Summer Shadows (5 page)

Marsh smiled. Sunday. The day after tomorrow. If he didn’t stop to rewrite, he could get Craig and Marguerite another chapter or two along before Rick got here. Then the fun would begin as he and Rick ripped apart the script of
Shadows at Noon
, then put it back together again. He never ceased thanking God that he worked with a producer and star who valued words as much as action, who loved the sound of a good phrase.

He closed Rick’s letter and scanned on down the long list. His smile tightened when he came across his father’s address. At one time his mother had been the family correspondent, keeping the three of them connected. She had died many years ago, a fact that Marsh still had trouble grasping. When Dad had remarried four
years ago, his new wife understandably didn’t correspond much with her grown stepson. Now any messages came directly from his formidable father and made him—what? Uncomfortable? Defensive? Angry? He shrugged. Pick any negative emotion and you were on the money.

Marsh clicked the message open. Might as well get the bad news over with. Then he’d be free to enjoy the rest of his correspondence, especially ChiLibris, the novelists’ loop that he loved so much. Talk about great conversations! These writers were some of the most interesting people he’d ever encountered, thoughtful as in full of thought.

Marsh stared at the screen, trying to determine what about the note irritated him most. Was it the Marshall? Dad was the only one who called him by his full name.

“A name is given for a purpose, Marshall, and a nickname destroys it by rendering it weak. As no one calls me Marc, so no one shall call you Marsh.”

Well, no one called Dad anything but Marcus, not even Marsh’s mother, but everyone called him Marsh. He couldn’t stand Marshall. It made him feel like a western lawman.

A thought streaked across his mind.
Is that why I write Westerns?
He shifted with discomfort. Hadn’t he chosen Westerns because of his love for history and the chance to ponder the good guys and the bad guys outside the formal trappings of academia and the treatises on theology and philosophy that ruled most of his life? Surely he didn’t owe his father this clandestine career?

That is, if it stayed clandestine after Dad discovered Rick Mathis in residence. The very thought made Marsh shudder. He’d
just have to make Rick disappear on Tuesday. He’d understand. He knew all about Marsh Winslow aka Colton West. In fact, he was one of only three who knew: Rick, Marsh, and Bettina Harley, Marsh’s agent.

Marsh wanted it to stay that way with an intensity that never failed to surprise him. He glared at the computer screen as his father had glared at him for years. Look at that full signature: Senator Marcus Winslow, United States Senate, Washington, D.C. As if he didn’t know who Dad was.

Even as he understood that the Senator had set an automatic signature for all his electronic correspondence, it still irritated Marsh that he couldn’t turn it off for a personal message to his own son.

But by far the most aggravating thing was the last line in the message:
I want to see whether you’ve made a wise investment
.

Translation: I don’t trust your judgment.

Translation: I want to know where you got the money to buy an oceanfront property.

Translation: What are you up to this time that will embarrass me?

Wouldn’t the good senator just die if he found out? Marsh Winslow, holder of a Doctor of Ministry in practical theology and a Ph.D. in philosophy, tenured professor at Tyndale Theological Seminary, holder of the James Goodwin Chair of Practical Theology, son of Senator Marcus Winslow, wrote Westerns under a pseudonym and was making a small fortune by doing so.

And just like that, Marsh knew who Snelling was. He was the overbearing cattleman whose property adjoined the Frost Spring Ranch and who was trying to control all water rights. He wanted to make the whole valley jump at his command. Mr. Frost, ill though he was, was unwilling to jump.

Marsh minimized AOL and pulled up his text screen. Fargo, schooled to the ways of a writer, lifted his head from Marsh’s leg and slumped to the floor. Marsh began entering ideas and questions as fast as they came to him.

Why was Snelling himself in Craig’s little cabin at the edge of the small spring lined with cottonwoods? Wasn’t he too important to be there? What had Craig done to rile the man to the degree that he risked such actions? And, my, my, my, did Craig resent Snelling, not only for trespassing on his little patch of heaven and
for hurting all the ranchers in the area, but also for catching him off guard.

The small spring that burbled not far from the cabin door gave the ranch its name. It wouldn’t suffer if Snelling dammed off the Anasazi Creek, the major source of water that flowed down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of New Mexico on the way to the Pecos River and eventually the Rio Grande. However the spring wasn’t sufficient in size to water anything except the people who lived and worked on the property. The Frost Spring cattle needed the water of the Anasazi as did the cattle and people downstream. That was only one of the reasons Craig was determined to help Mr. Frost stand up to Snelling, though as yet Marsh had no idea what the other reasons were.

How would Marguerite react when she saw the cabin under the cottonwoods? Marsh knew that Craig had built it with his own hands and was fanatically proud of it. Marsh nodded. More conflict between the two. Maybe Craig had built it on her favorite spot by the spring, and she resented his usurping her space. How dare he, she’d think in true queen-of-the-realm fashion.

What would happen when she saw the faith her father put in Craig? The more Mr. Frost’s health failed, the more Craig was the de facto authority at Frost Spring. Marsh grinned, anticipating the trouble he could develop. Even though Marguerite had been back East for several years at school, she’d assumed things would stay the same until she came home to change them. Was she about to be surprised!

Marsh rubbed his hands together. He loved it when a story began coming together.

The phone rang, making him frown. He’d been at Frost Spring Ranch with Randall Craig and Marguerite Frost in the year 1890. Now he was back on his porch, staring at his flickering laptop screen. He waited for the answering machine to pick up to hear who was on the phone. Whoever it was, it’d better be good, breaking into his world like that.

“This is Memorial Hospital calling for Marsh Winslow.”

A
T THE WORD
hospital
Marsh forgot all about Marguerite and Craig.

“We have an Abby Patterson here who gave us your name as her next of kin.”

What?

“She is unable to drive herself home. Would you please come for her at your earliest convenience? Come to the emergency entrance.”

Marsh rushed to the kitchen and lunged for the phone. “What’s going on here?”

“Is this Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with Mrs. Patterson? Why is she at the emergency room? Was she in an accident of some kind?” He thought of her limp. “Did she fall and break something?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what her problem is.”

Like you’d tell me even if you did know
. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He ran outside, grabbed his laptop, shut it down, and rushed inside to drop it on the couch. Fargo followed him in and looked at him in question.

“You can’t come this time, guy.”

Fargo snuffled his disappointment and collapsed with a thud.

“Don’t whine. It’s unbecoming. It’s not my fault
they don’t let dogs, especially giants like you, into the emergency room.”

Fargo looked unconvinced.

A half hour later Marsh sat in an uncomfortable green plastic chair in a little curtained cubicle, staring at the woman lying on the hospital gurney. He’d known she was thin—no, make that skinny—but he hadn’t realized how truly small she was. She barely lifted the sheet. She looked so pale and frail and defenseless that he had to watch her chest to make certain it was rising and falling. One arm was outside the covers with an automatic blood pressure cuff and a finger clip to monitor pulse attached. A drip of some kind flowed into the needle taped to the back of her hand.

It was disconcerting to see her like this. She’d been so fiery, so forceful back at the house. She’d all but ordered him and Fargo off her porch—and he owned the house! Now she was small, helpless, and needy. Every protective instinct he had was on alert. He wanted to pick her up, to somehow shelter her.

He knew that he had to have a scene where Craig saw Marguerite when she was physically and emotionally vulnerable. As he knew Abby would be much distressed if she knew he saw her as fragile, so Marguerite would resent Craig for seeing her that way too. Then he’d even things out by having Craig come to the end of himself somehow. He’d be in a difficult spot, and Marguerite would rescue him. Except she wasn’t physically strong enough for an action scene. How about a secret? Secrets were always good. She could find out Craig’s secret and help him come to terms with it. All Marsh needed to do was figure out this secret, a secret Craig would go to great lengths to protect, just as Marsh protected his.

His eyes settled on Abby. Just like that, fictitious Craig was forgotten in the face of her reality. How had she gotten her limp? Was it congenital, or the result of an accident of some kind? At least the ER nurse had assured him she hadn’t hurt her leg today. They hadn’t told him what she had hurt in spite of his frequent inquiries, but if he was patient, he was bound to find out soon enough.

Dear God, lying here unconscious she looks more child than woman, except for the lines that fan out from her eyes. Please be there for her, giving her Your comfort and peace
.

He’d been sitting beside her for fifteen minutes before she
blinked, her eyes unfocused for a second. Then he saw panic flare when she realized where she was. She pulled her other arm out from under the sheet and threw the covering off. Frantically she tried to rise, threatening the attachments on her arm. The pole holding the IV bag tipped, and Marsh made a grab for it, steadying it.

“Sam?” Abby breathed. “Maddie?”

He stood and leaned over her, placing one large hand over her small one, the other on her shoulder. He pushed her back down with gentle hands. “Easy, Abby, easy. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

She looked at him a minute without recognition.

“It’s me, Marsh.” He smiled.

“Marsh?”

“You know. The big black dog. You live in my upstairs apartment.”

She blinked several times. Then her eyes stilled and she nodded. “Marsh,” she repeated. “Fargo.”

“Right.” A burst of relief rushed through him at her recall. “Fargo.”

A nurse brushed the cubicle’s curtain aside and peered in. “Did I hear you two talking?”

“Sort of,” he said, ever the stickler for accuracy. “She whispered. I spoke.”

Abby eyed him strangely, then turned to the nurse. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“How do you feel?” the nurse asked. She checked the instrument readouts just behind Abby’s head.

Abby lifted her unfettered hand to her forehead. “I think I feel fine.” She hesitated. “At least as fine as usual. What happened to me? Why am I in a hospital? Am I hurt?”

When the nurse didn’t respond, Abby turned anxious eyes to Marsh.

“You’re fine,” he told her, squeezing her hand.

She didn’t argue with him, but it was obvious that she was confused. “I feel fuzzy.”

“Sedative hangover,” the nurse said as she pinched off the IV and pulled the needle from the back of Abby’s hand. She pressed gauze to the bead of blood that rose and snugged a Band-Aid over
it to hold it in place. “It’ll pass in no time.”

“Sedative?” Abby turned her hand over, grasping Marsh’s as she stared wide-eyed at the nurse. “Why did I need a sedative? I just went to the grocery store.” She looked at Marsh. “Didn’t I?”

Marsh nodded, patting her shoulder with his free hand. “I heard you leave.”

She frowned, concentrating, looking into her mind for answers. “But how did I get from there to here?”

A policeman stuck his head into the cubicle. “Can I talk with her now?”

“She’s all yours.” The nurse busied herself disconnecting the instruments that had monitored Abby’s vital signs.

Abby struggled to sit up, and Marsh took her arm to help. She swung her legs over the side of the gurney, swaying slightly.

“Dizzy?” asked the nurse.

Abby shook her head. “Not really. Just confused.”

“I’m Greg Barnes.” The policeman held out his hand.

She took it. “Abby Patterson.”

Greg turned to Marsh. “Mr. Patterson?”

He shook his head as Abby flushed. “I’m Marsh Winslow. Abby rents the upstairs half of my house.”

“Ah,” Barnes said. “So tell me all about it, Mrs. Patterson. Describe it just as you saw it.”

Abby stared at the cop, her face white, her eyes haunted. “Describe what, Mr. Barnes?”

He cocked his head. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I’m sorry, no.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “The last thing I remember is leaving the house to go to the Acme. Then I woke up here.”

“When you left home, were you driving?” Barnes asked.

“Yes.” Abby seemed certain of that much. “I drove down Central Avenue.” She turned to Marsh. “Didn’t I?”

He smiled. “At least you started off on Central. You had to. The house is on Central.”

“Central and?” Barnes asked.

“Forty-third,” Marsh said. “4311 Central.”

Barnes nodded and turned to Abby. “And then?”

Abby stared at him, stricken.

Barnes sighed. “Mrs. Patterson, we desperately need your help here.”

“I want to give it, believe me. I just don’t remember anything between leaving the house and seeing Marsh loom over me.”