Lacy Page 27

  Back in Chicago, Blake Wardell was trying to puzzle out a conundrum of his own. He'd had a letter from Cole Whitehall asking him to come down to San Antonio at the end of the week for a business meeting. He didn't know what Whitehall was up to, but he had a feeling he was about to be offered a partnership. He wasn't going to refuse it, if that was what the other man had in mind. He'd do anything for Katy. That feeling extended to her whole family. Over the weeks since Katy had left Chicago, his frequent conversations with her brother had given him a new knowledge of the man. It would be no hardship to invest in a ranching enterprise. Especially, he thought, with ironic humor, since he seemed to be going the whole hog in his search for respectability. Katy would be proud of him. She'd worked hard enough to make him change his ways.

  He put the letter down with a smile. The trip would give him the opportunity to find out how she was. He might even get a glimpse of her. The smile faded as he realized how hungry he was for that small mercy. She belonged to the blond ace. He'd never had any doubts about her feeling for her brother's foreman. He couldn't stop loving her, wanting her. But he had some precious memories to carry into his old age; they were so good that he hadn't even had the urge to tarnish them by going to bed with some other woman. His eyes warmed as he thought how it had been with Katy that night, how she'd responded to him with such eager ardor, such delight. Even if she'd spent the whole time thinking of another man, it didn't seem to matter. That one memory of her was all his, and he was going to treasure it until he died.

  the movie Turk took Katy to see was a Valentino one, Blood and Sand, about a bullfighter's tragic rise and fall. Katy sat stiffly at his side watching it, and he cursed his own insensitivity in taking her to a picture that ended in a bloodbath. To his credit he hadn't known about that last scene, but now he wished he'd asked somebody before he'd taken her to see it.

  "Come on," he said gently, helping her out of the theater before she realized what was happening.

  Out in daylight again, she winced at the surge of bright light. Turk walked beside her in silence, his dark suit looking unfamiliar on his tall frame, the only recognizable attire his boots and Stetson.

  "I'm sorry," he said shortly as he took her arm and led her back toward the runabout. "I never thought about the gore."

  She searched for words. "It's all right," she said finally when they'd reached the car. "I didn't, either."

  He helped her inside and went through the ritual of cranking the car while she sat uneasily inside.

  They were outside town before he spoke again. "I mean it, Katy. I had no idea what the end of the film would be like."

  "Could we get out and walk for a little bit?" she asked, glancing toward a path that led off into the trees, just before the dirt road crossed a little stream.

  "Sure." He pulled off on the side of the road and cut the engine. Katy took off her hat and left it on the seat, lifting her skirts to keep them out of the grass as she wandered through the mesquite trees to the edge of the stream, then paused, listening to its cold burble as it ran over slick stones. In Chicago, she'd worn short skirts. But here in Spanish Flats, she was trying desperately to attain some measure of respectability again. The length of her dress—briefly in fashion this year—was armor.

  Turk lit a cigarette and leaned against a mesquite's thick trunk, his wide-brimmed hat pushed back over his blond hair while he stared at the water.

  Katy's eyes slid sideways, lingering on the way his slacks molded his powerful legs, the narrowness of his hips, the broadness of his chest and shoulders. He was perfectly built. For the first time since Danny's death, her mind wandered to the afternoon she'd known him in complete intimacy. Flushing she averted her eyes to the stream.

  Turk caught the tail edge of that look and began to hope. So she wasn't completely indifferent to him. Thank God. He'd almost given up hope.

  "You said you'd tell me one day," she said.

  His heavy blond eyebrows arched. "About what?" he asked, and smiled.

  "How you and my brother met."

  He knocked an ash off his cigarette. Deep, soft laughter teased his throat. "That wasn't so much a meeting as a confrontation. I was having a hard time of it. I'd come straight from my wife's funeral into the army, been shipped overseas with no time to come to terms with the loss. I drank quite a lot," he said slowly. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the stream. "Cole and I were in the same outfit, both avid fliers. As we began to make names for ourselves, we started competing. Inevitably we got into a fight one day and almost landed each other in the hospital."

  "What did you fight about?" Katy asked.

  "Damned if I remember," he replied thoughtfully, his pale eyes twinkling with humor. "But it was enough to convince us both that we'd make better friends than enemies. I fought like a wild man in the sky, then drank until I couldn't stand up, remembering how my wife had died, blaming myself for leaving her there alone in her condition." He took a long draw from the cigarette. "One night, I tried to go up in my airplane while I was staggering drunk. I had some noble idea of crashing down on the German barracks at night, you see. Cole stopped me, put me to bed. I got a lecture the next morning about the reverence of life and how I was trying to waste mine. It worked. I pulled myself together."

  "You did something similar for Cole, didn't you?" she asked. "Nobody tells me anything, you know—but Lacy sometimes says things without thinking. She said you saved Cole's life once."

  "He was no more in control of his faculties than I'd been," he said. "But what happened is between the two of us. Lacy may know, but only if he's told her. That's his secret, not mine."

  She snapped a dead twig from a limb and turned it in her fingers. "He's lucky to have a friend like you."

  "That works both ways."

  She nodded. Her hair blew gently across her cheek as she lifted her face. "It's cold," she said after a minute, tugging her fur-lined coat closer.

  He stared at her, the cigarette forgotten in his fingers. "You've changed," he said. "The light's gone out of you, Katy."

  "I've had a rough time," she said, averting her eyes. "The memories won't go away overnight."

  "Still mooning over the Chicago mobster?" he asked suddenly, his eyes dangerous.

  She went white. With a tiny cry, she turned and started back toward the car, blinded by the sting of wounded tears. She should never have told him about Wardell. He'd never get over it. He'd never let her forget.

  He cursed furiously under his breath and threw the cigarette in the stream, going after her with angry strides.

  She felt his big hand on her arm before she reached the clearing. He whipped her around, close up against him. His size and strength had never been more evident as he scowled down at her, pale eyes blazing out of a face dark with anger and subdued passion.

  "Why don't you go back to Illinois and marry him?" he asked curtly. "Maybe that would turn you back into the girl you were!"

  She felt his grip even through the coat. It hadn't been long enough for the memory of Danny's white rages to pass. She felt the pain of his bruising hold and prepared herself subconsciously for the blow that always accompanied Danny's violent grip. She cringed and threw up a protective arm, shaking as she anticipated the beating Danny had accustomed her to.

  Her posture brought Turk to his senses. He went very still, his grip relaxing as he realized what she was thinking.

  "Oh, my God, Katy," he ground out, dropping her arm. "I'm not going to hit you! How could you think me capable of such a thing? I'm not Marlone!"

  She had to fight for composure. It took more than a minute to regain it, and even then she could barely look at him.

  His face had gone rigid. "I thought it was only the one time," he said, his voice rough. "When you lost the baby. But it wasn't, was it? He beat you more than once."

  "For a while it was every day," she whispered huskily. She wiped at tears, but without looking at him. "The more dope he used, the worse it was. I have.. .marks..." She swallowed. "He did
n't just use his hands. He used a belt." She lowered her face.

  He didn't know what to say, what to do. He was more confused than he'd ever been in his life, about her feelings and his own.

  "Wardell tried to stop him, you said," he muttered after a minute, his voice cold as he asked the question.

  She lifted her wounded eyes to his. "You really hate it, don't you, Turk?" she asked huskily. "You hate the very thought of Blake Wardell."

  His eyes flashed wildly. "I can't help it,"he said harshly. "Marlone was your husband. But, Wardell..." He cursed, turning away. "It turns my stomach!"

  Nothing had ever hurt Katy so much. Her face felt drawn as the muscles in it went rigid. Turk wasn't going to get over what she'd done. He hated her and Wardell; she.. .repulsed him.

  She turned away, moving slowly back to the car. She was soiled goods in his mind, something so low that he didn't want to touch her. That was just as well, because she wasn't sure if she could get past her fear of male strength to ever allow intimacy again. Her reaction to Turk just now had shown her that.

  He smoked a cigarette before he went back to the car. He shouldn't have been so violent with her. He'd frightened her all over again, just when she was getting over her experience. He shouldn't have made that crack about Wardell, either, he realized belatedly. His jealousy of the man was getting completely out of hand. It wasn't Katy's fault if she loved the lousy gambler, was it? He had no right to punish her for what she felt. She'd loved him once, and he'd thrown her right out of his life. What did he expect, he wondered with self-loathing, that she'd moon over him as long as she lived and never let any other man touch her?

  Katy, unaware of what he was thinking, had taken his contempt at face value and accepted it. Her eyes were staring straight ahead; she was deadly quiet when he came back and cranked the car.

  "I'm sorry if I upset you," he said. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm perfectly fine, thank you," she said, with eerie calm.

  He hesitated, but she wouldn't look at him. He pulled back onto the road and drove home. When she got out at the front steps, she still hadn't spoken.

  Two hours later, they found her in the bathroom between her bedroom and Marion's, lying unconscious on the floor, a bottle of sleeping pills spilled beside her disheveled hair.

  They were just in time, Cole realized when the doctor came out to speak to them. He felt as sick as Lacy looked. Turk was another matter. The man had gone crazy when he saw Katy lying on the floor. Cole had finally had to hit him to make him turn her loose so they could get her to the doctor. He'd sent Lacy out of the room, in fact, to spare Turk the embarrassment of being seen in that condition, sobbing brokenly over Katy's limp body.

  He'd explained it to her while they were waiting at the small clinic to see if Katy was going to survive at all.

  "Poor man," she sighed, pressing close to Cole as they waited with cold fear to see what was going to happen. "Cole, if she dies, he'll kill himself," she said huskily.

  "I know." His voice was bitter. He could barely speak at all for the lump in his throat. He loved Katy. They all did. He felt somehow responsible, as if he'd put her here by refusing to give in to her obsession with Turk.

  Lacy caught his hand and held tight when the doctor came out. But he didn't look solemn. He was smiling wearily.

  "She'll be all right. She'll sleep the clock around, of course. She didn't take enough to kill her. You got her here in time."

  "Oh, thank God," Cole ground out. "And thank you!"

  "It's a pleasure to bring good news to someone for a change. How's Marion?"

  "Bearing up," Cole said heavily. "She's seeing her doctor, now— for something to calm her down. Turk's with her."

  "We were in school together. She's a fine woman. Your father was a lucky man. Let Katy stay overnight. You can take her home in the morning if she's improved. Good night, now."

  "Good night."

  "Thank God." Lacy sighed, leaning against his chest. "It was a stroke of genius on your part, making Turk go with Marion."

  "I don't doubt he'll knock my brains out for it later," he said, "but I couldn't risk Mother as well as Katy."

  "I understand..."

  Booted feet echoed down the hall. They turned to find Turk coming along the narrow corridor with a face like tissue paper.

  "Marion's in the car, resting comfortably. Doc says she'll be okay. How is Katy?" he asked, his eyes desperate.

  "She's going to sleep the clock around, then we can take her home," Cole said quietly. "She'll be all right."

  Turk tried to speak and couldn't. He turned away, not wanting them to see his face. He was shaking so hard with fear that he could barely stand by himself. He'd never known such terror. He swallowed, and swallowed again, before he leaned against the wall and began to roll a cigarette with fingers that spilled half the tobacco in the process.

  "What I don't understand is why she did it," Cole said heavily. "I thought she was getting better."

  "It's because of him, that's why she did it,"Turk said jerkily. "She loves him."

  "She hated Danny," Lacy protested.

  "Not Danny." He turned, his eyes blazing out of a white face. "Him! Wardell!"

  Lacy stared at him uncomprehendingly. Katy had told her that she still loved Turk. Why did he have the idea that Wardell was responsible for her suicide attempt?

  "What did she say to you today?" Cole asked Turk. "She must have said something."

  "She said he was kind to her," he replied wearily. "It brought it all back. I lost my temper. I was so damned jealous of Wardell I could hardly see straight—thinking about how she'd known him… how well she'd known him. I was rough with her, and she cringed. Danny beat her often. She was scared to death of me. She actually expected me to hit her!" He shook his head to clear the glaze in his eyes. "My God, as if I could ever hurt her! Her, of all people!"

  "Why do you think she loves Wardell?" Lacy asked gently.

  "She's unhappy. He was good to her when nobody else gave a damn; of course she loves him." He glared at Cole. "I know you talk to him now and again. Tell him she needs him. Maybe he can keep her from doing.. .that.. .again."

  He stared toward where the doctor had gone, his face agonized, before he turned and went back down the corridor.

  Lacy turned to Cole. "But she doesn't love Wardell," she said. "She loves Turk. She said she'd never stopped, never would. Where did he get the idea that it was Wardell?"

  "Maybe she gave it to him," Cole said thoughtfully. "I can't understand why she took the pills, though. Turk cares about her. I've never seen him so torn up."

  "Perhaps," Lacy began thoughtfully, "she mistook his jealousy for contempt. She's very sensitive about what happened. Turk might have inadvertently given her the impression that her intimacy with Wardell disgusted him."

  He sucked in a harsh breath. "Lacy, if that's true, with her self-image so low already, we might not be able to stop her next time. We've got to do something."

  "Could you ask Mr. Wardell to come and see her?" Lacy asked. "I don't like hurting Turk or Katy, but he might be the catalyst to bring both of them out in the open about what they really feel."

  He lifted an eyebrow. "Well, little one.. .as it happens, I think I might just have a way to get Wardell here."

  He didn't add how. But as he began to recover from the trauma of the day, he realized that everything was working to his advantage right now. Even poor Katy's predicament. With luck, he could solve her problem and his own at the same time, and perhaps save her life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ben had produced, painstakingly, the first chapters of his book. He was amazed at his own skill, at the way the words danced to life on the thick paper in his typewriter. He didn't type well, and it was slow going, but he was making progress.

  He ran a hand though his hair and felt the beard on his chin. He'd all but gone without sleep and food during the creative process. Now, finally, he felt he had something to show a publisher. He knew o
ne was in town, visiting Gertrude Stein. He wasn't as avant-garde as the other expatriated American novelists who lived in Paris. In fact, he was rather shockingly conservative in his outlook. But because of President Coolidge, the whole country was turning that way after the wild living and excesses of the postwar years. His book wasn't about breaking the rules. It was about the nobility of living up to them. He smiled excitedly as he thought about the trend toward that sort of thinking, and that he might be riding the very crest of the wave. If he was right, and the pendulum of morality was swinging back again, he could find himself at the top of the literary heap with a very old-line point of view.

  His journalistic style had been polished during his brief stint with the Bradleys. He'd suffered—and had also witnessed the suffering—of others because of himself. All that had gone into the book; all his heart and soul had gone into it. It was the best thing he'd ever done. Now all he had to do was convince someone to publish it.

  He talked his way into a cocktail party that night and followed Reb Garnett around like a puppy until the publisher finally got tired of ducking him and sat down with resigned irritation to listen to Ben's plot. But the irritation began to mellow into interest, and by the time Ben finished, the man was actually interested.

  "You say you worked as a journalist?" Garnett asked. "That's right." "You're very young."

  "It's a young country right now," Ben argued. "But don't you see everyone's getting sick of permissive living? All for me, nothing for the other man, is a philosophy that has seen its peak. President Coolidge is turning it all around. His fascination with the enduring values upon which society should and could be based has sparked much interest at home." He leaned forward intently. "The least you can do is give me a chance. I'll do anything you ask to help arouse interest in it."