The Last Chance Ranch (24 page)

There it was again, Lila thought, that persuasively sexy intonation in his words. “What will you need to have done?”

“I need someone to organize the staff and make certain all the dishes will be available and properly served.” He lifted a sheet of paper with a typed menu. “It is a reception for a visiting professor. I’d like it to run smoothly.”

Lila laid her fork and knife across the dinner plate, then folded her hands as she looked at him. “Mr. Bashir, I didn’t leave the restaurant because I no longer enjoyed it. I had some struggles with the old owner, but—” She paused. “I have health problems that will prevent me from assisting you in any but the most cursory ways.”

“What can you do?”

“I can make sure the buffet is beautifully arranged, that the food is up to its proper quality and see that the guests are satisfied. In essence, I can perform hostess duties, circulate among the guests to see that they are happy and supervise the employees who serve and clean.”

He measured her for a moment. “That would be excellent.” With the side of his right thumb, he brushed his chin meditatively. “Have you, er, the proper clothing?”

Lila grinned, more amused than offended. No doubt about it, this was the child of a wealthy father. “Yes, Mr. Bashir, I have the proper clothing.”

He responded with the curiously unthreatening smile and gestured with both hands, as if throwing the uncomfortable breach over his shoulders. “Forgive me.”

“It’s all right.”

“Have you a set fee you charge for such things?”

“Not really.” She frowned as she mulled over the time and energy involved in the task, then named a figure she thought was fair.

“More than reasonable,” he agreed. “Well, then, if you will come with me,” he said, rising, “I will find a copy of this list to give you.”

Lila rose, too, bending over the table to lift plates and carry them to the kitchen. For an instant Samuel allowed himself to admire a glimpse of the well-rounded figure she had hidden beneath her modest clothing. As he watched, she stiffened and straightened slowly, a flitting expression of pain tightening her mouth. By the time she turned to face him, there was only the slightest flare of her nostrils to betray her. “I will take care of those later,” he said. “Come.”

As he led the way to the office, he added a certain courage to his mental assessment of her, an assessment that was already rather confusing in its opposites.

Lila tried to control her legs as she trailed him into the small office, taking a chair before he could turn. Even when she was sitting, a series of muscle spasms in her lower back sent an excruciating radius of pain up to her shoulders and down through her legs to her toes. She breathed in slowly, consciously relaxing every atom of her body, then let go of the breath just as slowly. There was no controlling the spasms, but there was a way of living with them.

She glanced up to see Samuel’s black eyes on her, not with the impatience she often encountered, but with something very like admiration. “It’s your back that prevents your working,” he said.

“It’s nothing. The cold night made it act up.”

He seemed to accept this, and opened a drawer to withdraw a file. “These are the plans for the buffet. I plan to hire enough new people this week to cover both fronts that evening, but I thought Charlene would be our best choice. She seems popular with the customers.”

Lila shook her head. “No, she needs to be here to supervise the floor.” She paused to let a particularly vicious assault on her spine pass, keeping her face carefully neutral, as if in thought. “Eileen does a wonderful job with catered affairs.”

Samuel nodded. “Fine, then.”

The consultation was over, Lila thought, accepting a stapled sheaf of papers. Now, the only thing was to stand and go. She steeled herself to rise from the chair gracefully.

Ah, there, she thought. The grip eased, and she stood up. “I hope I’ve been able to help you,” she said, extending her hand.

He took it in his, and Lila noticed his hands were brown and hard and long fingered, his grip cool and professional. “Thank you for coming,” he said formally.

She released him. “My pleasure. I’ll bring your desserts by in the morning.”

As she turned, he saw one hand fly to the small of her back in distress. He pretended not to notice, bending to replace the file in his desk drawer then glancing out the window to the steady rain beyond. As casually as possible, he said, “Lila, will you allow me to drive you home? This weather is not fit for a stray dog.”

She paused, her hand on the doorjamb, and flashed him her dazzling, daring grin. “I’m stronger than a stray dog,” she said, and left.

That was no doubt true, he thought with a grin. Nonetheless… He took his car keys from a hook by the door and donned a light jacket, overtaking Lila as she gathered her wet clothes. “I insist,” he said, smoothly taking her elbow with a smile. “You admired my car, and now you may ride in it.” To forestall any protests, he added, “I need you to be in good health this next week.”

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(Excerpt)

by
Barbara Samuel

Prologue

September

H
e stepped into the bright, hot day with a sense of numbness, looking first to the mountains, dark blue on the horizon, then to the sky, a clear turquoise painted with streaks of feathery white. A wind, warm and scented with pine, danced over open fields to brush his face with light, playful buffets.

On his body were civilian clothes—jeans and a clean cotton shirt. His sister had brought him his boots and a good leather belt. His hair, freshly cut, lifted over his forehead in the free wind.

For a long moment, he simply stood at the threshold of his new life, unable to quite believe all that had happened in the past week. As he stood there, a butterfly flittered through the air—bright yellow with spots of blue.

His numbness burst, like the chrysalis that had once held the butterfly, and from the deadness surged a thrust of pure joy. He turned to the man next to him and grinned.

“You never did belong here,” his friend said. “Go on, now. Don’t look back. Remember what happened to Lot’s wife.”

“Thanks,” he said simply, and took the first long steps into a future he’d never dreamed he would own.

One

B
y the time Maggie Henderson and her photographer arrived at the scene of the protest late Wednesday afternoon, a crowd had gathered. Maggie glanced at the heavy clouds hanging low over Cheyenne Mountain and turned to her photographer. “Rain would be the best thing that could happen this afternoon,” she said.

“I’ll second that,” Sharon McConnell agreed, tossing one of a plethora of braids out of her eye.

“Come on,” Maggie said as she pushed through a throng of black-leather-jacketed teens toward the center of the demonstration.

In front of a record store, a handful of teenagers dressed in pressed skirts and slacks marched in a slow circle, carrying placards protesting a rock band. From somewhere in the crowd, a portable radio blasted the music of the band, adding to the general chaos of shouts and chants.

Maggie couldn’t take notes in the jostling crowd, so she committed it all to memory—the noise and taunts and clashing cultures of the two groups. Suddenly, the crowd parted a fraction and Maggie caught sight of a slender, blond girl seated on the hood of a car. She looked a little scared, Maggie thought, in spite of her black jacket studded with metal and her swinging skull earrings.

Maggie grabbed Sharon’s arm. Shouting to be heard, she said, “Get as much as you can. I’ve got to go kill my daughter.”

Sharon’s dark eyes widened in sympathy as she nodded. Maggie headed through the crowd toward Samantha, unintentionally pushing in her haste to get to the fifteen-year-old trying so hard to be grown-up. These kids were all at least a year or two older than Sam, Maggie fumed. She had no idea what she was getting into.

“Hey, watch it, lady,” protested a girl in a striped tube top.

Maggie ignored her. The chants and noise were growing louder, and a kind of rocking motion rippled through the mass of teenagers. Distantly she heard the sound of sirens. Maggie caught a glimpse of Samantha jumping down from the hood of the car, before the crowd shifted again. Maggie was flung against the body of a boy, who shoved her roughly back. She staggered. The unmistakable sound of shattering glass sent a split second of silence over the crowd. Then all hell broke loose.

As the bodies around her surged and pushed and roared, Maggie looked desperately for Samantha. She could see nothing but the black-and-silver jackets, jeans and flying hair. Someone screamed. The sirens arrived at the scene.

Maggie ducked flying fists, moving back as far as she could, intent now on saving herself from the unparalleled rage of teens who believed themselves wronged. A whisper of cool air touched her face, indicating a break in the hot press of bodies. She turned to flee.

An elbow, a knee, a fist—something unmoving and hard smashed into her left temple. Maggie staggered backward, clutching automatically at her head. She blinked hard and tried to stay on her feet.

The reporter in her knew that falling under the running crowd would be instant death. In spite of the stars shining with silver light in her eyes, she knew she had to keep her wits in whatever shape she could manage.

It wasn’t much. She stumbled, carried along in the flow of the crowd, and collapsed on the curb, blood streaming into her eye. Head wounds bleed a lot, she told herself, praying she wouldn’t need stitches.

“Maggie!” Sharon knelt next to her.

“Am I gonna make deadline?” Maggie asked weakly.

“Forget deadline—can you stand up?”

“I think so.” With Sharon’s help, she made it to her feet, pressing her palm hard to the wound. “I’m going to strangle a certain young woman as soon as I get home.”

“You won’t have to wait,” said a soft, contrite voice at her side.

Maggie reached out and grabbed Samantha to her. One of the skull earrings bit into her jaw, and she smelled the strawberry scent of Sam’s shampoo. Relief flooded through her.

“Come on,” Sharon said. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

* * *

Later, as she held a fresh ice pack to the wound marring her eyebrow, Maggie thought the entire afternoon would make a wonderful letter to her brother, Galen, in New Mexico. He would love the absurdity of the three dozen calls she’d made to the newsroom of the small weekly newspaper she owned and edited, frantically trying to make sure that the paper would get to the printer in time for distribution tomorrow afternoon. He would laugh at her descriptions of the lecture Samantha had received about the dangers of not exercising proper judgment in the selection of companions, a speech Maggie had delivered with an ice pack pressed to her blackening eye.

She swallowed a mouthful of cold beer and kicked the front porch swing into a little rocking motion. The May night was incredibly warm for a Colorado spring. Maggie breathed in the gentle breeze, fragrant with the odor of new grass, and felt its recuperative powers spread through her shoulders and down her spine.

Samantha, looking a great deal more like herself in a ponytail and a pink cotton sweat suit, appeared at the screen door. “Do you need anything, Mom? I’m about to go to bed.”

“‘Mom’?” Maggie echoed. “You’ve been calling me Maggie for weeks.”

Sam had the grace to look ashamed. “I know. I’m sorry. But you really are my only mother, aren’t you?”

“You know I am. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Good night.”

“‘Night, Sam,” Maggie answered gently.

She took another long swallow of beer. Sam would be sixteen soon. At the end of her first year in high school, she was beginning to ask difficult questions of herself, Maggie and the world around her—a normal, healthy step, but one complicated in Sam’s case by a search for identity.

Given the girl’s tangled parentage, the search was no surprise.

Sam’s mother, a photographer, had been killed in a bomb blast in Belfast when Samantha was nearly four. Maggie had met and married Paul Henderson, also a photographer, when Sam was five, becoming the only mother Sam had really known. Five years later, an amicable but imperative divorce had split Maggie and Paul. Since Paul traveled widely in his career, the decision that Samantha would live with Maggie had been a sensible one.

For the most part, the arrangement had worked out well. Even Sam’s present search for roots was not unexpected.

From the open door of the other half of the semidetached building came the sound of quiet blues. Maggie swung slowly in time to the sound of the mournful saxophone. At least her new neighbor wasn’t like the last ones, she thought, two single girls who had played their music until two or three in the morning, entertained friends constantly and even sunbathed in the backyard with their boombox at full blast. Although she had liked the girls, their noise had become a serious problem. Maggie hadn’t been sorry when they’d moved the week before.

Judging from the clues she’d gathered about the new neighbor, it was a man. Few women drove a truck or moved in during the course of one afternoon without the help of friends.

Now she added another tidbit of information—someone quiet, with a taste for blues. Nice.

As if on cue, a shadow emerged from the door of the other apartment. He walked out to his side of the porch and leaned on the railing. When Maggie’s swing squeaked, he turned, almost imperceptibly crouching as if to spring.

Seeing her, he straightened. “Sorry,” he said in a voice as deep as a mountain gorge. “I thought you’d gone in.”

He was huge; four or five inches past six feet, with arms like the branches of a great tree. “That’s all right,” Maggie said. “It’s your porch, too.”

He relaxed on the sturdy wooden railing of the turn-of-the-century porch. “Thanks.” His face was in shadow, but Maggie instinctively warmed to the gentleness of his resonant bass voice. “I didn’t want to bother you.”