Chance McCall (18 page)

A visit earlier in the day to a local funeral home had produced information that Chance was having trouble accepting. Leticia McCall had died May 7, 1980, and her son, an eighteen-year-old named Chance McCall, was the person responsible for her interment. There was also a note on the old records showing that a Charlie Rollins had paid for the burial in full.

A grim line curved the corners of his mouth. He felt regret for the loss of what must have been a close friendship. He’d obviously run away from Odessa, leaving at least one person behind who’d cared. And now Charlie was alone with no one to care for him.

Chance told himself he would make another visit to Charlie. It didn’t matter whether or not Charlie remembered him. Chance would remember. That was enough.

His meal finished, he walked outside the restaurant and took a deep breath. The air was close, heavy with the lingering heat of daytime, not yet cool from the relief that always came at sundown. Chance was reluctant to go back to that hole-in-the-wall that passed for a motel room. He stepped out of the restaurant and looked around, searching for something that would help pass the time.

Country and western music drifted out of a little club somewhere close by. Chance left his truck where he’d parked it and decided to walk.

Garth Brooks’s voice met him at the door of the bar as Chance pushed it open. He winced as the music vibrated his eardrums. The jukebox was turned all the way to meltdown. The air was smoky, the tables full. A small dance floor in the center of the room was a gathering place for a group of clinging women and groping men who seemed to be using the music as an excuse for foreplay. Thoughts of Jenny surfaced instantly and Chance wondered if this had been such a good idea after all. Remembering the woman he’d left behind was not just painful behind his zipper. It hurt the hell out of his heart.

“Beer,” Chance ordered, and slid his elbows onto the bar. He rested one booted foot on the kick bar below. “Nothing fancy, just a bottle,” he added, before the bartender could run through what was available.

The man nodded, grinned, and slid a tall brown bottle down the bar, slicing a wet trail through the assortment of napkins and peanut shells. Chance caught it in mid-slide and tilted it to his lips. It was sharp and cold. Several minutes passed as Chance savored the drink, then he turned around to check out the patrons. At this point, he had no thoughts of recognition. It had simply become a habit.

A bunch of women sitting at a table in the corner were looking at him with interest. Chance quickly shifted his gaze. He had no intention of giving them an opening. A couple of women gave him more than a welcoming smile as they danced past with their partners.
Jenny! I’d give a whole lot for one of your smiles right now
.

He frowned, turned around, drained the bottle of its last swallow, and set it back down on the bar. The bartender looked up, asking with a silent shrug if Chance wanted another. He shook his head and pulled out his wallet. Being in a place like this was only a reminder of the fact that he was alone and it was his own fault.

The bartender slid his hand across the bar and grabbed the money that Chance dropped onto the surface, then grinned as a picture fell into the dish of peanuts beside it. Before Chance could react, the bartender had picked it up and tilted it toward the neon light behind the bar to get a better look.

“Whooee, son. You like ’em young.”

Chance frowned. It was the old picture of Victoria Henry that he’d found in his suitcase. Before he could respond, a hand slid into his back pocket and cupped his rear. A woman’s deep, husky voice vibrated above the din of the music, as she leaned suggestively against his shoulder and took the picture out of the bartender’s hands.

“Frank! You’re just a dirty old man, that’s what you are. That girl ain’t someone he’d take to bed. That’s his daughter. Logan Henry don’t like babies, he likes women. Ain’t that right, honey?”

Her hand clung to his backside in a movement of familiarity as she tilted her head back and gave him what Chance supposed was meant to pass as a sexy look. As far as he was concerned, she was way off the mark. And, from the look on her face, she’d just realized it, too.

“Oooh, honey!” she squeaked, and reluctantly removed her hand from his hip pocket, giving him one last squeeze as she did, “you’re not Logan Henry, are you? But damn! You sure fooled me. I guess it’s this light.” She smiled as Chance took the picture out of her fingers and slid it back into his wallet.

“Nothing personal, okay?” she patted his butt to make her point.

He shrugged. Who the hell was Logan Henry? The girl’s name was Victoria Henry. It was on the picture. What did all this mean? Suddenly too many people were staring at him, and he didn’t have a good feeling about it. He had to get out.

“If you’re interested, I’m free later,” the woman offered.

Chance smiled, but the woman knew the answer was no. She shrugged, stared at his backside once again, and said, “If you change your mind…you know where to find me.”

He tipped his hat and left. It was none too soon. People were staring. He could hear the whispers. He walked to the pickup, suddenly anxious to get back to the motel, away from curious looks and prying eyes. Who the hell was Logan Henry?

The woman watched him leave and then dug into the front pocket of her faux designer jeans to pull out a quarter. She headed for the hallway between the restrooms, where a pay phone hung in plain view, dropped in the quarter, punched in the numbers, and waited.

“Hi, darlin’,” she said, yelling to make herself heard above the music that had gone back into full swing, “it’s me, Lorrie.” There was silence as she listened. “You remember me. Lorrie, from Odessa? Yeah, that’s right, darlin’, that one.” Well, the reason I’m callin’ is…you don’t happen to have a little brother, do you?” She listened again, her painted on eyebrows coming together over her nose as she frowned.

“Well, I was just askin’ ’cause there was a man in here tonight with an old picture of Vicky. Yeah, I mean Victoria. Anyway…my Gawd, darlin’, he’s your livin’ double, if you know what I mean…. No. I don’t know where he went. I only saw him this once…. No, I don’t know nothin’…. No, I won’t say nothin’ about this either. You know me. I promise.”

She hung up the phone, rubbed her sweaty palms against her skin-tight pants, and shuddered. Whatever she’d just done by making that call, she wanted to forget. The man she’d called wasn’t happy. Not one bit. A cowboy walked past the phone on his way to the men’s room. She grabbed him by the arm and leaned forward, inviting his attention. It was all the invitation he needed.

Chance dropped onto the bed, relishing the feel of surprisingly clean sheets, and let himself air dry from the shower he’d just had. His wounds had healed, his scars were not so tender, but the wounds inside him were festering and he could feel it. This may have been the biggest mistake he’d ever made. He’d heard it said that you can never go home.

At first it had seemed the only sensible, honorable thing to do. How could he offer to share his life with a woman like Jenny Tyler when he didn’t know what kind of a life he’d come from? What was so awful about his past that he’d never shared it? What secrets had followed him from Odessa to Tyler and made it impossible to tell Jenny he loved her?

And he did love her. He didn’t have to get his memory back to know that. His body burned for her. His muscles grew taut with desire. Cursing softly beneath his breath, he shoved himself up from the bed and headed back to the shower. It was a good thing for the desk clerk that she’d taken his threat seriously. The room next to his had been silent for days. Tonight would have been his breaking point. He needed Jenny…desperately…in more ways than one.

A fist swung forward, smashing against bone and flesh. Blood spurted. There was a grunt and a thud, and dust swirled into his mouth and nostrils. A girl cried. Loud voices came from everywhere. Then there was silence
.

A woman sat at a table, crying. A bottle of whiskey spilled onto the table as an amber river ran off the side and onto the floor. An argument ensued, soundless, but alive with motion and movement as she stretched her arm forward in supplication…and then she disappeared
.

Heat blistered the back of his arms. Fire was everywhere…and he ran…and ran…and ran
.

A siren screamed! Panic shot him out of bed as he stood, legs shaking, sweat pouring, heart pounding. Red lights pulsed through the curtains of the motel room, and then the sound passed, as did the lights.

“Sweet heaven,” Chance whispered, wiping sweat from his face and neck with the end of the sheet. He dropped back onto the bed, trying to absorb what he’d been dreaming. The memories were already fading, and then they were gone. The only thing left was a feeling of impending doom. It was not enough to make him want to finish the night in sleep.

He pulled on his jeans, walked outside barefoot, and climbed into the back of his pickup truck. Leaning against the cab, he stared up into the clear night sky and at the curtain of stars blanketing the earth. How could that be so beautiful when his world was so lost…and ugly? But there were no answers up there, just as there were no answers down on earth. Not tonight. Not for Chance. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought of Jenny.

10

He moved quietly,
his face in shadow as he walked toward her bed with purpose in every step. Moonlight glow slid across his nude body, burnishing the muscles that rippled and tensed, as he neared where she was lying
.

He came out of the darkness. She could see his face, so beloved…so dear
.

Chance
!

She ached to touch him, to feel the power beneath those muscles, to hold that part of him that was so obviously ready for her. Her hands reached out, cupped. Breath caught in her throat
.

His touch burned across her, his lips forging a trail of tension that began at her chin and hurtled down past her breasts. His tongue made a trail of its own, down past her rib cage, lingering just long enough at her navel to start a spiraling heat between her legs that made the bed tilt
.

Her hands caught and held in the dark thatch of hair on his head as she hung on for dear life. He was taking her with him…to places she’d never been…and if she didn’t hold on, she would never find her way back. She gasped and lost her hold on Chance. She reached behind her to hold onto the bed. It wasn’t there! She fell backward and down…down…down. And heard him calling her name…

“Damn you, Chance McCall!”

Her cry broke the silence of the dream. Jenny bolted up in bed, gasping for breath, aching in places she’d never known could ache…in that way…for a man who was gone. For a man who came only in her dreams, and was driving her mad.

She moaned and catapulted herself out of the tangle of sheets. She walked to the window to stare outside at the long, black ribbon of roadway that stretched past the yard and into the dark night.

She swallowed once, tore the sticky nightgown off her body, and turned, naked and aching, to walk into her bathroom. She didn’t need a light to find the cold tap. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. But Jenny Tyler swore it would be the last. She splashed cold water on her face and neck without a shudder. Inside, she was already as cold as ice.

Marcus Tyler hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. He knew that the call he’d made days earlier to a private investigator had been the right thing to do. But he was still apprehensive about how Jenny would react when answers came.

Questioning Henry had gotten him nowhere. The old man was as shocked by Chance’s leaving as the rest of them, and as puzzled as to the direction he might have gone. But Henry was also just as convinced that he would be back. According to Henry, the man had demons to fight.

Marcus sighed and pushed himself away from his desk. He had his own demons to fight. His daughter had shut him out of her life, not that he’d had much of a place in it to begin with. But she’d shut everyone else out of her life, too. She existed, but she did not live. She was simply waiting for Chance to come home. He shuddered, wondering what hell he would have to face with her if that didn’t happen. It didn’t bear thinking about.

He snapped the lid of the Rolodex shut and walked out of the office. He had made an appointment at the investigator’s office, and he was anxious to learn if there was any news.

Marcus had one clue: an old memory of an incident that had happened years ago, when Chance had been questioned about a man called Logan Henry, and a town in West Texas called Odessa. The look on the young man’s face had held a world of secrets. And Chance’s secrets were the obvious place to start.

Marcus walked through the impeccable rooms and hallways, looking at the comforts and expensive furnishings. He’d always given Jenny things. He’d just never managed to give her love. It showed, and he regretted it beyond words.

Her first reaction, upon learning that Chance was gone, had been hysterics. Marcus had been unable to reach her then. Juana had coaxed her to sleep, and to eat. Now, even she was having difficulties reaching Jenny. The girl had gone from hysteria, to anger, to cold indifference.

She’d gone days without talking, and then when she did, it had been nothing more than a sharp barb, a reflection of the pain she was carrying…alone.

Marcus cursed softly as he wandered through his house. It was his fault that Jenny had no one to turn to. And try as he might, he didn’t know how to reach her. He didn’t know how to help. Maybe finding Chance would be the first step. He hoped to hell the P.I. was successful, or that Chance would come home on his own. But he wasn’t willing to lay odds on either.

“Marcus! I didn’t know you were in the house!” Juana grabbed at her chest in surprise, juggling a dust cloth and a can of spray polish as she rounded a corner.

He grinned and held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was making some calls.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “Seen Jenny?”