Tell Me When It Hurts (23 page)

“
No, Rae, I’m at my cabin.”

“
Cabin?”

“
I live in the Berkshires. I’m calling, Rae, because I need to work.”

“
Work? How can I help, Archer?”

“
Well, I want to work with kids, help them. The only skill I have that could help kids is the law. I’ve kept up my occupational tax in Connecticut and I’m still licensed. I thought maybe I could work for the center part-time—that is, if you need anyone,” Archer said, hurrying on.

“
If we
need
anyone? Surly you jest, Arch. We’d love to have you—I mean, what a boon! But our budget is pretty limited. Given your experience, though, I could go to the board and see—”

“
No, no money, Rae. I need to work now. No pay. I just want to work. Do you have enough work for another lawyer?”

“
God, Archer, we have enough work for
five
more lawyers! You know how it is here. Everyone says kids are the most important people in the case, until it comes time to represent them. Wow, I feel like I just got a brand-new Mercedes, free! So how about starting . . . oh, say, today? I have files sitting right here waiting to be worked.”

“
The, uh, Mercedes is a bit used, but how about Monday, then?” Archer said, laughing at Rachel’s glee. “If that’s okay.”

“
Perfect. Our facilities will seem primitive after what you’re used to, Archer, but I’ll set up a corner in the library for you, and we’ll go from there.”

“
Great. I know it will be fine,” said Archer. She paused a moment, then added, “And thanks, Rae. This means a lot to me.”

“
It’s me who should be thanking you, Arch.”

After catching up on Rachel’s children, Archer clicked the off button. She stood at the sink, phone resting against her chin, and smiled.
I can still be useful,
she thought.

* * *

On Friday, Connor and Archer drove to Northampton, home of her alma mater, Smith College. They took the Massachusetts Turnpike through pretty wooded hills.

About twenty miles before Springfield, they got off onto back roads, and farms, fields, and woods gave way to town greens and white church steeples.

Archer pulled the Jeep onto the main street in Northampton. It was wide, with a brownstone Congregational church dominating the lower end. She thought the town had a Norman Rockwell quality but for the many gay couples strolling arm in arm along Main Street. Smith, one of the few remaining all-women’s schools, had given her something invaluable: the knowledge that being a woman was not a disability.

Connor was impressed and said so.

“
Everything is so pretty here,” said Connor. “And everyone looks so healthy and smart—and athletic,” he added, looking around at young women cycling and roller blading on the bike lane and rowing on the lake.

Connor and Archer went to the library, which was in the center of campus, its entrance sheltered by two spreading elm trees. Even without leaves, the trees were stately, lending gravity to the building.

After seeing Connor off at the library entrance, Archer walked over to Green Street, with its cafés, bookstores, and specialty shops. After stopping for a latte at a cute little coffee bar, she wandered to the Smith Art Museum with its world-class collection, then strolled by the botanical greenhouse, out to the quadrangle, and by her old dormitory, reliving in the process the excitement and promise she had felt at eighteen.

Finally, saving the best for last, she headed down to the stables, a good twenty-minute walk across the athletic fields. As she approached the barn complex, Archer noted the new arena, the spotless white fencing, and the four modern ten-horse trailers lined up next to the barn, ready to hitch. She ambled over to the new main barn to watch two women schooling their horses over the jumps. Between jumps, the two chatted, each critiquing the other’s performance.

Archer then walked into the older barn that had been her daily refuge twenty-five years ago. She looked up at the rafters, where barn swallows played, and remembered arriving with Clique all those years ago. While other girls had been setting up stereos and popping into town to buy curtains, Archer and her father had walked the high-strung thoroughbred in shifts in a vain effort to calm him down enough to settle into his new stall. They had led Clique, snorting and pawing, up and down the aisles of the barn, and when that got too tedious, they’d moved outside, traipsing him around and around the outdoor arena, holding tight to the lead rope as he spooked and bolted, trying to pull away. Finally, after six hours, he had tired, and Archer had led him like a lamb into his new quarters. That was what it had taken to get him into his stall without him kicking it down.

Archer smiled at the memory. Her father was a real trooper who never let her down.
God, how did Daddy put up with me?
she wondered. Other fathers either would have insisted on selling the horse or would have left her to work out the logistics on her own. But she knew why he had put up with her. Simple: love. Love was what made the difficult manageable, the impossible merely challenging, the unfathomable comprehensible.

Archer peered into Clique’s old stall, now occupied by a steel-gray gelding, peacefully munching his hay. She watched him with interest for a few moments, then put on her gloves, preparing to head back to the main campus. Just then the gray lifted his well-formed head and gazed at Archer with soft brown eyes, ears twitching lazily. She smiled at him and put both her gloved hands on the stall edge. He pressed his nose through the bars, and Archer reached out to him.

“
Give your girl a great ride, fella. Give her something to hold on to,” she whispered. She touched his muzzle, now close, then stroked it gently. “Give her something she can keep forever.”

And with that, she turned and walked briskly back across the fields to the library.

At a table on the second floor, Connor looked up as she approached. “Hey, what’s up?”

“
Not too much. How’s your stuff going?”

“
About done,” he said, closing up a Web site and making a stack of the agricultural books. “Just have to finish printing a few Web addresses.”

As they walked out arm in arm, Connor said, “You know, I can see you here, Arch, running from class to class, bossing everyone around. Yeah, I can see it.”

“
Hm-m-m. Hey, what do you think about my job, McCall? You haven’t said much.”

“
You know what I think—I think it’s great. Lucky them, but even better for you. You’re just gathering dust up on the mountain. Don’t get me wrong—I love having you cater to my every need, but sacrifices are necessary for the general good,” he said, striking a noble pose.

“
You goon!” Archer said, poking him in the ribs.

* * *

When they arrived home, Connor called Three Chimneys on his cell phone while Archer busied herself in the kitchen.

“
Hello, Felix? . . . Great, I’m great. How are things there? . . . Is the barn staying dry enough?” Connor paused, listening. “Okay, that sounds okay. We may have to buy a few more ewes, though, if that’s the case. How’s the fencing holding up? . . . Were you able to hire any more help for shearing? . . . How about a few of Bill Randall’s men? He won’t need them until later in the spring, and some like to make extra money on the weekends. . . . Right. Well, you might check it out. Some of the kids from Bozeman might be willing to come down in March, too. . . . Yeah, I know—we can do it first thing in the spring. Speaking of which, how’s the weather? . . . Yeah, well, stay warm, Felix. . . . I know, I know. I’m working on it. It’s always on my mind. . . . Right. Well, I’ll talk to you in a few days. Say hi to the guys for me.” Connor hung up and stared at the phone for a moment.

“
So, how are things on the ranch, cowboy?” Archer asked, putting water on for tea.

“
Not bad, but the natives are restless. Felix is doing a great job, but he’s only twenty-four and not seasoned enough. I’ll have to go back for shearing and lambing, starting in late winter, early spring. Felix has only been through one lambing season, and he just can’t run the show. A little psychological muscle from a crotchety old man sometimes helps to get my less-than-reliable ranch hands to show up and perform.” He sighed.

Archer turned away and said nothing.

Unspoken was the fact that Connor had another life in Wyoming, and at some point he had to get back to it or shut it down. Silently they agreed to think about it . . . tomorrow. Fiddle-de-dee.

* * *

Archer’s work at the Children’s Center was a roaring success. She drove into Hartford and did most of her interviewing on Tuesdays, then wrote on Thursdays. The first time she had to go to court, she had been as nervous as she was nineteen years ago. Her old colleagues greeted her with surprise and warmth, treating her absence as if it had been merely an extended sabbatical.

The best part was the kids. The little ones were proud that they had their own lawyer. The teenagers were angry but very clear about their wishes and needs. And the parents, well, they were mostly good people who could not separate their own desires from their children’s needs. Archer saw her role as liaison, educator, advocate, and mediator.

She sat at her Irish pine table in the cabin, reading through the file she had brought home. She looked up as Connor came in with a load of split wood.

“
Hey.”

“
Hey, yourself,” he said with a grin, carrying the wood to the hearth, where he began stacking it.

“
Hey, would you be upset if I were an exotic dancer?” she asked out of the blue.

Connor looked at her over his shoulder, amused.

“
Oh, contemplating a career change, are we?”

“
Yeah, right after my implant surgery,” laughed Archer. “No, I have this custody case. The mother is a topless dancer, and the child’s father thinks she’s a bad role model. It got me thinking about it. Do you think an exotic dancer is by definition a bad role model as a mother?”

“
Oh, boy, how’d I get in the middle of this?” Connor moaned as he stacked the last split of wood. He stood up, brushed off his hands, and sighed. “Okay, well, I’d say it’s a living for someone who may have had few other opportunities. It’s not illegal—at least that I know of—and she’s supporting herself and her daughter, I presume.

“
On the other hand, who wants their daughter to grow up to be a topless dancer? For that matter, who wants their
mother
to be a topless dancer? Actually, that’s a
really
repulsive thought, now that I ponder it. Anyway, it’s not exactly a high aspiration for yourself, or one brimming with bragging rights for either side, so from that point of view, I’d have to say I’d be lukewarm about the lady’s judgment.”

Archer looked at him curiously. “I like that you answer questions and don’t duck and weave. My father was like that. He was a very low-key, courteous man who tried not to offend or hurt anyone, but he always answered directly. You remind me of him sometimes.”

“
So you said in your drunken Halloween stupor. I wasn’t too thrilled about it at the time, though, I can assure you. No man wants to hear that his dream girl sees him as Dad instead of George Clooney.”

Archer laughed. “Oh, God. Was I
really
that bad? I have no recollection at all of that night, other than of feeling ghastly in the morning and being eternally grateful that the coffee was all set out in a carafe when I stumbled into the kitchen. A real lifesaver.”

“
Nah, you weren’t that bad. Plus, you are extremely talkative when intoxicated, not to mention hilarious. I gained a fair amount of classified info about your sex life that night, which I plan to put to good use.” Connor leered at her.

“
I have plenty of classified tricks left, old chap, so stay tuned,” she laughed, returning to her file.

* * *

Connor sat at the pine table, putting the finishing touches on the article for
Agricultural Digest
. Archer was out getting the mail. Despite a deadline to complete the piece, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering. He shook his head, stretched, and leaned back in his chair. Archer Loh, his “dream girl,” as in many ways still a mystery to him. He knew she had a secret life involving some clandestine work of a violent nature. Her familiarity with guns, along with her sharpshooter’s aim, her impromptu three-day trips, her vague descriptions of the work done on these “business” trips—it all added up to something most troubling, although he said nothing. While she was away, he feared for her, and whenever the phone rang in her absence, a chill ran through him. Still, he feared even more a change of heart in her, an epiphany that this—that
he
—was a big mistake. He knew with absolute certainty that whatever Archer did was essential to her sanity and survival in some way, that it allowed her some control in a world in which she had lost so much control. He also knew something else: that whatever she did, whatever she was, didn’t matter to him. What he felt for her was sacred and undamaged, because he knew, that when she was with him, she was the girl before it happened, the one who rode in Madison Square Garden on a magical horse with wings for feet—the girl and the horse who could jump higher than all the others.

CHAPTER 25

Connor drove slowly down the back road, glancing occasionally at his map. He’d been on the road for about an hour and a half and suspected that he was near his destination. He pulled over to the side of the road to read the address on the letterhead of the billing and then studied his map again. He was close. He pulled out onto the road, and, in less than a mile, saw the sign for Mad River Farm. He turned into a dirt driveway, drove up to the main barn, and got out of the truck.
Pretty farm,
he thought.