grief out on someone. He'd trusted Alice, trusted her completely, and she'd treated him like a fool.
And they'd been happy before Jacob Wolfe and his money had come along, he thought, growing maudlin. Oh, there'd been times when he'd let his temper get the better of him, when he'd had too many beers, and his fists had begun to fly. But that was the way it was. A man needed to feel the master in his own home, and when he wasn't home, he was travelling, trying to earn enough to feed his brood.
Including the cuckoo in his nest, he conceded harshly. God, he'd been so proud of his "son". He'd even neglected his daughters because of it, giving Jake all his love and attention. And when he'd found out Alice had been lying to him, he'd wanted to kill them both.
It had been the knowledge that the whole town had known what was happening and had been laughing at him behind his back that had really crippled him. He'd threatened to throw the boy out, and he would have, too, if Alice hadn't said that if he went she'd go, as well. In the event, his anger couldn't sustain the thought of her desertion. For all she'd let him down, he couldn't let her go.
And he'd still rather have Jake than all his daughters put together. He'd never gotten married, and although there were always women around, Jake seemed to find his stimulation in his work. He'd never said so, but Fletch suspected he saw his defence of young drug offenders as a kind of vocation; a chance to pay back something of the debt he'd taken out. There was no doubt those shrinks at the psychiatric unit had had their work cut out with him when he got home from the service.
God, it was over twenty years, but he could still hear the boy screaming, waking up nights, soaked in his own sweat. And babbling on—hell! If half of what Jake had talked about during those attacks was kosher, then Fletch didn't know how he'd kept sane.
The things he'd experienced, the horrors he'd seen, probably still haunted him. But Jake didn't talk about it any more. Instead, he expunged his own fears by confronting the problem in others. And there was no doubt he was well-respected at the public defender's office.
One of these days, Fletch was sure, Jake would be hanging out his own shingle. Not bad for a truck driver's son. 'Course, whatever anyone said, Jake was his son. He might have Jacob Wolfe's blood in his veins, but he was a Connor through and through.
Still, remembering how sick Jake had been, Fletch couldn't help thinking about Alice. They'd been closer then, caring for the boy, than at any other time he could recall. They'd both been to blame for him running away to join the army, and when he'd come back all fucked up, there was nothing they wouldn't have done for him.
It had taken three long years for Jake to come back from whatever hell he'd been inhabiting. Three years of nursing and therapy and plain old tender loving care. And by the time Jake was well, Alice had developed the tumour. The doctors said they couldn't operate; that there was nothing they could do.
For a while, he and Jake had been inconsolable. Maybe that was when their strange alliance had begun. Whatever differences they'd had in the past, they'd both loved Jake's mother, and Fletch had felt he'd owed it to Alice's memory not to let the boy down.
But with the bottom falling out of the lumber market, and the haulage company he'd worked for going to the wall, it hadn't been easy, and when Jake announced that he was going back to college, he'd felt pretty sorry for himself. Yet, when Jake graduated, there wasn't a prouder man on the college campus. The first Connor in the family to get a degree.
He lifted the bottle in his hand, only to discover it was empty. While he'd been reliving the past, he'd swallowed every drop. And dammit, his throat was still as dry as a desert. Was it something to do with the fact that his eyes were damp?
That was when he looked across the room and saw Jacob Wolfe.
Blinking in disbelief, he saw his old enemy standing by the door. Jacob was squinting in the smoky atmosphere of the bar. He hadn't seen Fletch yet, and his expression was hard to read.
Fletch lurched to his feet. Even after all these years, he had no difficulty in recognising his nemesis. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was still the spitting image of his son. Of both his sons, Fletch thought with angry resentment. What the hell was he doing here in Blackwater Fork?
Before he could do more than stand there, swaying on his feet, Jacob saw him. Then, after a brief word with the bartender, he headed for Fletch's booth. Jacob had evidently lost weight and he looked pale, but Fletch had no sympathy for him. This was the man who had ruined his life, he thought savagely. If it hadn't been for Alice, he'd have gone after him years ago.
"Connor," said Jacob politely, apparently unaware of Fletch's fury, "I know I'm the last man you want to see, but I have to talk to you. Now. It's urgent. May I sit down?"
Fletch's outrage brought the hectic colour surging into his stubbled cheeks, and his hands curled into two tight fists. But before he could speak the words that were fulminating inside him, he saw Casey approaching with a tray on which resided a bottle of Scotch whisky and two glasses. The reason for the other man's conversation with the bartender was suddenly obvious, and although he despised himself for his weakness, he sank back into his seat.
Jacob took the grunt he uttered as he sat down again as a gesture of consent, and gripping the edges of the table, he lowered his lean frame onto the opposite bench. Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, he dropped it on the tray after Casey had unloaded the bottle and glasses. "I'll get the change later," he said, nodding at the man. "We don't want to be disturbed."
"Yessir."
Casey could be irritatingly servile when he chose, and Fletch fixed him with a glowering look. The barkeep went away showing no signs of having been intimidated by Fletch's stare, and he was left to look broodingly at the other man.
Still, first things first, he thought as Jacob picked up the bottle and half filled the two glasses. He could already taste the smoothness of the malt. The whisky slid down his throat like the softest kind of velvet, and his fingers itched to pour himself another.
"Oh, that's good," said Jacob now, savouring the taste of the whisky, and Fletch thought contemptuously that he drank like a woman. Men didn't sip at it like that. Goddammit, he hadn't swallowed enough to clean his palate. Whisky was meant to be thrown to the back of the throat. In his case, it usually went down without touching the sides.
"What do you want?" he asked abruptly, deciding he had had enough of this. His fingers curled into a fist beside his glass. "We got nothing to say to one another."
"Don't we?" Surprisingly, for such a frail man, Jacob was obviously not intimidated, either. Shit, thought Fletcher in anger. Was he losing his touch?
"No, we don't," he said, emptying his glass with his second gulp. "I suggest you get outta here, while you still can."
Jacob sighed as if in resignation and pushed the whisky towards him. "Help yourself," he said wearily, not moving. "While I decide where to begin."
Fletch resisted the pull of the bottle and pointed a finger that he couldn't prevent from trembling slightly at the other man. "I should beat your fucking brains out. I've been wanting to push your fucking teeth down your throat ever since you came through that door!"
"Charming," said Jacob sardonically, without any of the alarm Fletch had expected. But somehow, over the years, he'd lost that cutting edge, and Fletch wondered what had happened to pull him down.
And because there wa
s no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, Fletch grabbed the bottle and filled his glass. What the hell, he thought, he might as well enjoy it. If Jacob wanted to reminisce that was up to him.
"How long is it since you've seen Jake?" Jacob asked suddenly, and Fletch, who was considering the dregs in his glass, felt a sobering shot of fear invade his loins. Dammit, Jacob hardly knew Jake. The boy never bothered with him. But he was reminded that his son hadn't been around.
"What's it to you?" he demanded, exhibiting a defiance he didn't truly feel, and Jacob took a shuddering gulp of air.
"Humour me," he said. "How long is it since you've seen him? Or don't you keep in touch with him any more?"
" 'Course we keep in touch." Fletch was indignant. "As a matter of fact, I see Jake at least once every week. He doesn't forget his old man. It wasn't you that cared for him when he got home from 'Nam."
Jacob exhaled wearily. "I'm not interested in the past, Connor. Nor am I here to dispute the fact that you've been a better father to him than I could ever be. But—" he moved his thin shoulders in a dismissive gesture "—I want to know when you last saw him." He paused. "Tell me, has he ever tried to pass himself off as Nathan?"
"What?" Fletch's indignation was so great, he spluttered whisky all over the table, causing Jacob to draw back in distaste. "There ain't no way my boy would want to imitate that bastard! Believe me, he despises the both of you almost as much as me."
Jacob moistened his lips. "D'you think so?"
"I don't think it, jerk. I know it." Fletch swept the half-empty bottle of whisky and all the beer bottles from the table as he got unsteadily to his feet. "Like I said before, you and me got no damn thing in common. Now get the hell outta here! Before I break your neck."
Jacob sighed. "Sit down," he said, barely raising his voice, and Fletch glared at him with bloodshot eyes.