A Memory Worth Dying For (9 page)

In spite of his detachment that day, she still felt the agonizing pull of the chemistry between them.

And Sandra, the little bully, had forced her to make this trip. Sandra had packed Marti’s bags and had them sitting beside her own suitcases when Marti returned home from the gallery. After that, she took Marti to her car and showed her a twenty-gauge shotgun named “Betsy” lying across the backseat. She assured Marti she could protect herself and promised to keep “Betsy” with her all the time at her sister’s house in the country. And Wade promised to be extra vigilant and keep an eye on the gallery while they were both gone.

So, with a good deal of trepidation, Marti had climbed into her little rundown Chevrolet coupe and pointed the car toward the southwest—right behind Sandra’s Buick. With a wave goodbye to Wade and the warning of Gerald’s written insistence in her head, she raced down the road—telling herself the faster she arrived, the faster she could return, store Daniel’s memory in the back of her mind, and get on with her life. Seeing him again would tear her heart even further, but concern for him forced her to concede to Sandra’s persistence and agree to make the trip back to Texas.

Facing Daniel after the things he’d yelled at her that day three years ago sent shivers through her body, but she needed to know what she had done to make him so angry. They were gloriously happy until the accident.

“I can’t go back.” She repeated through tears, until the words seemed to mock her.

She had to go. She wouldn’t have another chance to fill in all the blanks.

During the three long years away, she tried to forget the results of the accident that caused the loss of not only Daniel’s sister and brother-in-law, but her own newborn son. She had been told the accident was her fault. Not being able to remember left her ashamed and devastated.

The first year after leaving her home was a complete blur of numbness and depression, until Sandra bounced into her life.

Sandra and her husband Wade had pulled her out of the desolation by introducing her to the world of art. Gradually the horrible memories were pushed to the back of her mind, and slowly she established a new life for herself. One of Sandra’s friends, a psychiatrist, revealed ways to cope with the devastation, and the pain that was all consuming before, now only raised its head occasionally.

Seeing Daniel again at the Landeville Gallery resurrected that pain.

But now. . .
Daniel is dying
.

The thought tore her heart in two. Her mind, body, and spirit would always belong to him—even in death.

Worry that he still blamed her for the accident wrapped around her chest and caused a physical pain. Being accused of something she couldn’t remember burned inside her heart. Shame, regret, and determination all rolled around in her head. Seeing Daniel would be hard, but she vowed to fortify her heart and forget the agony she felt in his presence—for her own peace of mind.

There was another hurdle for her to overcome: Veronica.

The memory of her satin-clad arm draped on Daniel’s and the look of victory in her eyes burned a hole in Marti’s memories. Veronica would surely be there as well. Veronica, with her barbed comments and vocal accusations. Meeting Veronica would not be a pleasant experience, even if it was only for a short time.

Sweat trickled down her neck, and yet her skin felt cold.

How can I go back?

The letter from her father-in-law crackled in her hands, and she knew there was no option. She had to return.

The Texas sky brightened quickly, and the short rainstorm was over. The blinding sunlight pierced its way into her sorrowing heart and filled it with hope. She could do this. She had to. The decision to follow Sandra’s prodding and return to Texas, the most difficult of her life, had come after a period of toggling back and forth, but it was the decision she was now determined to stick with.

Twenty-five more miles and she would arrive at the winding driveway that led to her father-in-law’s mansion in the country.

She slid her key into the ignition and cranked up the car. Ten miles later and back on the main highway, a blue Ford truck pulled in behind her . . . riding close on her bumper. A cool wave traveled down her body. She pushed the gas pedal down a little more and glanced back. His speed matched hers.

Frustration burned inside her. Was this the same guy who was stalking her before—the one who attacked her in the alley? What was his problem? He’d left her alone for a year—maybe because he thought she wouldn’t return to Texas if she was settled and running a gallery with Sandra and Wade. What changed to make him think differently?

She squeezed her eyes briefly to fight the tears gathering there, when she experienced a sudden, jerky thump. The truck hit her bumper.

She increased her speed and struggled to see the shadowy face in her rear view mirror. The cloudy sky and tinted glass made getting a clear view impossible.

She held her breath as the blue truck pulled up directly behind her, and this time the impact jerked her head backward.

Oh no! Lord, are you there?

SIXTEEN

CLARA WATTING PACED BACK AND
forth across the pathway leading down to the playground. Three children were playing on the swingset, and their mother pushed each one in turn. The rest of the park was empty. A flock of pigeons covered the ground between the picnic benches and the small pond, making cooing noises as they pecked in the grass for scraps of food picnickers had dropped on the ground. Spent magnolia blossoms covered the ground under the huge tree and gave off a sour stench.

When Nurse Watting saw the man she was looking for, she glanced around furtively and then walked toward the painted bench positioned halfway between them. She pulled out the envelope that held the copied papers, set it on the seat, and turned away.

The man looked at her with a question in his eyes and turned to the envelope when she motioned toward the bench. An angry glare crossed his face before he picked it up and pulled the papers out into the open.

Nurse Watting stood barely breathing—waiting for the significance of the papers to dawn on the man. He stood perfectly still—as if he was reading the daily newspaper. Could she have been wrong? Was it all a misunderstanding?

She knew immediately when he realized what he held in his hands. His shoulders stiffened, and he turned a lighter shade of pink.

“Where did you find this?”

“It doesn’t matter where I found it. It only matters what you’re willing to pay for it.”

Surprise crossed his eyes, which then narrowed to slits.

“Are you blackmailing me for two stupid pieces of paper?”

“Oh, but what important pieces of paper they are! We both know how much trouble those papers could be in the wrong hands, and I’m sure it’s worth a lot of money to the right person. They’re not just any old ‘stupid pieces of paper.’” She tilted her head and waited until he looked at the ground. “Now, do we deal, or do I take my business elsewhere?”

Fury emanated from him before a caged look entered his eyes. His gaze darted from the paper to the street.

“They’re only copies, of course,” she said with a strong emphasis on the word
copies
. “I have the originals tucked away where only one other person can find them . . .
if
something happens to me, that is.”

Fury bubbled inside the man’s gaze, and she could tell he fought to control his temper. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long. I’m not a patient person.” She ended the warning with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

He grunted and squeezed the paper in his hand. His stomp toward the crosswalk was labored and deliberate. His back was straight, but his head was down. His gait seemed defeated, and that defeat made Nurse Watting’s heart stutter. Was it right what she was doing? Of course! A person had to watch out for herself, even if what she was doing was a little underhanded. This was too important to let slide. If she made money off the whole thing . . . well, that money could improve her relationship with her daughter.

She straightened her shoulders and headed back to her car. She had one stop to make at the post office before going home for the day; then everything would be in place. After that, she could sit back and watch her life get a whole lot easier.

SEVENTEEN

MARTI GLANCED AT THE STEEP
winding curves ahead. A shiver traveled down her spine. She had no doubt the man in the truck behind her wanted her to plummet off those curves. Instantly, she made a decision. She had to stop before she reached the deadliest curve on that road.

Pressing her foot on the brake pedal, she pulled her car closer to the right shoulder and slowed her car to a crawl, hoping the man would pass. She fumbled in her purse for her throw-away cell phone.

Instead of passing, the truck pulled up beside her and lingered, matching her speed.

It was him—her stalker. She felt it with every fiber of her being.

A knot balled in her stomach, and her pulse rate switched into overtime. What should she do? There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. If she stopped, she didn’t have a chance. She opened her phone and tried to dial 9-1-1. By this time, they were rounding a long steep curve on the right. As she punched the first button, the truck veered toward her and firmly pushed her car onto the shoulder of the road.

Blood pounded in her ears, and the cell phone flew from her hands into the far corner of the floor on the passenger side. She fought against the wheel and tried to pull her tires back into the right lane. Dust flew up into the air as her tires scattered the gravel on the side of the road.

The descending landscape beside the road came into sharper focus and made her heart stop as she watched her car get closer to the edge of the cliff.

This is not fair!
Her little car didn’t stand a chance against a monster supercab.

Jamming her foot on the brake, she watched in horror when the truck pulled in behind her and nudged her bumper.

Her car tires squealed as the brakes skidded on the loose gravel, but the navy blue truck gave her car a determined shove, pushing her a little faster. Her brakes screamed. At the same time she fought to turn the wheel toward the center line, but it did nothing to slow her progress toward the heart-wrenching drop. Her veins turned to ice as her elbows locked and her hands clamped tightly on the steering wheel, tingling with panic.

“No! Dear God, help me.” Her voice sounded hollow and weak inside the panic-filled car. Even though she cried out in panic, she felt God would never answer her uncustomary prayer.

Unexpectedly, another truck rounded the curve ahead, coming toward them at an alarming rate. The unsuspecting vehicle plowed toward them, and before he could stop, its rusty red hood loomed directly in front of them.

The Ford pulled up close behind her and slammed his car into her right bumper, swinging her car uncontrollably around in the road. She circled on the wet pavement for a dizzying few seconds, barely missing the red truck careening toward her. Her car landed, balanced on the edge of a thin sliver of ground falling away to a jagged ditch.

The red truck blew its horn as it swerved and came dangerously close to nudging her over the edge of the precipice. The navy truck pulled over in front of her and stopped.

The red truck rounded the curve behind her then disappeared in her rearview mirror.

Fear tightened its hand around her throat as she sat close to the edge of the abrupt incline. She stared at the Ford, expecting the door to open any second. He promised he would kill her if she returned to Texas, and that’s exactly where she was.

She opened the door and fled down the embankment. When she looked back, she saw the door of the blue truck lurch open.

Marti turned and fled toward the small stand of trees a hundred feet to the right of the ditch. If the man came after her to finish the job, it was the only place to hide. The trees growing at an angle on the side of the steep hill to the right mocked her as she inhaled gulping breaths and ran, hoping the man would not follow.

The sound of a motor made her turn. The old red truck came chugging back around the curve where it had disappeared from view.

As soon as the old rattle-trap made an appearance, the door of the blue truck slammed shut. The man revved his motor and took off.

Marti blew out a relieved sigh and sank down onto the bristle grass and tried to breathe.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

She looked up the embankment into the face of a young country farmer. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a red cloth and pulled nervously on his overalls. The blue jean material was dusty as if he’d just stepped out of the field.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. Shakily, she climbed back up the slope and pulled herself up beside her car.

“That crazy driver ran you off the road. Weren’t no license plate. You sure you’re all right? You took off like a covey of quail at the first gunshot.”

Marti straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine. I . . . uh . . . was afraid it might explode.”

The farmer chuckled. “No ma’am. I think you’re safe in that respect.”

Marti turned to him and put her hand on his arm. “Thank you so much for coming back.”

The farmer laughed. “Yes ma’am. My mama always told me, ‘a gentleman never leaves a lady in distress.’ And, I figure you were in distress.” He walked back to the body of his truck and pulled out a long chain. “Now, let’s see if we can get you back on the road.”

Marti tried to summon a smile. The farmer could get her out of this mess, but who would be around the next time her stalker showed up? He knew she was in Texas now. And, it was too late to go back.

EIGHTEEN

THE NEXT SIX MILES CRAWLED
by slowly. She had one eye on the landscape and the other on the road behind her—watching for a dark blue truck. She was anxious to get away from her pursuer but nervous about her uncertain destination. Before she was ready, the driveway loomed ahead.

The pompous brick columns beside the road were flanked with luxurious landscaping. In the evening sun, flowers of all colors stood at attention as if they were afraid to stand at ease.