Chapter 11
"Excuse me?"
"You heard right, Oren. She killed a man."
"Who?"
"I don't know yet."
"When?"
"Don't know that either."
"Where are you?"
"Headed back."
"From?"
"Dalton."
"You went to Dalton? I thought you were going to bed and sleep the day away."
"Do you want to hear this or not?"
"How'd you find out that she killed a man?"
"Crystal told me."
"Am I supposed to know who Crystal is?"
Wick recounted most of his conversation with the waitress in the Wagon Wheel. When he finished, Oren said, "Was she credible, you think?"
"As the FBI. She's lived there all her life, knows everybody in town. The caf`e is the epicenter of the community. Anyway, why would she lie?"
"To impress you?"
"Well, I was impressed, but I don't think that's why Crystal told me."
"Then for kicks?"
"I don't think so. She isn't the type who'd lie for recreation."
"Well, she's your friend, not mine. I'll have to take your word for it. Did she know you're a cop?"
"I'm not a cop."
"Jesus," Oren muttered. "Did she know or not?"
"No."
"Then why was she divulging all this information to a total stranger?"
"She thought I was cute."
"Cute?"
"That's what she said. But I don't think Gus was all that keen on me." Wick smiled, imagining Oren silently counting to ten.
Finally he said, "You're going to make me ask, aren't you?"
Wick laughed, then repeated almost word for word his conversation with the retired bull rider. "Rennie Newton fanned his embers, but he hated her old man. According to your research, T. Dan Newton was a successful businessman, right?"
"And community gadabout."
"Even so, he wasn't the town's favorite son. Gus called him a "son of a bitch of the worst sort, which, in policemen's vernacular, probably translates to somewhere in the vicinity of cocksucker."
Oren ruminated on all that, finally saying,
"Rennie Newton was a wild child? Promiscuous?"
"Both said our Rennie was hot to trot."
"The gossip about her could've been exaggerated. Once a girl's reputation goes bad it only gets worse."
"Gus conceded that," Wick said.
"In any case, it sure as hell doesn't match Dr. Newton's present image."
"Sure as hell doesn't."
"So who is this woman?" Oren asked in frustration. "What's the reality and what's the pose? Will the real Rennie Newton please stand up?"
Wick had nothing to contribute. He was more bumfuzzled than Oren. He'd been subjected to a brush-off that still stung. To get that good at rebuffing a man's attention she must've had lots of practice, which was contradictory to what he'd heard, today.
Oren said, "The talkative Crystal didn't give you the lowdown on the murder?"
"What murder?"
"She killed a man, Wick."
"We don't know it was a murder. It could've been a hunting accident, an errant tennis serve, a boating mishap, or--"
"Or maybe she screwed some poor bastard into a coronary. Did you check with the local police?"
"I don't have a badge so I couldn't go waltzing in and start asking questions about a killing when I didn't even know the nature of the crime--if indeed it was a crime. I didn't know the victim's name or when the incident occurred."
"Newspaper files?"
"It's Sunday. A high school kid was baby-sitting the phone, but the offices were closed.
Ditto on government offices and the courthouse."
"Public library?"
"Closed for remodeling. Books could be checked out at the bookmobile parked on Crockett Street, but no research material was available."
Oren sighed with frustration.
"I couldn't press Crystal for more information,"
Wick continued. "I was still experiencing the concussion from her bombshell when the city's baseball team trooped in. They were fresh from practice, hot, thirsty, demanding beer and burgers. Crystal had her hands full.
"Besides, if I'd continued talking about a girl I was supposed to have had a passing acquaintance with years ago, Crystal might have turned suspicious and clammed up. Gut instinct told me she wouldn't have taken such a shine to me if she'd known I was a cop."
"You're not a cop."
"Right. That's what I meant."
"What about the old man? That Gus. Did he have anything else to impart?"
"He'd started talking to a clone of himself about the good ol' days on the rodeo circuit. I couldn't very well interrupt and ply him with more questions."
"Maybe you didn't want to hear the answers."
"What's that mean?"
"Nothing."
Wick did a ten-count of his own. For the last couple days Oren had been casting out these tidbits of bait. Wick recognized them for what they were and refused to bite. Oren wanted to know whether or not he was attracted to Rennie Newton, regardless of her possible involvement in a homicide. It wasn't a subject he cared to discuss, or even self-analyze.
"I tried to learn more, Oren. I drove around Dalton to see what I could see, but it was futile. As soon as I get back to Fort Worth I'll go on-line and see what I can find, but I didn't bring my laptop--"
"Got it, got it," Oren said. "You did all you could."
"Thank you."
After a long silence, Oren said, "So what do you think?"
"About what?"
"Her, Wick. Dammit! Who are we talking about?"
"Hell, I don't know what to think. We need to find out what this "killing" amounted to."
"Except a dead man, you mean."
Wick's patience slipped another notch, but he kept his voice even. "Until we know the facts surrounding that, we shouldn't jump to any conclusions."
"She took a life." Oren said it as though that were enough for him, and it probably was. He had unshakable criteria for right and wrong and didn't assign much importance to mitigating circumstances.
"She saved two this morning," Wick said quietly.
"You trying to make me feel bad?"
"No, I just think that's a more than fair equation. It's at least good enough to give her the benefit of the doubt, isn't it?"
The silence became as strained as the tired muscles in the back of Wick's neck. He was going on twenty-four hours without sleep and five hours of driving, and he was beginning to feel it.
"Look, Oren, I need to grab a few zees before my shift tonight. Can you cover the first two hours?"
"If you'll do me a favor first."
"Like what?"
"You're on Interstate Twenty, right? West of Fort Worth?"
"Yeah. Not quite to Weatherford."
"Good. You won't need to backtrack."
"Where am I going?"
Rennie nudged the gelding's flanks and he obediently picked up his gait. She had bought him as a colt three years ago and had spent hours training him to respond to the merest squeeze on the reins, the flexing of a leg muscle, the pressure of her heels. Of the five horses in her stable, he was probably her favorite because he was so intelligent and responsive. When she was riding bareback, like today, they moved virtually as one even without a bit and reins. He made it effortless, which was what she needed this afternoon.
The emergency spleenectomy in the wee hours had been tricky. The injury was severe and had left the organ the consistency of raw hamburger.
It literally fell apart in her hands when she tried to remove it.
But she had removed it successfully and repaired the patient's other internal injuries.
Since his head wounds hadn't caused any permanent damage, he would live and recover.
His frantic wife and parents had wept with gratitude for her saving his life.
The ruptured appendix that followed had been easy by comparison, but it was no less gratifying to give good news to the patient's anxious husband.
In her mailbox at the hospital was a letter from the board of directors putting into writing the offer they had extended to her earlier in the week and reiterating their hope that she would accept the chief of surgery position.
She had also received a note from Myrna Howell thanking her for the floral arrangement she had sent to Lee's funeral. She had concluded by urging Rennie to accept the post made available by her husband's death. "Lee would be pleased," she had said.
Rennie was still conflicted over that decision. The letter from the board and Myrna's note had eliminated her reservation in regard to benefiting from Lee's untimely death, but she couldn't dismiss Detective Wesley's suspicions.
This morning she had done her job well and had prolonged the lives of people who might have died. She was being courted for a position she wished to accept.
She should feel exhilarated, able to enjoy a Sunday afternoon temporarily free from pressing responsibilities and serious decisions.
But she found it impossible to relax because of the call she had received last night from Lozada.
His intrusion into her life had upset her sense of order and was affecting a major career decision.
How could she possibly accept the board's offer knowing that if she did, Wesley would investigate her more thoroughly? And if the detective ever discovered that Lozada was contacting her ...
Damn him! He gave her the creeps and made her skin crawl. He had never actually touched her, but his voice had a tactile quality that made her feel as though he were stroking her with every word he spoke.
Why in heaven's name had he chosen her to be the object of his affection? She certainly hadn't encouraged him by look, word, or deed. Quite the opposite. Usually her disdain worked on even the most diehard would-be suitor. Around the hospital and within associated circles, she knew of her reputation for being cold and distant.
Spurned men, both married and single, talked about her in unflattering, sometimes ugly, terms. She accepted the nasty gossip as a price she must pay for being left alone.
But Lozada was different. He wasn't going to be easily discouraged.
Angered by the thought, she gave the gelding's flanks another nudge and he surged into a full gallop. He ran as though he had only been biding his time until he received the subtle command.
Now that she had given him permission, he applied his powerful muscles to the function they had been created for.
His hooves thundered across the dry ground, creating a trailing cloud of dust. He had always run with heart, but this afternoon he seemed to be galloping with more determination than normal. Her fingers meshed in his mane. The hot wind scoured her cheeks and tore off her hat. She let it go.
Astride a horse running full out was the only time she felt completely free. For a short while she could outdistance the bad memories she could never completely abandon.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed movement and turned her head to see a pickup truck on the road on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. The driver was keeping the truck even with her. Now she understood the gelding's desire to gallop. He was pitting his own speed and stamina against that of a man-made machine.
She had never raced this horse before. Maybe she should have. Maybe he felt cheated. Maybe he wanted to prove himself to her. Maybe she should prove herself to him.
"Okay, boy. You've earned this."
She bent low over his neck and pressed him with her knees. Immediately she felt a burst of renewed energy. He nosed ahead of the pickup.
The truck accelerated. The gelding pushed himself, gained on the truck.
Rennie laughed out loud. It was his race.
All she did was hang on, and, God, it felt great.
They ran at a full gallop for at least three minutes, staying nose-to-nose with the sporting pickup. Ahead, Rennie saw her house and barn taking shape. In sixty seconds they would be at the fence. Now she should begin slowing him down gradually so she could pull him to a full stop, dismount, and open the gate.
But she was reluctant to forfeit. Lozada's telephone call had left her feeling afraid and vulnerable. She needed to prove she wasn't afraid of anybody or vulnerable to anything.
Never, ever again.
Besides, how could she cheat her horse out of a victory when he'd been trying his hardest to win?
"Are you game?" He seemed to understand. He sped up, marginally, but she could feel it in the muscles of her legs. "Okay, then. Let's do it."
Her heart was thudding in rhythm to his hoofbeats. She thrilled to the danger of it. She tightened her grip on the coarse hair of his mane. She sensed the pickup beginning to fall behind, but that didn't deter either her or the gelding.
They had already won, but they needed to do this.
"Here we go."
She leaned into him and he went airborne. He cleared the fence with a yard to spare and landed hard but gracefully on the other side. Again, Rennie laughed out loud.
It was the crashing sound that caused her to pull back hard on the mane and bring the gelding around in a tight spin. The pickup had come to rest just beyond her gate. It was enveloped in a dense cloud of dust.
As the dust began to clear, she saw that the driver hadn't allowed for the loose gravel on the road. Probably he had braked too quickly. The lighter rear end had spun around and slammed into the metal gatepost. The post was intact. The damage to the truck remained to be seen. But it was the driver Rennie was concerned about.
She slid off the gelding and ran toward the gate. "Are you all right?" The gate was on a track. She rolled it open and ran to the driver's side of the cab. "Sir?"
His head was lying on the steering wheel and at first she thought he'd been knocked unconscious. But when she touched his shoulder through the open window, he groaned and gradually sat up. He pushed back his cowboy hat and removed his sunglasses. "You are no good for my ego, Dr. Newton."
She actually recoiled in surprise. It was the man from the wedding reception. "What are you doing here?"
"Losing a race." He nodded toward the gelding. "That's some horse." Then he looked at her. "Some rider, too. You lost your hat back there."
"I'm not believing this!" she exclaimed angrily. "How did you get here?"
"Interstate Twenty, then north on the Farm to Market Road."
She gave him a withering look.
"Okay, I nosed around till I found you."
"Nosed around?"
"At the hospital. I can't believe you were riding that fleet-footed son of a gun bareback.
Do you always do that? Isn't it dangerous?"
"Not as dangerous as being tracked down by a total stranger. Nobody at the hospital would give out personal information."
He unfastened his seat belt, opened his door, and climbed out. "I'm not a total stranger, but you're right. I lied. I got the information off the Internet. You own this place. There're records. Property-tax rolls and such. I called the hospital and when they told me you weren't on duty today, I thought just maybe I'd catch you out here." He shrugged. "I needed a Sunday drive anyway."
As he talked he had walked to the rear of his pickup to assess the damage. He hunkered down and inspected the vertical dent on the rear panel. It was about eight inches long and half an inch deep, and the paint was scratched. The truck seemed to have sustained no more damage than that.
He ran his finger down the dent, then dusted off his hands as he stood up. "They should be able to buff that right out."
"Mr.--"
"Wick."
"I gave you--"
"A snowball's chance in hell."
"So why did you come here?"
"I had nothing to lose."
"Time. You've got time to lose. So let me save you some, Mr. Threadgill." His eyebrows shot up. He was obviously impressed that she remembered his name, and she wondered why she did.
"I'm not in the market for ..."
When she hesitated he leaned forward expectantly.
"Anything," she said. "A date. A ...
Whatever you had in mind, I'm not interested."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Engaged?"
"I'm nothing and don't want to be."
"Huh. Is this aversion a general thing, or is it me in particular you don't like?"
"What I like is my privacy."
"Hey," he said, spreading his arms at his sides. "I can keep a secret. Try me.
Tell me a secret and see if I don't carry it to my grave."
"I don't have any secrets."
"Then let me tell you some of mine. I've got some dillies."
He had a slightly crooked front tooth that added to the mischievousness of his smile, which he probably thought was disarming. "Good-bye, Mr.
Threadgill." She turned her back on him and started for the gate. After going through, she slid it closed with a decisive clang of metal.
"Hold up. One more second?"
He was good-looking and charming, and he knew it.
She'd had to deal with his type before. Cocksure and arrogant, they believed that no one, especially a woman, could resist them.
"Please, Dr. Newton?"
She wasn't nearly as furious as she pretended to be or should have been. In spite of her determination not to turn around, she did. "What?"
"I wanted to apologize for that parting remark last night."
"I don't even remember it," she lied.
"About your mouth and the dirty dream? That was out of line."
That wasn't a cocksure and arrogant thing to say, and the disarming grin had disappeared. At least on surface he seemed sincere. Besides, if she made a big deal of the remark, he might think it had gotten to her. It had. A little. But she couldn't let him know that.
"Apology accepted."
"I was ... Well, whatever--it was uncalled for."
"Maybe I overreacted to your tipping the valet."
He approached the gate slowly. "Maybe we ought to give it another shot."
"I don't think so."
"What could it hurt?"
She turned her head away and squinted into the distance. To anyone else this wouldn't have been a monumental decision. To her it was equivalent to leaping off the crest of a mountain in an unreliable hang glider.
When her eyes came back to him, he was staring straight at her. And though there was no longer a teasing glint in his eyes, they were unnerving nonetheless.
What could it hurt? Maybe nothing, or only everything. In any case it wasn't worth the risk. Which made it all the more surprising when she heard herself say, "There's an ice-cream parlor on the square."
"In Weatherford?"
"I was thinking of stopping there once I've finished my chores, on my way back. You could meet me there."
"I'll help you with the chores."
"I'm used to doing things for myself."
"I believe that," he said solemnly. Then he turned and set off at a jog down the road.
"Where are you going?"
He called back, "To get your hat."