Trauma Plan, page 14
She sighed. “It’s been that way all my life. I had a sister who was kidnapped. She died.”
Jack’s stomach lurched. “When?”
“Long before I was born. My parents never expected to have another child. So when I came, they went into protective overdrive. You can imagine. And it didn’t help that there was an incident with my cousin a few years back. On a church mission trip across the border—an attempt to kidnap her and another volunteer. It turned out all right. But . . .”
“It made your parents even more determined to keep you safe.” So you wouldn’t end up like Abby. Jack wrestled with the nightmarish memory.
“Exactly. So I took a nursing position just a few miles from home. And still ended up with those hands around my throat. It’s ironic, I suppose.” Her fingers moved inside his, and Jack realized that at some point he’d taken hold of her hand. She left it there.
Riley was quiet for a moment, the sounds of distant music and laughter filling the vacuum. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “People say that I’m brave. That my recovery was a miracle. I don’t feel that way. I want more, and I know that’s wrong. I should be nothing but grateful because I could be like Jane Doe is now. Or I could have died on that garage floor.”
Jack stood abruptly and took a few steps away, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory of the police officer’s voice.
“She’s dead, Mr. Travis. Abby’s been murdered.”
“Jack?” Riley asked, joining him at the balcony. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Fine,” he said without looking at her, hating his selfishness in that—and in wishing he were anywhere else but here right now. Skydiving, rock climbing, or even . . . He stared down at the crowded tables along the river, imagining he was there, knocking back a few beers, laughing at bad jokes and flirting with some half-pretty but completely willing waitress. An anonymous, numbing free fall from pain, past and present. They were things he hadn’t done in years, had lost the stomach for.
“I should get you home,” he said in a monotone, eyes still on the river. “You probably have church or something tomorrow.”
Riley touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said with confusion and hurt in her voice. “I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. It wasn’t fair to expect you to understand—”
“I do,” Jack blurted, wishing his voice hadn’t sounded angry—and ignoring every instinct to stop right there. “I do understand what that’s like,” he continued, softening his voice. “I can relate to what you went through. Because . . .”
He braced his hands on the rail, dipped his head, and took a slow breath. Riley’s hand returned to his arm.
She waited, her patient silence encouraging him far more than he could have imagined. He hadn’t said what he was about to say in years.
Jack finally turned his head to meet her gaze, feeling the same way he had the first time he’d jumped from a plane. “I had this friend, a long time ago. She was murdered.”
* * *
Riley breathed through her nose, willed herself not to flinch, though her knees had begun to tremble. She kept her hand on Jack’s arm and held his gaze, sensing he wasn’t finished. Lord, help me to listen.
“I was twenty,” he said. “Reckless, no goals, suspended driver’s license. Waiting tables part-time at a brewery grill in Fredericksburg.” His lips pressed together. “And using my father’s cancer as an excuse to be mad at the world, I guess. Abby had been accepted at TCU—on a full scholarship. She was smart and had such a strong faith. She wanted to work with kids, make the world a better place. Needless to say, her parents weren’t exactly thrilled when she dragged me home. She’d have started college in another week, if . . .” His wince was discernible even in lantern light. “It’s a cold case, no leads. The detectives assumed that after the carjacking, she was raped. Then shoved into the trunk of her car.” Jack’s expression showed marrow-deep pain. “They weren’t sure if she was still alive when it was set on fire.”
Riley gasped. “Jack . . .” She flung her arms around him, tears brimming. He hesitated, then hugged her back. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured against his chest.
“No, don’t,” he said, pushing her away enough that he could look into her face. His gaze was intense. Eyes shiny. “You don’t need to try to make it better for me. I’m trying to tell you that I understand. It makes me sick that you’ve gone through all this, Riley. You have every right to want what that lowlife stole from you; it should never have happened. To you or Abby or that poor kid who was dumped on my clinic porch.” He frowned. “I’m sparing you my doubts about how God figures into that mess, but I’ll tell you that I’m sick to death of people who stand by and do nothing to help. It’s the same as condoning it.” A muscle bunched along Jack’s jaw. “And if I’d had a few more minutes with that punk who tried to steal your purse—”
“It’s over,” she interrupted. “I’m fine. And you . . .” Riley reached up and rested her fingers against his face, her heart refusing to cater to lifelong caution. “You’ve been a blessing, Jack. By taking a chance with me at your clinic, and tonight too. Showing me the Alamo, my first Fiesta—” she smiled, watching his beautiful eyes—“and letting me ambush you so badly with those eggs.”
“Hey . . .” The corners of his toffee eyes crinkled with his smile. “Not so badly.”
Riley laughed, drew back. His hands slid to rest on her waist, their warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt.
“I’d say we were pretty evenly matched egg-wise,” Jack said.
And so different on every other level, but . . . Riley shook the thought aside. “I’ll concede to a tie because of the hair wreath.”
There was a long silence, filled only by the distant strains of mariachi music. And by the merciless thrumming of Riley’s pulse in her ears. “Thank you for today,” she whispered against the sudden, undeniable swirling of her senses.
“You’re most welcome.” He traced a fingertip along her cheek. Then brushed her bangs aside and bent close, touching his lips to her forehead, warmth against a scar that went so much deeper. “You’re beautiful,” Jack whispered, lips against tender skin, “and brave. Don’t doubt that, Riley. For even a second.”
Jack drew back, smiled down at her. Then his head dipped slowly lower, his eyes holding hers. He took a soft breath, waited.
Riley wasn’t sure if she nodded. Or merely closed her eyes.
Jack’s kiss was gentle, initially tentative and completely respectful. Then, when Riley responded, it was far more thorough . . . and breathlessly lingering. Somehow she managed to get an arm around his neck and a hand splayed against his back. One capable, one numb—both hanging on for dear life to keep her knees from buckling. His arms were strong, solid, and being held in them made her feel . . . like she was skydiving.
What am I doing? . . . I don’t care. I just want to finally feel alive.
* * *
“Grab her! Don’t let her get away!”
Vesta’s scream stuck in her throat, confusion and terror making her nearly blind as she raced to escape. Her car was so close. And too far. She stumbled, felt a vicious yank on her hair, vise-tight fingers on her shoulder. She whirled, raised her knee, and kicked, feeling her shoe connect near his groin—near enough. He cursed and hunched over, staggering backward.
“Get her!”
Vesta ran, shoes skidding on loose gravel. Her lungs sucked at thick night air fouled by a suffocating mix of highway asphalt, gasoline, smoke . . . and fear. Her car, lights still on. Open the door—the keys, the keys . . . Something exploded in the distance; there was sudden heat on her skin. She scrambled to climb into the driver’s seat, pull the door closed, and then find the ignition. Where is it? There. The engine leaped to life. She grabbed for the gearshift, and—
A face at the window. Backlit by the flames, young, wild . . . desperate, murderous eyes. His hands on the door handle, and—
Oh, God, please save me!
Vesta jerked awake in the dim light, confused and shivering; her nightgown was soaked with sweat, her heart pounding. She swept a hand through her hair, dizzy for a moment as reality—blessed relief—came at last. The way it always did after the nightmare that had plagued her for fifteen years. Exactly the same. No. Maybe not anymore. After what she’d seen from the window yesterday evening . . . Was it possible?
She switched on the bedside lamp, swung her legs to the floor. She glanced at the clock: 3:30. Sunday. Her gaze swept over the Bible lying next to the clock. Closed, in need of a dusting . . . in need of reading. Familiar regret, laced with guilt, washed over her. She reached for her glass of water, thinking of Riley Hale. Her kindness, the way she’d listened with such compassion and without judgment. She’d no doubt heard a lot of things—as a nurse and as a chaplain—stories, confidences . . . nightmares? Would she listen?
Vesta took a slow breath, shaking off the idea. Then reached for her robe. Her mouth was dry, despite the water, and the nagging dizziness persisted. She knew the symptoms all too well.
She retrieved the test kit from the bathroom and settled into the wing chair in the living room. She pushed up her sleeve, pricked her skin, and watched the tiny drop of blood well up. After collecting it on the testing strip, she transferred it to the metering device and waited for the blood sugar reading to display.
Vesta wondered idly how long she’d spent waiting like this over the span of her years. Up to sixty seconds, three or more times a day . . . She glanced back at the monitor as the reading displayed 205. Nearly double what it should be after her evening insulin. She’d had no sherry, no extra carbohydrates at dinner, spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, and checked her feet carefully for blisters and redness after her shower. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. Or maybe it’s stress.
Vesta glanced toward the window, its curtains released from their tiebacks and closed securely. She fought an urge to check all the locks, bring the baseball bat back to her bedroom. What would be the harm in that? She’d let it rest against the colonel’s pillow . . .
Oh, dear God. What am I doing?
Vesta groaned, squeezed her eyes shut. She hated—despised to the depths of her soul—what she’d allowed herself to become. A worthless, simpering, useless coward. She wasn’t fooling anyone. And she had no doubt that Riley Hale suspected it even before those groceries were delivered to the door. That lovely, sensitive girl . . .
What would Riley say if she knew about the reality of that night? Maybe she’d agree that it had been too long ago to do anything about it; that, given the darkness and the horrifying confusion, Vesta couldn’t be expected to remember anything helpful. Riley might understand how it felt to get the late-night phone calls afterward. No more than dead silence, but chilling—intimidating. And then to wonder if her dog Corky’s poisoning had been more than a mere sad coincidence.
Vesta glanced up at the wall, past the photos of Alaska and Half Dome, to the gray cedar cross.
Maybe Riley could even understand how hard it had been to pray since that night. To believe that after all that had happened, God was still there for her. And to wonder if he didn’t want her exactly where she was: trapped, sick, and alone. A prison she deserved.
There was no point in this.
Vesta glanced down at her arm, pressed a cotton ball against the seeping blood, and told herself it was best to go back to bed. Riley would be here on Monday to bring the car, then again on Thursday for their scheduled chaplain visit. They’d talk, but Vesta wouldn’t burden her with any of this. Not the nightmares and not what she knew about Dr. Travis. Or . . . Vesta glanced toward the curtained window, fought a shudder.
It wasn’t possible that she’d seen him. That man with the wild hair who stank of fear and fire and still chased her in nightmares after all these years. If Vesta told the Alamo Grace Hospital chaplain that he’d walked down San Antonio Street in the direction of the clinic, she’d simply add crazy to her diagnosis of diabetic recluse.
It isn’t possible.
Vesta put her testing kit away and headed toward the bedroom. Then went back to the foyer to check the locks. And to get the bat.
16
Riley drove the Mercedes down the Highway 10 off-ramp, its grassy shoulder a Monet canvas of bluebonnets and fiery Indian paintbrush. She coasted to a stop, the breeze tossing her hair and the morning sun warming her bare shoulders. She sighed, feeling it again: the heart-tugging pleasure that came even the first time she drove through the hill country town of Boerne. Each time she’d been here, she’d felt it more.
Charming, arts- and family-friendly, the historic community was only a few miles northwest of San Antonio. It boasted a German band that spanned four generations, an amazing nature center—hosting the upcoming Brandon’s Revue outdoor benefit concert—and, Riley had discovered right away, a quaint bakery called the Bear Moon that had the most delectable frosting-embellished cookies she’d ever tasted in her life. She’d immediately bought one decorated like a daisy. And chased it with a sugary red ladybug.
Riley turned onto Hauptstrasse—Main Street—glancing at shops with colorful canvas awnings and barrels of flowers. She smiled as she passed the charming Read All About It Bookstore—it was on her list of places to explore. But Riley knew, beyond the shops and restaurants and history, it was Boerne’s inexplicable sense of home that had surprised her most. Almost as much as Riley had surprised her neighbor, Wilma, this morning by driving out of the garage in the convertible.
“Oh my. That car suits you. No doubt about it.”
Riley would argue that point. But why she’d chosen the Mercedes and left the Honda behind today was as inexplicable as small-town Boerne’s lure for a big-city Houston girl. Unless it was that she’d wanted to take the TYGRR-mobile for one last spin before leaving it in Vesta Calder’s garage. Or because she was going to church, and somehow it made sense to drive a car with a Scripture-framed license plate. Or maybe . . . it was that her grandfather had intended his extravagant gift as a reminder of courage. And last night Jack had called her beautiful and brave.
Jack. Her stomach dipped in a way that had nothing to do with the surface of the road. She wondered what Wilma would have thought if she’d seen the huge, black H1 in the driveway, if Jack had dropped her off at home instead of the place they’d arranged to meet for their date. Would her neighbor have thought that the daunting car—and Jack Travis—suited Riley as well? Do I?
Her thoughts had tumbled far into the night in a struggle to sort it out. There was no doubt that the kiss—kisses—had happened at a moment of emotional vulnerability. For both of them. Riley winced, remembering the pain in Jack’s voice when he’d told her about Abby’s death. And his tenderness when she’d revealed the details of her assault after he saw the scars from her halo brace. Her stomach dipped again as she relived the warm brush of Jack’s lips against her forehead. “Beautiful and brave.” And then the feel of his fingers trailing along her jaw . . .
Riley pushed the thought aside as she continued down Main Street. Last night’s unexpected emotional connection with Jack sprang from a mutual attempt to comfort. Simple as that. They were two people who, incredibly, had been forced to cope in the aftermath of similar horrific incidents. In very different ways.
Riley chewed her lip, recalling Jack’s flash of anger when he talked about the assaults, how he was “sick to death” of people who stood by, did nothing to help. He’d insisted that doing nothing to stop injustice and suffering was the same as condoning it. And had implied that same thing before in reference to the attitudes of The Bluffs neighbors toward his clinic: he was helping people; they were hindering that process.
No, it was more than that. It was as if Jack honestly felt they were as guilty as the pimp who had dumped Jane Doe’s battered body outside the clinic.
Riley braked to a stop at one of Boerne’s few traffic lights, thinking that her comparison of Jack’s defense of the clinic to the Alamo siege hadn’t been that far off. Commander Travis had drawn a line in the dirt, asking those who weren’t afraid to die to cross it and stand with him. Wasn’t Jack doing the same thing? Using his reputation as a maverick and his aversion to rules and conventions to divide the community—triage his supporters, separate strong from weak?
Then why am I there? I don’t “spit in the face of fear.”
Riley flexed her numb fingers on the Mercedes’s steering wheel, thinking of Vesta cowering on the floor of the chapel that first day. It had taken so long to ease the woman’s fear, slow her breathing, yet it had all returned the instant Jack appeared. And then Riley thought of the boy who’d tried to snatch her purse outside the clinic. The ferocity on Jack’s face—in his hands—as he dealt with him. He’d mentioned the incident again last night. “If I’d had a few more minutes with that punk . . .” A threat she’d interrupted with the prelude to a kiss.
What makes him so angry? And dangerous? Is he really dangerous?
Riley blinked into the sun, caught sight of the church on the corner of Main Street and Johns Road—rugged blocks of Texas limestone, steep metal roof, graceful arches, stained glass, and century-old doors. She’d first found it when she was Christmas shopping and saw a sign on the lawn inviting citizens to “Walk through Bethlehem,” a living celebration of the Nativity complete with robed kings, Roman guards, the holy family . . . and live camels. She’d walked Bethlehem, swept in by the charm, but she’d returned because of the warm, welcoming people and—like the town itself—a soul-stirring sense of home.
Riley pulled into the parking lot, thinking of what Jack had said about Abby, that she’d wanted to work with children, make the world a better place. That she had strong faith. And her family hadn’t been thrilled when she brought Jack home. He’d mentioned having doubts about God. She shook her head, struck by the irony that Jack’s goal was the same as Abby’s, to make the world a better place. Except that he seemed determined to do it in battle mode, with anger and retaliation . . . and without faith?
