Amanda

by Kay Hooper

  “No. It wasn’t on my list.” His voice was tight.

  “Maybe you’re slipping, counselor.” Amanda went back to her table, now deserted with the doctor gone, and tried to keep a pleasant expression on her face for the benefit of onlookers. Of which there were many. She put her plate down, but before she could sit, Walker was there and had her hand.

  “Dance with me,” he said curtly.

  It was the last thing Amanda wanted to do, but she couldn’t jerk away or protest with so many people watching—and he knew it, damn him. He led her toward the tiled area around the pool, where several couples were dancing to a slow, rather erotic beat, and pulled her firmly into his arms.

  She had never been so close to him, and Amanda was overwhelmingly aware of the fact. His body was harder than she would have expected, his arms stronger and, curiously, more possessive. He smelled of something sharp and tangy, a woodsy aftershave and pipe smoke, she thought, even though she’d never seen him smoke a pipe. The combination was pleasant.

  Too pleasant.

  He moved easily to the music, guided her easily. He was looking down at her; as always, she could feel it. She lifted her own gaze reluctantly and only when she thought she would be able to hide her thoughts from him.

  “You’ve had time to think about it,” he told her, his voice still abrupt. “So let’s have it. How did a right-handed girl become a left-handed woman?”

  “you’re so sure I have an answer?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Amanda wondered at that reply, offered with every word bitten off, but gave him the answer anyway. “I broke my right arm a couple of years after we left here. It was a long time healing, and there was nerve damage. I had to learn to be left-handed. Even now, my right arm’s weaker.”

  “Was this the same accident that caused your fear of horses?” Walker asked mockingly.

  She ignored the derision. “No. The truth is, I fell out of a tree.”

  “That was careless of you.”

  Amanda held on to her temper with difficulty. “Wasn’t it? And all because I wanted to see inside a bird’s nest. Which turned out to be empty, wouldn’t you know. So I ended up with a broken arm and a concussion.”

  He nodded, but it was the gesture of a man who had been given something expected and was, therefore, unsurprised. “Very good. Simple, but filled with creative details. Believable. And I’ll bet if I had a talk with Helen, she’d tell me it was medically quite possible.”

  The beat of the music slowed even more, and Amanda had to fight a sudden urge to break away from him. She hated this, hated being held by him when he looked at her this way, when his voice bit and his eyes scorned. She hated it.

  “it’s the truth,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if you fell over it,” Walker told her.

  Amanda felt a hot throbbing begin behind her eyes. Oh, God, not a migraine. But, of course, with her luck that’s what it would be. She’d had only a few in her life, but those had been memorable. They tended to be triggered by stress. She felt very stressed at the moment.

  The music stopped with a flourish just then, and Amanda pulled away from Walker with more haste than grace, not caring now how it would look to those watching. She returned to her table, where pieces of pie waited to be sampled, and she thought that if he followed her and kept hammering away at her, she’d dump the pie in his lap.

  He didn’t follow immediately, but came soon and brought drinks with him. Wine.

  “No, thank you,” she said politely, trying the strawberry. It was good, very good. “I’m not drinking.” The blueberry had been even better, and the gooseberry was remarkable.

  “To keep a clear head?” he asked mockingly, sitting in the chair beside hers with the air of a man who wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  “If you say so.”

  Amy Bliss, Amanda decided, had better have talents other than pie baking, because her raspberry pie was lousy. Naturally, Amanda wouldn’t tell her that—so what could she say? That the crust was crusty?

  “Amanda, stop picking at that pie and look at me.”

  “I’m not picking, I’m sampling.” At least he said my name. It was so hard to get the man to say her name. You would have thought he expected to be drawn and quartered for it.

  The throbbing was still there, behind her eyes, and now she was aware of a burning, tingling sensation spreading all through her body. Her tongue felt strange, almost … numb. And she was getting queasy.

  Oh, God, what if Amy Bliss’s terrible raspberry pie was making her sick? That would be just dandy, that would. Couldn’t turn that reaction into something complimentary.

  “Amanda—”

  She got up abruptly and carried her plate to the dessert table. Halfway there, the queasiness increased, and dizziness swept over her. She managed the last few steps, putting her plate down with a thud, then went a little beyond the table, where a clump of azalea bushes bordered the outer edge of the patio.

  She had to get away from all these people. And something to hold on to would be helpful, because her legs felt damnably shaky. Too shaky to keep moving as they were ordered to do.

  “Amanda.”

  Everything was getting blurry, and a chill presentiment of dread touched Amanda. This wasn’t normal, was it? Her mouth and throat felt numb and the nausea clawed at her. With a helpless little moan, she bent forward and was violently sick into the azaleas.

  Strong hands held her shoulders while she retched and heaved, and when she was finally emptied of everything she had ever eaten in her entire life, he eased her upright and held her so that she was leaning back against him. She felt his hand on her brow, gentle and blessedly cool.

  It was, she realized dimly, very quiet. The band no longer played. Somewhere behind her, the guests were apparently staring at her in horrified disbelief. Even the crickets had fallen silent.

  People of Daulton—meet Amanda.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “it’s all right.” Walker’s voice was low, calm. “A little too much of everything, that’s all. Including me.” His hand moved to touch her cheek.

  Amanda felt a flare of panic rout embarrassment— because it was as if his fingers touched someone else’s cheek rather than hers. Her face was numb. Everything was still blurry, and she thought—she was sure —it was getting harder to breathe.

  “Walker, I—” A sudden pain knifed through her middle, and she cried out.

  “Amanda?”

  She couldn’t answer him. It was terrifying, what was happening to her, and she couldn’t control it. She thought that her legs were no longer under her, thought that, for an instant, she was looking into Walker’s alarmed eyes and was trying to tell him something dreadfully important.

  But then everything was going dim and she felt as if all the strength had rushed out of her. There was an awful, crushing weight on her chest, punishing her for every precious breath she drew. And then a wave of blackness swamped her, and coldness flowed through her as though her veins had filled with ice water.

  She was so cold.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, dammit. Helen—”

  “She’s having trouble breathing. Keep her propped up like that. Maggie, my bag—oh, thanks. Her pulse is weak, way too slow. Wait, while I … Jesus, her pressure’s falling like a rock.”

  “Do something!”

  “Let’s get her inside. Hurry.”

  Amanda was, on some level of her consciousness, aware of things around her. People. Movement. Sounds. She heard the muted thunder of Jesse’s voice, harsh and demanding as usual. She heard the unfamiliar sound of Walker’s lazy drawl sharpened and imperative. She heard the newly recognized voice of Helen, brisk and capable.

  She kept drifting away. She was cold, so cold she thought she’d never be warm again, and for a long time it hurt to breathe. Unpleasant things were done to her, and she couldn’t summon the will or the voice to stop them. Nee
dles pricked her, and foul liquid was forced down her throat, and then there was another miserable bout of vomiting and she cried weakly, hating the helplessness, while voices soothed her.

  Maggie’s voice. Kate’s. Jesse’s voice, always Jesse’s. And Walker’s voice, she thought, even though it sounded different. Helen telling her she was going to be fine. Now and then a strange voice.

  Why wouldn’t they all leave her alone, just go away and let her die in peace?

  “We’d better let them out of my room and in here before they tear the doors down.”

  “The doctor—”

  “I’ll take the responsibility. They know something’s wrong, and they won’t settle down until they’re with her.”

  Finally, she was getting a little warmer, and the crushing weight on her chest had eased. Things were getting better. She didn’t feel quite so panicky now, so frightened by her body being out of control. Her heart had stopped jumping around inside her, and the pain faded. Whatever she was lying on was no longer twirling about the room.

  She just felt very weak, very tired, and wanted to sleep.

  “At least a dozen more, Helen says. Varying degrees, but none as severe as Amanda’s. The party’s going to be remembered for quite a while, Jesse.”

  “What the hell did it? Was the meat bad?”

  “J.T.’s sent samples of practically everything off to be analyzed, just in case we have a bigger problem, but Helen thinks it was baneberry.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Sharon Melton bought her blueberries at a roadside stand, and now it looks as if there were bane-berries mixed in. It’s hard to tell …

  “… the difference unless you look closely. Sharon didn’t. She’s horrified, naturally.” Walker kept his voice low, because Amanda’s bedroom door was open and even though she appeared to be sleeping deeply, he didn’t want to disturb her.

  Jesse leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze fixed on the still figure in the big antique bed. He hadn’t ventured far from Amanda’s room in more than twelve hours; it was nearly noon and he hadn’t slept at all the night before.

  “She’ll be all right, Jesse.”

  The older man looked at Walker, his eyes burning silver. “You heard Helen. If Amanda hadn’t gotten sick so fast and thrown up the stuff, she could have died.”

  “But she isn’t going to die. She’ll probably wake up in the next hour or so, and by tomorrow morning she’ll be up and about with no harm done.”

  “No harm done.” Jesse returned his gaze to the bed where, on either side of Amanda’s legs, a Doberman guard dog lay quietly. An IV bag hung on a metal stand by the bed, dripping fluids into her body to replace what had been lost and restore the balance of electrolytes.

  “And there’s nothing you could have done to prevent it,” Walker reminded him, as he had before now. “It was a stupid accident, Jesse. Baneberries have been mistaken for blueberries before now, and probably will be again.”

  Jesse nodded, but his thoughts seemed far away. “If I had lost her again … I was angry with her, Walker, did you know that?”

  “I knew there was some tension.”

  “Did you know why?”

  “No.”

  Jesse looked at him with a twisted smile. “I told you she hadn’t asked anything of me, didn’t I?”

  Walker nodded. “You mean she—”

  “She doesn’t want anything. Anything. She doesn’t want Glory. Can you beat that?”

  “What do you mean, she doesn’t want it?”

  “I mean she sat down in a chair in front of my desk and told me that if I signed a new will leaving this place or the businesses to her she would walk away from Glory and never come back. She said that if I thought I could get away with signing a new will on the sly, after I was gone she’d have a deed of gift drawn up, turning the entire estate over to Kate, Reece, and Sully.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “She meant every word. I’ve been trying all week to make her back down, but she wouldn’t give an inch. She said she hoped Glory would always be a place she could visit, but that it could never be home to her, not the way it is to the rest of us.”

  Walker looked at Jesse, knowing very well that anger had hidden hurt; the old man would never understand how anyone—far less a blood Daulton—could not find Glory the most wonderful place on earth. But he also respected strength, and it was clear Amanda had won his respect with her resolve.

  As for Walker, he was baffled. “I don’t get it,” he said slowly. “What’s her game?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, she isn’t playing a game? you’re far too cynical for a young man, Walker. Hell, you’re too cynical even for a lawyer.” Looking suddenly exhausted, Jesse sighed and said, “I think I’ll go lie down for a while. But—”

  “The nurse will come get you when Amanda wakes up,” Walker said, glancing into the bedroom to receive a nod from the uniformed nurse who sat near the bed (unnecessary, Helen had said, but Jesse had insisted).

  Jesse started to turn away, then paused. “Do me a favor, Walker. Tell the others that—for now, at least— my old will stands.”

  “All right.” Alone at the doorway of Amanda’s room, Walker looked at the silent, still shape, so small in the big bed, and the unaccustomed bewilderment he felt intensified. Questions and conjecture swirled about in his mind.

  So many things were wrong. She was too small and too delicate, left-handed instead of right-handed, and far too wary and secretive for a woman who had come home. There were things she should remember and didn’t. There were secrets in her eyes, and too much of her story left untold, and too many questions left unanswered.

  Yet … so many things were also right, or could be. Her coloring and blood type, some of her knowledge, an occasional “memory.” Broken arms could cause nerve damage, Walker supposed, and handedness could therefore, out of necessity, be changed. A gene pool rich with many tall and massive Daultons could produce at least one small and delicate one.

  And maybe … just maybe … greed played no part in her motives for being here.

  Walker hesitated for a moment longer in the doorway, remembering that first terrifying moment last night when he had realized that much more was wrong with her than simple nerves. When she had gone limp against him and he had lifted her, when she had looked at him for an instant with the utterly defenseless gaze of a frightened child.

  Other terrifying moments had followed in rapid succession. The cold pallor of her shock. Her laborious struggle to breathe and her tumbling blood pressure. Her erratic heartbeat and the low moans that had spoken of pain, and a very, very bad few minutes when she had convulsed.

  Like Jesse, Walker had not slept, and like Jesse, he had not ventured far from Amanda’s quiet bedroom.

  It had been a hectic, anxious night, and he was too tired to think this out, he knew. Too tired to think at all. That had to be it, had to be what was wrong with him, because why else did his chest hurt whenever he looked at her? Why else was he so reluctant to leave her even to go downstairs? He wanted to sit on the edge of her bed and wait until she opened her eyes, until she spoke to him.

  He wanted to be reassured.

  Absurd, of course. Helen had said that Amanda would be fine, and Helen was a fine doctor who knew what she was talking about. So Amanda would be fine. And there was absolutely no reason and no need for him to stand here under the mild gaze of the nurse and stare at Amanda while she slept.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” he told the nurse.

  Mrs. Styles nodded placidly. “Yes, sir. She’ll be just fine, sir.”

  With the uncomfortable feeling that the nurse was about to tell him he’d be fine as well, Walker abandoned the doorway at last and went downstairs to make a baffling announcement.

  Amanda opened her eyes with a start. She was looking up at the canopy of her bed, red velvet trimmed with a fringe. The fringe appeared to dance for a moment, but only a moment.

  “So, you
’re awake.”

  Turning her head quickly was a mistake; it felt as if a dozen hammers slammed down at once. Amanda closed her eyes, then opened them to see a middle-aged woman—apparently a nurse—rise from a chair and come toward her.

  Two deep growls greeted the nurse’s approach, and Amanda turned her aching head again, bewildered, then lifted it a bit to see Bundy and Gacy stretched out on the bed on either side of her legs.

  “Now, We’ve been through this,” the nurse told the dogs severely. “I’m here to help, not hurt her. Be quiet, the both of you.”

  Amanda fumbled her left arm from the covers and reached her hand down to pet the dogs. “it’s all right, guys.” Was that her voice? So … so weak?

  “We’ll just raise you a bit,” the nurse said, slipping her hands behind Amanda and lifting with expert care, and then deftly placing another pillow behind her head and shoulders. “you’ll be a bit dizzy for a moment, but that’ll pass.”

  She was, and it did. When the room had stopped spinning, Amanda opened her eyes again cautiously. So far, so good. She looked down at her right arm, into which was stuck an IV needle. What on earth?

  Then it all began to come back to her. The party. A sea of mostly friendly faces. Some probing questions, but nothing she hadn’t been able to handle. Feeling herself relax—too soon, as it had turned out. The edgy clash with Walker. The sudden wave of sickness that had been—obviously had been—more than just a lousy piece of pie.

  “The IV can come out a little later, Miss Daulton. I’m Mrs. Styles; I work in Dr. Chantry’s clinic in town.”

  Amanda looked at her. “I—I see. I don’t quite remember … that is, what happened to me?”

  “A stupid mistake.” The nurse shook her head. “Baneberries mistaken for blueberries and baked in a pie. They’re terribly poisonous, you see, and it’s difficult to tell the two apart; both grow wild in these parts during the summer, and both ripened early this year. A dozen people besides you got sick from that pie.” She smiled suddenly. “You wouldn’t think a single pie could feed more than a dozen people, would you?”