She was wrong, of course. He had no choice about that. But he knew with a sickening sense of dread that it might very well be too late. His life’s work was in this patient’s hands. She had no idea how easily she could destroy him.
“She needs care, Michele. She’s been so sick for so very long. I only want to make sure she’s all right. Please, go and book the flight—but use my name, not your own. Get the first possible flight out, all right?”
“All right,” she said, and she backed out of the empty room, then paused in the hallway. “The police said I should call them back—”
“Absolutely not.”
She licked her lips, but nodded and closed the door.
Gregory tipped his head skyward. “I’ll find her, Mother. I promise you that. I won’t give up now, not when we’re so close. I swear it to you.”
From somewhere far beyond the room, he heard the soft, familiar voice. That’s my good boy.
No car. No money. Basically all she had right now were the big hat and huge sunglasses, and they’d probably saved her butt, so she should be grateful.
She walked along the sidewalk, and smelled the tantalizing aroma of a deep fryer somewhere. The scent hung low in the oppressive heat. Her mouth watered. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, but if the pangs in her stomach were any indication, it had been a while. But it didn’t matter. Food, she could do without.
There was a bigger emptiness than the one gnawing at her belly. She was lonely. Achingly lonely. She felt like crying, and she hated feeling like that. Melodramatic wimp! Good thing she wore the sunglasses. At least the strangers passing by—all of them walking with purpose and none wandering as she was—wouldn’t see the weakness in her eyes.
Hell, even back at the clinic she’d had Dr. Barlow, liar that he was, dancing attendance. And Michele, her favorite nurse, bending over backward to keep her happy. But there had been a wall between them. A boundary they never crossed. She couldn’t have called them her friends even if they hadn’t been involved in some secret conspiracy to keep her in their clutches. And of course, since they had been, and since she’d known it almost from the moment the coma-induced fog blew out of her brain, she hadn’t even tried to think of those people as her friends.
She must have had friends once. But it was as if she never had, because she couldn’t remember a thing before the coma, and she certainly hadn’t had a chance to get close to anyone since coming out of it.
Not even herself, because she didn’t know who she was. Who she had been—or who she was now.
This lonesome feeling had been like a big black hole inside her since the day she’d opened her eyes in the clinic to find herself surrounded by strangers with lead crystal smiles. And now she didn’t even have strangers for company.
She was running out of options. She’d have to quit hiding out and spying on the Brands soon, and just face them with her questions about her past and whether or not they had been a part of it. But the thought of doing that, of looking into their eyes, all her expectations boiling over, and seeing only blankness there, scared her senseless. What if they didn’t know who she was any more than she did? What would she do then? What could she do?
She’d half convinced herself the big blond cowboy had been closer to her than anyone in the world. But that theory, delicious as it felt when she lay alone in the dark and dreamed about it, really didn’t make a lot of sense. After all, if they’d been close, wouldn’t he have known where she was? Wouldn’t he have come to visit her or checked in on her at the clinic? And if he knew her, and he hadn’t bothered to check on her—then maybe it was simply because he hadn’t wanted to. Maybe he didn’t care.
Her belly growled loudly, and she reminded herself of the task at hand. She had to get back to that small town of Quinn, and she no longer had transportation. It wasn’t more than ten miles from here, and she supposed she could walk it—if she had some food in her belly. She’d never make it that far otherwise. Her head was beginning to ache again, as it did periodically for reasons Dr. Barlow had been unable—or unwilling— to explain to her.
The scent of greasy, nutrition-free food wafted past her nostrils again. Okay, food then. Without two dimes in her pocket it was going to be a challenge, and an added burden piled atop her already guilty conscience. But she didn’t have a choice here.
The diner emitting all the temptingly unhealthy aromas was just ahead, and the big sign in the window promised great food at bargain prices. No sense piling up debts she’d be unable to repay. Might as well keep it simple. She started toward the front door, but as she passed the alley between the diner and the liquor store beside it, she heard a man cussing, and then a low, halfhearted woof.
Frowning, she stood back a bit, shielded by the brick corner of the liquor store, and peered into the alley. A trash can lay on its side, contents spilled all over the place, and a stubby-legged, barrel-chested, grime-covered little dog stood in what looked like a fighter’s stance, front legs wide apart. His bottom teeth showed, lower canines pointing upward as if the animal was thrusting his jaw out. And the alley was filled with a low and ferocious-sounding growl that seemed far too big to be coming from such a little dog. The animal was so dirty, she couldn’t even tell what color it was.
The man, on the other hand, was still swearing at the animal for spilling the garbage. He was a big fellow, wearing a spotless white apron over a belly that resembled an overly inflated beach ball. He took a step forward and, without warning, aimed a kick at the dog’s head. The little dog ducked it, but stopped growling. The poor thing was shaking now, eyeing the man and then the garbage, licking his lips and funny, smushed-up nose.
“Hey, wait just a minute,” she said, and she stepped into the alley. The bully glared at her. She glared right back, hands going to her hips, feet spreading to shoulder width. Fighter’s stance, like the dog, she figured. “Just what do you think you’re doing, kicking that dog?”
The man looked at her and tilted his head. The dog did likewise, but looked cuter doing it, and when she saw the expression on the animal’s face, something in her heart got mushy.
“What business is it of yours?” the bully shouted.
Her gaze slid back to the man’s again. “I was just wondering how you’re gonna like it when I come over there and kick you.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed. Then he shook his head. “What’re you, one of them animal-rights activists? This mutt tears into my garbage every day, and if he keeps it up I’ll do more than kick him, I can promise you that.”
“Yeah. If you were real bright, you might try feeding him.”
“Then he’d never leave.”
“But he’d never tear into your garbage, either, Einstein.”
The dog walked toward her, turned to face Mr. Meanie and sat down at her side. She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling down at the little runt.
“So this is your restaurant?”
“Damned straight it is, and I don’t appreciate strangers comin’ around and stickin’ their noses in—”
“I’m not a stranger, I’m a customer.” She suddenly didn’t feel so bad about scamming a meal from the jerk. Any SOB who’d try to kick a dog as cute as this one deserved to be scammed. But she didn’t tell him that. “And I’m starved,” she added for good measure.
The dog barked softly, as if to say “Me, too.” She had to bend down to pet the animal’s head, and immediately had her hand bathed as a reward. “I’ll bring you something,” she whispered. “Promise.”
The dog looked up at her with brown eyes that seemed to know exactly what she was saying. The man just grunted at her and went back inside. Shrugging, she turned to go in the front way. The dog trotted along at her side, keeping pace, and when she went in, he sat down and stared at her through the glass door. The look of disappointment was almost heartbreaking. She sat at a small booth very near the door, so the dog could see she hadn’t gone far.
God, it smelled good in here. French fries and
onion rings. She could hear the fryer sizzling in the back. A few patrons glanced her way as she entered, then looked away, uninterested. She reached up to take off the hat, then saw the police officer nursing a cup of coffee at the counter, and thought better of it.
“Can I help you?” a waitress with big hair asked.
“Yeah. Gimme a burger—” she glanced back at the dog ‘‘—make that two burgers, an order of fries, a large coffee and, uh, a bowl of water.”
“S’cuse me?”
“A bowl of water,” she repeated.
The waitress stuck her pencil into her hair, put one hand on her hip and tilted her head. “I don’t think I got that.”
“You got bowls?” she asked the waitress, who nodded. “You got water?” The waitress nodded again. “Combine them,” she said.
Big Hair shook her head, but fished out the pencil—no small task—finished scribbling on her pad and walked away, shoes clicking.
A few minutes later a hot, juicy burger was beginning to quell the hunger pangs, but she heard a little woof and looked up to see the dog, leaning forward until his squashed nose touched the glass, damp brown eyes focused on the food. Smiling, she took the second burger and the bowl of water to the door, and set them outside, away from the glass so no one would yell at her for feeding the stray. Somehow she didn’t think the owner would thank her for it. Poor thing looked as hungry as she was, though.
Then she returned to the table to finish her meal. When she was done, she ordered apple pie with ice cream for dessert, and managed to sneak a tiny sampling of that out to the dog, as well. Not enough to make the runt sick. Just a little, since he’d apparently swallowed the burger whole and had returned to his post by the door.
Finally satisfied, she got up and wandered to the counter, took a book of matches from the bowlful sitting there in the smoking section, and then headed to the ladies’ room. She waited until the one person in there finished her business and left, and then stood underneath the fire alarm and lit a match. She touched the flame to the others, and the entire book flared to life. A thin spiral of smoke wafted upward, and in a second the alarm was shrieking. She tossed the blazing matchbook into the sink, cranked the faucet on and then hurried to join the crowd of diners rapidly exiting the building, and smiled to herself.
The others stood outside, looking back at the building, talking and asking each other questions. She didn’t join them. Instead, she made her way through the crowd, and just kept on walking.
Until she heard a familiar grouchy voice yelling, “Hey, you!”
She started to run, glancing over her shoulder to see the owner in hot pursuit. But then the little grubby dog appeared beside him, grabbed hold of his pant leg and held on for a few staggering steps, snarling and shaking his head. The big guy toppled like a giant oak, and the dog ran on, catching up with her before she made it to the end of the block and ducked around a corner.
She crouched down and rubbed the wrinkly face with both hands. “I owe you one, pal,” she said.
The dog closed his eyes as if in ecstasy.
“I have to go. You go on, find yourself another garbage can to raid.” She rose and started walking, but the dog was right by her side. Frowning, she crouched again. “Look, I can barely take care of myself, to say nothing about a dog.” But as she said it, her heart gave a little twist. And inside her, someone—someone she didn’t know—whispered, I’ve always wanted a dog.
Where did that come from? She blinked and rubbed her temples, and her head began to throb. She didn’t know where the knowledge came from, but it was there. Real. Authentic and undeniable. She had always wanted a dog, but she’d never had one. She’d had a cat instead. An independent cat who could get along just fine without her.
But that was before…must have been before, because she didn’t really remember it. Just knew it somehow. She couldn’t have guessed the cat’s name or imagine what it looked like. It had to have been before the coma.
The dog whined.
Her heart softened a little more. “You don’t have anybody either, do you?” she asked. Then she shrugged. “I guess it won’t hurt anything if you wanna hang out with me for a while.”
One grubby paw rose and settled atop her knee.
“Well c’mon, then. We’d best move along. Old Mr. Meanie back there will be on his way, and he’ll probably bring that cop with him.”
“Woof!”
She stood up and started forward, only to run smack into a solid chest. And when she jerked her head up in surprise, it was to come face-to-face with the big blond cowboy she’d been spying on…and dreaming about.
Ben had come into El Paso between his morning and afternoon martial-arts classes to visit the jewelry stores. His brother Garrett’s anniversary was coming up, and Ben wanted to get him and Chelsea something special. The last thing he expected was what he saw.
He’d heard the commotion coming from the diner, and headed that way out of curiosity and to see if he could help when a mite of a woman with the strangest-looking dog he’d ever seen ran smack into him. But when she backed away a step and glanced up at him, Ben’s breath left him in a rush.
Penny!
Her hair was shorter than before, but just as dark as sable and smooth as satin. Her eyes were just as huge and round and velvety brown, but there were shadows underneath them. She was just as tiny as before, but thinner now. And she looked scared.
He just gaped at her, speechless, mouth working but no words coming out. He gripped her shoulders, too hard maybe—and perhaps that was because he half expected her to dissolve when he touched her. An illusion. “My God,” he managed to whisper.
Her eyes widened, and she jerked free of his grip. She opened her mouth, shook her head as she backed away from him. Then she just muttered, “I’m sorry,” and she turned and ran away.
“Penny, wait!” Ben raced after her, his heart pounding, so shocked his vision blurred. She vanished into the crowd before he could even get close to her.
He kept trying, of course. Pushing past people, desperately scanning the faces. But she’d vanished. Again.
And he stood there, alone in a crowd, not even sure if he was sleeping and this was all a dream, or if he was awake and it was real. Or if, maybe, the grief had finally driven him insane.
He spent the next several hours wandering the streets of El Paso, searching every face, calling her name again and again. But he didn’t find her. His heart pounded like a jackhammer, and his pulse was skittering all over the charts. He was sweating.
This was no ghost, dammit, and no glimpse of a shadowy form in the darkness. It was Penny. He’d touched her. He’d know her anywhere. He wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t imagining things.
Somehow, some way, his wife was alive.
And for the first time in two long years, despite the confusion and the shock and the disbelief…Ben felt as if he was alive, as well.
Making his family believe him was going to be a challenge, he realized. But he had to get to the bottom of this, had to find her. Now. Immediately.
“God, Penny, come back to me,” he whispered. And then he went to the first pay phone he found and called the Quinn Sheriffs Office to talk to his brother.
Why didn’t I just talk to him? Why did I bolt like that? Isn’t this why I came all this way?
He’d known her. That big blond man she’d spied on, the one who stirred something inside her. He’d looked right into her eyes and he’d known exactly who she was. And yet she hadn’t asked. Because he’d seemed so shocked and horrified and overwhelmed it had scared the daylights out of her. So she’d run, like a coward. She’d ducked into the doorway of a building with a For Rent sign and hugged the filthy little dog close, and she’d cried. She had no idea, though, what it was she was crying about. Or whether she was more afraid of never knowing herself, or of learning things she didn’t want to know.
The dog licked her face and snuggled close, nestling his head in the crook of her neck and sighing in contentme
nt. She hugged him tight. “You don’t even have a name, do you?” she whispered.
The dog whimpered softly.
“I know what that’s like. At the clinic they just called me Jane. I think I knew right from the start it wasn’t my real name.” She scratched the dog’s head, and he seemed to like that. “But I guess I have a name now, don’t I?” She closed her eyes, recalling the pain in his voice when he’d said it. “Penny,” she whispered. “He called me Penny.”
The dog licked her face.
“It feels so…strange…but good, you know?” She rubbed the dog’s head. “You should have a name, too. Would you like that?”
“Mmmmuff.”
She was still shaking all over, and shivering despite the heat. But holding the dog…it seemed to comfort her somehow. She’d focus on that for the moment, until her mind stilled and she could think about the frightening encounter—decide what to do next.
“Let’s see, you’re a Texas dog. So you need a Texas name. What about…Billy Bob?”
The dog seemed to scowl.
“Okay, what about Jimmy Jack?”
“Grrrrrr…”
“Okay, okay. Something more suitable to your personality, then. Let’s see, you’re living on the streets, stealing for a living. I know. I’ll call you Oliver. How’s that?” The dog tilted his head to one side.
Frowning, Penny took a closer look at the dog and noticed the “he” was a “she.” “Oh. I guess you’ll have to be Olive. Ollie for short?” she added.
“Woof,” Ollie said, and she stuck her bottom teeth out.
Penny could have sworn it was the dog’s version of a smile. But then Ollie turned away, staring out into the street, ears pricking forward. Penny leaned close and listened. And soon she heard it. A deep, plaintive voice calling, “Penny?” Then silence for a short interval, and then he would say it again, with a lilt at the end that made it a question—a hopeful one. “Penny?”
She peered out and saw him. That blond-haired Brand, searching faces and calling that name that must belong to her. Looking as desperate and alone as she felt.
Long Gone Lonesome Blues Page 3