A Reason to Stay (5 page)

T
he low hum of medical equipment and muted voices pierced Faith's consciousness, pulling her back from inside her head. She tried to think, to clarify the sounds floating around her.

Her mouth, her throat—so parched the skin inside seemed to stick together. She needed a drink of water.

Through the tiniest slits, she realized the room was dark. She struggled to lift her weighted eyelids a bit more, but the effort was too much.

It hurt to breathe. She hurt all over.

Where was she?

Her mind tried to think. Tried to remember.

“Don't worry, honey. You're all right.”

She attempted to turn toward the voice, but her head felt like a block of cement. Her vision blurred and she felt confused. She opened her mouth—her dry mouth—to speak. But no sound came out.

“Here, baby, this will help.” A stranger—a woman—leaned over the bed. “Just sleep now. Everything's all right.”

Immediately, every muscle relaxed. Her eyes closed, and she let the gentle voice soothe her mind.

Slowly, she slid back into total darkness.

Faith knew her heart was headed for trouble.

In a totally uncharacteristic move, she skipped racing back to the station after the final shoot. Instead she parked herself inside the news van and worked with Chuck to edit the package, electronically filing it with their producer in time for the ten o'clock broadcast.

“Well, as they say, that's a wrap.” Chuck slipped his monitor closed and slid his computer into a black leather backpack. “You used great storytelling in that block.”

The compliment made her beam. He could be throwing her a bone after the lake incident, but not likely. In her short time at the station, she'd learned Chuck was one of their best cameramen and didn't have much to prove, a guy who didn't frost any cupcakes.

“Thanks, Chuck. Your edits made me look better than I had a right to today,” she conceded. “I appreciate it.”

He winked. “Your secret's safe with me.”

Chuck tossed her a set of keys, then migrated in the direction of the media tent to take advantage of free food and drink with a girl he'd met earlier that afternoon.

Faith hung back to change clothes in the back of the van. Every instruction manual she'd studied clearly stated that a good reporter always carried multiple outfits, extra batteries, and a flexible attitude.

Geary showed up just as she was locking up the van.

“Hey,” he said as he approached.

She adjusted her belt. “Do you think the van will be secure here? I mean, there's a lot of expensive equipment inside.”

Geary pulled his phone from his back jeans pocket. “Don't worry. Got this covered.”

She watched him dial. “Who are you calling?” she mouthed.

He winked and held up his forefinger. “Hey, Jake. There's a KIAM-TV news van parked over here in the lot next to the boat slips. Can you keep an eye on it?” He listened to the voice on the other end, then nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

He slipped his phone into his jeans pocket. “Okay. All good to go. My buddy at the PD will make sure the van and your equipment are still here when you get back.” He reached for her elbow.

She placed the strap of her purse on her shoulder and walked alongside him as they moved across the parking lot toward the main stage area. “Do you always do that?”

“What?”

“Do you always play the hero and sweep in and save the day?”

Geary chuckled. “Sure. I just leave my cape in my tackle box.”

They neared the food tents located in the same direction as the main stage where Montgomery Gentry served as the headline entertainment, thrilling the crowds who'd assembled in Conroe for the Super Bowl of bass fishing.

“You hungry?” Geary asked, pulling his wallet out.

“Starved,” she admitted. It'd been hours since they'd eaten the sandwiches at his place.

Up ahead, a long semi rigged with a black-and-white-striped awning and a massive grill displayed a sign boasting they served the world's best mesquite-smoked brisket. “This okay?” he asked.

The air was filled with that wonderful barbecue smell. “You bet. Smells delicious!”

They purchased homemade root beer from the Wild West Soda Saloon vendor next door and made their way to an empty table.

“Oh my, this is so good,” she said, trying not to gorge on the tender smoky-flavored beef covered in tangy sauce, very aware what the calories were doing to her slim size 6 figure. She didn't want to end up looking like the crackly blonde passing by their table with her ample midriff poking over the top of too-tight jeans.

He noticed too. “Quite the crowd, huh?”

She caught a glimpse of a man in shorts and white tube socks and a cap that said
Shut Up and Fish
. He lugged a loaded cooler while his wife carried folding chairs and led a string of kids behind.

Out here, camouflage-print shirts seemed to be the fashion
statement for men, while an overabundance of chunky turquoise jewelry and tattoos adorned many of the women. At the final weigh-in, the announcer had held up a prize-winning fish, calling the eleven-pounder “as freaking amazing as all these hot Texas women.”

To say this was not exactly her crowd would be an understatement.

Geary wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I enjoyed watching you today. You have a way of drawing people out and getting them to tell you interesting stories.” He studied her, a look of admiration in his eyes. “Seriously, how'd you get those wives to talk to you like that?”

She smiled and savored the compliment. “Secret's out. I got passed over when they were handing out hero capes, but I do have a pair of Wonder Woman wristbands back in the van.”

He chuckled at that, his eyes twinkling—those seriously deep blue eyes.

He was a good head taller than she, solid-looking with broad shoulders and muscular arms deeply tanned. Short dark hair hung careless around his angular face shadowed with stubble. The look
GQ
models worked hard to attain, he managed with ease.

His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, which he did a lot. Nothing seemed to ruffle the man.

And he was easy to talk to.

He asked about her job—his sincere interest punctured her wall of reservation and caused her to spill.

“I love everything about television reporting,” she told him. “Especially learning about breaking news before anyone else.” She recounted an occasion when former president George H. W. Bush was hospitalized for shortness of breath. “It was just before Christmas, and I was sent out with a field team to cover the story. We were the first to arrive on the scene. This might surprise you, but since I was fairly new I hung back a bit.”

“That is surprising,” he teased.

“Well, my lack of confidence paid off. After letting the others go ahead, I rounded a corner and found myself face-to-face with Barbara, his wife.”

Geary leaned forward, looking genuinely interested. “No kidding?”

Faith sipped her root beer. “Nope. For real. She even had on her signature pearls.” She fingered the straw. “I told her I was so sorry to hear about her husband. The best part? A CNN crew arrived on the scene a few seconds later with cameras flashing. Guess who ended up on national television the next day?”

He smiled widely, sharing in her enthusiasm. “That's what our family calls a God-thing.”

She tilted her head slightly. “What about you?”

He grinned. “Me? Oh, nothing as interesting as all that.” He leaned back and let his gaze fall over the crowd. “I tend to gravitate toward the simple things in life.” He looked back at her then, and bless his heart—he looked nervous.

“Like bass fishing?” she urged, suddenly wanting to learn more about this man sitting across from her.

“Yeah, but not all this, really. I mean, sure, tournament wins pay the bills, but the real thrill of bass fishing is when you're out on the lake all alone, pulling into your special spot just as the sun breaks over the horizon. You cut the motor and grab your pole—the one you rigged up the night before with a crankbait you just know is going to hit.”

She watched his eyes fill with the same excitement she had felt earlier knowing that camera was about to go live.

When they'd finished eating, he gathered their empty plates and cups and carried them to a nearby trash receptacle. When he returned to the table he held out his hand. “Dance?”

Startled, she glanced around. “Me? Uh, I don't—”

Geary grabbed her hand. “Oh, c'mon. Let loose a bit.”

Her heart pounded from nerves as she let him drag her toward
a crowd of line dancers shuffling to a rousing rendition of “God Bless Texas.” The only other time she'd danced was in a college exercise class, but in what seemed like no time she was sliding in step and clapping with the rest of them. And it was fun!

The next song started, and she laughed as he grabbed her waist and swung her around. By the third song, she felt winded and her hair hung at her shoulders, damp from the humid night air. She didn't even care, she was enjoying herself so much. She rarely let loose, and especially not among a crazy crowd like this.

Geary Marin was extremely fun. She had to give him that.

He grinned. “You're killing me! I need something to drink.”

“I'm killing you? Who asked who to dance, I want to know?”

He swiped his damp forehead with his forearm before leading her to the edge of the dancing mob where an ingenious entrepreneur sold ice-cold water from a vendor cart.

They quickly polished off a couple of bottles, then melded back into the crowd just as the band announced their final song of the evening. The notes of a slower ballad rang out, and Geary's hand went to the small of her back. “One more?” he asked.

She nodded and placed her right hand in his and leaned her head against his shoulder, savoring the feel of his quiet strength.

Geary rested his head against hers and sang along to the chorus: “‘But I know I'm a lucky man—God's given me a pretty fair hand.'”

Deep down she suspected the lyrics were his own life motto. Rarely had she encountered someone so authentic, so genuine. So sure of himself.

She envied all that.

Later, when they sat at the back of his boat anchored in a nearby slip to watch the fireworks, she realized that he was getting to her. That hollow spot inside her was filled with something pleasant, and she liked how it felt—liked him.

Despite how the morning had started out, she'd laughed today, which was good. When had she last laughed?

After years spent studying night and day, she'd graduated at the top of her journalism class with a diploma and summa cum laude designation in hand. She'd spent the following months stalking the KIAM producers, showing up where she knew the station manager and his management staff ate lunch every day, soon landing an interview, then acing her audition.

Since then, there'd been no play for her, no downtime. Not if she wanted to position herself for quick promotion. She had an eye on a prize, and wouldn't leave the so-called carnival until she held the overstuffed bear in her arms—or in her case, an anchor slot.

And that was just the beginning. She intended to work hard and make her life matter. She believed in herself, and no amount of criticism from those who thought her too focused could convince her otherwise.

But tonight—well, she was off the map, off the grid, behaving like someone she didn't recognize. On this particularly unexpected evening she let herself enjoy another side to life.

“You warm enough?” he asked, casually placing his arm on her seat back as if to ward off a chill.

Faith nodded and looked up into the now blackened sky as the first rocket launched upward. The corners of her mouth turned up. They both knew the air had to still be at least ninety degrees.

Overhead, the nightscape popped and crackled as the black sky above burst into a brilliant shower of red and blue lights.

As focused as Faith was on the beauty of the fireworks, she was even more aware of Geary's thumb as it lightly brushed her upper arm, up and down in tiny strokes—a small but intimate gesture that set her senses on high alert. It was a powerful, heady feeling that made her feel warm and tingly inside, and—well, safe.

In her estimation, men were a lot like dogs. Some were scraggly puppies, ones who constantly needed their ears scratched, impulsive, who took more than they gave. German shepherds asserted dominance and wanted women at their beck and call, always
meeting their needs without question. Occasionally, if you were really unlucky, you'd run into a jealous pit bull who wouldn't think twice about lifting his leg to mark his territory.

Faith gave Geary a sidelong look, sizing him up.

No doubt about it. This one was a golden retriever. Sweet-natured and trustworthy. The kind of dog she'd pick for herself at the pet store.

Not for the first time today, she felt her reservations melting, folding into the comfort of his presence more easily than she would have expected with someone she'd only just met.