Wild Horses

Trying to push the fears from her mind, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water. Her job right now was to tend to Adam Duran. He should be told as soon as possible that Carolyn wasn’t there.

Carolyn had invited him to stay at the ranch, but with her gone, there was no need for him to stay. Mickey hoped he’d have the good grace to know it. Who cared about the technicalities of the stupid lease land at a time like this?

She carried the glass back to the living room and handed it to Adam, who still gazed up at Beverly’s likeness. “She looks like the sort that entered beauty contests,” he said. “And ended up marrying a doctor.”

Mickey didn’t like his tone. “She was,” she said coldly. “And she did.”

He smiled, as if smug about his own power of observation. Resentment tore through Mickey’s frayed nerves. Who was he to walk into Carolyn’s home and make a snide remark about her suffering child?

She no longer needed defenses against such a man. And she forgot that Carolyn would want her to be cordial. Almost defiantly, she laid her reading glasses aside and gestured at the couch.

“Sit,” she said, as much an order as an invitation. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

He raised a brow questioningly. But he sat. He didn’t sink back against the couch. He stayed on its edge, his posture alert, gazing at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “Okay. Bad news. What?”

She sat down in the chair opposite him. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands in her lap. “Mrs. Trent and her husband were called away this afternoon. It’s a family emergency. I don’t know when they’ll be back. It may be a few days. It may be longer.”

He straightened his back and frowned. “I have to talk to her. As soon as possible. I can’t hang around here waiting. I’ve got tickets back home for Friday—”

“Nobody foresaw this, Mr. Duran,” she said. “It’s unfortunate for everyone concerned.”

He gave her a piercing look, almost intimidating. “You’ve got no idea how unfortunate. How can I get in touch with her?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably still en route.”

He gritted his teeth and cast an angry glance toward the ceiling, as if demanding that heaven give him patience.

Mickey said, “She invited you to be a guest here, and she’s not a woman to go back on her word. If you can’t change your ticket to go back sooner, you’re welcome to stay on until Friday or—”

“I can’t go back sooner,” he retorted. “The fare would be higher. I tried to get here as cheaply as I could.”

Well, Mickey thought, that was almost a point in his favor. At least he didn’t want to squander the estate money on travel expenses. But, still, his interest was only in himself. He hadn’t even asked about Caro’s troubles.

But then, though he still looked unhappy, he said, “What’s the family emergency? If I can ask.”

Mickey clasped her hands together more tightly. “Her daughter’s just had her first child. A little girl. The baby has a serious heart condition. They’re going to have to operate tomorrow.”

He looked at her, frowning as if such a thing could not be, should not be.

“A serious condition? You mean the baby could…”

Die. He didn’t say it, but the word hung in the air like a curse: The baby could die.

“Yes,” she said, her throat tightening.

“That’s lousy,” he said. “That’s terrible. I—I’m sorry.” The sarcastic tinge had vanished from his voice.

Her throat clamped even harder. She couldn’t speak. Only nod mutely.

He leaned toward her. “I really am sorry.” He paused. “You said it’s a little girl?”

“A little girl,” Mickey managed to repeat. She thought of the dozens of pink outfits Carolyn had bought for the child. They were still wrapped and stacked in the closet.

Her gaze fell to the coffee table. The Saks catalog lay there, still turned to the page picturing the enormous pink-and-white panda with its huge, rosy bow.

Again it flashed through Mickey’s mind: Carolyn’s plan to get off the plane, dressed all in pink, holding that ridiculously large animal, just to make Beverly laugh and not be nervous about the birth…. But now…

Mickey couldn’t help it. Tears welled in her eyes. She’d fought them ever since Sonny’s call, and until now she’d won. Suddenly they overtook her, and she turned her face so Adam wouldn’t see.

But he already had. “Are you all right? Miss Nightingale?”

She heaved a shaky sigh of anger at her own weakness. “I’ll be fine,” she managed to say. But memories cascaded madly through her head.

Carolyn had shopped so lovingly, had refused store gift wrap, because every purchase had to be brought home and shown to Vern and Mickey for approval. Then she and Mickey had wrapped them all, to make them more personal. Carolyn had gone through extravaganzas with paper and imaginative bows…she and Mickey had fussed and giggled and carried on, and Carolyn had been so happy….

Mickey swore to herself and covered her eyes. She’d never considered herself sentimental, but now she was coming apart over booties and ribbons and bows. She should be made of sterner stuff. But the tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks.

Get hold of yourself, dammit.

Suddenly Adam Duran was before her, bending on one knee in front of her, putting a hand on each arm of the chair. “Miss Nightingale?” he said. “Michelle? Mickey—don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

Now chagrin compounded her grief and fear. How stupid to let a stranger see her like this—and his kindness made it worse. It had been easier to be steely when she’d thought him cold and smug.

She kept her eyes covered and bent her head lower, but she could feel more tears coursing down, and her body shook with suppressed sobs.

“Well, no,” he said, sounding flummoxed, “Cry if you need to. Cry if it helps.”

He dug into the pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out an equally faded blue bandana handkerchief. She’d balled her free hand into a fist. He took the clamped fingers in his hands and gently pried them open. He tucked the handkerchief into her palm then closed her fingers back over it.

“Take that,” he said. “It’s old—but it’s clean. Really.”

She raised the handkerchief to her face. It smelled of old-fashioned laundry, the kind that dried by sunlight and breezes. She scrubbed at the offending tears.

“I—don’t—usually—do—this,” she said.

He touched her arm, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “Can I get you something? You want my glass of water? Or a fresh one?”

The sensation of his hand against her flesh sent a strange, new frisson through her. She hazarded a glimpse of him over the handkerchief. His forehead was furrowed, and his eyes were filled with worry that seemed real.

She realized she would do better if he were not so near and so tensed with empathy. “I—I’d like a glass of water,” she said, her voice thickened by crying. “There’s a pitcher in the fridge. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure thing,” he said, patting her arm. “You bet.”

He rose and went toward the kitchen. Perhaps he understood she needed to be alone awhile to pull herself together. He took his time.

She stopped crying. She dried the last of her tears, straightened up in her chair. Taking slow, deep breaths, she got up and went to the coffee table. Without looking at the page, she slapped the catalog shut and thrust it deep into the magazine rack. She would not allow herself to look again at the picture of that damned panda. Not until she knew the baby was well.

And little Carrie Dekker would get well, she told herself. Doctors could do miracles these days, and Sonny knew the finest ones. But still, her mind nagged, but still…