In Love by Christmas: A Paranormal Romance (9 page)

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“You raise
Kosher
beef.”

“Kosher and grass fed beef. All natural. We make four times what my pop was making before I got home.”

“But
look
at this.” Doug gawked at the rest of the web site covering the wall. The top half was spectacular enough, but the bottom part clenched the sale. A black, three-board fence ran across the red backdrop. The two very tall Watches men leaned against a fence, smiling at the viewer. Their cowboy hats were pushed back on their heads so their faces showed. Leaning against the fence next to them was a huge clock like an old-fashioned pocket watch. The clock face was white; its hands moved. The only flesh color in the composition was on the men’s dark faces and hands.

“Watches Ranch.” Doug continued staring at the clock. “That’s California time. Jesus, Leroy, I’d buy
anything
from you.”

“Yeah. Every animal we raise is sold before it hits the ground. Only reason money’s so tight is we bought the trucks.”

“Trucks?”

“Refrigerated trucks. We can’t get our beef to those health food stores and yuppie markets fast enough. They’ll pay for themselves. They are already”

Doug’s shoulders sagged. He sagged and sat down, facing the screen. “How did you do that web site? That’s as good as anything Will has.”

“High school kids on the reservation. Those kids can do anything. They’re so smart. They showed me some of what the other beef suppliers were doing for sites and then did up this for us. We gave ‘em a side of beef for the job.”

“I can’t believe it, Leroy. All this time, I thought you were going to get creamed in this place, but you’ve got this major business going. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you ask? I showed the website to you because I got sick of being treated like I needed diapers. Me an’ my people don’t flash what we got and brag about it. It’s a
cultural
thing, Doug.

“An’ we ain’t the kings of kosher beef. We don’t have big house and barn, but we do have refrigerated trucks. We got everything we need. An’ money’s coming easier.”

Doug put his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask you about your ranch. Or guess. Or look you up online. I can’t believe Will didn’t either. I just assumed …”

“You just
assumed
. An’ that’s it, isn’t it? Ol’ Leroy can’t be nothing if he looks like that. Or talks like that. Like
what
, Doug?

“You gave me a lecture on how people were gonna cut me because of my skin. How about you? And
color blind
Will?
You’re
the only ones hurt my feelings so far.”

Leroy stomped away from Doug, stopped, and stomped back. “If you’d have looked online, you’d ‘a’ found a lot more. You ever heard of cowboy poetry? My dad’s been writing it since my mom died.” Leroy’s face ran through a half dozen feelings: sadness, pain, pride. “He wrote about everything that happened. Mama dyin’, him beatin’ me, and my grandpa taking me. All of it. And about rodeo. It’s got all his feelin’s in it. Rodeo isn’t just a fun show. It’s rough. And it hurts.

“He started reading at the rodeos. Almost every rodeo has a cowboy reading, an’ he went to all of them. An’ then the poetry competitions. My dad’s a star! He sells his books on our site too. I should a brought you one.”

“You raise Kosher beef and beef for yuppies. Your dad’s a rodeo star and a cowboy poet.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you ask? Anyone else, you would have investigated before you met ‘em. You, know,” Leroy scratched his nose, “I think I’m lookin’ at a situation of cultural and racial discrimination.”

Leroy stood in the empty hall. Doug had gone home. He was alone in a terrifying world with massive expectations that meant his whole life piled on his head. He came from nothing. He didn’t want to embarrass himself with the Sirs and Lords and Dowagers. He went back into the living room. The Watches Ranch website still covered the wall, clock hands moving reassuringly. The clock ticked, a nice sound.

Out the window, life pulsated on the street below. He had never had time off. Some animal always needed tending, or their hay crop was having a crisis. Or the house, tractor, truck. His father. Now all he had to do was go to dinner at palaces. The space of not having any real work felt almost too open.

And then it didn’t. He’d do some things, and he wouldn’t do others. He’d be true to Cass and he wouldn’t drink. He’d be honorable. He was a spirit warrior. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a good time.

Mr. Duane had given him a whole closet of beautiful clothes.

Leroy slipped on a pair of slacks and sweater, grabbed his leather jacket and wallet and split. He was out on the town.

10

A Call from Daddy

W
ill sat in
his study, staring at the phone. A week had passed since Leroy and Doug had deposited Cass in the hospital. He’d talked to her doctors; he’d talked to her nurses. They knew her; she’d been in there before.

“She’s different this time,” her doctor had said. “She’s very ill, but she’s more positive than I’ve seen her. I think she’ll work with us and we’ll have a chance to make some real progress. Let us have a bit more time. I’ll have someone call you every day. I think you may be surprised.”

He sat in front of the phone in his office, pondering. They’d told him Cass could talk to him briefly. He’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Cass would be somewhere safe, getting healthy. They’d talk. She’d say she was sorry for what she’d said to him at Christmas, and so many other times. He’d say he was sorry he’d let Enzo Donatore get her and her mother. He was sorry about everything.

Will knew he couldn’t do all of that at once, it would take time. Skill. Patience. But maybe this time it would work. He would reach toward her—carefully, sensitively—and she would extend herself to him.

“Can you forgive me, Cass? Can we be friends? Can you love me?”

That’s what sat on his chest at night, grabbed his throat during the day. Half killed him.

Will wasn’t doing well. Exactly what he’d expected when he got back from the retreat had happened. Frank Sauvage and Ric Chao whirled around behind him like dervishes with razors, cutting away at his support in the Corporation. Hacking at his heels, not nipping at them.

But he had to call Cass. Nothing made sense if he didn’t. If he didn’t have Cass, keeping Numenon meant nothing.

He reached for the phone, the back of his hand tanned, his nails perfectly manicured.

“Cass?” His voice seemed to echo through a vast space, even though it was just the phone in his study. They said she was well enough to talk for a few minutes from her bed.

“Is that you, Daddy?” Her voice was tiny, a little girl’s, not the dreadful dragon’s. “Is that really you?”

“Yes, baby. It’s me.”

“Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.” Broken sobs.

“Don’t be sorry, baby.”

“Yes, I have to be sorry. I am sorry. We had a fight. I don’t remember what I said, but it was awful. I’m sorry.”

He heard a voice in the background, a woman’s voice, “Cass, if this is too much for you, you can try later. Doctor wants you to be calm.”

“I’m OK. It’s my
dad.”
Her attention shifted back to him, “I wanted you to know how sorry I am. I’ve caused so much trouble.” Frantic voice, unlike what he’d expected. “All my life. I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, that doesn’t matter. You getting well matters. Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. I get tired. I sleep a lot.”

“And eat too, I hope.”

“Yes.” A short silence. “Daddy, I remember someone. He brought me here. His face was dark, but I could see his eyes. They were funny colored. Do you …”

“No, I don’t know who that was, sweetheart. There were ambulance drivers. Doctors. Doug was there.”

“It wasn’t Doug.” She sounded wistful. “I wish you knew who he was. I keep remembering his eyes.” She was crying. “I’m so sorry.” Her soft snuffling didn’t taper off.

“Honey, don’t worry about it. I want you back on your feet, healthy, and we can talk about all that stuff.”

He felt her faint; knew she had. The silence on the line told him, and the
thunk
when the phone hit the floor. A scuffle came through the receiver. Will shouted, “Hello! Hello! Is she all right? Hello! Talk to me!”

A woman’s voice said, “Miss Duane fainted, Mr. Duane. She’s
very
ill.”

“She’s going to make it, isn’t she?”

“Doctor wishes to speak to you, sir. I’ll transfer your call.”

Clicks and canned music and then a voice.

“Mr. Duane? This is Vic Rankin, attending physician for your daughter.”

“Is she all right?”

“A medical team is with her. I’ll go to her momentarily.”

“What happened?”

“She fainted because of low blood pressure. We’ve done more tests and have more information about her condition we can give you now, if you have time?”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“You know some of this. Her internal organs—liver and kidneys, her heart—have been damaged by starvation. When the body doesn’t get enough protein, it essentially eats its own muscle, including the heart.

“The drugs didn’t damage her very much physically. Heroin actually doesn’t cause that much bodily damage, unless you overdose. But the sexual abuse she’s been subjected to has all but destroyed her reproductive system. That and VD. We’re treating her, but she’s massively infected and has been for a long time.”

Will sat silently, clutching the phone. “Are you saying she still could die?”

A huge sigh. “Yes. I am. But I think she’ll pull through. She won’t be able to have children, however, except through transplanting her eggs to a surrogate. She can’t maintain a pregnancy physically.

“She arrived here on death’s door. The fact that she’s alive is a miracle, and I don’t use that word lightly.” The doctor paused. He was stalling, hiding something more important.

“What else?”

“The latest tests have revealed that she’s brain-damaged. She apparently died during her journey here, maybe several times. The scans show it. She was resuscitated, or came back, but not fast enough. She suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen.”

“Will she be able to …” Look normal? Act normal? Will choked back a sob.

“We don’t know the extent of it or how it will affect her daily functioning and personality. She could have rages. She could be childlike. She could forget everything that she’s said or done fifteen minutes after doing it. Or, she might heal enough that you don’t notice anything at all. Though she will be low functioning.”

“What do you mean?
She was top of her class when she got her MBA at Stanford. She’s
brilliant!”

“Not anymore, Mr. Duane. When she leaves here, if she leaves here—she’s not out of the woods at all—she’ll be a different person than you knew. You’ll have to get to know each other again.”

Will barked, a sound between a choke and a sob.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that. We’ll update you daily or more often as we have information. We’re on red alert. I need to go now.”

Leroy’s face flashed before him. That stinking son of a bitch! He brings her back to life but doesn’t
keep
her back. He let her die several times. Stinking bastard left her
brain-damaged.

Will jumped up and began pacing in his office, then up and down the hall in his suite of rooms. Excluding the basement gym, Will’s house was fifteen thousand square feet. Three guesthouses, the pool house, and the horse trainer’s residence in the barn completed the estate. A village could live in style on his property.

His rooms were four thousand square feet, the size of a large normal house. They were complete with his colossal bedroom, an office, gym, kitchen, media room, and closets the size of most people’s living rooms. He wanted to go to the basement and work out. His gym down there was as big as the footprint of the whole house. He had an indoor track. He could work this off. Figure out what to do.

But he couldn’t go to the basement because he’d brought a dozen Indians back from the retreat with him. Staff, ostensibly, but a substitute family in fact. Or they were until he found out how much room Indians took up. They had their own quarters—the three guesthouses, the studio apartment in the pool house, and the apartment in the stables. But they came into his house to eat; Carl was a chef and cooked for all of them. They ate in the kitchen/family room.

Then they wandered around the house, looking at his art collection. He couldn’t blame them for that. It was educational. They watched movies in the theater in the basement. Worked out in the underground gym all the time. They’d be there now, he knew. They played Frisbee on the lawn. And tennis. They swam. They laughed and talked. Carl cooked. He was as good a cook as Jon Walker had been, but he was huge and noisy and had tattoos all over and didn’t look like his predecessor, the classy and stylish Jon.

Will was trapped in his suite of rooms in his own house. He didn’t want to kick the Indians out, and he didn’t want them there. All the camaraderie and love that had bound them at the Meeting seemed to have vanished. Between fighting for his life at work all day and Cass close to death, all he could do was draw a breath, and then the next, and figure out what he should say to whatever asshole was standing in front him.

Will sent Leroy Watches to save her. The bastard had saved her halfway. He’d left her brain-damaged. “You will never marry my daughter. If I have to kill you, you will never marry her.” He shouldn’t have sent Leroy. But he saved her. Leaving her brain-damaged.

Will stopped dead, clenching his hands. How did his life go so wrong? He was golden once, the man who couldn’t be beaten, the hero of his age, the new age, the electronic age. Now, everything was dust.

Oh, Cass. I destroyed you. I should have seen
. The silhouette of his ex-wife, the most beautiful woman he’d met, slim and graceful, standing with their tall, elegant little girl swam before him. He ruined them. It was all his fault. Everything was his fault.

He went into his bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. The universe did not contain enough cold water to hide the bags under his eyes or his anguish. Was life with Cass ever anything but a flood of pain? Would it ever be different?

Cassandra. Why had he named his daughter Cassandra, even as a middle name? The Greek prophetess that no one believed. She’d predicted the fall of Will Duane and his house since birth.

Will opened the door to his kingdom, dragging himself to work. He squared his shoulders.

Carl Redstone was there, in tattooed and gigantic majesty. He carried a breakfast tray.

“I don’t have time to eat, Carl.”

“Yes, you do. We need to talk. You need to know that Leroy always does the best he can. He don’t leave nothin’ undone. If he can’t do it, it can’t be done. You need to be healed, Will.”