Chapter Eleven
SHE HAD TO be crazy; she knew that. The last thing she wanted was to see Roger, yet here she was trying to find him, even though she suspected he was trying to kill her. No, she wanted to find him because of that. She certainly didn’t want to die, but she wanted this to be over. Only then could she lead a normal life.
She wanted that life to be with John, but she had never fooled herself that their relationship was permanent, and the mood he was in these days could herald the end of it. Nothing she did seemed to please him, except when they were in bed, but perhaps that was just a reflection of his intense sex drive and any woman would have done.
Her nerves were so raw that she couldn’t even think of eating the morning she planned to go to the house, and she paced restlessly, waiting until she saw John get in his pickup and drive across the pastures. She hadn’t wanted him to know she was going anywhere; he asked too many questions, and it was hard to hide anything from him. She would only be gone half an hour, anyway, because when it came down to it, she didn’t have the courage to leave herself hanging out as bait. All she could manage was one quick drive by; then she would come home.
She listened to the radio in an effort to calm her nerves as she drove slowly down the narrow gravel road. It came as a shock that the third hurricane of the season, Hurricane Carl, had formed in the Atlantic and was meandering toward Cuba. She had completely missed the first two storms. She hadn’t even noticed that summer had slid into early autumn, because the weather was still so hot and humid, perfect hurricane weather.
Though she carefully searched both sides of the road for any sign of a car tucked away under the trees, she didn’t see anything. The morning was calm and lazy. No one else was on the road. Frustrated, she turned around to drive back to the house.
A sudden wave of nausea hit her, and she had to halt the car. She opened the door and leaned out, her stomach heaving even though it was empty and nothing came out. When the spasm stopped she leaned against the steering wheel, weak and perspiring. This had hung on far too long to be a virus.
She lay there against the steering wheel for a long time, too weak to drive and too sick to care. A faint breeze wafted into the open door, cooling her hot face, and just as lightly the truth eased into her mind.
If this was a virus, it was the nine-month variety.
She let her head fall back against the seat, and a smile played around her pale lips. Pregnant. Of course. She even knew when it had happened: the night John had come home from Miami. He had been making love to her when she woke up, and neither of them had thought of taking precautions. She had been so on edge she hadn’t noticed that she was late.
John’s baby. It had been growing inside her for almost five weeks. Her hand drifted down to her stomach, a sense of utter contentment filling her despite the miserable way she felt. She knew the problems this would cause, but for the moment those problems were distant, unimportant compared to the blinding joy she felt.
She began to laugh, thinking of how sick she’d been. She remembered reading in some magazine that women who had morning sickness were less likely to miscarry than women who didn’t; if that were true, this baby was as secure as Fort Knox. She still felt like death warmed over, but now she was happy to feel that way.
“A baby,” she whispered, thinking of a tiny, sweet-smelling bundle with a mop of thick black hair and melting black eyes, though she realized any child of John Rafferty’s would likely be a hellion.
But she couldn’t continue sitting in the car, which was parked more on the road than off. Shakily, hoping the nausea would hold off until she could get home, she put the car in gear and drove back to the ranch with painstaking caution. Now that she knew what was wrong, she knew what to do to settle her stomach. And she needed to make an appointment with a doctor.
Sure enough, her stomach quieted after she ate a meal of dry toast and weak tea. Then she began to think about the problems.
Telling John was the first problem and, to Michelle, the biggest. She had no idea how he would react, but she had to face the probability that he would not be as thrilled as she was. She feared he was getting tired of her anyway; if so, he’d see the baby as a burden, tying him to a woman he no longer wanted.
She lay on the bed, trying to sort out her tangled thoughts and emotions. John had a right to know about his child, and, like it or not, he had a responsibility to it. On the other hand, she couldn’t use the baby to hold him if he wanted to be free. Bleak despair filled her whenever she tried to think of a future without John, but she loved him enough to let him go. Since their first day together she had been subconsciously preparing for the time when he would tell her that he didn’t want her any longer. That much was clear in her mind.
But what if he decided that they should marry because of the baby? John took his responsibilities seriously, even to the point of taking a wife he didn’t want for the sake of his child. She could be a coward and grab for anything he offered, on the basis that the crumbs of affection that came her way would be better than nothing, or she could somehow find the courage to deny herself the very thing she wanted most. Tears filled her eyes, the tears that came so easily these days. She sniffled and wiped them away.
She couldn’t decide anything; her emotions were seesawing wildly between elation and depression. She didn’t know how John would react, so any plans she made were a waste of time. This was something they would have to work out together.
She heard someone ride up, followed by raised, excited voices outside, but cowboys were always coming and going at the ranch, and she didn’t think anything of it until Edie called upstairs, “Michelle? Someone’s hurt. The boys are bringing him in— My God, it’s the boss!” She yelled the last few words and Michelle shot off the bed. Afterward she never remembered running down the stairs; all she could remember was Edie catching her at the front door as Nev and another man helped John down from a horse. John was holding a towel to his face, and blood covered his hands and arms, and soaked his shirt.
Michelle’s face twisted, and a thin cry burst from her throat. Edie was a big, strong woman, but somehow Michelle tore free of her clutching arms and got to John. He shrugged away from Nev and caught Michelle with his free arm, hugging her to him. “I’m all right,” he said gruffly. “It looks worse than it is.”
“You’d better get to a doc, boss,” Nev warned. “Some of those cuts need stitches.”
“I will. Get on back to the men and take care of things.” John gave Nev a warning look over Michelle’s head, and though one eye was covered with the bloody towel, Nev got the message. He glanced quickly at Michelle, then nodded.
“What happened?” Michelle cried frantically as she helped John into the kitchen. His arm was heavy around her shoulders, which told her more than anything that he was hurt worse than he wanted her to know. He sank onto one of the kitchen chairs.
“I lost control of the truck and ran into a tree,” he muttered. “My face hit the steering wheel.”
She put her hand on the towel to keep it in place, feeling him wince even under her light touch, and lifted his hand away. She could see thin shards of glass shining in the black depths of his hair.
“Let me see,” she coaxed, and eased the towel away from his face.
She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. His left eye was already swollen shut, and the skin on his cheekbone was broken open in a jagged wound. His cheekbone and brow ridge were already purple and turning darker as they swelled almost visibly, huge knots distorting his face. A long cut slanted across his forehead, and he was bleeding from a dozen other smaller cuts. She took a deep breath and schooled her voice to evenness. “Edie, crush some ice to go on his eye. Maybe we can keep the swelling from getting any worse. I’ll get my purse and the car keys.”
“Wait a minute,” John ordered. “I want to clean up a little; I’ve got blood and glass all over me.”
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p; “That isn’t important—”
“I’m not hurt that badly,” he interrupted. “Help me out of this shirt.”
When he used that tone of voice, he couldn’t be budged. Michelle unbuttoned the shirt and helped him out of it, noticing that he moved with extreme caution. When the shirt was off, she saw the big red welt across his ribs and knew why he was moving so carefully. In a few hours he would be too sore to move at all. Easing out of the chair, he went to the sink and washed off the blood that stained his hands and arms, then stood patiently while Michelle took a wet cloth and gently cleaned his chest and throat, even his back. His hair was matted with blood on the left side, but she didn’t want to try washing his head until he’d seen a doctor.
She ran upstairs to get a clean shirt for him and helped him put it on. Edie had crushed a good amount of ice and folded it into a clean towel to make a cold pad. John winced as Michelle carefully placed the ice over his eye, but he didn’t argue about holding it in place.
Her face was tense as she drove him to the local emergency care clinic. He was hurt. It staggered her, because somehow she had never imagined John as being vulnerable to anything. He was as unyielding as granite, somehow seeming impervious to fatigue, illness or injury. His battered, bloody face was testimony that he was all too human, though, being John, he wasn’t giving in to his injuries. He was still in control.
He was whisked into a treatment room at the clinic, where a doctor carefully cleaned the wounds and stitched the cut on his forehead. The other cuts weren’t severe enough to need stitches, though they were all cleaned and bandaged. Then the doctor spent a long time examining the swelling around John’s left eye. “I’m going to have you admitted to a hospital in Tampa so an eye specialist can take a look at this,” he told John.
“I don’t have time for a lot of poking,” John snapped, sitting up on the table.
“It’s your sight,” the doctor said evenly. “You took a hell of a blow, hard enough to fracture your cheekbone. Of course, if you’re too busy to save your eyesight—”
“He’ll go,” Michelle interrupted.
John looked at her with one furious black eye, but she glared back at him just as ferociously. There was something oddly magnificent about her, a difference he couldn’t describe because it was so subtle. But even as pale and strained as she was, she looked good. She always looked good to him, and he’d be able to see her a lot better with two eyes than just one.
He thought fast, then growled, “All right.” Let her think what she wanted about why he was giving in; the hard truth was that he didn’t want her anywhere near the ranch right now. If he went to Tampa, he could insist that she stay with him, which would keep her out of harm’s way while Andy Phelps tracked down whoever had shot out his windshield. What had been a suspicion was now a certainty as far as John was concerned; Beckman’s threat went far beyond harassing telephone calls. Beckman had tried to make it look like an accident when he had run Michelle off the road, but now he had gone beyond that; a bullet wasn’t accidental.
Thank God Michelle hadn’t been with him as she usually was. At first he’d thought the bullet was intended for him, but now he wasn’t so certain. The bullet had been too far to the right. Damn it, if only he hadn’t lost control of the truck when the windshield shattered! He’d jerked the wheel instinctively, and the truck had started sliding on the dewy grass, hitting a big oak head-on. The impact had thrown him forward, and his cheekbone had hit the steering wheel with such force that he’d been unconscious for a few minutes. By the time he’d recovered consciousness and his head had cleared, there had been no point in sending any of his men to investigate where the shot had come from. Beckman would have been long gone, and they would only have destroyed any signs he might have left. Andy Phelps could take over now.
“I’ll arrange for an ambulance,” the doctor said, turning to leave the room.
“No ambulance. Michelle can take me down there.”
The doctor sighed. “Mr. Rafferty, you have a concussion; you should be lying down. And in case of damage to your eye, you shouldn’t strain, bend over, or be jostled. An ambulance is the safest way to get you to Tampa.”
John scowled as much as he could, but the left side of his face was so swollen that he couldn’t make the muscles obey. No way was he going to let Michelle drive around by herself in the Mercedes; the car would instantly identify her to Beckman. If he had to go to Tampa, she was going to be beside him every second. “Only if Michelle rides in the ambulance with me.”
“I’ll be right behind,” she said. “No, wait. I need to go back home first, to pick up some clothes for both of us.”
“No. Doc, give me an hour. I’ll have clothes brought out to us and arrange for the car to be driven back to the house.” To Michelle he said, “You either ride with me, or I don’t go at all.”
Michelle stared at him in frustration, but she sensed he wasn’t going to back down on this. He’d given in surprisingly easy about going to the hospital, only to turn oddly stubborn about keeping her beside him. If someone drove the car back to the ranch, they would be stranded in Tampa, so it didn’t make sense. This entire episode seemed strange, but she didn’t know just why and didn’t have time to figure it out. If she had to ride in an ambulance to get John to Tampa, she’d do it. She was still so scared and shocked by his accident that she would do anything to have him well again.
He took her acquiescence for granted, telling her what he wanted and instructing her to have Nev bring the clothes, along with another man to drive the car home. Mentally she threw her hands up and left the room to make the phone call. John waited a few seconds after the door had closed behind her, then said, “Doc, is there another phone I can use?”
“Not in here, and you shouldn’t be walking around. You shouldn’t even be sitting up. If the call is so urgent it won’t wait, let your wife make it for you.”
“I don’t want her to know about it.” He didn’t bother to correct the doctor’s assumption that Michelle was his wife. The good doctor was a little premature, that was all. “Do me a favor. Call the sheriff’s department, tell Andy Phelps where I am and that I need to talk to him. Don’t speak to anyone except Phelps.”
The doctor’s eyes sharpened, and he looked at the big man for a moment. Anyone else would have been flat on his back. Rafferty should have been, but his system must be like iron. He was still steady, and giving orders with a steely authority that made it almost impossible not to do as he said.
“All right, I’ll make the call if you’ll lie down. You’re risking your eyesight, Mr. Rafferty. Think about being blind in that eye for the rest of your life.”
John’s lips drew back in a feral grin that lifted the corners of his mustache. “Then the damage has probably already been done, Doctor.” Losing the sight in his left eye didn’t matter much when stacked against Michelle’s life. Nothing was more important than keeping her safe.
“Not necessarily. You may not even have any damage to your eye, but with a blow that forceful it’s better to have it checked. You may have what’s called a blowout fracture, where the shock is transmitted to the wall of the orbital bone, the eye socket. The bone is thin, and it gives under the pressure, taking it away from the eyeball itself. A blowout fracture can save your eyesight, but if you have one you’ll need surgery to repair it. Or you can have nerve damage, a dislocated lens, or a detached retina. I’m not an eye specialist, so I can’t say. All I can tell you is to stay as quiet as possible or you can do even greater damage.”
Impatiently John lay down, putting his hands behind his head, which was throbbing. He ignored the pain, just as he ignored the numbness of his face. Whatever damage had been done, was done. So he’d broken his cheekbone and maybe shattered his eye socket; he could live with a battered face or with just one good eye, but he couldn’t live without Michelle.
He went over the incident again and again in his
mind, trying to pull details out of his subconscious. In that split second before the bullet had shattered the windshield, had he seen a flash that might pinpoint Beckman’s location? Had Beckman been walking? Not likely. The ranch was too big for a man to cover on foot. Nor was it likely he would have been on horseback; riding horses were harder to come by than cars, which could easily be rented. Going on the assumption that Beckman had been driving, what route could he have taken that would have kept him out of sight?
Andy Phelps arrived just moments before Nev. For Michelle’s benefit, the deputy joked about John messing up his pretty face, then waited while John gave Nev detailed instructions. Nev nodded, asking few questions. Then John glanced at Michelle. “Why don’t you check the things Nev brought; if you need anything else, he can bring it to Tampa.”
Michelle hesitated for a fraction of a second, feeling both vaguely alarmed and in the way. John wanted her out of the room for some reason. She looked at the tall, quiet deputy, then back at John, before quietly leaving the room with Nev. Something was wrong; she knew it.
Even Nev was acting strangely, not quite looking her in the eye. Something had happened that no one wanted her to know, and it involved John.
He had given in too easily about going to the hospital, though the threat of losing his eyesight was certainly enough to give even John pause; then he had been so illogical about the car. John was never illogical. Nev was uneasy about something, and now John wanted to talk privately to a deputy. She was suddenly certain the deputy wasn’t there just because he’d heard a friend was hurt.
Too many things didn’t fit. Even the fact that John had had an accident at all didn’t fit. He’d been driving across rough pastures since boyhood, long before he’d been old enough to have a driver’s license. He was also one of the surest drivers she had ever seen, with quick reflexes and eagle-eyed attention to every other driver on the road. It just didn’t make sense that he would lose control of his truck and hit a tree. It was too unlikely, too pat, too identical to her own accident.