The You I Never Knew Part 27

"Thank you," she whispered as he sat beside her on the chaise. "Thank you for saying that."

"Feel better?"

She sensed the warmth from the heater and the comfort of Sam's presence and the dry odor of the abandoned building, and a strange and unaccountable feeling of peace and safety came over her.

"Much better."

"Good." He grinned. "It's what I live for."

Mich.e.l.le drew her knees up to her chest, watching him. "I can't get over that you're a doctor."

He lifted his hand, skimmed his thumb over the ridge of her cheekbone, and everything inside her fell still, waiting, totally focused on the spot he was touching.

"I can't get over that you're a mother," he said.

He reached a place inside her no one had ever reached before-except the boy he had been so long ago. How could she have known, when they were eighteen, that he would be the only one? How could she have known that when he left her life, he'd leave a gulf of emptiness and loneliness no one else would ever fill?

"d.a.m.n it, Mich.e.l.le," he said, dropping his hand, "I wish you'd told me."

She heard his anger, too, echoing her own, and the problem with this sort of anger was that it was fueled by regret-for what they didn't do, for the road they didn't take. And the problem with regret was that it had no place to go. It just stayed inside, turning dark and bitter.

"I tried to tell you," she said softly, picturing herself that day, frightened and excited and oh, so very young. It was November, the sunset dull in the sky, and she was wearing her riding clothes-buff-colored leggings and a big cable-knit Aran sweater. "You didn't show up for work that day."

He held himself very stiff, as though every cell in his body had come to attention. She could tell he knew which day she was talking about. She borrowed a Jeep from the ranch, and she drove slowly, terrified because of what the home pregnancy test had just revealed and nervous because she had never gone to Sam's home before.

It was a weathered, wood-frame shotgun house on the east side of town, one of a row of dwellings built for migrant cherry pickers to use in the summer. She had not missed the symbolism of having to drive over the railroad tracks to reach his house.

No lights burned in the windows, and the driveway was empty. On some gut level she could already sense the desertion, could already predict the silence that would greet her knocks upon the door. But she knocked anyway, at the front door and the back, ducking under a clothesline with a single forgotten sock hanging frozen from it. She called out, and then tried the back door, not surprised when it opened. Crystal City was a small town where people left their doors unlocked-particularly if there was nothing in the house to steal.

She had shivered, walking through the four rooms, picturing Sam there with his mother. Sagging furniture with holes in the upholstery, a dinette set from the fifties, swaybacked beds in the tiny bedrooms. No wonder he'd never invited her over.

"You were gone," she said after a long silence. "Your house was empty. I drove up to the cafe to see if your mom was still working there. Earl Meecham said she took off, hadn't even left a forwarding address for her last paycheck."

"Forwarding addresses are always a problem," he said, "when you don't know where you're going."

She stared into the ripening glow of the heater. "What would it have cost you to tell me good-bye?"

He was quiet for a long time, so long that she got suspicious and studied his face in the light from the heater. She didn't know him anymore, couldn't read that lean, serious face. He seemed tense, his eyes turbulent as if he was at war with himself.

"Sam?"

"I don't know why I didn't say good-bye," he said at last, his voice quiet and controlled. "It was a long time ago."

"Everything was a long time ago."

The anger drained away and brutally soft memories crept up to seize her. There was a time when they stood at the center of the world, and everything seemed possible. She remembered the laughter, the pa.s.sion, and the utter belief that all their dreams would come true. She remembered the love everyone thought they were too young to feel.

He rubbed his thumb over her cheek. "I've never been good at good-byes."

She knew he was going to kiss her. He had his hand in the right place, cradling her cheek, and he had their eyes in the right place-they were both staring at each other's lips-and, most of all, he had the moment in the right place. She was not thinking of anything beyond the here and now, and how badly she wanted him to kiss her, hold her.

He leaned forward and she moved her knees out of the way, and neither of them hurried, because every heartbeat, every breath, every second was important. Their lips touched, and the taste of him rushed through her with a powerful force, memories exploding across the years, and the pa.s.sion between them was fresh, alive, yet as old and familiar as something they had carried around for decades.

They didn't speak. They knew better than that. Because if one of them spoke, they'd start to rationalize, and if they rationalized, they would know this was insane, and in a tacit agreement they decided to explore the insanity. Their coats came off, then boots and sweaters and jeans, and his hands were everywhere, and so were hers, sensations tumbling faster than thought. Hard muscle, soft flesh, his mouth mapping the topography of her body until instinct and remembrance converged and they knew each other again. Finally, the hurrying started, because there was an urgency, a need that wouldn't wait. She leaned back against the curve of the chaise and he braced his arms on either side of her, and he came down and she came up, and there was a moment of union so perfect that she saw stars.

Afterward he stayed on top of her, and she wanted to keep him there forever, because as soon as one of them moved or spoke, life had to start up again. She felt his back warm beneath her palms, listened to his heightened breathing, touched her lips to the pulse in his neck.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, and he remembered that thing with her ear, the way it made her tingle all over when she felt the heat of his intimate whisper.

No one but him had ever discovered that about her.

"That we shouldn't move or talk," she whispered back.

"Good idea."

But after a while, she couldn't help it, and she asked, "What are you thinking?"

"Oh, honey. Dirty thoughts. Really dirty thoughts." And he told her in explicit detail, shoving her back against the chaise, whispering into her ear in the way only he knew how to do, and all of a sudden they were making love again, his kisses and the strokes of his body harsh the way she needed them to be, bringing her to a soaring climax that had her crying out, her voice echoing through the gloom of the empty building.

"Now what are you thinking?" he asked, long afterward.

"That I'm glad for the dark." She kissed him briefly-that inventive mouth that had just done such unspeakably exquisite things to her-and forced herself to sit up, pull on her sweater.

"Why?"

"Because-" she stood up, hurriedly pulling on panties and jeans "-I'm not an eighteen-year-old girl anymore. I'm thirty-five, and I look it."

He laughed in disbelief, zipping his jeans. "You're worried I'll be disappointed in how you look?"

She fumbled with the b.u.t.tons of her fly. "Well, maybe not worried, but-"

"Listen." He took her busy hands and put them against his bare chest, his unbelievably muscular, s.e.xy bare chest.

"I'm listening."

"Of course I remember the way you looked back then. How could I not? I was eighteen, too. Your body used to drive me nuts. Yeah, I remember that." He traced his finger down her throat, over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, waking them up again. "But what I was thinking about when I was holding you just now was how I used to love you."

She felt dizzy, suddenly, sick and dizzy with guilt and confusion. "We'd better go."

He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else. But then he b.u.t.toned his shirt, turned and unplugged the heater, and flicked on the flashlight.

They left through the door they had come in. It had started to snow, big thick flakes, the kind pictured on Christmas cards. In the sodium vapor glow of the corner streetlamp, the swirling snow looked glorious, magical.

Halfway between the door and the truck, a shadow fell across the alley.

Sam put his arms around her, catching her against his chest. "What the-"

A flash exploded in their faces, and although Sam didn't realize it, she knew exactly what had happened.

They'd found her. The dirt diggers. The paparazzi. The kidney-patient stalkers. The princess-murderers.

Tires spun on the salted and sanded road, and then the sport-utility vehicle sped away, leaving Mich.e.l.le and Sam frozen like a pair of coyotes caught in a bounty hunter's searchlights. The familiar glowing ache from the flash filled her head. She should have recognized them. She had seen their Explorer pa.s.s the hospital earlier this evening. She should have known the buzzards were circling.

"What the h.e.l.l was that all about?" Sam asked.

"You'll read it in the papers," she said dully, feeling her insides coil up with dread. "Could be as early as tomorrow." Digital file transfers had made the process as swift as a phone call.

"I don't read that kind of paper."

"You'll be amazed when you see who does."

Friday

Chapter 27.

Mich.e.l.le stood in the hall of the hospital feeling weak with relief. Her father had stabilized and he was back on the pre-op meds he'd been taking in preparation for the transplant. Barring any other crisis, they were back on track for the procedure. In a few minutes, he'd be discharged.

But she felt as if all the other parts of her life had careened off in different directions. Last night, in the mysterious darkness of a half-forgotten place, she and Sam had made love. She'd wanted him with a wildness and a hunger so uncharacteristic of her that she had begun to think she was becoming someone else entirely. A stranger to herself. A traitor to the life she had built so far from here. She should be feeling shame, regret, guilt... but she couldn't.

Restless with her thoughts, she wandered to the small waiting lounge by the reception area. No one was around, so she helped herself to coffee. Nurse O'Brien came in, smiling a greeting.

"Mich.e.l.le, right?" she asked.

"Mich.e.l.le Turner. I'm spending way too much time at this hospital."

The nurse sat down on a vinyl-covered sofa and gave a weary sigh. "Tell me about it. There's a flu going around, so I've been working overtime for the past week. Your boy doing all right?"

"He's fine. But that head wound was a big scare." She paused, wondering how much the nurse knew about them. Everything, probably. This was a hospital, after all. "Did you happen to notice a reporter or photographer snooping around last night?"

"Uh-huh. I'm afraid your father was seen checking in yesterday." She sent Mich.e.l.le an apologetic look. "We didn't let anyone in to see him."

"Good. It's a constant worry," she admitted. "I've tried to keep Cody anonymous for years." She took a deep breath. "Um, so are people here talking about it? About Sam and Cody?"

"That they're father and son?" she said easily. "Oh, yeah."

"I was afraid so." Mich.e.l.le was dying to ask what they were saying, but she was not sure she wanted to know.

"I never could picture Sam with a kid of his own."

Something in Alice O'Brien's tone, in the deep knowing of her observation, caught Mich.e.l.le's attention. "Have you worked with Sam long?"

Alice O'Brien lifted her eyebrows in surprise. "He didn't tell you?"

Mich.e.l.le felt a strange shift in the atmosphere and instinctively braced herself. "Tell me what?"

The nurse waited, clearly weighing her options. Then she said, "Sam and I used to be married."

The atmosphere silently exploded. "Oh." G.o.d.

"It appears you and Sam must have a lot of catching up to do."

"He should have told me," Mich.e.l.le said, mortified by the situation he had put her in.

"It's all old history, but it's no secret." Alice O'Brien spoke straightforwardly. "When he came here five years ago, I took one look at him and fell like a ton of bricks." She grinned. "Most of the staff did. Sam and I got along great, decided to get married. I think Sam just drifted into the relationship, and I was fool enough to mistake it for love." Tugging her pink sweater close around her shoulders, she added, "I have the cla.s.sic nurse personality-nurturing, caretaking-and he wanted love and s.e.x and a woman."

"Alice," Mich.e.l.le said, "you don't have to explain this." Sam should have.

"I don't mind. You're bound to hear the story from somebody or other. It wasn't too dramatic. I fell hard, and Sam-well, he sort of came along for the ride, I suppose. When I said I wanted to start a family, that was my wakeup call." She pushed back the sleeve of her sweater, checked her watch. "He had a bad reaction to that. Said he saw enough unwanted kids in his practice. And I realized he was never going to give me what I needed. h.e.l.l, what I deserved. So we split up." A tolerant smile tilted her mouth. "He felt bad about it, but I stuck to my guns. It's better this way. We're still friends, colleagues."

Mich.e.l.le leaned back in her chair, her thoughts spinning. Though younger than Mich.e.l.le, Alice spoke with the wisdom of a much older woman, and her words reverberated in the silence. He was never going to give me what I needed.

"In his way, I think he loved me for a while. Just wasn't meant to last," she concluded, standing up and checking her watch again. "He's a complicated guy, had a rough life. He learned to love fast, he learned to love hard, and he learned to let go. No one ever taught him how to hold on."

Mounted on a line-backed dun mare named Daisy, Mich.e.l.le rode along a track that wound to the south and west of Lonepine. She felt the cold slice of air in her lungs, the numbing lash of the wind on her face. The afternoon sky was overcast and tinged bronze by a stingy leak of sunlight.

After Alice's revelation, Mich.e.l.le had taken her father home; then she drove straight to Lonepine. Sam had gone off on horseback to check a wildlife trap. "He'll probably stop at the hot springs on the way back," Edward had informed her. "He generally likes to do that when he's in a mood."

In a mood. She didn't ask Edward what he meant by that. She'd find out for herself soon enough.

The trail was easy to follow, just as Edward had said it would be. She rode up past an abandoned slash pile from an old logging operation, then angled down toward a low field where the snow had melted away to reveal steaming mudflats. A herd of elk shied away as she approached. At a rock-bound natural pool, a tall roan horse was tethered, but she couldn't see Sam. Dismounting, she wound the reins around a low alder branch and climbed up to the pool. Thermal springs abounded in the area, and the wispy steam softened and obscured everything, adding a faint tinge of salt and sulphur to the air.

"Fancy meeting you here," said a disembodied voice.

Mich.e.l.le peered through the steam, and there he was, sitting chest-deep in the pool, wearing nothing but a smile. She tried not to think about that smile, or the way the dampness curled his hair, or the beads of water on his shoulders. "I had a little talk with Alice at the hospital today," she said.

His smile disappeared. "Then I guess you'd better have a seat."

"Maybe you could get dressed, Sam-"

"Or you could join me." The smile sneaked back across his lips.

She sank down on a flat rock, covering her face with her hands. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you were married."

She heard a trickle of water, and suddenly he was gliding toward her, taking her hands away from her face. She should leave now, just get up and ride away, but she felt stuck here, unable to move.

"I would have told you, Mich.e.l.le, but we haven't had that much time to talk."

"We've had time to do a lot more than talk."

"Yeah." His hands-damp, warm, insistent-peeled off her gloves and unzipped her jacket. "Yeah, we have."