Where the Heart Leads (17 page)

Moira laughed and claimed a cookie for herself. “It is overdone.”

“And she's always wearing those long skirts and dripping with old-fashioned jewelry. And her hair—it looks like a fright wig an angry cat got hold of.”

Moira laughed again. Rocky was so wicked. She could make a funeral sound funny.

“Let me tell you the whole story, hon. Vashti moved into town when Carmen and Micaela were little kids, bought that crazy house, got a job as organist at the biggest church in town, then started teaching music on the side.” She laughed again. “This is the good part—she calls herself
Mrs.
Atherton, but as far as anyone can figure out, there is no
Mr.
Atherton.” Rocky pursed her lips and shook her head slowly in mock disapproval. “She doesn't have a picture of him in that conglomeration on her hall wall, and she never talks about him. Probably never was a
Mr.
Atherton. Or maybe…”

Moira appreciated the pause for dramatic effect. She
had
to get Rocky involved in theater.

“Maybe there were two of them—two—uh—husbands.” Rocky lifted her eyebrows and put a delicious disbelieving twist on the last word. “Carmen and Micaela look different as night and day. Micaela is dark—probably half something-or-other—and Carmen is so bleached out she looks like she got left in the laundry too long. And that isn't all. Carmen went off to some big music school up in New York, then showed up back home two years later with a baby boy, but no husband.” Rocky laughed and rolled her eyes. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Moira didn't know what to say. She'd never given a thought to Vashti's or Carmen's marital status. And not to Micaela's dark complexion either.

Rocky dusted cookie crumbs off her fingers. “By the way, hon, Ma called me this morning and said she doesn't want to push—Ma's like that—but she sure would like it, now that Rafe's buying the house back from her, if he paid her in a lump sum. Her guy needs to get started on his tour-boat business.”

Boy, that came out of the blue.
Moira stiffened. “You'll have to consult Rafe about that. He's never talked to me about his business dealings.”

“Not even pillow talk?”

Moira could feel the heat rising in her face.

Rocky laughed. “Moira, hon. You can level with me. Remember, I live on the ranch and I know everything that happens there. I
see
everything that happens there.” She closed one eye in a wicked wink.

“Everything.”

M
oira lay back against Rafe's chest as her breathing returned to normal. She hoped Rocky didn't see
everything
that went on at the ranch. Rafe had teased her into a climax so shattering that she'd screamed like a banshee.

He ran his hand down her arm. “What are you thinkin' about?”

“Rocky. She told me she sees everything that goes on here, and I was wondering if…”

His chest shook with suppressed laughter. “That's ol' Rocky—she's just messin' with you. No way she can see inside the house.”

Moira gestured toward the window wall. “But I can see outside.”

“I was in on the design of the house, remember? The angle is wrong for someone looking in, and she knows that.”

Moira tilted her head up to look at him.

“There's something else that has to do with Rocky that's bothering me, Rafe. When she came by the house the other day, I confided in her that I was having problems with Phil and Vashti, and she told me some stories about them that were really funny—at least the way she told them—but after she left, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I like Phil and Vashti, and I'd hate for them to know I was laughing at them.”

Rafe lifted a strand of her hair and let it fall back into place.

“Don't worry, darlin'. Rocky tells stories on all of us—we sort of expect it—but she's just playin'.” His hand moved down to the scar on her arm, and he congratulated himself that she didn't react anymore when he touched it. “But what's Phil's problem? I haven't been around during his rehearsals much, but is he still actin' like a sanctimonious church music director instead of Micaela's husband?”

“You hit it. I've talked to him about his character until I'm blue in the face, but he's still holding back. He interacts with everyone else in the play—all the other characters—but he keeps Micaela at arm's length. There is absolutely no chemistry between them.”

Rafe snorted. “I don't know if you can say anythin' to get ol' Phil in line, but as for the chemistry, maybe the problem is that Sammy and Desdemona are usin' it all up. It's not just to keep himself from gettin' pneumonia that Sammy's sittin' in that auditorium every night.”

Moira snuggled into her pillow. “Do you think so? I've wondered if something was going on. They're always whispering back and forth, but Buck doesn't seem to mind—or even be aware of it. Maybe he's so confident of Desdemona that he doesn't see Sammy as a threat.”

“Could be.” He lifted another strand of her hair and curled it around his finger. “Anythin' I missed out on during the week? What about the kids' rehearsal?”

Moira yawned and turned over on her side. “The kids are just fine, but the adults are still sniping at each other. If I never hear another word about the tempo of Desdemona's ballet, I'll be happy.

“I had to call Vashti and Xandra over and lay down the law, that Vashti had to quit speeding up the tempo of the ballet, and that Xandra was not going to be getting a second reprise of ‘Around the Christmas Tree' to accommodate yet another flower-girl dance.”

And she wasn't going to say it, but the first “Christmas Tree” reprise wouldn't make it to opening night if Wendy Nixon kept mugging at the audience like she was doing now.

Rafe could hear the tiredness in her voice and reached for the bedside lamp. “Let's call it an evening then. Sweet dreams.”

Moira bunched the pillow up under her head again, closed her eyes, and drifted into darkness.

Pitch-black darkness.

The darkness of silence.

The darkness of a tomb.

The leather collar chafed her neck, and the chain-link leash was so short that she couldn't lie down. She tried to scream—to scream to God because she knew the basement was soundproofed—but a braid of her long, long hair had been wound across her mouth to hold her tongue down, and all she could do was gobble.

She sank back on her haunches. It was useless to try to escape—she knew that from the times before. She had to wait, with every minute seeming like an eternity.

And no guarantee Master would return.

A hand touched her in the dark. Was it Master?

Was he back so soon? She hadn't heard him coming.

She struggled against her leash, eager to show him her gratitude.

Thank you for giving me another chance. I'll try harder this time. No more sad faces, only smiles. Anything you want me to do, I'll do.

Obedience—that was the important word. Cheery obedience.

Dear God, what was happening? There was light in the room and her master was disappearing into the receding darkness.

No! Don't leave me down here alone!

A soothing voice broke into her dream, and she opened her eyes.

“Moira. Moira, darlin', relax. Everything's okay. You're having a nightmare.”

It was Rafe. Big Red. Rafe of the sparkling eyes. She was safe.

He cuddled her against his side, and she slept the rest of the night in his embrace.

Rafe ran up the fire escape faster than he'd known was possible, unlocked his office door, then stopped to catch his breath before walking out into Sissy's office to greet Moira.

He attempted a smile. “Sorry, I'm running late.”

“That's okay. Is the reservation at the Bosque Club still good?”

“If we can get a move on.”

He hustled Moira through his office and back down the fire escape. This was not the sort of lunch date he'd imagined. He'd thought they'd stroll into the club about an hour ago, and that he'd introduce her to whatever luminaries were present before they moved on to the dining room for a leisurely lunch.

Instead, his day got shot to hell. And by his very own cousin.

He got Moira in the car and revved up the engine.

She gave him a sidelong look. “What's going on? You seem upset.”

It all poured out of him.

“Beth's case has been reopened, and Mervin called and asked me to come down to the police station for an interview.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he slammed on his brakes at a stop sign. “I assumed it wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes, because I don't know anything other than what I've already told him, but it turned out to be a two-and-a-half-hour interrogation, just like on TV, with a video camera running the whole time!”

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Damnit, I know from the true-crime shows that the husband was usually the one who did it, but I went to school with two of those guys, and another one of them worked for me on the ranch a couple of years ago. They all know what kind of person I am, but they were all looking at me like I might have killed…like I might be a murderer!”

Beth—how could they think he'd want Beth dead? She'd been his joy, his love, his happiness. She was the mother of his child. And having to talk about how she died tore his soul in two.

He glanced over at Moira.
Crap fuck!
This wasn't how he'd thought their dinner date would start off.

Turning the wheel harder than he needed to, he cut across traffic into a side street.

Two and a half hours. Two and a half goddamn hours!

God, if he had known anything that would help, he'd have stayed two and a half years, but he didn't. And that made him angry too. How could his wife be murdered, deliberately killed, and he didn't catch on?

And why did Mervin ask him all the personal questions? Whose business was it if he and Beth had sex the day she died? They'd had sex
all
the day. Beth's mother had claimed Delilah for the weekend and they were all alone in the house, celebrating the new baby by indulging in the very same activity that had created it.

Beth—the familiar wave of sorrow engulfed him. Why, why, why had she been taken from him? And by something as random as a bullet gone astray when someone was celebrating New Year's?

Moira adjusted her seat strap and turned to him. Her voice was a soothing balm. “Would you rather drop me off at my car and drive back to the ranch?”

Would he? No way. He needed her right now more than ever. Which meant he'd better clean up his act. Just because he was feeling like shit didn't mean he had to unload it all on Moira.

C'mon, cowboy. Your mother raised you better than that, so put a smile on your face, take her arm, and act like a gentleman.

He jerked the truck to a stop in the Bosque Club parking lot, and lifted Moira onto the ground.

Moira picked up her menu and perused the fare. The Bosque Club was the sort of place where one
perused the fare
rather than seeing what was for lunch. Rafe had told her it would be a change from Six-Shooter Junction, and he was right. He'd rushed her through the rooms like they were trying to catch the red-eye, but she couldn't miss seeing the gold-toned bamboo wallpaper above the dark wainscoting, the squat, deep-cushioned couches and chairs upholstered in bold persimmon-and-saffron prints.

The Bosque Club was upper crust, and she was glad Rafe had suggested she dress up a little. She hoped her wrap-around silk shantung was up to snuff.

A waiter who looked more dignified than God poured water into their glasses from a silver carafe and asked about their drink orders.

Rafe closed his menu with a snap. “I'll take Jack Daniels on the rocks, and the lady…will have…?” He looked across at her expectantly.

“The lady will stick with water.”

“Then I think we're ready to order our meals now too, just to give y'all a head start. Moira?”

“I'll have—”

A soft buzz interrupted her. Rafe pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

The waiter gave him a stern look. “Mr. McAllister, the Bosque Club's rules require you to turn off all—”

Rafe waved him silent and stood up from the table.

Moira tensed. Something was going on. Lots of “uh-hunhs' and then an “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

Rafe laid a ten on the table in apology. “Moira, we've gotta go. Travis is in the hospital again.”

They dashed out of the club as if they were absconding with the silver, and she barely had time to fasten her seat belt before he revved the engine and took off for the hospital. It was another wild ride. Rafe didn't actually run any red lights, but he did cut them close.

Once he swung into the hospital parking lot and they hit the pavement, it was a race to the waiting room.

Enid and Rocky were sitting on the pink couch again. Rocky scooted over to give Moira room, and Rafe pulled up a chair facing them.

Enid took her son's hands as if to draw strength from him. Her face was ashen, and her diamond eyes looked dull. “Rocky called me just before noon and said she was taking Travis back to the hospital.”

Rocky nodded. “He was okay when I left the house to check on that out-of-season calf in the two-twenty-three, but when I came home for lunch, he was doubled up and clutching his stomach.”

Rafe's face morphed into the stern, stone-faced expression of his Indian forefather. “That does it. I'm getting him transferred down to Scott and White in Temple.”

Rafe woke up before Moira for once. Friday night was always good, but last night had been spectacular, maybe because they'd both had a rough week. Travis was home now but they still hadn't received reports from the lab tests, so Moira had to hand his role over to Sergio, which altered the dynamics of the show.

He pulled on some jeans and went into the bathroom for a cup of water. When he got back, she had thrown off her sheet, but was still asleep.

God, she was beautiful. His eyes followed the graceful lines of her body. The thrust of her shoulder, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist and the swell of her hip, the round belly, the changing planes of her legs from thigh to knee to ankle, the graceful arch of her feet. He fetched the sketchbook from his office and moved a chair next to the bed.

First he blocked out the basics—circles and ovals—then returned to her head, lightly penciling in horizontals across the egg shape to indicate her features. After adding in a few strokes to indicate an ear and the fluff of her hair, he moved down her neck to delineate the slope of her shoulders.

He'd draw in her hands later. Right now he wanted to record the rise of her breasts and the sweet roundness of her belly, the triangle of her legs—one outstretched and the other one bent at the knee.

Her softly shaded pubic mound was another triangle, and her puckered nipples were soft scallops. And every line he drew was a caress.

He looked at his tablet.

This sketch wasn't about art. It was about Moira. It was about, well—love.

My God, he was in love with Moira Farrar.

Moira wrapped the ruffled little dress in pink paper and tied it with a silver bow. It was time to drop by Donna Sue's again.

The weather had warmed up a little, and the winter sun was shining bright. Donna Sue welcomed her with her usual overwhelming enthusiasm, sat her down at the kitchen table, plied her with hot cocoa, and opened the baby gift.

“It's so darling—like a little ballet dress!” She looked up. “How's our Desdemona doing?”

“I think I've finally gotten Vashti to understand the tempo of the ballet
will
slow down.”

“Vashti is a dear, but she's also a perfectionist and can be very stubborn.” Donna Sue put the dress back in its box. “But now, tell me, babes—I'm dying to hear—what's the story you said you wanted to tell me about Pen Swaim and Judy Schoenfeldt?”

Moira grinned. “You know I've been concerned about Phil all along because he's never warmed up to Micaela onstage.
Gift of the Magi
is a love story, and if the relationship between the leads doesn't work, the show is sunk.”