The Secrets of Rosa Lee (6 page)

As he pulled into his drive, his cell phone buzzed. For a moment, Micah's heart raced. Logan? Very few people knew or called his mobile number. Most waited until they caught him in his office or at home. What if something had happened at Jimmy's house? What if Logan was homesick?

Flipping open his phone, he made up his mind. No matter what the parenting books say about sleepovers, he'd go pick up Logan and bring him home. Sleepovers could wait a few months or even years, for all he cared.

“Hello?”

“Micah Parker?” A woman's voice yelled into the phone.

“Speaking.” He heard loud country-western music in the background. This wasn't Betty Reed, or anyone else he knew. Logan must be fine, probably already asleep.

“I got a problem here, and your number is the one they gave me to call,” the woman yelled over the music.

Micah relaxed. Probably someone locked out of the church. Twice last year he'd had to go open the door. Once, Mrs. Beverly had left her purse in the Sunday-school room and once, the Ungers had driven off while the youngest one of their seven was still in the church restroom. They had parked in their driveway before they'd bothered counting, and by then the janitor had locked up and gone home. Micah's cell-phone number appeared first on the emergency call list posted on the office door.

“How can I help you?” Micah waited for tonight's problem.

“I'm Randi Howard. Randi with an
i.
”

He liked the way her voice sounded, thought it belonged with the country music playing in the background.

“I own the bar at the turnoff to Cemetery Road.”

Micah straightened. The conversation became more interesting. If she was doing phone soliciting, she'd dialed the wrong number. “I know where it is.” He waited for her to continue.

She hesitated. “I didn't know who to call, but one of the old girls gave me your number and name scribbled on a flowery get-well card.”

Micah tried to remember where he'd seen such a card. “How can I help you, Mrs. Howard?”

“It's Randi,” she said, and he'd be willing to bet that she was smiling. “Just, Randi, Mr. Parker.”

He stepped out of the car not noticing the cold. “Randi it is. How may I be of service?”

Randi took a long breath. “I need you to come down here and pick up the Rogers sisters before they start another bar fight.”

S
loan McCormick looked out on the hospital parking lot with the lights of Wichita Falls blinking in the distance. The town seemed fuzzy as if in a fog. Only a few cars remained out front. He could spot his big pickup even five floors up. Trying not to examine too closely the reason he was here, he walked back to the critical care unit doors. Standing in the shadows, he made sure no one dropped in on Sidney Dickerson during the last fifteen-minute visitation of the night.

He leaned against the wall, trying not to look so tall, so obvious. Every time someone opened the double doors, he caught sight of the entrance to her room. Not even a nurse walked near it. No visitor would call now. Not with only ten minutes left.

Still, he hesitated. He had no reason to visit the professor. She'd never met him, and this wasn't the place to talk about a deal his company would be willing to make for the Altman place. But somehow, in the course of his research, Sloan felt as though he had grown to know her. In his line of work, he made it a point to know everyone he might need to persuade. In business, knowledge could swing the deal.

He started to walk away, guessing himself a fool for getting personally involved. Maybe it was time to take the
money he'd saved traveling all over the country and start that ranch he kept dreaming about.

Sloan swore. Who was he kidding? Even with this deal, he would never have enough money to stock a ranch with anything but a few chickens. He'd be a land man for the company until he died. He was good at sizing up people, at knowing what made them react, but he'd spend the rest of his days without anyone being able to read him.

A nurse bumped a wheelchair through the door and Sloan glanced up at Sidney Dickerson's door once more. Five minutes left.

The waiting room and hallway were deserted. On sudden impulse, he removed his Stetson and slipped into the professor's room.

Thank goodness she slept. He'd hate to have to introduce himself to her like this. But he needed to check on her condition. He had to know she was all right. Somewhere in his paperwork, she'd slipped from being just someone he needed to win over for the company to a real person. He'd liked the sound of her voice when she'd lectured and the proper way she walked. And, like it or not, he had worried about her all day.

Silently lifting the chart at the foot of her bed, he read through the notes. From what he could tell, she hadn't had a heart attack. Good.

Her age surprised him. He would have guessed her at least five, maybe ten years older. Not that she looked it now without her glasses and boxy clothes, but every time he'd seen her from a distance, she had the stance and walk of someone in her fifties. Now, he learned that he and Sidney Dickerson would be the same age when she celebrated her fortieth next week.

Sloan studied her more closely. She was tall and what his mother would have called healthy looking, though in
today's world she was out of style. In updated clothes, with her hair down, she might look her age. Not his type, he thought, but not all that bad. There was something about her that demanded respect. Not just the fact that she was a professor and seemed intelligent, but more that she was a lady. She was the kind of woman men of all ages opened doors for and tipped their hats to.

She seemed like the kind who should have married and had a big family. He wondered if she'd been one of those who thought school all-important, concentrating on it for so long that by the time she got out, she'd missed her window to marry. Not many men would look at a woman past her youth who had more education than they had. With her height, she'd probably eliminated three-fourths of the men to start with.

“Are you a doctor?” Her voice startled him.

He stared into sleepy blue eyes. “No,” he answered from the shadows. “I'm here to take you to dinner.” He knew he made no sense, but hopefully she was drugged enough not to care.

“Oh,” she mumbled. “That's nice. I don't like Chinese.”

He smiled, knowing he was safe. “Me, either. How about Mexican food?”

“With or without onions?”

“Without, of course.” He moved closer and noticed her eyelids drifting down. She was fighting to stay awake.

“Can we go now? I'm afraid of this place,” she whispered.

Her honesty surprised him. He wasn't sure what he expected a woman with a doctorate in history to say, but owning up to being afraid wouldn't have been his first guess. “Want me to hold your hand?”

Without opening her eyes, she raised her hand. His fingers closed around hers. For a while, he just stood there,
watching her sleep and wondering how many times this woman had ever been afraid. He'd guess she'd been protected all through her life. Even out in the workforce she remained in a bubble, in the unique world of a college campus.

A nurse stepped in to check the machines. He thought of leaving, but feared he might wake Sidney. He didn't want to face any questions with someone else in the room. So he stood his ground beside the bed, his fingers holding tightly to hers, his gaze watching her face for any sign of waking.

The nurse smiled at Sloan. “Visiting hours are over, but if you want to stay with her a little longer, no one will mind. The sleeping pills have kicked in. She'll sleep like a baby until morning.”

He knew the nurse guessed him to be the husband or lover. “Thanks,” he said. “I'd like to stay a while longer.”

Sloan wasn't a man who got close to people, partly by choice, partly because of his job. Staying with someone in the hospital was foreign to him. Strange. As if he were playing a role. Like somehow he'd crawled into another's skin and gotten to feel something real people feel. So much of him had been an act for so long, he wasn't sure there was any
real
left in him. Some days he thought that when he died no one would bother with a funeral. They'd just roll the credits.

He turned Sidney's hand over in his. She was real tonight. Her hand was soft, well formed with short nails and no polish. She would be a no-nonsense woman. The kind who would have nothing to do with him.

“So, Sidney, how was your day?” he whispered, just because it sounded so normal. “I've been worried about you.”

Her lashes moved. Blue eyes stared up at him. “You still here?”

“Just waiting to take you to dinner.”

“I'm ready to leave. Is it raining?”

He hadn't noticed, but rain did tap against the hospital window so softly it blended with the hum and click of the machines around her bed.

“I'm afraid so.” He smiled. “But don't worry, I'll see you don't get wet.”

“I'm not fragile,” she whispered, closing her eyes once more.

Sloan grinned and leaned closer. “I'd never have guessed you were.”

Her breathing slowed as it brushed his cheek. There was something so intimate about the act, almost as if they were lovers who moved near in sleep and were unaware their breath mingled.

Sloan straightened, surprised at his own thoughts. He didn't need to get personally involved with any of the committee. He'd come to check on her, nothing more. Maybe it was because she looked so vulnerable in sleep. Maybe it was because they were really talking. Hell, maybe this job was getting to him.

He should leave. But he hesitated. Not because he needed to know more or thought she might still be in danger.

He simply didn't want to turn loose of her hand.

L
ora Whitman pulled Billy Hatcher's old car around to the back of the Altman house and shoved it into Park. “You sure you want to leave your Mustang here?”

Billy stretched. He'd been asleep most of the way back from Wichita Falls. “Sure,” he mumbled as he pushed hair from his eyes. “It's as good a place as any. Safer than in front of my old man's house.”

She didn't comment on why he wanted to return to the old place. Maybe, like her, seeing the damage one more time made what had happened to them seem real.

“What time is it anyway?”

Lora rubbed the back of her neck. “About ten, I guess. Maybe a little later.”

“I could drive you home, if you like,” he said almost as an afterthought. “From the sound of that thunder we might get more rain.” He closed and unclosed his bandaged hand.

“I don't mind if I get wet. After today, what could a little water hurt?” She unbuckled her safety belt. “How about walking me halfway? Maybe it will help me relax. I feel like lightning is dancing in me. I'll never be able to sleep after all the excitement. Which doesn't seem to be your problem.”

He grinned. “I can sleep anywhere and usually do.”

She wished they had talked on the drive back. Billy
Hatcher wasn't as frightening as she'd first thought. At dinner they'd shared an unusual conversation. Most folks felt a need to keep up small talk, follow one theme, let the discussion rock back and forth. No such rules bound Billy. He spoke his mind. In a way, it was the most honest dialogue she'd ever exchanged.

“Fair enough. We'll walk.” He opened his door. “Thanks for the barbecue, and for driving.”

She was glad he didn't add, “because my hand hurts.” She noticed him cradling it every chance he got. The cuts ran deep enough to be painful, but to her surprise, she noticed he refused painkillers.

“No problem.” She climbed out and caught up with him. “I wish half the new cars on our lot drove as smooth as this old Mustang.”

“Yeah. The sheriff sold it to me a few years ago when he bought his wife a new car. The engine was fine. All I had to do was work on the body.”

She took his arm to steady her steps as they rounded the back porch of Rosa Lee's old house. Piles of tumble-weeds, broken branches and trash mounded at the corner of the porch. The blackness was almost complete at the side of the house except for faraway flashes of lightning above them.

Lora wasn't afraid, but tightened her grip, fearing she might trip over something in the dark.

“Don't worry,” Billy whispered. “There's not that much to fall over back here except your panty hose.”

She laughed and relaxed a little. “I was just holding on to you in case you're afraid of the ghost that hangs around this place.”

“I've never been afraid of ghosts. Never seen one wield a belt, or crash a car, or slug anyone. If you ask me it's the
living who walk this earth we need to worry about, not the dead.”

“You're probably right.”

When they passed the side of the house where vines draped most of the windows, he slowed. “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“I thought I saw a light flicker inside the house.”

“You'd better not be trying to frighten me.” She glanced over his shoulder at the window. A light blinked only a fraction of a second and was gone.

He stopped. His arm locked her hand against him, tugging her closer. “You see that?”

“Yes.” She reached in her purse for her cell. “I'm calling the sheriff.”

He pushed her into the vines as they watched the pinpoint of light moving slowly across the room.

It blinked again near the front door. Lora couldn't breathe. The good news was that whoever haunted the house seemed to be leaving. The bad news was it was coming outside with them. Visions flashed in her imagination of a battle in blackness against a monster they couldn't see. She would swing wildly, fighting for her life. So would Billy. In the morning, the sheriff would find them both dead. By accident, they'd murdered one another. They'd probably have to wait until a crime-scene photographer came in from Wichita Falls. By then, everyone in town would see her bloody body lying in the mud with vines twisted in her hair and her skirt up. Her mother would be horrified.

“Let's follow them.” Billy pulled her forward.

Lora wanted to scream, “Are you kidding?” But yelling would only attract the trespassers. All she managed was a quick nod. She had no wish to trail anyone, but he
wasn't leaving her here alone in the vines with creatures already nibbling at her bare ankles.

Billy's undamaged hand slid down to hers as they moved around the corner of the house.

She heard footsteps hurrying across the boards of the front porch. Then a squeal and laughter.

A car drove down Main toward them. Headlights swung across the yard as it swerved to a stop facing the house.

Footsteps scrambled off the far side of the porch and vanished into the night.

A car door opened, then slammed. “Who's out there?” a man yelled. “This is Deputy Adams. You'd better step into the light right now.”

Billy tugged her hand backward, but she stood her ground. She'd never been afraid of the deputy. “It's me!” she yelled. “Lora Whitman.”

The shadow continued forward, shining a light in Lora's face. “What are you doing out here?”

Billy reluctantly moved into the light.

The deputy's stance widened. “Who are you?”

“Hatcher,” he said.

Lora didn't miss the lack of respect in Billy's voice.

“What the hell are you doing here, Hatcher? Doesn't your probation officer give you a curfew?”

Billy didn't answer.

“He's with me, Deputy,” Lora jumped in. “We've been over to Wichita Falls visiting Professor Dickerson, who was hurt this morning. I rode with him, and he brought me back here. My mother took my car home after she dropped me off at the meeting this morning.” Lora knew she was rambling, but she didn't like being questioned. After all, they weren't doing anything wrong, she was the one who called him in the first place. They had more of a right to be here than anyone. They were on the committee.

“Well, I guess it's all right.” The deputy lowered the flashlight beam. “There's a storm coming in, though. Radio says there might be hail. You both should be getting home.”

He turned the light on Billy's face. “You got anything to say?”

Billy didn't move, but she could feel his body stiffen, his grip painful over her fingers.

“One of these days we need to have a talk about your attitude, boy.” Adams took one step closer, blinding them with his light. “The sheriff won't always be around, Hatcher. I can smell trouble every time I get within ten feet of you.”

“He just offered to walk me home.” Lora didn't understand Billy. He made no attempt to be friendly or even civil. No wonder Adams treated him like a criminal. If he'd tell Adams what they were doing, the deputy would surely back down. “We must be going, Deputy Adams, but you should know that we did see someone inside the Altman house.”

Adams turned the light to Billy. “You want to come down to the office and make a report?”

Billy didn't answer.

“No,” she said for both of them. “It was too dark to see anything. Now if you'll excuse us, I must be getting home.” She should have listened to Billy and never called the deputy.

“I can give you a ride, Miss Whitman,” the deputy said formally, as if he just remembered who Lora's father was.

“Thanks.” Lora smiled. “But since Mr. Hatcher and I are on the same committee, we've got a few things to discuss. The walk will do us good.”

The deputy looked as if he might argue. Adams always
thought he knew the right thing to do and didn't mind sharing his knowledge.

“Good night, Officer.” Lora pulled Billy along. “Thank you for your concern.”

They were half a block away before Billy spoke. “I've never seen old Adams back down like that.”

“He didn't have a choice,” she answered. “I'm an adult. I can walk down a public street with whomever I want. I can't believe he talked to us like we were kids playing on private property.”

Billy laughed. “He's probably having your commitment papers drawn up right now.”

“Why?”

“Because you're crazy enough to want to walk down the street with me.”

Lora pictured her mother signing the documents. She wished she could be there when someone told Isadore that Lora had left town with a criminal. Her mother would probably shoot the messenger. She looked at Billy and answered honestly. “But we're friends.”

“Damn straight,” he said. “Friends.”