Whitehorse (13 page)

"I appreciate your help, Johnny. More than you know. And thanks for the breakfast."

"Thanks for the breakfast? That's it?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "That's it."

Turning on her heels, Leah brushed by Shamika and disappeared into the house. Shamika watched her go, shaking her head before looking back at Johnny. "I was just about to cook up some pancakes for Val. Would you like to join us?"

"No, he wouldn't," Leah yelled from the house. Appearing at the door again, her cheeks flaming with color, she said, "I'm exhausted and filthy
and …
I'd like to spend some time
alone
with my son. Perhaps some other time?" She gave Johnny a thin smile before turning away.

"Sorry," Shamika said. "Come to think of it you look as if you could use some sleep yourself."

"Right." He headed for the truck.

"Mr. Whitehorse?" As Johnny looked around, Shamika said, "Don't take it personally."

The reflection in the bathroom mirror resembled something out of a Boris Karloff movie. Her hair looked as if it had not met shampoo in a week. Smudged mascara around her eyes made her look like a raccoon. Not just any raccoon, but the one she'd parked near those hours ago, squashed, bloody, and bloated, and she suspected that she did not smell much better. Newspaper print had been stamped down one side of her face when she'd fallen asleep on Ramona Skunk Cap's kitchen table. If she squinted just right she could make out the words "No arrests have been made" reversed across her right cheekbone.

How could Johnny possibly have found her alluring enough to want to make love to her on the hood of his truck?

Shamika moved up behind her and regarded her reflection before shaking her head. "I'd say any man who was willing to look at you over breakfast has got to have the soul of a saint."

"Johnny is no saint. Believe me."

"Maybe I gave him too much credit. Maybe he's just blind."

Leah moved to the shower and turned on the hot water full blast.

"So what is the real reason you were so rude as to tell Mr. Whitehorse to scram?"

Unbuttoning her shirt, Leah moved into her bedroom, leaving Shamika to regulate the water temperature before steam totally filled the small room. She tossed the shirt onto a pile of dirty clothes near her closet door, then peeled her jeans down her legs, kicking them the way of the shirt.

"You know what I think?" Shamika asked.

"I suspect you're going to tell me."

"I think it's time you start back to your support group. It's been a while, you know."

She unsnapped her bra and flung it on the bed.

"You got a lot stored up in you that you need to get out, girlfriend."

"You're right. I'll go this afternoon."

Shamika's mouth dropped open. She centered her eyes on the ceiling as Leah wiggled out of her panties and returned to the bathroom. "'Scuse me if
I'm
speechless," Shamika yelled. "I can't remember a time that I didn't have to strong-arm you to get you to go."

With hot water pounding her shoulders and head, Leah turned her face up into the spray and closed her eyes. Every muscle in her body hurt. So did her heart every time she thought of Johnny's hands on her, the taste of his mouth on hers, like sweet rich coffee. How could she have allowed herself to weaken so?

"You still going out with Sam tonight?" Shamika called.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Just thought you might change your mind since you and
Johnny…"

Leah reached for the shampoo and squeezed the apple-essenced soap into her palm. "Me and Johnny what? For your information, Johnny is deeply involved with someone named Dolores. How do I know? Because I found her makeup bag and storehouse of condoms in his truck."

"Are you telling me that there was none of the old spark between you these last few hours?"

"I'm telling you that I intend to continue seeing Sam. I like him. He's a very nice guy."

"He's no Johnny Whitehorse."

Leaning back against the shower wall, shampoo running in streamers over her breasts, Leah closed her eyes and thought:

No, he's no Johnny Whitehorse. But then … who is?

SEVEN

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D
olores's Mercedes convertible was parked under the big pine near the stone bench Johnny bought back in 1995 during an acting job in
Puerto Rico
. He situated his truck next to it and sat back in his seat, engine running, his eyes vaguely registering the activity in the distance: Roy Moon climbing up on the big red tractor and preparing to drag the exercise track before
the horses
were brought out for their morning workouts. Jose Ramirez was leading a rambunctious yearling to a turnout paddock, and a young man named Joe Two Rivers, whom
Roy
had hired the week before, was pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure and shavings out of the main barn.

The feelings inside Johnny coiled like a spring. He had not experienced desire like he had that morning at Brown Bear Point since the last time he'd been in Leah's presence. The sort that drove a man to act like a fool. To let the base hunger overwhelm judgment. To let the heart shout louder than the whispers of logic in his head.

She did not love him any longer.

It was that simple.

Her response to his kiss had been a physical urge, nothing more. Or an attempt not to totally humiliate him. She had always been very good at avoiding hurt feelings. If there had been a Most Thoughtful category in high school she would have won that too, along with Most Beautiful.

The truck door opened suddenly, snapping Johnny out of his memories. Dolores, in tight starched jeans and an Anne Klein blouse, stared at him as if were Jeffrey Dahmer.

"My God," she gasped. "Is that blood all over you?"

He looked down at his shirt and the front of his jeans, which were stained and crusty with goat blood. "Yeah," he replied. "I guess it is."

The color drained from her face. "Are you all right? What's happened? My God, Johnny, I've been worried out of my mind."

"Not my blood." He smiled to assure her. "Ramona Skunk Cap's goats' blood. Coyotes again."

"What were you doing at Ramona's?" Her gaze fell on an unused syringe and a roll of vet wrap that had fallen on the floor of the passenger seat, and her shoulders squared. "You've been with Leah, haven't you?"

"Her truck broke down. I happened by. Took her out to Ramona's. Took her home." He shrugged. "Here I am."

She studied his face, his eyes, his lips—her look telling him that she did not totally believe him.

Johnny reached for her makeup bag and handed it to her. "Forgot something."

Her fingers reached for the zipper and unzipped it slowly as she peered inside.

"They're all there," he told her, killing the engine and sliding off the seat. "Count 'em. Only one missing. Of course, you know me and condoms. Never could get used to the damn things. Could have screwed a dozen women since I saw you last night and just couldn't be bothered to use them." He slammed the door and walked toward the house.

"You're awfully testy this morning," she said behind him.

"It's been a long night."

"I tried calling you. I heard from my source. He says he might have information soon on Senator Foster's link with Formation Media, and FM's looking more suspicious by the
day …
if you're still interested, of course."

"Why wouldn't I be interested?"

"Why don't
you
tell we?"

Entering the house, Johnny unbuttoned his shirt. By the time he reached the bedroom he'd peeled it off and proceeded to unbuckle his belt. He walked directly to the bathroom, to the shower, and turned on the water full blast and as hot as he could tolerate. By the time Dolores entered the room he had removed his boots and socks, and was dragging his jeans down his legs.

"Normally by this time you would be demanding more information about my source than I could possibly tell you. You'd be gloating over the fact that you're soon going to have Foster's ass on a plate."

"I told you, honey—"

"You're tired. Sure. You had a long night."

Dolores leaned her shoulder against the wall and crossed her arms as Johnny stepped into the glass shower stall and into the deluge of pounding, steaming spray. The water felt like a thousand tiny, blistering needles sinking into the tight muscles of his back and shoulders. Propping both hands against the wall, he allowed his head to fall forward, offering the back of his neck to the soothing fingers of hot water, holding his breath as it poured down over his black hair,
his
brow, his eyes, his lips.

The stall door opened. Dolores stepped in, still dressed but barefoot. As Johnny turned his head to look at her, she grinned and slid between him and the wall.

"You look like a man in desperate need of a little TLC, Mr. Whitehorse."

"You're going to ruin your Anne Klein, sweetie."

"So I'll buy me another. Or you can buy me another. How's that?" Taking up the soap, she rolled it in her hands, then slid it down his chest, to his belly, then lower.

He caught her wrist, and grinned. "I'm dead. Really. Maybe after I get some sleep."

"Since when have you ever been too tired for a blowjob, Johnny?"

"Since I stayed up all night sewing up goat entrails and burying a woman's pets so mangled up by barbed wire you could hardly tell what they were any longer."

"But you've always said that sex renews your vitality."

Dolores eased down onto her knees, her hands sliding between his thighs. "Did you make love to Leah, Johnny?"

Closing his eyes, he shook his head.

"Not even a kiss, for old time's sake?"

He twisted his fingers into her hair and gritted his teeth.

"Did you? Kiss her?"