Texas rich (43 page)

Before she could say a word, Moss took her into his arms and buried his lips in her smoke-blond hair. "Be happy for me, Billie. It's what I want. What I need."

And what of her needs? she thought. What of them? And the children? She was beginning to understand that if she forced Moss to make a choice, he wouldn't choose her.

"I'm going to tell Pap. Better batten down the hatches. He's not going to like this." He left her as quickly as he'd embraced her and hurried away to face Seth.

Agnes found Billie in the hallway on the bottom step of the stairs, elbows on knees, head in hands. "Billie? What's wrong?"

"Moss. He's going back to his squadron. He's telling Seth now."

Billie heard the l|jss of her indrawn breath. "And what about you, Billie?" she asked. "What about us? All of us, including the children?" There was a desperate edge to Agnes's voice that she didn't try to disguise. Her long, brightly painted fingers played with her rope of pearls. The taffeta slip beneath her light woolen suit rustled pleasantly as she sat beside her daughter. "Do you remember our little talk? And do your remember how Seth treated Amelia, his own flesh and blood? ..."

"That's enough. Mother! I don't want to hear any more. And as for our little talk, I'm doing the best I can. And this

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time it's for me. Mother, for me! Because / want a son. Everyone else be damned!"

Billie stood, leaving Agnes sitting alone on the stairs, and went into the living room. When she returned she carried a decanter of cognac and two snifters. Back straight, expression solenm, she climbed the stairs without a glance or a word to her watchful mother.

Outside her bedroom door, Billie shook back her hair and lifted the comers of her mouth into a smile, then burst into the room. "Hi, darling. I battened down the hatches but I didn't hear a sound. How's your father taking the news?"

"How else?" Moss said bitterly. "He's never understood what was important to me. He's furious and refuses to go out with us tonight. What've you got there?"

"Oh, I thought you needed someone to celebrate with. And I couldn't think of anyone better than myself. I want you to be happy, darhng, and I'm happy for you."

Moss's expression softened. "You're quite a woman, Mrs. Coleman. Did I ever tell you that?"

"Not in those words. I didn't bring any ice—do you need ice?"

Moss laughed. "And ruin twenty-year-old cognac? C'mon, let's pour us a drink and celebrate a new year." He never noticed Billie locking the door behind her.

Billie lay beside Moss, her head fuzzy from the cognac, and felt his hands trail lazily over her body. "My wife, my beautiful wife," he was murmuring against her ear as his fingers worked the front buttons of her blouse. He'd drunk too much, taken two glasses to one of hers, and she knew that his judgment had evaporated in his excitement over being allowed to rejoin his squadron. It was exactly as she wanted it. Men had their war machines for battle; women had their own bodies. Hard steel or soft flesh, strength or passion. In the end it was the same, and always for the same selfish reasons.

Slowly, almost lazily, they undressed each other, lips kissing and moistening newly bared skin. It was late afternoon and dusky shadows hovered outside the lace-covered windows. Rosy light invaded the room, warming the color of their bodies and splashing intriguing designs on the walls and bedclothes. Billie curled toward him, one hand exploring his rock-hard chest, one leg resting lightly against his. Moss hovered over her, his

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liquor-scented breath pleasantly fanning her cheek. One bold finger charted her face, stroking her golden brow, following the slender turn of her nose, the downy prominence of her cheekbone and the yielding softness of her rosy mouth. He nibbled her lower lip, smiling when her mouth trembled. Her hazel eyes were sultry and alive, open to welcome him into their silvery depths.

He caressed her tenderly, tracing the tender hollow of her shoulder, the globes of her firm, coral-crested breasts. The nipples hardened and rose beneath his palms. His hands moved lower, to her narrow waist, the round curve of her hip, the soft flesh of her belly, the enticing golden down, and the warm valley.

Her eyes closed then, and she moved against his fingers, whispering in delighted encouragement when his mouth followed where his hands had been, finding her satiny contours. It was her murmur of dehght that heightened his passion and left him trembling. The tide of his emotions was sweeping him into a sea of sensation. He was exhilarated by the cognac, by the power of bringing this woman such pleasure, and by the knowledge that he would soon be returning to his squadron. All of life was his and it pounded through his veins in a rhythmic rush that made all things sweeter. Life. Love. Passion.

He covered her body with his own, his mouth finding hers as he pressed into her and felt himself enveloped in warm, pulsing flesh that welcomed him.

Billie offered her mouth to his, tasting herself mingled with the cognac. Deeper and deeper he penetrated, slowly, languorously, until she completely surrounded him, taking him inside her, tasting, kissing, until there was no sensation beyond him. Moss, only Moss, within her, surrounding her, becoming her. Moss, filling her life, touching her heart, becoming her world and her universe. She did not exist outside of this moment. She needed, she wanted, she took. And gave. What had begun as a calculation was ending as a glorious gift, shared between them.

TTiey fit each other. Her rhythm.s perfectly matched his own, her flesh and bones supported him, melted into him, comfortable, yielding in ever-deepening, ever-quickening undulations. Flesh swallowed flesh anci became one, again and again, deeper and deeper, caressing with each stroke, possessing with rippling waves until there was nothing except those two parts of them-

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selves that merged and joined and bonded, lifting them together in a path to the sun.

The Texas Ranger soared into the endless sky, away from Moss's squadron and back to the Big E. Something had jimmied in his instrument panel and his Wildcat was having difficulty maintaining altitude. The mechanics would have the Ranger right in no time. Moss banked to port and read his compass heading, exhilarated by the unham.pered freedom of flight, by the satisfaction of a job well done. In late January, he'd been involved in strikes on Formosa and Okinawa. February had seen the first air strikes on Tokyo, and now it was March and tlie Big E and her men and machines were supporting the occupation of Iwo Jima.

There was a vibration in the fuselage, a shudder beneath his feet. He was steadily losing altitude! He attempted to m.ake voice contact with his squadron, but the frequencies in his headset seemed jammed. Again he tried. Nothing.

Swallowing panic, Moss pulled back on the stick, feeling the Ranger attempt a response yet continue on her downward course. Her engine spit, then coughed. Emergency procedure drilled through his brain, but he wouldn't admit he needed to use it. Like death, it had always seemed only a remote possibility. The Ranger was spiraling down, about to roll into a tailspin. Moss tried to regain mastery of the fighter plane, all the while attempting to make radio contact with either the Enterprise or his squadron. The panel lights dimmed and then failed altogether. The prop was slowing before his eyes. If the Ranger went into a tailspin, a safe bailout would be impossible. The prop was making lazy windmills. Desperately he worked the rubber pedals, feeling them stiff, unresponsive. Useless. He'd heard an old flight chief talk about setting a Wildcat down on her ailerons and elevator, but the Ranger had gone dead in the air and was plunging from seven thousand feet to the hungry sea below.

Never bail out below a thousand feet! It was a precaution he reiterated several times a day in training. Yet he knew he must be below that when in a single explosive motion he hurled back the canopy, chmbed to his feet, jammed the stick full forward, and pulled the ripcord of his chute. The dead Ranger dropped from under him; the parachute fluttered and opened and snatched him upward.

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The sea felt like a concrete wall when he hit, but he managed to release the snap hooks that held his chute. The sea engulfed him and he went deep into its blackness. But when he struggled upward and broke the surface, he was free of the entangling silk.

He took huge gulps of air and pulled the toggles on his Mae West. One side filled at once; the other hung limp. Treading water, Moss laboriously blew up the hfesaving jacket. It was then that he noticed blood ribboning into the water beneath him. He must have torn his leg when the chute yanked him from the cockpit. Blood drew sharks, which were numerous in these waters. He must get himself out of the sea!

Reaching around, he zipped the pararaft out of its envelope and pulled the inflation toggle. It responded, whuffing into shape. Encumbered by the Mae West, he struggled aboard, lifting his torn leg into the raft. He could feel panic closing in on him, but he recognized it for what it was and held himself in rigid control.

Bobbing along on the waves with nauseating regularity. Moss watched the sky and waited. The long night descended. He prayed for morning and waited.

When the sun finally broke the horizon it was a hot, angry, crimson ball that rouged the cumulus puffs. His salt-caked face and the exposed skin at wrists and ankles began to bum. And still he watched the sky. He concentrated on guarding against despair.

He checked his watch and gratefully found it still working. He noted the time. If he fell asleep, it would seem only minutes but in reality it would be hours. He took a position fix on the sun. The wind seemed constant and he was drifting in a northwesterly direction, away from the last-known position of the Enterprise. Moss's equipment consisted of a sturdy bladed knife sewn into a sheath on the leg of his flight suit and a .45-caliber automatic pistol in a holster on the web belt around his waist. He worried that the pistol would be useless, but when he test-fired it the satisfying recoil sprang up his arm to the elbow. At least he wasn't completely defenseless.

He was parched and ravenously hungry. Before shielding his face from the sun by hunkering down into the protective shadow of his life vest, he checked his leg wound. A satisfactory clot of blood had created a scab. At least he wouldn't bleed to death.

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The sun was only thirty degrees above the level of the sea when Moss awakened. Late afternoon. He cursed himself for having fallen asleep. Precious hours had been wasted; he should have been on the lookout for a passing ship. He squinted into the distance, bhnked, and squinted again. Was it his imagination or was that a ship coming out of due west? The sun was blinding him and he was light-headed with hunger, panic, and thirst, but he would swear on his life it was a ship. As the sun sank behind it, its silhouette began to appear. A superstructure, a smokestack, a gun mount. It was a destroyer and it was heading straight for him.

Throwing himself onto his belly and reaching into the water. Moss paddled himself forward, attempting to close the distance between him and the ship. Rescue was imminent. He stood in the raft, balancing himself on widespread legs, waving his white cotton undershirt. With a whoop of excitement he saw the white water boil behind the stem, saw the bow make a course correction. It was coming for him! A sheer solid wall of steel rising and falling with .the ocean's swell. Moss resumed paddling. A rope ladder was flung down to him. He grabbed it solidly with both hands and hoisted himself to safety. The prayer in his heart had been answered. A wide grin split his face—there was no beating the Coleman luck! He looked up, ready to shout howdy to his rescuers. His grin froze. The deck rail was lined with faces. All of them Japanese!

{{{{{{<{{ CHAPTER NINETEEN }}}}}}}})

March had arrived at Sunbridge like the proverbial lion and was leaving like a lamb. Seth watched Billie's advancing pregnancy with a knowledgeable eye. This time it would be a boy, a grandson; he could feel it in his bones. Billie herself seemed pleased with the pregnancy. She was more confident, healthier. There was no nausea and sickness with this child as there had been with Maggie and Susan. Seth thought there was a peace-fulness about Billie that had never been there before.

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Agnes also watched her daughter. Although Billie was only beginning her fourth month, Agnes satisfied herself that the signs were there. Billie was carrying high and straight, instead of round and hippy as with the girls. It was^ definitely a boy this time. Seth would grunt whenever she mentioned it to him, but he believed every word.

Billie smiled. Neither of them could be one hundred percent certain. Only her. Billie Coleman would have her son.

Billie had announced her pregnancy only two weeks before, on the same day she'd written Moss telling him about their "little accident." She'd hugged the letter to her breast before she'd mailed it. By now, Moss would know another child was on the way and that she was certain it would be a boy.

As Billie settled down to write to Moss, she looked at the calendar as she did every day and crossed off the date. It was six weeks and three days since she'd heard from Moss. Even Seth hadn't had word. It worried her but it wasn't unusual. Often a pack of letters would arrive at once. Moss was fine; she felt it. If something had happened to him, she would know.

The bedside clock read 11:20 when Billie decided to go downstairs for a glass of warm milk. As she was crossing the wide, central hall the doorbell shrilled, startling her.

"Telegram for Mrs. Moss Coleman. Sign here." Billie's trembling hands reached for the yellow envelope. The delivery boy's face was a study in sympathy and pity. The return address was the War Department.

"Mother!" she screamed.

She experienced everything after that through waves of blackness, in slow motion. Agnes coming down the stairs. Seth stepping out of his study. She knew that in reality Agnes had flown down the stairs and Seth had exploded from his study.

Seth sat down on the cowhide-covered bench and stared at the rectangle of yellow paper. He seemed unable to move.