The Rancher's Dream. Kathleen O'Brien
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wasn’t going to stop. She just kept driving. North, and then west onto Cimarron Street. After that, she went back into town to start the figure eight all over again.
Truth was, she really, really didn’t want to go back to Rory’s apartment. He was going to be mad about the tattoo...or the lack of a tattoo. And when he was mad, it was awful.
It was actually more awful than it ought to be, considering he didn’t scream or yell or break things. She almost wished he would. At least that kind of anger made sense.
Her dad was a yeller. He blew up like the storm that was turning Silverdell black as an eclipse right now, flooding the streets and shaking the traffic lights as if it wanted to yank them from their wires. But, like this storm, his anger blew over. Things might be damp and uncomfortable for a while, but the sun always came out again eventually.
Rory was different. He didn’t ever let loose. He got snake-eyed and sarcastic, but behind those curled lips and cold eyes, you could tell the same storm was raging. It just didn’t have an outlet, so it never blew itself out. It kept building, and it spit out in little scalding spurts, like when you overheated grease in a pan. It shot out in small, oddly painful insults, in little unexpected cruelties.
As her car sped through a pool of water so deep it sprayed out like a white fan from her tires, she realized she was going too fast. She had a headache from peering through the rain, and she’d been gripping her steering wheel so tightly her hands hurt.
Consciously flexing her fingers, she took several deliberate deep breaths. She should go home. So what if Rory was mad? She lifted her chin. She wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t why she didn’t want to go back. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.
It was just that, when Rory was mean, she didn’t like him very much. And when you loved somebody, it hurt to discover you didn’t like them. It hurt a lot.
Still...the later she showed up, the madder he’d be. And besides, where else did she have to go?
Half-consciously, she slid her hand into her jacket pocket, where she’d put the card that nice woman at the tattoo parlor had given her. But she almost had to laugh at how naive that was. Crimson Slash couldn’t be her real name. But anyone who chose a name like that for herself wasn’t likely to be Mother Teresa.
Which proved that, however nice she seemed, Crimson Slash hadn’t been serious when she said Becky should call her if she needed help.
If Becky were stupid enough to take the offer seriously, the woman probably wouldn’t even remember who the heck Becky Hampton was.
Suddenly, a traffic light swam at her out of the turbulent black ocean of the sky. The light was red. Her heart jumped, hot and huge, and tried to explode in her throat.
She stood on her brakes...belatedly hearing her father’s voice warning her never, never to stop too fast in the rain.
With a sickening awareness that her tires were only barely connected to the tarmac, Becky felt her car fishtail, as if it were hinged in the middle—and not under her control at all.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...
She’d barely had time to register fear when, like a miracle, her tires gripped the road again, and the car shuddered to a stop.
Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, and she prayed she wouldn’t see headlights barreling toward her like white bullets. One second...two seconds...
Nothing. She raked her hands through her hair and made a strange, gulping sound. She was going to be okay.
For several seconds, she sat there, thanking God and trying to stop her hands from shaking.
When the light turned green, she didn’t want to take her foot off the brake, but she had to. She’d be a sitting duck if she waited there, immobile and invisible, for some unsuspecting car to smash into. She probably was almost as dumb as her father always said she was...but she wasn’t that dumb.
Somehow she reached Cimarron Street. Apartment Alley was this one’s nickname, because one anonymous building after another was lined up there, shoulder-to-shoulder and face-to-face. Instead of circling through, this time she turned onto Coyote Lane, where Rory lived.
Where she lived, too, she reminded herself. This was home now—not Mansion Street. And that was okay. Compared to splatting herself all over a rain-drenched road, Rory and Coyote Lane had started to look pretty good.
* * *
MOLLY FELL ASLEEP on the way back to Grant’s ranch, probably lulled by the rain pounding against the truck’s roof and the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers.
Crimson, who needed to concentrate on maneuvering the flooding streets, was relieved. If she’d had a choice, she would have pulled over and waited out the storm, but Molly was hungry and uncomfortable, and Kevin hadn’t packed enough bottles to see her through such a long afternoon.
She drove no more than ten miles an hour the whole way, aware of her priceless cargo and the treacherous nature of slippery roads. Luckily, Grant’s truck rode high on its big tires, and its bright red paint would be fairly easy for other drivers to spot, even in this monochromatic, underwater gray world.
Once Crimson crawled out of Silverdell and onto the winding rural road that led to the ranches west of town, the traffic thinned out nicely, and the wild rain eased to a simple downpour. Way up ahead, just above the horizon, she could even glimpse a sliver of blue sky.
It felt symbolic, somehow. She might be caught in a storm, but there was light up ahead. Hope still existed. All she had to do was get there. For some inexplicable reason, for the first time since Clover died, Crimson believed she might make it.
As she neared the last real intersection with a traffic light before everything turned to rolling acres of pasture, she began to hum under her breath, choosing a sweet old lullaby her mother used to sing. It had been Clover’s favorite.
Sleep my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the air was filled with a horrible shrieking sound...as if an eagle was dying. Some part of her mind understood it was a car horn, a desperate, endless, metallic warning. And then a crash so abrupt it was more like a bomb. Just a loud, terrifying, glassy explosion, followed by ominous silence.
Ahead of her, the rain filled with smoke, or dust, or... She smelled burning rubber. She touched her brakes, somehow forcing herself not to panic and slam them. The truck slowed down and then stopped just as she drew close enough to see what lay in the road in front of her.
Oh, dear God.
That mangled mass of silver wreckage...that was her car.
Molly was crying now. Crimson dimly heard it, but she was fumbling with her cell phone, dialing 911, and she didn’t have time to do more than murmur a numb, “It’s okay, baby” before she had to talk to the operator.
As she stammered out the details, she was automatically easing the truck onto the right of way. She tucked it safely behind a tree, so no one could accidentally clip it going past, and then she opened the door and went streaking out into the rain.
Another car was in the road, too. A bigger one. Black. Expensive. A man stood by it, his cell phone in his hand.
“I didn’t see them,” he said to her, in the monotone voice of someone in shock. “I didn’t see them.”
She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. She ran to her car, drenched and shaking and numb with cold.
“Grant!” She rushed to the driver’s side, the side that had been T-boned by the big black Mercedes. The door was crumpled like an old tissue.
“Grant!” She banged on the window, willing the man slumped over the air bag to raise his head and tell her everything was all right. But it wasn’t all right.