by Claire King
"Oh." Calla touched her hair. It was swept back from her face with a wide hairband, the ends swinging free across her shoulders. Henry suffered sweetly from the scent of shampoo that wafted upward. "Thanks."
"Calla…"
She cut him off hurriedly. "Well, have a good time. We're going to dance later." She blushed slightly again. "I mean, you know, there'll be dancing later."
"Okay."
"Okay. See you."
"See you."
For a second, he thought she'd reach up and kiss him. He waited patiently, his mouth ready for the smooth touch of her lips. But she only looked at him briefly and walked over to Lester and Helen.
Henry's heart was pounding. Just having her near him had made him a wreck. This would never do.
He'd been thinking about his situation ever since Pete left his camp Thursday. He had resolved to quit the job and Calla and move on. It was the only formula that worked. Staying meant putting Calla in danger. Nebulous danger from an unseen source, but danger nonetheless. She would just have to find another summer rider.
Pete had given his word to keep his mouth shut about Calla, but he had been right when he reminded Henry of the dangers she faced if anyone else found out where he was.
After the initial sickening anger at the announcement in this morning's paper had subsided, he had been grimly aware of how beneficial Calla's engagement to Dartmouth could prove to be. When he left, anyone who was looking for him would assume Calla was no more to him than his boss. They'd leave her alone. Music blared suddenly from the boom box. Patsy Cline, feeling a little crazy.
Funny, so was he.
Henry watched Lester shrug Dartmouth's hand from his shoulder and stand. He brought his bride to her feet and they began an awkward but dignified waltz on the grass. Calla looked expectantly up at Clark, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Bastard. Henry tossed his cup into a nearby trash can and started toward Calla.
"You want to dance?"
A woman had materialized at his side. Pretty, with yellow hair that came from a bottle and a wide, toothy smile. The top of her head barely came to his chest.
"Uh, sure," he said, the good manners pounded into him as a kid surfacing without conscious thought. He took a last quick glance at Calla. She was walking toward the house, holding the hand of a crying little boy of no more than six who had materialized at her side.
Henry opened his arms slightly and the yellow-haired girl fell into them. She pressed her cheek to his shirt. Other couples began dancing, as well, and within minutes the lawn was covered with the people of Paradise gamboling across the green swath of grass.
"I'm Peggy. Remember me?" She craned her neck to smile at him. More teeth.
"From the co-op, right?"
"Oh, you have a good memory."
"Thank you."
"Or maybe I'm just unforgettable, right? That's your line."
"Yes, sorry." He smiled down at her. "Maybe you're just unforgettable."
The woman laughed, a tinkling little sound Henry would ordinarily have found quite attractive. Unfortunately, he'd recently become accustomed to real laughter. The kind that shook him to his toes. God, Calla, you've ruined me.
The music stopped at last. Henry released his partner, but she seemed reluctant to leave him.
"Would you excuse me?"
"Uh, sure." She took a tiny step back and flashed her teeth at him.
"Thank you for the dance. It's been a while. I hope I didn't step on your feet."
"No, you were great. Maybe we can do it again a little later."
"I'll look forward to it." He walked toward the kitchen. Calla was inside, washing the last salty tear from her guilty-looking young companion's face. The boy was gloomily munching on a chocolate cookie.
"Calla…" Henry began.
"There you are, Tyrell, you little monster." An enormously overweight mother swooped in behind Henry, nearly knocking him into the wall. "Your sister just told me you pushed her into the horse trough. Did you do that, young man?"
"No, Mama."
The mother snatched the cookie from Tyrell's hand and tucked it into her own mouth. "Well," she said around the mouthful of chocolate, "bad little boys don't get nice sweet cookies, do they? You come on with me."
Calla put her hand on the mother's arm. "Ora Fern, listen. I saw the whole thing. Tyrell didn't push his sister into the trough. She fell in. Accidentally." Calla's hazel eyes were wide with sincerity. Henry smiled in spite of himself. "Tyrell here tried to save her, isn't that right, Tyrell?"
The boy was grinning up at her with chocolate teeth. "That's right."
"Tyrell?" His mother eyed him suspiciously.
"It's true, Mama. This time I'm really telling the truth, ain't I, Calla?" His expression matched his protector's.
"Yes, you are. Now you go with your mama and look after your sister. And give her a couple of these cookies." Calla reached around to a bag on the counter and pulled a handful of cookies from it. "She's bound to feel better after a cookie or two."
The mother gave a Calla a last, suspicious look and then grabbed her boy and dragged him out the door. Henry stepped hastily out of her way. Tyrell was still smiling at Calla over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.
"Did that child push his sister into the water trough, Calla?" Henry asked politely.
"Yep. Shoved her right in."
"Well—" Henry couldn't help but laugh "—he'll be a delinquent by the time he's ten. And the world will have you to thank."
"I couldn't help it. His sister is a terrific brat. I've wanted to push her in a water trough myself a time or two. Besides, I'll never forgive Ora Fern for calling him Tyrell. Isn't that the worst name you've ever heard?" She grabbed a crocheted dishcloth from the soapy water in the sink, squeezed it, and started wiping down the countertop. "The sister's name is worse."
"What's her name, I hate to ask."
"Felicia Fern."
Henry laughed again. "That's pretty bad."
"And they call her that, too. Don't get dirty, Felicia Fern. Come here, Felicia Fern. Don't bother Felicia Fern, Tyrell. Do you want to dance? With me?"
"Yes."
She tossed the dishrag back into the sink. Hot water splashed onto her clean countertops.
"Let's go."
He caught her arm. His thumb brushed the soft skin on the inside of her elbow. She stood still for a second, but didn't look at him.
"What about Dartmouth?"
"Clark doesn't like to dance."
"Calla, I have to tell you something…"
"If you don't want to dance, just say so."
"No, I do want to." He sighed. It could wait. The next time he danced with Calla would probably be at her wedding. No, he wouldn't be going to her wedding. He'd probably schedule a root canal for that day. Less painful. "Come on."
They made their way through the crowd milling around the beer keg near the back stoop and stepped onto the grass. Henry looked around, but Dartmouth was nowhere to be seen. Too bad. He pulled Calla into his arms. His hand splayed against her back, stroking lightly.
"You dance pretty good for a hockey player," she said after a minute.
"Have you ever seen a hockey game? It's poetry on ice."
"I thought that's what they said about figure skating."
"Figure skaters are just wimps who weren't tough enough to play hockey."
They danced, fitted together perfectly. Calla's breasts were pressed against Henry's chest. He imagined he could feel her nipples against the heavy fabric of his dress Western shirt. He closed his eyes.
"Don't do that," she said sternly.
"Do what?"
"Look like that."
Henry smiled. Her silky hair tickled his nose. "You make me feel like I'm about fifteen."
"Oh, come on." She was terribly flattered, pleased beyond sense. She struggled for a safe topic. "How's Pete?"
Henry stiffened. "I haven't seen him. Have you?"
"Why would I see him
?"
Henry relaxed slightly. "Well, before he left, he mentioned that he'd not be averse to the idea of seducing you."
"Oh, really? That's a thought."
"You think so?"
"He was funny. Interesting."
"So, you like skinny nice guys and funny old guys, is that it?"
"That about covers it."
"So, I have no chance at all with you."
"None."
"That wasn't your reaction in that stack yard over there, as I vividly recall."
She stopped dancing, stopped playing, and pulled herself away from him. "Henry, do you want to marry me?"
The question dazed him. "What?"
"No," she continued, her hands on her hips, "you obviously don't. But Clark does. So don't play with me, Henry."
He tried to get his rather excellent brain working properly. "Calla, I don't think it's a question of playing…"
She waked away. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. The couples nearest them on the lawn began to stare.
"Wait, I want to explain something…"
"Let go. You're making a scene."
"Do you care?"
"Yes." She looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Please, Henry. I really do."
He released her, but reluctantly. She walked to her father and asked him politely for a dance. Jackson gave Henry a questioning look over Calla's chestnut hair and then swept his only daughter into a regal waltz.
* * *
Henry wondered why he hadn't noticed the man before. Too much time away, he decided. Until Pete had shown up at Two Creek Camp, he'd begun to uncoil himself from the tension that had plagued him for nearly two years. And had begun to immerse himself in Calla Bishop's life.
Seeing the man made him realize how stupid that had been. Two months ago, he would have noticed him five minutes after he crawled from under his rock.
It wasn't that the man stood out in the noisy wedding crowd on Calla's front lawn. To the contrary, in fact. He was wearing suitably old, suitably cheap clothes, washed and carefully pressed. His face was smooth except for a thick, dark brown mustache trimmed in the flamboyant Western style, and his cowboy boots were worn but polished in honor of the auspicious occasion. A good straw hat, a silver belt buckle the size of a saucer, no coyote bolo tie. He looked like every other man at the reception.
Still, Henry observed, there was something altogether wrong about him, no matter how right he looked. He was sober, for one, and since the wedding party had been in full, boisterous swing for several hours and every Paradisian in sight was well into their cups, that alone should have been enough to have brought the man to his attention, Henry chided himself.
Henry watched him for several minutes. The beer in the clear plastic cup never drained an inch, despite the fact the man brought the cup to his lips several times.
The man was watching Calla. Clearly. His eyes followed her surreptitiously everywhere she went. Henry took a deep breath and forced his pulse to slow.
He was here to find a weak spot. Pete had warned him it was likely. And Henry had left far too many clues leading to Calla.
He had been naive. And stupid. And there was no way he'd make Calla pay for his mistakes.
"Hi, cutie, remember me?" Peggy was standing, barely, next to him. "You owe me a dance."
Henry automatically reached out to brace her before she fell flat on her face. "How could I forget you? You're unforgettable, remember?"
The woman giggled. "Oh, that's right. Come on, let's dance." She lurched forward, grabbing Henry's hand, and dragged him out onto the small section of lawn where several couples were staggering around in a shaky semblance of a slow dance. From the corner of his eye, Henry caught a glimpse of the man as he flicked a glance over at them for an instant and then returned it to Calla, who was arguing earnestly with an old woman in a battered felt cowboy hat about the merits of using retired barrel-racing horses as ranch mounts.
The man watching Calla wasn't very good, Henry decided with some relief. He had clearly seen him shift his attention. Whoever sent him obviously didn't think Henry was as yet high enough priority for a top operative. Or even a middle one.
Whoever sent him.
"Do you know that man over there?" he asked his partner as he spun her lightly around so she could get a look at the stranger.
Peggy could barely focus two feet in front of her, and that fence was a long way off. She squinted blearily. "Who?"
"The guy leaning against the fence. Red shirt."
"Uh, no."
Henry spun her back around.
"Wait!" she shouted.
Henry clamped his hand over hers. "Not so loud."
"Oops, sorry." She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. No one, not even the man at the fence, seemed to notice her. The party was getting louder by the minute. "Are we spying on him?"
Henry smiled slightly. "Yes. Now, have you seen him before?"
"Yes. I certainly have." She leaned to stroke her cheek on his shirt. If her breasts just happened to squish against his chest a little, well, no one could blame her. He had a really marvelous chest. "What will you give me if I tell you where?" she whispered
"Five dollars," he answered.
Peggy screamed with laughter. Henry had to stop himself from putting his hand over her mouth. He was a little afraid she'd lick his palm.
"Okay," she said. "Pay up." She put her hand out. Henry raised his eyebrows, then dug into his pocket and pulled a five from a wad of bills.
"Thank you," Peggy said, still giggling. She snatched the bill and stuffed it provocatively down the front of her shirt. "Why do you want to know?"
"Peggy…"
"Is he a cop or something, you think?"
She was joking, but Henry felt a twinge. "I think my wife sent him." That was, in a convoluted way, not altogether untrue, Henry thought.
Peggy was crestfallen. She stopped in his arms and weaved. "You have a wife?"
"An ex-wife. Peggy, I need you to…"
"Oh, that's good." She sprawled back into his arms.
"Peggy?"
"Mmm?"
"Where did you see that man?"
"What man?"
Henry bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could. "The man by the fence."
"Oh, him. He was at the co-op last week."
"What did he want?"
"I don't remember. Gas, and some baler twine, I think. Maybe. I remember him because he paid cash. My boss got all excited over that. Ronny says nobody wants to pay cash anymore, what with cattle prices…"
"Did he say anything?"
"I was just telling you, he said…"
"Not Ronny, the man in the red shirt. Did he say anything?"
"He wanted to find a place to stay." Peggy giggled again. "Like he has a choice. Paradise Motel is the only place in town."
* * *
The old motel, its ancient neon sign broken and its office lights unlit, was dead dark and tomb quiet, but the bar across the street was filled to capacity with leftovers from the wedding. Perfect, Henry thought.
After Lester and Helen had taken their cacophonous leave, the well-wishers, most too drunk to see much less to drive, had taken the long road back to Paradise to continue the party at the Last Chance. Henry had watched the red-shirted man get into an indistinct, battered pickup and drive off with the crowd, taking his life in his hands as far as Henry was concerned. He'd be safer in combat than on that unlit country road with a hundred drunks, Henry had thought wryly as he watched him drive away amidst the honking horns and blaring country music.
Henry had waited an hour in the bunkhouse until he saw Calla's light go off upstairs. Clark, tipsy on punch, hadn't returned to his own motel room at the Paradise. Henry had a hard time deciding whether he felt relieved or homicidal about that, but he admitted it was safer to leave Calla if there were two men, Jackson and Clark, in the house with her.
He smiled in the darkness. Calla would have pitched a fit if anyone
had the nerve to tell her she needed two men to protect her.
Henry, shed of his wedding clothes and dressed in jeans, a dark windbreaker and running shoes, treaded lightly to the door of a room that conveniently, for its occupant and now for him, faced the low scrub hill behind the motel. The office had been unlocked, a register book open on the front desk. The clerk was probably over at the bar. Nobody came through Paradise after sundown. Not on purpose, anyway.
Jimmy Sands, the only name other than Dartmouth's with the current date next to it, was registered to room 11.
Henry crouched before the door of room 11 and pushed a straightened hairpin into the flimsy lock. When he'd taken his training two years ago, he'd thought—no, he'd prayed—he'd never have to use it, but here he was, breaking into a seedy motel room in the middle of the night. He'd even thought to steal the hairpin from Helen's bathroom drawer before he left the ranch. Pete would have been thrilled. His professors at Purdue, he decided, would have curled up and died from shame.
The lock clicked imperceptibly and Henry waited, his breath in his throat, for the man to lunge out at him. He was sweating. A distinct difference, he thought wryly, between learning how to do this stuff and actually doing it. Yet, somehow he felt strangely aware. Alive.
He turned the knob slowly and stepped into the room. The man was sprawled on his back on the queen-size bed, the television screen flickering silently in front of him. He was asleep.
Worse. He was snoring.
I must be exceedingly unimportant for someone to send this rookie bozo. Thank God.
Henry stepped to the bed. He'd just ask him a couple quick, brutal questions and leave. Then he'd allow the man to follow him out of town. He had decided on Highway 20 to Wyoming. He'd call Calla sometime and explain. The thought of calling her from some far-off place to say goodbye made his stomach twist a little. He looked down.
The man was naked except for a pair of dingy briefs. His mouth was wide-open, a drop of spittle rolling down to his chin. Henry looked around the room quickly, deciding whether to take the time to search the man's bags and wallet. The man gave a sudden, ferocious snort. Henry raised his leg and put his knee on the man's throat and pressed down.
The man awoke with a violent start, his eyes bugged, his tongue flicking forward in shock.
"Be quiet," Henry whispered, applying additional pressure. The man started for a second, then nodded acquiescence. "Don't screw around with me and I'll let you live through this, okay, bozo?"