A Little Town in Texas

by Bethany Campbell

  She followed, her legs pumping swiftly, and she was at his side, smiling up at him. “I’ll go with you.”

  He’d started relatively slow, but he’d show her. “You can’t keep up,” he jibed.

  “Yes, I can,” she said with infuriating confidence.

  Impossible, he thought. He opened his stride and took off like a cheetah.

  KITT PUSHED HERSELF to keep up. She guessed him for a long-distance runner, and he couldn’t keep going at that pace long. He was clearly out of practice and already favoring his right foot.

  She had a killer sprint, and she used it to close the distance between them. She grinned at him, although it took effort. “Hi, again,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, only increased his pace. She did, too, though it hurt. Her lungs burned, her thighs and calves strained. She gave him a sidelong glance. He was angry. Goody.

  A film of sweat glistened on his bare skin, and very nice skin it was. He was one of those smooth, golden men who wasn’t all fuzzy with body hair. He was tanned, and so muscled that his arms seemed sculpted.

  The wind tousled his dark hair over his forehead and frowning brows. His expression was rigid with the intensity of his desire to shake her off. But his breath was growing more ragged, and his gait less smooth.

  I’ll stick with you if it kills me, she thought. He was so much taller that she had to take two steps for every one of his, but she could do it. She would do it. She was a competitor.

  Unfortunately, so was he. Suicidally so, she began to fear. Her heart drummed crazily, and her pulses banged in her temples. But then she got a second wind, a kind of glow, a sense of freedom in motion.

  A lightness filled her, and her legs began to move of their own accord. A glow of well-being seemed to surround her. For a moment, it seemed she could run forever.

  It was at this very moment Mel broke down. His stride wobbled, then broke. They were by the last model house, and he stumbled, nearly fell. He slowed to a lurching walk, forcing air into his lungs with great gasps.

  He clamped one hand to his ribs, as if a stitch ripped his side. He hobbled to the concrete porch of the unfinished house. He sat down heavily on the lowest step, grimacing with pain.

  Kitt slowed until she was running in place and watched him. He doubled up, one hand still clutching his side, the other rubbing the calf of his left leg. Sweat had soaked and darkened his burnt-orange shirt so that it plastered against his torso, showing every muscle.

  He was clearly so miserable that Kitt had to feel sorry for him. She jogged over to him. He groaned and folded himself over in anguish. She paced back and forth in front of him to cool down. But she kept her eyes on him, worried. At last she said, “Are you okay?”

  He glanced up at her, his face glistening with perspiration, his wet hair hanging over his brow. “I’m just dandy,” he rasped, then his face twisted with new pain.

  “Stitch in your side?” she asked sympathetically. Well, she thought, a stitch wouldn’t kill him. He’d be fine in a few minutes. But he also had a death grip on his left leg, and the calf muscle looked rigid as stone.

  “Charley horse, too?” she asked, still pacing. She’d seen such cramps reduce strong men to tears. His eyes were dry, but his jaw muscles were tightened with the effort not to show the full extent of his pain.

  She dropped on her knees beside him. “Here,” she said, massaging his calf. “Let me do it. I’m an expert.”

  “Go away,” he ordered, his teeth gritted. But after she kneaded the cramp for half a minute, he stopped resisting and let her take over.

  Kitt had strong hands, and she’d massaged hundreds of leg cramps in her time, her teammates’, her running friends’ and her own. She knew how to press and deeply massage the spasming knot.

  “Oh, God,” he finally said in relief and collapsed backward onto the concrete stairs, his arms spread out. His chest still heaved up and down, but not as spasmodically. His muscle had relaxed under her probing and stroking, but she kept working on it.

  He had good legs, lean and strong, with not an ounce of spare flesh. Then she glanced further down and saw that his foot twitched oddly. She took it in her hands and turned it slightly.

  “You idiot,” she scolded, “you’re bleeding, too.” Dark blood was creeping up the back of his sock.

  “I like to bleed,” he panted. “It’s a hobby of mine. I did it on purpose.”

  “You’re insane,” she said, unlacing his shoe. “I bet you’ve got a blister the size of a poker chip.”

  “A dinner plate,” he corrected. “Stop undressing me. I’ll call a cop.”

  “Call away,” she retorted, pulling off the shoe. The inside was stained with blood. She rolled down the sock and winced at the sight of the blister. It wasn’t as big as a poker chip, but it would do. “Good grief,” she grumbled, “you had to feel this. Why didn’t you stop?”

  “It would have given you too much satisfaction,” he said, still lying on his back. “Go ahead. Gloat.”

  In truth she felt no satisfaction, only concern. And a bit of mild wonder. She couldn’t have run like this. She unzipped her belt pack and ripped open a foil packet containing an antiseptic swab. It made a small metallic tearing sound.

  “What was that?” he asked. “A condom? Now you’re going to take advantage of me? Oh, God, the shame of it.”

  She fought back a smile. “No such luck. This is going to sting. Try to be brave.”

  She washed his wound, and he didn’t flinch. He only muttered, “The joys of masochism.”

  The blister was large but not deep. She took out a Band-Aid, tore off its wrapper and put the strip on the back of his ankle. “Sit up,” she ordered. “I’ll give you a drink.” He raised himself gingerly to a sitting position, while she took her water bottle from her belt. She uncapped it and handed it to him. “Don’t drink too fast,” she warned.

  “I know, I know,” he groused. He took the bottle from her and took several small, slow swallows.

  He handed the water back to her, and their fingers brushed. His eyes met hers. “Happy now?”

  Again the mystery in his eyes jolted her. Looking into them was like falling into something so deep and paradoxical that it was endless. A woman could get trapped there forever.

  Her stomach muscles tensed, as if she were standing on the edge of an abyss. She looked away quickly and shrugged. “Happy about what?”

  “You won. You ran me into the ground. You are victorious. I, supposedly, am humbled.”

  “I’m not happy you’re hurt,” she muttered. She took a swig of the water and stared at the barren mud. “I’m just surprised you’d be so stupid.”

  “It wasn’t stupidity. It was a matter of pride.”

  “Male pride? Same difference,” she said, offering the bottle again.

  “Touché,” he said, taking it from her. “I was stupid.” He tilted it back and took another swallow, a longer one.

  She stole a sideways glimpse. He was recovering fast. He didn’t look like an exhausted Manhattan lawyer. He looked like a classic Greek athlete catching his breath after a well-run race.

  He set the bottle between them and started putting on his stained sock.

  “You’re speedy,” he said grudgingly. “But you’re a short-distance runner. You couldn’t have kept up.”

  “I didn’t have to, did I?” she said sweetly.

  “So what did you run?” he asked, lacing up the offending shoe. “I’d guess you for dashes. And relays.”

  She capped the water bottle and thrust it back into its holder. He was right on both counts. She only nodded in reply.

  She turned to him. “What about you? Long distance?”

  “No comment,” he said, tying the knot.

  So we’re back to that, are we? Stonewalling. As usual. She wasn’t put off. “I’d take you for a long-distance man. You’ve got that air. The loneliness of the long-distance runner.”

  He looked at her sharply. “What’s that mean?”

&nb
sp; His defensive tone surprised her. Had she struck a nerve?

  She lifted a shoulder, feigning indifference. “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. It was a movie. British. I saw it on TV a long time ago. It was about a kid who was an outsider. Poor. In reform school. But he was a great runner. So the powers-that-be gave him privileges.”

  He no longer met her eyes. She followed his gaze to the horizon, the rim of the earth was still green. Fabian’s crews hadn’t struck there—yet.

  Then she gazed up at the steeper of the two mountains, the one opposite the Hole in the Wall house and lodge. She blinked in surprise. “The shape’s changed. The top is flat. It didn’t used to be. Good grief, they must have dynamited it. Is he going to build even up there?”

  He didn’t answer. She stared in consternation at the mountain, once so familiar to her. It was the place where she and Nora had carried all the books that long-ago summer. She could still see the narrow natural path that led to the hermit’s cave, although the cave itself was hidden by foliage.

  She shook her head. “Fabian beheads mountains. He creates lakes. Who does he think he is—God?”

  Mel stood up. “I wish I’d made it to the lake. I’d jump in it. Which would suit you just fine, I know.”

  Kitt squinted up at him, again puzzled by his reaction. “Is that one of the things you’re here to do? Fight that suit about the water rights?”

  “No comment,” he said, his gaze still fastened on something far away.

  “That lake fills by diverting a major underground stream,” she said. “The ranches downstream suffer. I can’t believe Fabian really thought he could pull it off.”

  “No comment.” Weariness mixed with impatience in his voice. He took a few steps, favoring his right foot.

  “Are you starting back?” she asked. “Maybe you should rest longer.”

  “Thanks for the first aid,” he said. He turned his back on her and began to limp toward the highway. His tall figure looked like a dark cut-out against the swiftly clouding sky.

  She bit her lip, concern mixed with frustration. She rose and caught up with him. “I’ll walk with you,” she said.

  He sighed in exasperation. “You’ve done quite enough.”

  “Your leg might cramp up again,” she said, undeterred. “You might fall down here and bake to death in the sun.”

  A garter snake slithered across the road and into the bleak waste of mud. “I envy snakes,” Mel grumbled. “Their shoes never hurt.”

  “Snakes. That brings us back to your boss. Does Fabian really think he can claim that water underground?” she persisted. “Jeez, how many political contributions will that take? And how many high-priced lawyers like you?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t even say “No Comment.” Looking both stoic and disgusted, he stayed silent all the way back to the cars.

  She pretended not to notice. She kept asking him questions, hard ones. How had Fabian gotten as many permits as soon as he had? Whose palms had he greased? If he intended to buy land, whose did he want? How much would he pay for it? How hard would he fight? Why was he always so damn secretive?

  But Mel obstinately said nothing. His mouth set at a grim angle, he just kept walking, staring straight ahead. He walked faster than she could have imagined, given his raw heel. Sometimes she had to break into a little trot to catch up, but catch up she did.

  When they reached the cars, he unlocked the blue sedan’s door, then stood and gazed at her a moment. Smiling ironically, he gave her a mock bow of farewell.

  “See you soon,” she promised.

  He made no answer. He got into the car and drove off, leaving her in a drift of dust. She stared after him, vowing she could be just as stubborn as he could. She knew that this was absolutely true.

  What she didn’t understand was why, now that he was gone, she suddenly felt so lonely.

  MEL SWORE as he pulled into the hotel parking lot. He could see her, a block behind him, just rounding the corner. She’d followed him the whole way, even when he’d speeded.

  He slammed the car door shut and stalked, limping, to the hotel’s private back door. He unlocked it and took the back stairs to the second floor.

  He wanted to get into his room before she caught up with him again. Good lord, she was like one of those Furies out of mythology that would pursue a man to his death.

  He climbed the steps two at a time even though his legs ached like hell. He should have been able to outrun her. He was out of practice, that was all. In a few days he’d have his edge back.

  She’d never overtake him again. She’d collapse in defeat, and they’d carry her off on a stretcher. To rub it in, he’d bring her flowers in the hospital. She would lie wanly on her bed and apologize. “I’m sorry,” she would say. “You’re so much better than I am.”

  This pleasant fantasy was interrupted when he reached the second floor. He saw a man standing by his door, waiting.

  Recognition seared through Mel like a fatal bullet.

  He could not smile or sneer. His face felt paralyzed. The initial shock fled, but a coldness like death filled him.

  But his brother could smile, just like always—that engaging, innocent choirboy smile.

  “Hello, Mel,” said Nick.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “SO,” MEL SAID. “This is your new job? You clean the halls here?”

  “No,” Nick said. “I came to see you. We should talk.”

  Mel was tired, out of patience, and his whole body ached. The sight of his brother sickened him. It was as if a claw seized and twisted his stomach. Yet there stood Nick, oozing the old charm as if that would fix everything.

  “Move,” Mel ordered. “We’ve got nothing to say. I don’t know you any more.”

  Nick, still leaning against Mel’s door, crossed his arms. “I heard you went out dressed for running. Still on the run, Mel-Boy?”

  Mel had always hated that nickname. “Get the hell out of my way.”

  “I figured you’d be back around now,” Nick said. “I didn’t want to buttonhole you in a public place. So I came here.”

  “You have somebody spying on me here?” Mel challenged.

  “It’s a small town,” Nick said. “News moves at the speed of light. People are watching you. Yes. They watched me when I came.”

  “Fine. Now move. Am I going to have to throw you out of my way?”

  “Ask me inside,” Nick said. “Talk to me. How’s Mom?”

  “She’s heartbroken, you bastard. Move, or I swear to God I’ll hit you.”

  Nick smiled his seraph’s smile. “Go ahead. I won’t hit back.”

  Mel swore to himself. Of course not. The old trick. Nick never hit back; he knew nothing infuriated Mel more. Still, Mel doubled his hand into a fist, aching to take a swing at that smug, knowing face.

  “Don’t make a scene, Mel-Boy,” Nick purred. “We’ve got an audience.”

  Nick’s head whirled and he saw, to his disgust, Kitt Mitchell at the top of the stairs. She stood motionless, her alert blue eyes taking in everything.

  How long has she been there? How much has she heard? Mel seized Nick by the shoulder. “All right,” he snarled, “get inside, say what you’ve got to say, then get out.” He jammed the key into the lock, shoved the door open and half-pushed Nick inside.

  He stole one last look at Kitt, her headband off now, her hair loose and tousled. He slammed the door.

  “Cute redhead,” Nick murmured. “One of your conquests? She doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “She’s a reporter,” Mel said from between his teeth. “I don’t talk to her. You shouldn’t, either. You signed non-disclosure agreements.”

  “I know what I signed,” Nick answered. He put his thumbs in his pockets. He was wearing black boots, jeans and a white shirt of Western cut with the sleeves rolled up. Very urban cowboy.

  “You signed. But you disclosed information anyway,” Mel accused. “You put Fabian in a vulnerable position.”

 
Nick shrugged carelessly. “I said why he wanted the land. It didn’t stop him from getting it. It didn’t alert the competition. There was no competition. Nobody else was crazy enough to offer the prices he did.”

  “There’s competition, dammit, and you know it,” Mel snapped. “You’re part of it. You married into it. Now all these cowboys are throwing monkey wrenches into the works.”

  Nick cocked his head, unimpressed. “They’d have done it anyway.”

  “Not as soon,” Mel hissed. “You gave them warning. A head start. I saw Bluebonnet Meadows this morning. Everything’s at a standstill.”

  A shadow of regret crossed Nick’s face. “Looks like hell, doesn’t it?”

  Mel warned, “If you spill any more, if you work with these people, you’ll be disbarred and fined. You could even go to prison.”

  Nick raised one dark eyebrow philosophically. “I know. Fabian’s got me tied up for a year. After that, Mel-Boy, I’m my own man. It’s a good feeling, being your own man. You’ll never know it, though, will you?”

  A cold fury spread through Mel. “You can’t blab about Fabian, ever,” he said. “That’s one confidentiality clause you signed for a lifetime. You ever talk about him, and he’ll crush you like a cockroach.”

  “Why would I want to talk about him?” Nick countered. “He’s not very interesting. He’s got his money and his women and his ventures and his vendettas. Every interest he’s got—you can count on four fingers.”

  “That’s not how Ma sees it,” Mel argued. Mentally he kicked himself for using their old childish name for Minnie.

  Nick, of course, caught it. “Is Ma proud you’ve come out here to put me in my place?”

  Mel turned away in distaste. “I came out here to finish what you wouldn’t. This was one of Fabian’s pet projects.”

  “Yeah,” Nick sneered. “And I could never figure out why.”

  “You know why,” Mel retorted. “This location is pure gold. Fabian had the vision to see it. And Mom’s humiliated that you turned on him.”

  Nick only smiled. “Mom’s a great gal. But with Fabian, she sees only what she wants to see. He’s like a son to her, one of us.”