Homecoming (3 page)

Chapter Two

May 30th

Federica opened her eyes slightly, saw daylight, then closed them again. Where was she? She had no recollection whatsoever of the night before. Or the night before that, for that matter.

The bed was unfamiliar, but that was no surprise. Most beds were. Most nights she spent in an unfamiliar hotel room in an unfamiliar city.

She rolled over, every muscle aching, and wondered where the wall was. Where the bathroom was.

She felt awful. She wanted to call down to the front desk, but realized with a hazy terror that she hadn’t the faintest idea what language she should speak.

It didn’t make much difference. Nearly everyone in the Mansion Inn chain spoke excellent English. Still, she couldn’t quite see a Mansion calling down to reception and saying, with a note of wild panic, “Excuse me. I seem to have lost my bearings. What day is today? What country am I in?”

Wherever she was, the sun was rising. A faint, pearly gray sky was visible through the window.

She didn’t want to face the new day. Couldn’t.

Whimpering, she turned her face into the pillow and fell into a restless sleep again.

“She alive?”

“I guess so. She’s breathing. If she’s breathing, there’s a pretty good chance she’s still alive.”

“I knew all those years of veterinarian correspondence courses weren’t wasted on you.”

“Thanks, Jack. What are we going to do about her?”

“Mmmm?”

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Quit mooning and start thinking. So okay, she’s pretty. But don’t forget she’s the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy now, Lil. Now she’s just a very sick and very tired young woman.”

“Tired I can believe. Did you see that airline ticket she had on the dresser? It looked like an accordion, it was so big. Did you know that she’s been traveling nonstop for over three months?”

“Since when did you turn into a snoop, Lil?”

“I was curious to know what we were up against.”

“Well, what we’re up against now looks like a temperature, exhaustion and maybe the flu. And coming in from Singapore, flu is no joke. Is Doc Alonzo around?”

“I saw him playing poker at Stella’s a couple of hours ago.”

“Well, let’s go get him. While we’re at it, we’ll have Stella prepare her some hot soup, and I want to talk to that chauffeur of hers.”

“Okay. Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“She looks awfully…I don’t know…small and lonely curled up in that bed. Not like an enemy at all.”

“Yeah, I know, Lil. I know. Let’s go get her some help.”

Jack Sutter stepped into the cool darkness of Stella’s Bar & Grill and waited until his eyes made the adjustment from the bright sunshine outside. He removed his Stetson and slapped it against his denim-covered thigh to remove some of the dust from the van ride down from the Folly.

He saw Doc Alonzo in the far corner seconds before the man gave a loud whoop of joy and reached out his arms to pull the pile of beans in the center of the poker table over to him. He took a hefty slug from a glass of Diet Coke.

Ten years ago, the pile of beans would have been several thousand dollars’ worth of chips, Carson’s Bluff would have been Reno, and the Diet Coke would have been good whiskey. Ten years ago, Dr. Alonzo Garcia y Fernandez had had a fancy practice in San Diego, with a fancy house and a fancy wife, until a taste for poker, blackjack and alcohol had robbed him of all three.

Now, he mended broken bones and cured colds in Carson’s Bluff, drank soda and played a mean hand of poker with beans as the stake, which was all anyone would play him for. And—to his astonishment—it kept him satisfied.

Jack grinned. Like many in Carson’s Bluff, Doc Alonzo had been given a second chance here. A second chance in life was what Carson’s Bluff was all about.

Jack ambled over to the stained wooden counter, lifting a booted foot to the brass railing running along the bottom and settled his dusty hat on a nearby barstool. The bar was over one-hundred-forty years old. He should know. He’d helped the other men in town sand it down when Stella had inherited it from a great-aunt. He’d found a little brass plaque under the counter.
Schmidt & Sons. Fine Woodworkers. St. Louis. 1864.

A tall, shapely brunette put down the tea towel she’d been using to wipe glasses and walked over to where he was standing.

“Hey, Jack.”

“Stella.”

“How’s the lady doin’?”

“Not too well, Stella. That’s why I’m here, to get Doc Alonzo and to talk to that chauffeur of hers. And while I’m doing that, why don’t you throw some grub together, and put some hot soup in a thermos?”

“Sure thing. I’ll tell you, I was all set to hate that guy and do everything to drive him away. And then when it turns out he’s a
she
and she looked so—so helpless, you know?”

“I know, Stella. Throw some food together for me, will you? And see if you can find that chauffeur.”

“Sure thing.” Stella walked around the counter and approached a husky man with shiny, mahogany-colored skin. She spoke quietly and pointed at Jack. The husky man rose, unsmiling, and walked slowly over to Jack.

“You Ms. Mansion’s driver?”

The man nodded.

Jack stuck out his hand and tried not to wince at the ferociously strong grip. “Name’s John Sutter. Most people call me Jack. I’m the sheriff and the mayor around here.”

He scowled. “Erle Newton. Just call me Newton.”

Jack got his hand back and tried to shake it surreptitiously under the counter to get the circulation going again.

“Pleased to meet you, Newton. I take it you drove Miss—ah, Ms. Mansion up here?”

“Yes, sheriff, I did.” The man’s voice was deep and soft.

“Well, we have a problem.”

The man’s big body tensed. “A problem?”

“Yes. We can’t seem to get her to wake up. I’ve been going up with my sister every couple of hours or so to see if she’s gotten up, but she’s still in bed. I sent my sister in to shake her, but she just smiled, closed her eyes again and rolled over. I’m going up again with my sister now to bring Ms. Mansion some food and I’ll take our local doc with us. But I need to know if there’s some problem there—”

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking—” the big man started angrily.

Jack held up a hand. “Whoa. I was thinking medical problem, like diabetes, something the doctor should know about.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with Miss Federica a kinder family and a little rest won’t cure.”

“Kinder family?”

The man drew himself up to his full height, a few inches taller than Jack’s six-one, and gave Jack an intimidating stare. “You didn’t hear that.”

Jack didn’t intimidate easily and he recognized protectiveness when he saw it. He grinned and slapped the side of his head with an open palm.

“Damn, but my hearing goes now and again. So what were you saying? That there are no medical problems I should know about?”

“No medical problems at all. Miss Federica is as healthy as a horse. Has to be, the way they—the way she works. Just let her be. She’s exhausted. I picked her up directly from the airport and drove her here. Orders.”

“A seven-hour drive after she’d flown halfway around the world?”

“Yessir. And she’s been doin’ that for nigh on eight years now. I think she deserves a little sleep, don’t you?” The big black man’s eyes met his. “I’d like to see that she gets it.”

“No problem by me,” Jack said cheerfully. “She can sleep for the next ten years, far as I’m concerned. Harry’s Folly is there—clean and empty.”

“They’ll be looking for her soon,” Newton said slowly.

“‘They’ being a boyfriend?” Jack’s voice was studiously casual.

“No. Uncle. Frederick Mansion.” Newton’s face went blank. “He’ll call and call and then his secretary will start sending faxes.”

“Well.” Jack scratched his whiskered chin and reminded himself to have a quick shave before heading back to the Folly. Who knew if the gorgeous Miss Mansion was awake? “Mr. Frederick Mansion is not going to have too much luck in calling, Newton, because I’m not in my office and my secretary just had a baby. And damned if our fax didn’t just break down a few minutes ago and the answering service will be on the blink. So maybe Miss Federica can get her sleep after all.”

A white grin split the darkness of the man’s face. “Owe you one. Sir.”

Jack felt a grin creep over his face. So pretty Miss Federica Mansion had a wicked uncle and no boyfriend, did she? “Think nothing of it, my good man.” He playfully jabbed a right to Newton’s shoulder and met solid muscle. “Think nothing of it.”

“Come on, honey, sit up.”

Federica mumbled, “Go away,” and tried to turn over, but gentle hands turned her back. She swatted at them, but they were firm.

A cool hand felt her brow and stuck a thermometer in her mouth and she drifted back to sleep, then someone was shaking her gently awake again.

Without wanting to, she found herself sitting up, pushing hair out of her eyes, leaning against a hard shoulder.

“Drink up, honey. You need to get something in you.” A woman with an interesting face, high broad cheekbones easing down into a determined chin, was bending down to her, holding a steaming oversized cup. Her intense blue eyes were kind, and she had a soft Western accent.

Suddenly, Federica realized she was starving. She accepted the cup and began trembling. To her horror, she found that her shaking hands couldn’t support the big cup, and she was about to spill what smelled like soup all over herself when a large, brown hand cupped hers. She sipped cautiously, then eagerly. It was delicious.

She followed that brown hand up a checked plaid arm until she met another pair of intense blue eyes disturbingly near hers. She blinked.

“Better?” a deep voice asked.

He looked like the woman, only with tanned leathery skin and curly black hair instead of the woman’s soft brown. He smiled encouragingly and Federica found herself smiling back.

“Yes,” Federica replied cautiously. “I think so. It’s just that I—I’m so sleepy.”

“Doc, what do you think?”

“Nothing some more bed rest and a few more of Stella’s meals won’t cure.” The third person in the room, a portly Hispanic man, smiled at her from the shadows.

“Who—” Federica began, but the word turned into a yawn. “Who are you?”

“Jack Sutter,” the man beside her said. He was so close she could feel the vibrations of his deep voice in his chest. “That’s my sister Lilly, and that fat man over there is Doc Alonzo. Don’t look like much, I know, but he’s a pretty good quack. Hasn’t buried too many of his patients, and he says you’re okay.”

Someone had attached lead weights to Federica’s eyes. The hot soup nestled warmly in her stomach. “Jack Sutter,” she murmured. “Lilly.” Her eyes closed and she slid back down into the bed. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mayor,” she said, and fell asleep.

The three let themselves quietly out of her room, and walked down the huge banistered staircase of Harry’s Folly and into the bright morning. Carson’s Bluff could be clearly seen a few miles down the valley, looking closer than it was because of the pristine clarity of the mountain air.

“Well, Jack,” Lilly said, amusement lacing her voice. “I’ll bet that was a real first for you.”

“What’s that, Lil?”

“Most girls fall at your feet. First time I’ve seen one fall fast asleep on you.”

May 31st

FAX FROM: Ellen Larsen, c/o Inter Airways, JFK Airport, New York

FAX TO: F. H. Mansion c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff, CA

Hi Federica, I thought you’d have called me by now, but I imagine you were tired when you got in. Trust Uncle F. to send you straight off without a chance to recover from jet lag. Just like our boss, El Shithead. Eat this fax.

I bid the California route, just in case you finish your business early and asked for the 2nd and 3rd off. Even if we can’t see each other, we can at least chat on the phone without making the phone company rich.

I wonder if the sheriff has come up with any other little problems Carson’s Bluff might have, like giant man-eating spiders or space pods. Isn’t Northern California
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
country or am I thinking of the wrong movie?

Let me know if we’re going to be seeing the Boss.

Love, El

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/NO SIGNAL

May 31st, 3:00 p.m.

INTERNAL MEMO, Mansion Enterprises

From: Frederick Mansion

To: Russell White

R.W.—I’ve been waiting for two days now for that building and restoration schedule for the Carson’s Bluff property. Federica hasn’t contacted me, but I imagine she’s working on the sale. McClellan over at Sandford & Co. has assured me they would be booking a week a month in the second quarter of next year, and Neal Haar has been making interested noises. The retreat could be a big money spinner, but we have to stay on target. Carson’s Bluff is our last scheduled construction project until next year, and if it’s not online by Christmas, I might have to shut down your department.