Texas! Lucky (34 page)

L
ucky's black mood didn't improve when he got caught in a traffic jam as he approached the outskirts of Milton Point. He cursed the summer heat, the gloriously setting sun, cruel fate. After sitting broiling in his open convertible for several minutes, he got out and flagged down a cattle truck that was driving past in the opposite lane.

"What's caused this snafu?"

"Helluva wreck ahead of you," the teamster shouted down from the cab of his rig. "Two cars. Ambulances. Highway patrol and local cops. The whole shooting match. You might be here for a while, buddy."

"Not likely," Lucky muttered as he climbed back into his Mustang. He was going to the place, where he would drown out all thoughts and memories of Devon Haines and her senseless, stupid stubbornness if it took ten gallons of Jack Daniel's to do it.

He was eventually able to maneuver the Mustang out of the lane and onto the shoulder of the highway. To the fury of other stranded drivers, he breezed along the outside lane, slowing up only when he came even with the site of the wreck and the emergency vehicles.

He was hoping to crawl past without attracting attention, but his legendary luck had deserted him. One of the officers flagged him down and approached his car. Lucky recognized him as a local sheriff's deputy.

"Damn."

"Hey, Lucky, I thought that was you," the deputy called when he was still some distance away. "Stay put," he ordered.

"But—"

"Wait right there." The officer turned and jogged toward a cluster of other officials.

Lucky blew out a gust of breath. Why the hell was he being detained? He had just about decided to disobey the deputy's order when he noticed Pat Bush detaching himself from the huddled group of officers.

"Pat," he called, "get me out of this—"

"Lucky."

Pat's somber expression and hushed tone of voice were out of character under the circumstances. Pat usually commandeered this kind of situation with professional detachment. Lucky's impatience switched to curiosity. "What's going on?"

"Pull your car over there. I need to talk to you."

"What's the matter?" Lucky put on his emergency brake and alighted. Something was very wrong here. Pat was having a hard time looking him in the eye, and Lucky couldn't account for his strange behavior. He was off the hook as far as the arson charge went.

Alarmed, he glanced beyond Pat, toward the tangled wreckage, and slumped with relief because he didn't recognize either car involved in the accident. "Good God, Pat. You had me thinking that one of—"

Pat laid a hand, a consoling hand, on his arm. He and Pat exchanged a meaningful glance. Then Lucky shook off Pat's hand and broke into a run.

"Lucky!" Pat grabbed hold of his shirt.

"Who is it?"

"It's Tanya."

Lucky's chest caved in painfully, his ribs seeming to crack under the pressure of his disbelief. "Tanya?" he croaked. "She's hurt?"

Pat lowered his eyes.

"No," Lucky said in swift denial. What Pat's silent gesture indicated was unthinkable. He ran toward the ambulances, elbowing aside anybody who dared to block his path.

Parting the crowd, he saw that an injured woman was being worked over by paramedics. When he heard her groans, he felt a burst of relief. But as he drew nearer, he saw that her hair color was wrong.

Frantically scanning the area, he spotted another collapsible gurney. It was being lifted into the ambulance. A black zippered bag had been strapped to it. He lunged forward.

Pat stepped into his path and struggled to stop him. "Let go of me!" he shouted.

"It won't do any good to see her now, Lucky."

"Get out of my way!" Bellowing like an enraged bull, he overpowered the older man, shoved him aside, and charged for the back of the ambulance.

The startled paramedics put up token protests as he pushed them aside, but the ferocity of his expression was intimidating, and they fell back. Lucky reached forward and unzipped the black plastic bag.

After one long, disbelieving gaze, Lucky squeezed his eyes shut and spun around. Pat signaled for the paramedics to finish their business. Lucky didn't even respond when the ambulance doors were slammed shut and the vehicle drove off.

"You okay?"

Lucky looked at Pat, but he didn't really see anything except his sister-in-law's still white face. "It's not possible."

Pat nodded his head, as though agreeing. "I was just getting ready to notify Chase of the accident and tell him to meet the ambulance at the hospital."

Lucky's chest heaved. He felt as if a white-hot spike had been driven through his heart. He thought he might vomit. "No. This is a family affair. I'll go. And nobody else tells my mother or sister either, got that?"

"Lucky, this isn't the time to—"

"Got that?"

Pat backed down. "All right. If that's the way you want it."

"That's the way I want it."

"As soon as this is cleared up, I'll come out to the house."

Lucky didn't hear him. He was already headed for his car. It was only a short distance from the accident site to the office of Tyler Drilling. On the one hand, it seemed the longest drive he'd ever made. On the other, he was there far too soon, before he had found the words he must say.

Chase's car was parked out front. Lucky pushed open the door of his Mustang. It felt as though it weighed a ton. On his way into the office he met Chase coming out.

"Hey, where've you been all day? Mother said you struck out first thing this morning and hadn't been seen since." He was obviously in a hurry, and didn't give Lucky time to answer.

"George Young called and wants to know when we plan to make that note payment. That s.o.b. is still putting pressure on us, fire or no fire. I heard from somebody at the courthouse that Little Alvin and Jack Ed both pleaded guilty to arson today and will be sentenced sometime next week. I also met with the guy from the insurance company for two and a half hours. Thank God we kept up those premiums. I'll tell you all about that later. Right now I'm late. I'm supposed to meet Tanya at—"

"Chase, wait a minute." He laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, stopping him halfway down the steps. His lips began to tremble, and Chase's image blurred because of his tears. Lucky's voice faltered. He unsuccessfully cleared his throat. "Chase—"

God, how did one tell a man that the woman he loved and the child she carried were dead?

* * *

The following morning Marcie Johns was moved out of intensive care and into a regular room at St. Luke's Methodist Hospital. She had suffered a concussion, a broken arm and collarbone, and trauma, but none of her injuries had been critical.

She was considered fortunate, since the driver of the other vehicle involved in the accident, a Texas Tech student home for the summer, and Marcie's passenger, Tanya Tyler, had been fatalities. The student had run a stop sign and hit Marcie's car broadside. Most considered it a blessing that he and Tanya had died instantly upon impact.

Lucky had wanted to hit anybody he overheard saying such a thing, and was only glad that, so far, nobody had said it to Chase.

His brother wasn't himself. He was acting like a crazy man. A little unreasonableness was justified, but when he had announced that he was going to the hospital to speak with Marcie, the other members of his family had been shocked and had pleaded with him to reconsider. No amount of persuasion could change his mind, however, so Laurie had instructed Lucky to go with his brother and "take care of him."

Together they walked down the corridor of the hospital toward the room assigned to Ms. Johns. "Why are you so bent on seeing her?" Lucky asked quietly, hoping that even now Chase would change his mind. "If anybody catches us with her, they'll throw us out of here. She's still in serious condition, and not supposed to have visitors."

Chase was walking with the determined tread of a prophet on a mission. He pushed open the door and entered the shadowed room. Lucky, after a quick glance over his shoulder, went in behind him. He vaguely remembered Marcie Johns from high school, and knew her now only by sight. She was an attractive woman, but one couldn't tell by looking at her now.

In spite of the fact that she had been wearing her seat belt, she'd been thrown against the windshield with enough force to bruise and abrade her face. Both eyes were ringed with bruises. Her nose and lips were grotesquely swollen. On her shoulder was a cast designed to keep her broken arm elevated.

Lucky was moved to pity. "Chase, for godsake, let's get out of here. We shouldn't bother her."

He had spoken so softly that the words were barely audible, but she heard them and opened her eyes. When she saw Chase, she moaned and made a move as though she wanted to reach out to him.

"Chase, I'm sorry," she wheezed. "So sorry."

Apparently she had been advised that her passenger hadn't survived. She would have had to know sooner or later, of course, but it seemed to Lucky that later would have been preferable. The additional mental anguish couldn't be good for her body's healing process.

"We … we never even saw him." Her voice was thin and faint. "It was just … a racket … and…"

Chase lowered himself into the chair beside her bed. His features were distorted by grief. Lines seemed to have been carved into his face overnight. The area beneath his eyes was almost as dark as Marcie's. His dark hair was a mess. He hadn't shaved.

"I want to know about … Tanya," he said, his voice tearing on her name. "What kind of mood was she in? What was she saying? What were her last words?"

Lucky groaned, "Chase, don't do this to yourself."

Chase irritably threw off the hand Lucky placed on his shoulder. "Tell me, Marcie, what was she doing, saying, when … when that bastard killed her?"

Lucky lowered his forehead into one of his hands and massaged his temples with his thumb and middle finger. His insides were twisted. He couldn't even imagine the hell Chase was going through.

Or maybe he could. What if Devon had been killed yesterday? What if, after he had angrily left her, she had gone out and needlessly been killed by a driver running a stop sign? Wouldn't he be acting just as unbalanced as Chase? Wouldn't he be damning himself for not telling her one more time that he loved her no matter what?

"Tanya was laughing," Marcie whispered. Pain medication had made her speech slow and slurred. Chase clung to every careful word she was able to speak. "We were talking about the house. She … she was so excited about … about it."

"I'm going to buy that house." Chase glanced up at Lucky, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Buy that house for me. She wanted the house, so she's going to get it."

"Chase—"

"Buy the damn house!" he roared. "Will you just do that much for me, please, without giving me an argument?"

"Okay." Now wasn't the time to cross him, although his brother's request made no sense at all. But was a man who had just lost his family required to be sensible? Hell no.

"Right before we went … through the intersection, she asked me what color I thought…" Marcie paused, grimacing with discomfort. "…what color she should paint the bedroom for the baby."

Chase's head dropped forward into his hands. "Jesus." Tears leaked through his fingers and ran down the backs of his hands.

"Chase," she whispered, "do you blame me?"

Keeping his hands over his eyes, he shook his head.
"No, Marcie, no. I blame God.
He killed her. He killed my baby. Why?
Why?
I loved her so much. I loved…" His voice broke into sobs.

Lucky moved toward him and again laid a comforting hand on his shaking shoulders. Tears marred his own vision. For a long while they were quiet. He realized a few minutes later that Marcie had mercifully lapsed into unconsciousness again.

"Chase, we'd better go now."

At first Chase seemed not to have heard, but he gradually dragged his hands down his wet, ravaged face and stood up. "Order some flowers for Marcie," he told Lucky as they left the room.

"Sure. What do you want me to put on the card? Do you want them to be exclusively from you or from all of—" He came to a dead standstill when he spotted Devon standing at the end of the hospital corridor.

Chase followed his brother's dumbfounded stare. Devon came forward to meet them. Her eyes moved from Lucky to Chase. "Sage called me early this morning," she told him, surprising Lucky. He hadn't known his sister had phoned Devon. "I got here as soon as I could. I can't believe it, Chase." Extending her hand, she took Chase's, pressing it firmly.

"Tanya liked you. She admired you."

Devon's smile was sweet and tearful. "I liked her, too. Very much."

"So did I." Chase didn't apologize for the gruffness of his voice or the tears he continued to shed openly. Indeed, he seemed unaware of them. He addressed the two of them. "I'm going to the apartment now."

"Mother is expecting you back at the house."

"I need to be by myself for a while, among Tanya's things. Tell Mother I'll come out later."

Lucky wasn't so sure that Chase should be alone, but figured he would have to wrestle him to change his mind. He watched him approach the elevator. Moving like an automaton, he punched the button. The doors opened instantly; he stepped into the cubicle. The doors slid closed.