Trauma Plan (17 page)

“I’ll bet. Did she happen to say why she took off that day—ran away from the ER?”

Maybe because she’s afraid of you?
Riley again saw the image of Jack pinning the purse snatcher against her car.

“I mean,” Jack continued, “do you think it had anything to do with the clinic? You said that her neighbor was spouting action committee garbage. Does Mrs. Calder feel that way too?”

“I’m not sure,” Riley answered. “She only said that she was worried about the fire in the parking lot. She seemed concerned that it was arson like those fires over in New Braunfels.”

Jack frowned. “The investigation said otherwise; it was in the newspaper.”

“She saw it but wondered if they were wrong. I reassured her. It seemed to help. I’m going back to see her again on Thursday. She’s an interesting lady. We sort of hit it off.”

“You did?” Jack’s brows rose. “Great—that’s great.”

Riley pulled her keys from her purse and reached for the door. “Bandy parked my car so close it’s practically in his window boxes. You don’t need to walk with me. Or even come out onto the porch . . .”
Or carry me. Or . . . make me babble like this. Get me out of here, Lord!

“Got it. I’m watching from the door.”

The motion lights came on as she went down the steps. She reached to open the door of the Honda.

“Riley?”

She looked up, certain he was going to remind her to call in the police report.

“I’m glad you’re working here. You’re doing fine.”

* * *

Jack aimed the key toward a dark spot that he hoped was the condo’s door lock. It wasn’t. He prodded the painted steel with his fingers, searching for the lock—the door swung inward. Great. No light, no lock. Maybe he should post a sign like they had in the window of the place that cut his hair: Walk-ins Welcome. He could make it easy entry for a few burglars, gangbangers, drug dealers . . . purse snatchers? A growl rose in his throat. Sure. Bring them on.

He pushed through the doorway, wondering if Riley had given her report to the police yet. True, she probably hadn’t gotten as good a look at the perp as Jack had. It was dark and it happened so fast; she’d been knocked to the ground . . .
hurt.
His teeth clamped together at the memory of her scream and the way she’d covered her head with her arms, trying desperately to keep the guy off her. A terrified woman trying to save herself from being battered, broken, violated. Like Jane Doe was. And like . . .
Abby.
Jack’s stomach lurched.

No. Stop this.
He strode into the living room, threw his briefcase onto the couch, refusing to let the horrific images come. All these years, all those nightmares—it did no good. It never had. There was nothing he could do to change what had happened to Abby. The same thing was true with the girl who’d been dumped near death on his clinic’s porch. All that mattered was that tonight he’d kept Riley from serious harm.

He smiled, thinking of her doing that little dance to prove she was okay, then sitting at the table with a bag of frozen vegetables on her face . . . that beautiful face. But it was more than that. She was a decent person with a good heart. He’d seen it in the way she’d offered to help Bandy clean the floor and the way she drove a basic nothing of a Honda coupe. And more than that, in the way Riley seemed determined to give it all she had—despite significant injury—to return to being a full-time nurse. A tough and often thankless career; he’d testify to that. She was trying to do all that when she probably didn’t need the income any more than Andrea Nichols or her pampered, trespassing cat. Despite what he’d imagined, Riley wasn’t a jet-setting debutante. . . . She hadn’t even been to the Alamo. He shook his head, incredulous, as he headed for the kitchen.

Jack grabbed a foil-covered plate of leftover
chilaquiles
and a container of orange juice, glancing at his calendar as he shut the refrigerator door. Tomorrow was Saturday, and he had nothing planned. He smiled, thinking of how he’d been tempted to pencil Riley’s name between his adventures, honoring her first day at the clinic. Today was that day, and it had been more than memorable.

He stood there for a minute, thinking. Then told himself the sudden idea was stupid. He’d be shot down, fall from the sky like a fool with a bad parachute. And then he thought again, remembered all that had happened today. Suddenly he needed to erase the worst of it, continue the best. He set the
chilaquiles
and juice on the kitchen counter. Pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the contact number. Heard her answer.

He made himself breathe. “Hey, Chaplain. I’m thinking of going to the Alamo tomorrow afternoon. And maybe playing tourist down on the River Walk. Having dinner there.” He tried not to think of fatally shredded parachutes. “Want to come along?”

There was a silence . . . but not for as long as he’d expected.

“Sure. I should see that. History and all.”

Unexpected warmth spread through his chest. “History. Right. Can’t argue with that.”

13

“It seemed bigger in the history books.” Riley pressed her palm against her white linen shirt and peered up at the famous arched facade of the Alamo—the shrine of Texas liberty.

“That’s everyone’s first thought.”

“Really?”
Not mine.
Riley’s first thought had been that Jack looked far more natural standing in front of this stone bastion than on the pink-frosting porch of his clinic. The Alamo’s stubborn ruggedness suited him.

She watched as he sidestepped a young mother pushing a stroller. He walked a few steps closer to the limestone building and was silhouetted against its huge carved door.
Rugged—and incredibly good-looking.
Riley’s gaze swept over him. Close-cropped hair turned golden under the late-day sun. Strong jaw. Broad shoulders under a khaki-colored polo. Tanned and muscular arms. Faded Levi’s and cowboy boots. Riley was glad she’d worn her boots as well; pulling herself up into Jack’s massive H1 had been challenging enough with her weak arm, without the handicap of cutesy flip-flops. She’d quickly dismissed his offer of help, remembering far too well that her last close contact with him had tossed her senses like a Gulf Coast hurricane.

So then why am I here?
Because of the history. That’s what she’d told Jack when she accepted his invitation. Or because of her own history? Maybe coming here was one more act of rebellion against her family’s protective huddle. Riley pressed her lips together. Her mother had left a phone message suggesting that if Riley wanted to do volunteer work, there were many opportunities in Houston.

“Coming?” Jack asked, dodging a cluster of shiny Fiesta balloons. “Or . . .” The toffee-brown eyes teased. “Does cannon fire scare you?”

Not cannons . . . and not you, either.

She hurried forward, boots tapping the stone paving.

Despite the crowd—diverse in accents, age, and dress—there was a hushed silence beyond the enormous wooden door. Visitors swept off their hats and lowered their voices as they filed along the thick, darkened limestone walls of the Alamo’s largest room. There were rough niches in the stone, a rainbow of flags, a detailed model of the fort preserved under glass, and rows of metal plaques. Riley glanced up toward the ceiling, then at Jack. “This was all part of the mission?”

“Mission San Antonio de Valero—it was never intended as a fort. The walls were built to withstand attacks by native tribes, not armed artillery.”

Like . . .
She decided against making an out-loud comparison to his clinic. “And this room was the chapel?”

Jack smiled. “You should feel right at home . . . except for the muskets, bowie knives, and bayonets.”

For some reason, Riley thought of Vesta in the Alamo Grace chapel. She doubted that weapons could have made her any more frightened.

They filed on toward the row of plaques listing the heroes of the Alamo, and Riley caught glimpses of the names—most unfamiliar, some known to almost everyone: David Crockett, James Bowie, and . . .
Travis
. She’d never thought about that. She stopped, reading the prominently displayed plaque: William Barret Travis. Commander at the Battle of the Alamo.

“No relation,” Jack said, beside her. “Although—” he gave a short laugh—“I may have let a few girls in middle school wonder about that.”

Riley struggled to steady herself as a child wedged into the crowd ahead of them. Jack caught her elbow, his fingers strong and warm. She felt herself flush, her pulse quicken . . .
like a silly, gullible middle school student. Just shoot me, please.

“C’mon,” he said, guiding her toward a dimly lit hallway. “Davy Crockett’s rifle is over there.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Jack watched with appreciation as Riley walked around the last of the Spanish cannons. She stooped to read the plaque and her hair swept across her shoulders, streaks of it shiny gold even in the dwindling daylight. She’d opened the buttons of her thin outer shirt against the heat, tying its tails into a knot just above where a tank top disappeared into the waistband of her jeans. Somehow it managed to make her legs look even longer, especially with her pants tucked into the tooled tan-and-blue boots. He smiled. Boots. Jeans. He liked it.

She turned and he dropped his sunglasses back into place, became a tour guide again.

“Not the original battle cannons?” she asked, walking toward the bench where he sat. He moved over to give her room.

“No. And since the Alamo garrison lacked real ammunition, they loaded the cannons they had with any metal available. Like nails, blacksmithing supplies, hinges from the doors . . .” He grimaced. “Not all that different from what you might find in an Afghan IED. Colonel Travis wrote letters asking for supplies and men, but I think he got something like thirty reinforcements. Nothing against fifteen hundred Mexican troops. Still, they held out for thirteen days.” He shook his head. “The night before the final battle, they say Travis drew a line in the dirt with his sword . . .”

Riley’s eyes met his. “And asked every man who was willing to die with him to cross it.”

“You remember that from school.”

“And the movies.” Her smile faded. “Colonel Travis was one of the first to die.”

Jack looked back toward the Long Barrack. “After it was all over, the Mexicans set fire to several buildings. Hard to believe this place was almost torn down and turned into a hotel by a New York syndicate back in the early 1900s. But the Daughters of the Republic fought hard to save it a second time, and . . .”

Jack let the thought go, suddenly tired of fights and skirmishes, of grappling with strategies to maintain ground . . . and stall the dark inevitable. Today he wanted peace, respite, sunshine. And to simply enjoy this rare chance to be in the company of a beautiful woman. He hoped it wasn’t too much to ask.

He checked his watch. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. You still up for Fiesta?”

* * *

Riley stopped halfway down the steps from St. Mary’s Street, boggled by her first glimpse of the San Antonio River Walk. It felt like she’d been swept up in a Texas tornado and dropped into a south-of-the-border Oz—below the streets of the seventh-largest city in America. She held her breath, staring at a sultry and beckoning tangle of green: water, jungle-thick foliage, and a canopy of trees strung with colored lights and endless streamers. There were bright umbrellas, riverboats, tables on meandering sidewalks, neon signs, balloons, people everywhere. And a rich thrum of sounds: the
chug-burble-splash
of boat engines, childish squeals, ducks, sudden explosive cheers, the brass and string strains of mariachi music.

“Smell that?” Jack asked, pressing close to allow a family in magenta sombreros to squeeze by. “Every kind of food you can imagine . . . on a stick.”

She stared up at him, the fronts of their shirts touching in the crush of the crowd.

“I’m serious,” he said, laughing at the look on her face. “From German knockwurst to beer-battered shrimp to . . . chocolate-dipped New York cheesecake. And then there’s sit-down food, like the St. Mary’s oyster bake, A Taste of New Orleans, and every Tex-Mex dish imaginable.” He groaned and took hold of her hand. “What are we waiting for?”

They waded into a color-rich blur of tropical shirts and crazy hats, navigating the winding path that followed the river. Their boots stuck to cobbled pavement littered with confetti, popcorn, and the remains of hopelessly toppled ice cream cones. Riley thought of letting go of his hand but decided against it, knowing she’d be lost in the blink of an eye. Her mother’s long-ago dismissal of Fiesta flashed across Riley’s memory:
“Too far, too crowded, not safe.”
But impossibly, Jack seemed to know where he was going. She followed, feeling strangely as though she were heading into the heart of a South American jungle as the humidity increased, musky air scented by slow-moving water, boat exhaust, and beer. Talk wasn’t remotely possible in the din of music and shouts.