by Claire King
"Sorry, Bart, no Bombay, no Tanqueray. You want something else?" She set Calla's perfectly made margarita on the table and swept away the empty glass.
"It's Clark. And no, thank you." He eyed the margarita glass critically. "I'm not sure the glasses in here are altogether clean, anyway."
Virginia shrugged. "Suit yourself." She flounced back to the bar and leaned over the laminate top to whisper something into the barman's ear. The barman laughed uproariously, Virginia giggled behind her hand.
"I hate this town," Clark said wearily. He eyed Calla's lime-colored drink.
"What kind of papers?"
"What?"
"What kind of papers does your lawyer have to draw up?"
"Prenup. Standard stuff."
"Prenup?"
"A prenuptial agreement."
Calla felt sure she was drunk now. A prenuptial agreement. It sounded like something from the movies. She tried to clear the tequila cobwebs from her brain.
"I don't understand," she said thickly.
"Calla, look, don't worry. It's very standard stuff. Every married couple I know has a prenuptial agreement. You really can't get married in the nineties without one."
"I don't know any married couples with a prenuptial agreement."
"Well," he snorted, "you don't know many people at all, do you?"
Calla took another sip of her drink. "You've got a little bit of snot hanging right there," Calla said, touching her right nostril.
Clark took out a monogrammed handkerchief and rubbed vigorously at his nose. "Thank you. Look, don't worry about the prenup. It'll be fine. You have assets to protect and so do I. It's really the only sensible thing to do. And you've always been a very sensible girl, Calla."
Calla watched him stuff the handkerchief back in his pocket. She'd always thought it was charming and old-fashioned that Clark carried a handkerchief. In her present state, though, things looked somehow different. Not that it mattered.
She'd save the ranch, for Benny and her mother and all the people stretching back a hundred years and forward a hundred more. No matter what she had to do.
* * *
Henry watched the man climb slowly from the rented Jeep Grand Cherokee. He looked a long time at Henry, then held both his hands up, palms forward, and took careful, slow steps toward the tent. Henry relaxed his grip on the rifle and watched him in amusement.
"Dammit, Pete. What are you doing? You look like a hostage."
"I don't know how mad you still are, Mitch," the man said. "I just don't want to take any chances." He started to lower his hands to his side.
"Good thinking. I'm still mad. Keep 'em where I can see 'em."
Henry regarded the smaller man. The obviously new designer blue jeans and denim shirt were pressed to within an inch of their lives. His pointy-toed boots were ostrich skin, and he reeked of a scent Henry recognized as the latest in Western-wanna-be cologne.
"You look ridiculous," Henry said, shaking his head. He settled the rifle against the outer wall of the tent, resigned to unwanted company.
"I thought I looked great. I blend."
"Blend, hell. You walk into Paradise looking like that and they'll think you've come to town to open a gay bar."
The man looked down at himself in some consternation. "I was told this was the latest look." He fingered the little coyote-shaped clip on his shiny bolo tie.
"Maybe in Santa Fe or Malibu. We're a little behind the fashion times out here, Pete."
Pete gave Henry a once-over, taking in the taller man's dusty Wranglers, yoked work shirt and scuffed boots. "I can see that."
"What are you doing here, Pete? How did you find me?"
"Mitch, come on. Offer me a beer or something. I've been driving all over hell and back on this godforsaken mountain for six hours." He looked over his shoulder at the dusty Jeep. "I can't believe these roads. How do people survive out here?"
Henry shrugged. "The roads weren't meant for vehicles. They're mostly sheep and cattle trails. I expect people travel by horseback out this far most of the time."
"Well, they do have tax levies in this state, don't they? Why don't they fix the damn roads so normal people could drive on them?"
Henry walked into the tent and reappeared with two beers from his cooler. "Now, why in the world would they want normal people up here, Pete? Normal people have ruined the world."
"Oh, no. Not this again." Pete took the cold beer and popped the top. He took a long, grateful swallow. Henry watched him carefully.
"Why are you here?" Henry repeated.
"You gotta come back, Mitch."
"The hell I do." Henry sat heavily in the little canvas camp chair he'd set in front of the tent. He motioned to a rock. "Have a seat."
"Thanks. Lovely accommodations you got here, Mitch."
"Not plush, I'll admit." Henry swept an assessing gaze at the two tents and the small post-and-pole corral that served as the Two Creek Camp. They were snuggled low under a clump of scrub trees—the only trees around for miles—that were watered from a little spring that seeped up from the ground and lightly dampened the earth for a hundred feet around. The tents overlooked a valley where two tiny creeks met and formed a bubbling stream that eventually ran into a larger stream down the mountain. Henry could see the peaks of the Owyhees of northern Nevada from his chair. "But it has a nice view."
"True. Very fine." The two men gazed across the wide valleys stretching hazily beyond them for a moment. "I'm here to warn you, Mitch. Campbell picked up some noise about you."
"What kind of noise?"
"Our Haitian pals want to know if you've stopped working on the formula."
"I didn't know they were paying such close attention." Henry swigged his beer casually.
"Don't be an idiot, Mitch. You haven't been out of the field that long. Surely the past two months away from the lab haven't rotted your brain completely?"
"What did Frank have to say about it?"
"He wants you to come back inside. We can't protect you out here."
Henry gave a derisive little chuckle into his beer can. "You couldn't protect me at all. The explosion nearly killed that old woman in my condo complex."
"Did kill her," Pete corrected, not meeting his friend's eyes. "She died a month or so ago. Never regained consciousness."
"Hell."
"Look, that was an anomaly. You're perfectly safe now. We set up a better sweeper."
"You catch the bomber?"
"Well, no."
"Then screw you."
Pete looked briefly amused. "I've never heard you use this type of language before. Life in the saddle must be making a man of you or something."
"Or something," Henry answered. He allowed his thoughts to return fleetingly to Calla in her nightgown, stretching her brown toes over her brother's horse. He'd certainly been feeling every manly impulse there ever was, lately. "How did you find me?"
"It wasn't difficult. We lost you in Reno for a while. Frank was very pissed." Pete smiled. "He and Campbell had a row in his office you could hear all the way out into the parking lot." Pete tipped beer into his mouth. "Campbell's people picked you back up in Boise. What's the matter with you? You've been easier to tail than a kindergartner. We picked up the credit cards and the DMV switch the day after you made them."
"I'm trying to avoid reporters, not spies, Pete. I'm not playing this game anymore. Frankly, I don't care what you guys do."
"You should."
"I'm out, Pete. And I'm staying out. I want my life back."
"When did you ever have a life? As far as I can tell, until that debacle of a marriage, you were locked in a laboratory from the time you were fourteen. It was one of the reasons we picked you. Lab geeks are always so easy to recruit. Look—" Pete sighed wearily "—they want the formula. We want the formula. About ten of the biggest bastards on this planet want the formula. How long do you think you're going to be safe up here playing Roy Rogers?"
"This is open country. Quiet." He grinned. "I've b
een listening to you tear around for the past two hours. I'm as safe here as anywhere. Certainly safer than in L.A., where mad bombers can get into my condo complex and kill innocent old women." Henry took another pull on his beer, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. He hadn't known the old woman, hadn't known any of his neighbors, but her death weighed heavily on him, made him sick.
The men were silent for several minutes. It was deep twilight, and Henry heard a yipping duet of coyotes in the valley beyond.
"What about the woman?"
Henry stiffened. "What woman?"
"The one with the pretty hair and the big…" Pete cupped his hands in front of him as a description, then took a notepad from the pocket of his Ralph Lauren denim shirt. "Calla Lily McFadden Bishop. Cute name. Owner and manager of Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch."
Henry deliberately slowed his breathing and spoke in a casual tone. "What about her? I just work for her. She's nothing."
"Yeah? Well, since you're all the way up here with your rifle and your extraordinary hearing, and she's down there with three elderly relatives and wimpy excuse for a boyfriend, my professional opinion is that she is not so safe as you are."
Henry narrowed his eyes in the fading light. "Is that a threat, Pete?"
"Certainly not. I do not threaten innocent young ladies. I'm just saying that if somebody wants you bad enough, he'll stop at nothing to get you."
"Including you?"
"You, pal—" Pete drained the can of beer and crumpled it under his shiny new boot "—know the answer to that better than anybody."
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Two hangovers in two weeks. Her life was getting out of hand.
She didn't want to open her eyes. Pain was waiting. It promised itself to her already, pounding on her skull; a miner looking for the big vein.
She lifted her lids slightly and groaned. Tequila. How much tequila had she had? She should have forced herself to throw up last night when she wanted to. But she hadn't seemed to be able to lift herself out of bed, so she waited out the spinning nausea until unconsciousness overtook her.
It was light outside her bedroom window. Ten o'clock. At least. Lester was going to have a field day. She dragged herself out of bed and steadied herself on her bedpost for a minute. Maybe she'd just throw up right now.
She stumbled to the bathroom, the miner pounding relentlessly on the inside of her skull with a fierce little hammer, and grabbed her toothbrush. The taste in her mouth was dirt and rubber. Like she'd been sucking on a tractor tire, she thought as she coated the toothbrush with paste. She tried to brush her teeth and keep her head perfectly still at the same time.
How does Lester do this?
She spit, rinsed her mouth several times and peered into the mirror at her face.
"God, what did you do to yourself, Calla?" she asked aloud. She tugged at the skin covering her cheekbones. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking, and her face was the color of ragweed. She sent a silent prayer to the tequila gods that everyone would already be out of the house when she went downstairs. She was sure she couldn't explain this.
She noticed her nightgown. She couldn't remember putting it on. She knew Clark drove from the bar to … somewhere. Where had they gone? Dinner, she vaguely recalled. Then home obviously. Had Clark gently undressed her and put her in this nightgown? It would be a lovely thing if he had. A positive sign. She wished she could remember it.
"No more Jose Cuervo for you, señorita," she said to the mirror.
She dressed gingerly and took the steep stairs to the kitchen one at a time. A pot of coffee and three curious people waited for her.
"Morning," she mumbled, and headed to the cupboard for a cup.
"Morning," they chorused at the top of their lungs. Or so it seemed.
"Oh, Lord, not so loud," she whispered, gripping the counter with one hand. With the other she took a cup down and filled it with thick, black coffee.
"Big night last night?" her father asked.
"You could say that." She sat heavily in a kitchen chair, careful not to meet Lester's twinkling eyes.
Helen pushed a plate of scrambled eggs and biscuits in front of her. Calla groaned.
"No. I can't. Take 'em away."
"You eat 'em."
"No. Please. I'm going to throw up."
Helen scooted the plate away. "Don't you throw up in my kitchen, young lady."
Lester was chuckling. If she'd had the strength, she'd have knocked him flat.
"Hung over, Calla?"
"Pot calling the kettle black, Lester?"
"Calla."
"Oh, everyone just leave me alone to die in peace, will you? I can't take any of you this morning." Calla tried to glare at her family, but found she couldn't squint without causing a shooting pain to pierce her temples. She gave up and shut her eyes altogether. "Why the hell aren't you at work, Lester?"
"I been at work all morning while you've been sleeping it off, Miss Smarty."
"Well, a thousand more times, and we'll be even then," Calla said, taking a gulp of hot coffee. "Just out of curiosity, how did I get home last night?"
"Clark called." Helen's tone was unreadable. She was scooping the eggs and toast into the dog dishes on the counter. "Jackson went to fetch you at his motel. Clark said he didn't want to drive all the way out."
"Oh." No positive sign, then. Helen must have got her into her nightgown. "But I see the truck in the driveway. How did it get here?"
"Lester and I picked it up at the Oasis. You left the keys in it, darlin'," her father said gently.
"Sorry. I had a lot on my mind." She took another sip of coffee and tried to focus her attention on something. It wasn't wise, she knew, but she chose Lester. "It's only the middle of the morning. What're you doing in here now? Taking a coffee break?"
There was a heavy silence in the kitchen. Calla registered it even through her hangover haze.
"Lester?"
He didn't speak. The twinkle was gone and he looked … sheepish.
"What's going on?"
Another long silence. "Dad? Helen?"
No answer.
"What? What is it? Dupree? Did Dupree call? Dammit!"
"Dupree?" Jackson glanced up, puzzled. "No, Dupree didn't call. Why? Was he supposed to?"
"No, never mind. What then?"
The three older people didn't meet her eyes, but she saw them exchange little glances between them. This generation was going to be the death of her.
"What? What?" She felt a little rush of panic. Henry? Was Henry gone, or hurt? "Tell me."
"We're getting married," Helen said finally.
Calla blinked. "Um, I must still be feeling the effects of the margaritas. I beg your pardon?"
Lester cleared his throat. "I've asked Miz Helen to be my wife," he said with profound seriousness. He peered up at his intended with puppy-soft eyes. Calla felt another wave of nausea. "And she has accepted."
"What?"
"Now, Calla…" her father began.
"Lester Smiley, you are fired. You got ten minutes to pack your bag and get the hell off my land."
"Calla!" Helen said, puffing like a sage grouse. "You say you're sorry to Lester."
"Are you out of your mind?" Calla stood up. She was rocked by the splitting pain in her head. "Are you all just completely out of your minds?" She looked at Helen. "You are going to marry this … this … boozing old man?"
"Look who's talking," Lester said.
"You are fired. Get out!"
She started for the door, grabbing the boots that were neatly coupled there. "I'm going up to camp to check on my rider. I want you out by the time I get back, Lester."
She vaguely registered her father's surprise and Lester's indignation. She didn't care. She fled down the steps and wrenched open the door of her pickup and climbed in.
No keys. Damn. Nothing like a dramatic exit spoiled.
She sat in the truck for several minutes, fuming.
Man, her life was getting complicated.
Calla opened the door of the pickup and started toward the house. She caught the scurried movement of three figures as they left the window. When she reached the house and opened the door to the kitchen, they looked up at her from the kitchen table with studied innocence.
"I forgot my keys."
No one spoke.
"You're not fired, Lester."
He humphed. "I never thought I was."
"God." Calla rolled her eyes. "Aunt Helen, I have to say I thought you were smarter than this."
"Oh, honey. Some day you'll understand." Her aunt hugged her tightly. Her sixty-eight-year-old face beamed like a schoolgirl's. "You'll find someone and fall in love and you'll just understand everything."
She had found someone. She was getting married, too, she reminded herself.
"I suppose I should congratulate you."
Helen giggled, then smiled widely. A schoolgirl. "I suppose you should."
"Congratulations." She couldn't help but grin in the face of all that gleaming elation. "Stop smiling like that. You'll hurt your face." She turned to Lester and stuck out a hand. He shook it solemnly.
"Congratulations, you old coot. If I ever see you at the Last Chance again, I'll string you up."
She looked at the three of them standing in a semicircle around her. They looked silly with contentment. Her stomach twisted a little.
She'd got engaged last night, as well. Why didn't she look that happy? Why didn't she feel that happy?
"When's the big day?"
"Sunday, here at the place." Helen bubbled. "We went into Pierre yesterday and got the license. Pastor Kay is going to do the honors." She linked her arm happily in Lester's. He squeezed her hand.
"Well, great. Do you have a dress?"
Helen exchanged a passionate glance with her hairy-eared fiancé. "Lester bought me one."
"You're kidding."
"Calla, dear, will you be my maid of honor?"
"Oh, Aunt Helen, of course. I'm honored." She turned to glance at Lester. "Why, Lester, that kind of puts you in a bad position. Since we all know well and good I'm the only friend you have in the world, I guess you'll have to go without a witness, won't you?"
"Your dad's standing up for me, smart-ass."