Beneath a Southern Sky (9 page)

Eight

D
aria hung up her jacket and went around behind the reception desk to put her purse under the counter. “Good morning,” she sang cheerfully to the staff gathered around the coffeepot.

Carla Eldridge and Travis Carruthers returned her greeting, but their response was subdued. Colson Hunter, who stood reading a chart in the doorway between the office and the reception room, ignored them all and started back toward his office. Daria noticed that he had a stubble of beard and heavy circles under his eyes. She wondered if he’d been called out for an emergency during the night. Maybe they’d had to euthanize a family pet. That always tended to sober this usually lively group.

She looked at Carla for an explanation, but couldn’t catch the technician’s eye. Halfway down the hall, Cole’s footsteps halted, and he barked to no one in particular, “I’ve got to have that vaccine this morning! Has anyone called the supplier? Daria, what time is Avery Knudsen bringing those hogs in?”

She scanned the columns in the appointment book that lay open in front of her. “I have him down for ten,” she told him.

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” he growled. “Call him and reschedule.” The back door slammed behind him before she could ask him what time he wanted to reschedule for.

Bewildered, Daria watched out the window as Cole trudged toward the barn, head down, shoulders hunched inside the upturned collar of his jacket. Without comment, Travis followed him out.

Daria turned to Carla, incredulous. “What is wrong with him?” She’d never seen her boss so surly. If it hadn’t been so unlike Cole, she would have been angry at his rudeness.

Carla came to stand beside Daria at the window that overlooked the barn and corral. “You’ve got me,” she shrugged, obviously as puzzled as Daria. “He’s been going at it since he walked in the door this morning. He doesn’t usually get that way unless he’s been up all night. But he didn’t mention getting called out. And the surgery room is just like I left it yesterday.”

Daria shook her head. “Boy, that’s a side of him I haven’t seen before. I don’t think I like it very much.”

“Me neither,” Carla agreed. “Maybe today is one of those anniversary dates or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, maybe it’s Bridgette’s birthday, or it would have been their anniversary or something like that.”

A small knot started in Daria’s stomach. “Bridgette? His wife?”

Carla nodded.

“Did you know her?”

Carla shook her head. “She died before Cole came here. Back in Colorado, I think.”

“He doesn’t talk about it much, does he?”

“No. It must be tough for him. I would guess he probably still has some ghosts to deal with,” Carla said thoughtfully as she walked out to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup.

Daria tagged behind her. “What do you mean, ‘ghosts’?”

“Well, I have a feeling he blames himself for her death,” Carla said over her shoulder.

“Why?” Daria was taken aback by the comment. “Was he driving?”

Carla stopped stirring her coffee and turned to look at Daria as though she’d gone mad. “Driving? What are you talking about?”

Daria shook her head in confusion. “The accident.”

“What accident?”

“Cole…said she was killed in an accident. I-I guess I just assumed it was a car accident. It wasn’t?”

“You seriously don’t know what happened?”

Daria shook her head, wanting desperately to hear the story but feeling guilty that they were talking about Cole behind his back.

Carla walked back to the office and set her stained, chipped coffee mug on the counter in front of them. She cocked her head and studied Daria as if deciding whether she should continue. Finally she shrugged. “It wasn’t that kind of car accident.”

Daria waited, her brows knit together.

“Cole found her in their car. Carbon monoxide poisoning. They ruled it accidental,” Carla said, emphasizing the word
accidental
. “It might just be rumors,” she added quickly, “but I’ve heard she was pretty messed up in the head. It’s hard for me to picture Cole with someone like that. But, like I said, this all happened before he came to Bristol.”

Daria was stunned. Cole had mentioned his wife’s death that first day she’d come to work, but he’d never hinted that it was anything like this. He’d never talked about it since. Now she understood why. No wonder he always seemed so uncomfortable whenever she inched too close to the subject of widowhood.

“But why?” she finally managed to ask Carla. “How could that have happened? Do they really think she, you know…”

Carla shrugged. “Offed herself? Who knows. Like I said, it happened before he moved here. I can’t believe you haven’t heard this before, Daria.”

Daria put her hands to her face. “Oh, Carla, that’s just awful! But”—she wrinkled her brow—“I’m sure Cole told me that she was killed in an accident.”

“Maybe it’s just easier to tell it that way. You have to admit the real story is pretty shocking.”

“I can’t believe my parents never mentioned it.”

“People in town really like Cole, and everyone knows he doesn’t like to talk about her.”

Daria thought for a moment. “It’s more likely that they didn’t want to upset
me
. My parents have been pretty protective since I came back from Colombia.”

Carla gave her a sympathetic smile and leaned back against the counter. “They probably figure you have enough problems of your own.”

Daria opened her mouth to reply, but the slam of the back door stopped her. She heard the distinctive thud of Cole’s work boots on the tile floor and felt her face grow warm. She hoped he hadn’t overheard them talking about him.

“Carla?” he hollered before he reached the front office.

Carla threw Daria a here-goes-nothing look, jumped up, and met him in the doorway. “Yes?”

He appeared to be in a better mood, and his manner was polite and almost friendly now. “Can you help me out in the barn for a minute? I think I’m looking at a C-section with this mare, and Travis is up to his ears doing blood tests on Meyerses’ hogs.”

“Sure. Let me get my coat on.”

Carla grabbed her lab coat and headed down the hall toward the back door. Cole started to follow, then turned abruptly. Hanging on the doorjamb, he swung around and stuck his head through the doorway of the office, looking contrite and boyish in spite of his day-old beard.

“Good morning, Daria.” He gave her a quick smile and greeted her as though he was seeing her for the first time that morning. Just as quickly he was out the back door again.

“Good morning, Cole.” She waved to the empty air, baffled by his sudden change of mood.

She sighed heavily, dumped the dregs of her coffee in the sink, and headed back to the kennel to feed the dogs. The conversation she’d just had with Carla gnawed at her. The things Carla had related about the way Bridgette Hunter died didn’t fit with the information Cole had given her. She didn’t like the way that fact made her feel.

When Daria went to pick Natalie up at her parents’ house that night, she asked her mother about the rumor concerning Bridgette Hunter.

“Yes, I did hear that she committed suicide. But you know how people in this town talk, Daria.”

“Mom! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Margo perched on a high barstool at the kitchen counter where Daria was seated. She gave her daughter a searching look. “Why, would it have mattered, Daria?”

“I don’t know. It’s just—I don’t know, it just seems strange. Cole is so easygoing and happy all the time. It just doesn’t fit.” She picked up a pencil from the counter and started scribbling on a scrap of paper, retracing her lines over and over until the lead shone against the white page. “You don’t know why, do you?”

“Why she killed herself?”

Daria nodded, not looking up.

“Honey, who knows why anyone ever does something like that?” A strange timbre had come into her voice, the tone that told her that her mother understood more than Daria had intended to reveal. “This really has you upset, doesn’t it?” Margo said.

“I-I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Look at me, Daria.”

Daria lifted her head, trying not to look as sheepish as she felt.

“You really like Dr. Hunter, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I do, Mom. Is that awful?”

“Honey, why would that be awful?”

“Well, for starters he’s my boss. And—” The lump in her throat took her by surprise, and she felt tears well behind her eyelids. “Mom, Nate’s only been gone a little more than a year. I-I feel like such a traitor.”

Margo put a warm hand over Daria’s. “Daria Lynn Haydon, what are you talking about?”

Daria smiled, but her mother seemed not to notice her subconscious use of Daria’s maiden name. “You have just been through the worst year of your life. It’s about time you had some happiness. I’m thrilled for you!”

“Mom, Mom, slow down. It’s not like he’s asked me out or anything.”

The wind went out of her mother’s sails a bit. “I think it would be wonderful if he did. And I don’t want to hear any more of this guilt business. You know Nate would have wanted you to go on with your life. Especially for Nattie’s sake.”

Daria pushed the pencil and paper away and scooted her stool back from the counter. She cleared her throat. “Speaking of Nattie, if I don’t wake her up now, I’ll never get her down tonight.”

She looked at her mother, who seemed deep in thought. Reaching out, she put a hand on Margo’s arm. “Thanks, Mom. For everything.”

That night she lay in bed and thought about what her mother had said, that it would be wonderful if Cole asked her out. Part of her was relieved to have talked to her mother. A larger part of her was sorry that she’d revealed her secret desire to anyone. Especially since the revelation of his dark past left her unsure of who Colson Hunter really was.

Nine

C
ole drove his pickup along the dusty country road toward home.

He’d congratulated himself too quickly for shaking off the depression that the anniversary of Bridgette’s death always seemed to bring. A busy day at the clinic, with a harrowing but successful emergency surgery thrown in for good measure, had helped keep his mind off the dark memories that begged his attention. But now, with the day behind him, the dusk taking over the sky, and an empty house to go home to, the blanket of oppression settled over him again.

This was the fifth bleak anniversary he’d marked, and though none had been as bad as the first, he wondered how many years would pass before he could look at this day as any other. Ten years? Fifteen? What was the magic number?

He wondered if Daria Camfield celebrated such an anniversary.
Celebrate
was hardly the right word. But no, he remembered her telling him that she didn’t even know for sure when her husband had died. It was a blessing, Cole thought, not to have that number etched on her brain to torment her every time it turned up on the calendar. If she was anything like him, she wouldn’t want to be reminded, wouldn’t want to talk about the heartache of losing the love of her life. But then her husband’s death didn’t carry with it the stigma that Bridgette’s death always would.

He had come to Kansas, in part, to get away from the entire population of Sierra Lake, Colorado, who thought they knew all the ugly facts of his wife’s death. But it seemed Kansas wasn’t far enough, and the story had followed him here. He seethed with anger when he thought of the transformation the tale had undergone. Sometimes he thought it would be better just to come out and tell every detail himself so they would get it right. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure he knew the truth himself. Besides, he wouldn’t give the gossips the satisfaction. Let them talk. They would anyway. It was part of the “charm” of living in a small town. He’d lived in the big city, and he had to admit that most days the real charm of small-town life—the deep friendships, the community loyalty, the active compassion for the guy who was down-and-out—far outweighed the inconvenience of a little gossip here or a false rumor there.

He sensed that Daria would understand his feelings if only he could get up the courage to share them with her. He knew that a large part of his attraction to her was the shared tragedy in their lives. Not that she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have caught his eye anyway. She was sweet and kind—and beautiful, in a natural, down-to-earth way that appealed to him deeply. But it was something more profound that drew him to her, that caused her face to appear in a significant percentage of his dreams, both waking and sleeping. Common sense told him that mutual sorrow was not a good thing on which to base a relationship. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from asking her out a thousand times in his mind.

He wasn’t sure what was stopping him in real life. He had certainly done his share of flirting with her.
Flirting
. Man, he hated that word. He had never liked all the games men seemed to have to play with women. That was one of the things that had attracted him to Bridgette. He hadn’t had to flirt with her to get her attention. She was beautiful, and she didn’t know it. She was studious and intelligent. They’d first met at Colorado State in a philosophy class.

He’d liked her seriousness at first. He had just become a Christian, and, though she was a believer herself, she was loath to accept anything on faith alone. She constantly challenged him to defend his faith against her questions, and he was never one to turn down a challenge. Those solve-the-problems-of-the-world conversations had set the tone for their growing relationship. He hadn’t seen the dark side of her analytical nature until after they married. The depressions would come on her like a Seattle fog. He didn’t know who she was during those grey times, and she couldn’t tell him why they came or what he could do to make it better. They’d mostly just waited it out. And eventually time would lift the shroud of fog, and he’d have his wife back. Until that awful summer. Then time had lost its magic and by the time he realized it, it was too late.

Driving down the rutted back roads, buried in memories, Cole had become oblivious to his surroundings. Suddenly his driveway loomed in front of him, and he almost overshot the entrance to the shady lane that led to his old farmhouse.

He pulled up beside the mailbox and, as was his evening ritual, stopped for a moment and peered over the steering wheel, surveying the sixteen acres that spread out before him. Even on this day it heartened him to turn down this lane and realize that he owned a piece of God’s green earth. A small piece, to be sure, and one that could use some TLC, but in a couple years it would be his, free and clear, and that never failed to fill him with a quiet joy.

Sighing, he rolled down the window and opened the mailbox. Extracting a bundle of junk mail and a depressing number of bills, he slammed the metal door shut and roared on up the long drive toward the house, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

Rufus, his yellow Labrador retriever, met him and ran alongside the pickup for the last hundred yards, barking an enthusiastic greeting.

Cole parked the truck in the unattached garage and walked to the back door, talking to the panting dog as he went, “Hey, boy. How’s it goin’? Did you miss me? Huh, did you miss me, boy? How’s my big ol’ Rufus-boy?” He would have been embarrassed for anyone to overhear the affection in his voice for this dumb, slobbering dog. But Rufus was one of the best friends he had. Nobody listened like Rufus.

On the back porch, Cole pried off his work boots and unlocked the door, letting the dog in ahead of him.

He threw the mail on the kitchen table and went back to the mud room to fill Rufus’s dish from the forty-pound bag of dog food that sat in the corner by the back door. The dog nudged his jean-clad leg, panting impatiently, almost knocking him over.

“Hey, fella, give me a break. I’m working on it.”

Rufus moved in for the feast, crunching noisily.

Cole went back into the kitchen and searched the refrigerator until he found some bologna that hadn’t yet turned green.

He built a thick sandwich and threw it on a plate along with some corn chips. Then, pouring a glass of cold milk, he took his supper into the living room. The large L-shaped room wouldn’t win any interior design awards, but it was warm and inviting—and surprisingly clean for a house sans a woman, if he did say so himself.

Cole had remodeled the entire downstairs over the two years he’d lived there, and he was proud of the place. He had painted the walls throughout the house in various shades of tan and beige. The effect was masculine, and rather rustic, though anything but dark and dreary since the new oak-framed windows were left bare to take advantage of the sweeping prairie vistas that surrounded the farmhouse.

He switched on the television and plopped into the leather recliner positioned in front of it. He watched too much TV, especially since there was seldom anything on worth watching. But he liked the noise. It kept him company. And tonight he could use some company.