Dark Paradise (79 page)

to think and reflect.

It was a luxury he seldom afforded himself, too busy with running the

ranch and protecting the ranch and fighting off the outsiders. But he

wasn't the only one fighting and he wasn't the only one capable of doing

the work and it wasn't his sole responsibility. It was Rafferty land and

Will was a Rafferty too.

J.D. had left him in charge. The irrigation had to be seen to and plans

made for cutting the hay crop. Will's first concern was to see to

Samantha's recuperation, but he had accepted the jobs without complaint.

By Tucker's accounts, Will was applying himself with a seriousness

heretofore unknown to him; Samantha was healing; the two appeared to be

very much in love.

Good news. Something they had been short on for a long time. So why did

that last part leave him feeling empty?

J.D. turned his thoughts away from the question and turned his horse

toward the southeast. The day was warm . It was Friday, seventeen days

since he had seen Marilee. Again he ducked the issue and focused on the

prospect of lasagna for supper. Tucker brought supplies and lasagna on

Friday.

He met Del at the edge of the basin and they rode up toward Bald Knob in

silence. Del stared down at his saddle horn as they rode past the knob,

the muscles in the shattered side of his face twitching with tension.

"We'll need to talk about it, Del," J.D. said, his heart feeling like a

rock in his chest. He had tried to bring the subject up more than once

since they had gotten the cattle settled, but Del had dodged it every

time and J.D. hadn't had the heart to force it. He couldn't stand to see

the sick worry in his uncle's eyes, or the shame.

Del pulled up suddenly and pivoted his roan around so he could look out

over the knob to the wide, flower strewn meadow where the cattle grazed

and beyond to the next mountain and the next, their shapes turning hazy

and indistinct as the sun slid behind the farthest of them. He stared

out at it all from beneath the brim of his hat, stared hard, as if he

were memorizing every last detail.

He didn't want to talk about what had happened. He didn't even like to

remember it, though the memory was always right there, hovering like a

fog just beneath the plate in his head. It descended at night and

tormented him, visions of the blondes with their features melding

together until he couldn't tell one from the other. . . .

He had wanted only to do the right thing, to help save the ranch, to

make J.D. proud of him. But he saw the looks his nephew sent him when he

didn't think he was paying attention, and they were full of pity and

shame and regret.

"You ought to go back down, hadn't you, J.D.?" he said, hoping against

hope J.D. would say yes and simply leave, leave him be as if nothing had

happened.

J.D. sighed.

"You won't send me away, will you, J.D.?" he asked flat out, then sat

there, shaking inside, as he waited for an answer.

He kept his eyes on the view, afraid to look away from it, afraid that

if he looked away, it would vanish. His hand crept up against his head

and he rubbed his scar as if the smooth disk of flesh were a lucky

penny. He wanted to tell his nephew what it had been like for him during

that black-period in the V.A. hospital, what it had been like to never

see the sky or the mountains, to never watch the sunset except through a

window with chicken wire imbedded in the glass. He wanted to explain how

he couldn't tolerate the lack of space and how the other patients

crowded in on him and made it impossible for him to keep his mind

together and focused on each individual moment, which was what he needed

to do to stay sane. He wanted to tell J.D. what it meant to him to have

this place and to have his duties on the Stars and Bars.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "I'd die."

J.D. clenched his jaw against the surge of pain for the old soldier

sitting beside him. So much had been taken from him - his youth, his

prospects, his face, his mind. All he had left was his job and his

place on the land, and a small well of pride in being able to handle

those simple responsibilities.

God help me, I can't take that away from him.

But he had shot a woman, and he had proved that what was left of his

mind could not be trusted in the face of stress. What if he happened

across legitimate hunters and perceived them as a threat?

His courage running out on him, Del swung his horse back around and

started up the mountain. "There's chores need doing."

J.D. followed slowly, accountability weighing him down like an anchor.

The truck was in the yard when they arrived at the cabin, but it wasn't

Tucker who sat on the tailgate tossing a Frisbee for the dogs. J.D.'s

heart slammed into his sternum as she raised her head and looked right

at him.

"Marilee," he mumbled.

Her left arm was in a sling. She looked thinner. Her cheekbones were a

little more prominent than they had been, the hollows beneath them

deeper. Her jewel-blue eyes seemed impossibly large and deep beneath her

dark brows. She wore black leggings and hiking boots and an old denim

shirt that would have fit him. She eased herself down off the tailgate

and swept back a chunk of streaky blond hair that had blown across her

face.

"Never fear," she said, her mouth kicking up on one side in a wry smile.

"Tucker and your lasagna are inside."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, realizing too late how that

sounded.

Her chin came up a little. "I came to see Del."

Del jerked around at the post where he was tying his horse, his eyes

open wide, his mouth tugging back on the dead side in a grimace of

shock.

Marilee offered him the warmest smile she could find.

"Hey, Del. I came to thank you."

He narrowed his eyes and looked at her sideways, fussing with his reins.

"There's no need."

"Yes, there is," she insisted. "You saved my life."

Del looked down at his boots and rubbed his jaw. He wished she hadn't

come back. He wished everyone would just go away and leave him to his

shame and let him alone about what had happened. He didn't want to have

to say anything about it. If he told, then J.D. would have to put him

away for sure. But he couldn't take credit if it wasn't his due; that

wouldn't be right.

"No, ma'am," he said softly.

J.D.'s attention swung from Marilee to his uncle. He stepped down off

his horse and stood very still, watching Del, waiting.

Marilee's brows tugged together. "Yes, you did, Del. You shot the woman

who was trying to kill me. She would have killed me and Samantha too.

You saved us both."

He wagged his head from side to side, not meeting her eyes. His hands

were suddenly nervous. He jammed them at his waist, dropped them,

crossed them, wiped the saliva that trailed down his jaw. "No, ma'am,"

he said, breathing as if he had just run to hell and back. "The fact is,

I couldn't tell. I saw blondes and I knew they weren't the same, but

then they were, and I couldn't tell-"

He.broke off, stared off across the yard, seeing it all again in his

fractured mind, image upon image as if he were looking through a prism.

The blonde and the blonde, tangled and then apart, their features

interchanging. He had wanted to do something. Needed to do the right

thing. He couldn't remember anything about the instant he pulled the

trigger. That second was gone from his mind as if it had never happened.

Marilee closed the distance between them without hesitation and took

hold of one of his hands, squeezing it hard.

"No," she said strongly. He looked down at her, his gray eyes full of

torment. "You knew. In your heart you knew. You saved my life, Del.

Don't you let yourself think otherwise."

He stared at her, wanting to believe, wishing he could believe. He knew

her now. She was the talker. The good blonde. She had told him he could

be a hero; now she claimed he was. Had he known?
 
In that final

hairbreadth of a second, had he known?
 
Maybe. He wished so, but wishing

wouldn't make it true.

Marilee let go of his hand and dug her fingers into her shirt pocket,

pulling out a small brass star that hung from a red-striped ribbon. She

had gone down to Miller Daggrepont's office, dug the medal out of one of

his many boxes of "collections," and paid his secretary Inez a dollar

for it. It seemed an awfully small price for what it meant.

"I got this for you," she murmured, holding it up against his chest. "I

found it in an antiques shop in town. I'm not sure where it comes from

or what it was originally meant for, but I mean for you to wear it because

you're my hero."

Del looked down at the little medal she held against him with her small,

pale hand. He had some from the war, but he kept them locked in a box

with the other mementos of that time because people didn't like that war

and they used to make him feel ashamed that he'd gone. He had only meant

to do the right thing, but he guessed he didn't always know what that

was, even back then.

"You did good, Del," the little blonde whispered. "Please believe that."

Her eyes were full of tears. She raised up on her tiptoes and brushed a

kiss against his cheek.

Blushing, he took the star and pinned it to his shirt and he felt good

about himself for the first time in a long time. "Thank you, ma'am," he

murmured. "I'll be proud to wear it."

He tipped his hat to her and without another word went to see about his

horse.

Marilee watched him walk away with the roan in tow.

She could feel J.D.'s gaze on her, but she didn't turn to meet it. Her

emotions were running too high. She didn't trust herself not to blurt

out that she loved him or some other equally ill-timed revelation. She

had to have some pride. Pride was valued here, and she was a part of

this place now.

"That's one of the finest things I've ever seen anybody do, Marilee,"

J.D. said softly.

"I'm not at all well," she said, her voice low and hoarse, "all sure

he deserved it, but he needed it, and even if he saved my life

by accident, I wanted to give him some thing back."

He hooked a knuckle under her chin and turned her face up to his. Her

eyes were like liquid sapphire. Tears left a trail on her cheeks that

gleamed in the fading glow of sunset. He had probably known prettier

women in his life, but at that moment he could not think of anyone more

beautiful. "You're a wonder, Marilee. You never do what I expect."

"Maybe I'm not who you want to think I am," she said.

"No. I'd say you're someone more," he murmured.

Better, truer, more honest, stronger, braver. She was everything he

would have labeled himself once. Christ, he hated irony. He wasn't so

sure anymore that he was any of those things.

"Would you like to find out?" Marilee asked. Her heart beat like a fist

at the base of her throat, fluttered like a butterfly caught in a net.

She could see in his eyes what his answer would be, and even tempered

with regret it hurt. "Won't take a chance on a city girl, huh?" she said

with a smile more tremulous than wry.

"It's not that," he said as he let his hand drop from her chin. He

turned away and faced the west, where the sky was aflame and the

mountains were cast in silhouette beneath it. "It's the wrong time and

maybe I'm the wrong man. Maybe I'm not who you want to think I am

either. I don't know anymore."

"I do," she said, coming to stand beside him. "I know exactly who you

are. I know you're proud and stubborn, that you'd do anything for the

people you care about. I know you can be pompous and arrogant, and I

know there's no one on this planet harder on you than you are on