The Salt Maiden (27 page)

“I won’t be your pet charity project, something broken you can fix. It didn’t work for Angie, and it sure as hell won’t work for—”

“You’re being stupid. Stubborn. Too damned proud to let a woman help you. To let anyone—”

“I won’t take the chance of hurting you again. I can’t…I couldn’t live with myself if something happened.”

By this time her tears were falling freely. The pain inside her was so wrenching, she didn’t even bother to try to hold them back. “But I love you. Please—”

“Don’t do this, Dana. It’s too hard to see you like this.”

She smiled sadly. “Harder than a diamond drill bit?”

But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t tease a smile from him. Nor anything but the same ironclad insistence that her time with him was over.

Content can soothe where’er by fortune placed,

Can rear a garden in the desert waste.

—Henry Kirk White,
from “Clifton Grove: A Sketch”

Eight months later…

Jay shook his head, darkness clouding his expression. “But you were right earlier; you know that. I’ve got to get straight before I can trust myself again—and especially before I’m deserving of your faith, or anybody’s.”

Dana wiped her leaking eyes with a handful of crumpled tissue. But when she looked up to argue with him, the Salt Maiden lay beneath the crisp white sheets and stared out of a mummified face with Angie’s deep brown eye set in its sole remaining socket.

When she tried to speak, the corpse’s jaw broke loose on one side and dangled askew from a sinew, but it didn’t stop her from reaching forward and laying a withered hand on Dana’s arm.

At death’s touch Dana woke up screaming and found herself trembling, sweat-soaked, with an afghan coiled tight around her as she lay curled on the sofa. Ben and Jerry whined beside her before Ben got up the nerve to place his stubby legs against the cushion and lick her face.

Sitting up, she stroked his head, then reached down to pat her other corgi. But Jerry, always the less confident of the brothers, slid away from her hand with his tail tucked between his legs. Though he had been reliably housebroken for two years, he had recently started having accidents—because her night terrors caused him so much stress.

How could she continue to terrify the animals she claimed to love? And how could she allow herself to continue suffering this way?

The nightmares weren’t getting any better. For months she’d told herself—and her mother, who had witnessed more than one such episode—that she was merely worried about Nikki, whom she’d come to love like the daughter she would never have. But since Wallace had allowed himself to be tested, then proved a match and donated the marrow Nikki needed, her doctors claimed she had an excellent chance of achieving long-term survivorship. And now that her parents were finally talking out their differences, the little girl’s future seemed assured.

It was high time, Dana decided, to stop moping and start thinking about her own future. Her mother had highly recommended the same counselor-led group meetings that had helped her confront the trauma of her own past. Dana had seen for herself Isabel’s transformation, the way her rare, stiff touches had blossomed into hugs these past few months.

“Please, Dana,”
she had urged.
“I think you’d find it helpful—and heaven only knows I’ve wasted enough time for both of us. Besides”
—here a certain shrewdness had come into her voice—
“there’s a man there I think might be wonderful for you.”

At the thought, Dana rolled her eyes. After Alex, whom her mother had considered perfection on a platter, she had no intention of trusting Isabel’s judgment anytime soon. Especially not with the sticky strands of hope still connecting her heart to a man she hadn’t spoken to in months.

But as far as the nightmares went, something had to give. Even if it meant checking out the post-traumatic stress support group she had so long been resisting.

“If my mom can do it,” Dana told the corgis, “so can I.”

Still, she waited until an evening the following week, for a night she knew her mother would be unable to attend. She arrived late—she’d been tied up in the clinic tending the results of a Yorkshire terrier-versus-raccoon battle—
and stood nervously outside the open door of one of the wellness center’s meeting rooms. She felt awkward going in late, walking in among a bunch of strangers and announcing, “Hi, I’m Dana, and I’m a total loser.”

But even as she thought it, she knew she was wrong, as wrong as Jay had been when he’d refused to forgive himself for attacking her.The thought swamped her with the same sadness she always felt when thinking of the way he had vanished from Devil’s Claw as soon as his deputy had recovered sufficiently to take over his position and the charges against both Suzanne and Dennis Riggins had been dropped.

Jay had vanished from her life as well, without leaving her any way to reach him. She prayed that he had done as he had promised, had gone somewhere to get treatment for the same problem she now faced. But he’d been so despondent, so shattered by what he’d called his weakness and the murder charges against his last surviving relative, that in her heart Dana wondered if Jay Eversole had made it.

Sometimes in her dreams she found his body. Dangling from a shower rod. Shot clean through the head. Encrusted with salt crystals in a white grotto hidden far beneath the desert surface.

Still outside the room, she bowed her head. She couldn’t talk about this right now—couldn’t open herself to a group of total strangers. It would be like stripping naked, would be like—

A voice drifted out to her, a voice she knew as well as her own, though it had been far too long since she had heard it.

“I started a new job today. I’m working at the University of Houston, in their Veterans Services Office. Seems they went and got themselves the idea I’m some kind of success story. They think maybe I could be of use talking to other returning vets about the things I’ve been through. I’ll be some kind of glorified red-tape warrior, assisting them with college and grant applications and letting them know it won’t kill ’em to get themselves whatever kind of help they
need to move on with their lives. But it could kill ’em if they don’t—or at least kill their chances for a decent future. For damned sure it cost me the one thing I wanted most in this world, the one woman I’ve been working my ass off to have another chance with, if it’s not already too late. I only wish I’d gotten my act together a hell of a lot sooner—”

“Well, you’ve certainly gotten yourself together now,” an older woman interrupted before the sounds of clapping overwhelmed her words.

“Oh, my…Oh, Jay.” Moving like a sleepwalker Dana stepped inside, breathless and dizzy with relief. With a joy that ignited inside her and lit her like the full moon.

For the rest of her life she would remember the moment when he looked up, the way his vibrant blue eyes flared with hope. For the rest of their lives—his and hers together—they would speak of it, boring their adopted children to distraction with the story of the way they came together in a flurry of sweet kisses. The way they came together, stayed together, and at long last healed each other’s wounds.

I owe a great debt to those who helped make
The Salt Maiden
a reality. First, I’d like to thank agent Helen Breitwieser and editor Alicia Condon for their enthusiasm from the start. But the story never would have made it past my office door without the help and encouragement of the merry band of talented fellow writers who served as my first readers. Thanks to Patricia Kay, Jo Anne Banker, and the members of my fabulous critique group, the Midwives: T. J. Bennett, Wanda Dionne, Joni Rodgers, Anna Slade, and (last but never least) Barbara Taylor Sissel.

Thanks, too, to my family: husband Michael Thompson and son Andrew, I appreciate the way you picked up the slack while I was chasing the deadline dragon, and I never would have gotten this idea without our amazing road trip adventures.

I would also like to say thank you to Sheri Ermis, R.N., who was immensely helpful with my medical questions. Any errors in the department are my own.

One final note: the location of Devil’s Claw was a conglomerate of any number of desolate places I have visited, including tiny Mentone, Texas, in Loving County. Though I stayed as true as possible to the facts, the flora, and the fauna, I freely admit to taking a few geographic liberties where they better served the story.

“Well written with realistic and appealing characters,
Head On
is a mesmerizing story that keeps readers guessing as the murderer draws closer and secrets are revealed. A compelling tale of romantic suspense, it is a strong, satisfying read.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“
Head On
is packed with tension and hard-edge suspense. The story is unforgettable and weaves a rich tapestry of good and evil. Prepare yourself for an all-nighter.
Head On
really delivers. It’s a great read.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Thompson’s novel is filled with realistic dialogue, compelling narrative and believable conflict. The multiple viewpoints add dimension to the plot, and the characterizations are very well done.”

—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Thompson has crafted a top-notch, thrilling romantic suspense.”

—
New York Times
best-selling author Allison Brennan

“This nicely complicated tale has plenty of edge-of-your-seat suspense. The villain is quite violent and evil, and the mystery moves along at a good pace. The main characters’ acceptance of certain traits the people in their lives possess is well developed…”

—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Captivating…Thompson, a RITA finalist, is skilled at building suspense.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Thompson’s style is gritty, and that works well with her flawed and driven characters…High family drama mixes with deadly suspense.”

—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“
The Deadliest Denial
is a spellbinding read with a gripping, intrigue-filled plot. There are twists and turns around every corner…This is a great read. Ms. Thompson has gifted us with another all-nighter.”

—Fresh Fiction

“RITA finalist Thompson takes the reader on a roller-coaster ride full of surprising twists and turns in this exceptional novel of romantic suspense.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(Starred Review)

“The precise details of Thompson’s novel give it a rich, edgy texture that’s enthralling…For keen characters, emotional richness and a satisfying story that doesn’t fade away, read Thompson’s latest.”

—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Fast-paced, chilling, and sexy…[with] chemistry that shimmers.”

—
Library Journal

“Thompson has written a first-class work of romantic suspense.”

—
Booklist

HEAD ON
HEAT LIGHTNING
THE DEADLIEST DENIAL
FADE THE HEAT
FATAL ERROR

A LEISURE BOOK ®

December 2007

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 2007 by Colleen Thompson

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E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0402-8

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