The Year of Luminous Love Read online

  Ciana felt instant sympathy for the man. “Where is he?”

  “In a dump of a trailer on a half acre out west of here. Pickins said he could offer Dad a room in the bunkhouse, and that way I could keep an eye on him, but Dad’s stubborn. He won’t budge. And we’ve never been on the best of terms.”

  “You going back to Texas when the job’s finished?”

  “Would it matter?” His question caught her off guard.

  “Not many rodeos around here.”

  “True. And I still want my own spread and my own horses. But Bill’s saying he’d welcome me back next summer. If I want to come.”

  Her heartbeat accelerated, then dropped like a stone. Could she face another summer with or without him? Could she maintain her distance and her resolve for Arie’s sake? “Good man is hard to find,” Ciana mumbled.

  By now the meal was finished and their conversation had no place to go. Jon stood, scraped the leftovers into their cartons, and put the scraps into a bag. “I’ll throw this away at my place.”

  Ciana stood, too, wanting him to stay but knowing she couldn’t allow it. “Thanks for the meal and for caring for my horses. I really appreciate both. It’s been a hard few days.”

  “Happy to do it.” He turned at the doorway of the tack room and repeated, “Would it matter to you? If I returned next year?”

  That set her adrenaline flowing through her body in a rush. “It … it would mean the world to Arie,” she said carefully. Not a lie, but not the truth either.

  He put on his Stetson, bent over, and blew out the candles. “But not to you.”

  He left the barn and Ciana felt as if the light and air had gone with him.

  Arie cleaned the art tables hurriedly, already late for her appointment with Dr. Austin in the adult oncology wing. Three months had passed since her last appointment, meaning her status was “unchanged.” Good enough. A nurse passing the rec room said, “Hey, Arie, the janitor just finished installing the first of the ceiling tiles. Come see.”

  Arie followed the nurse into the hall to where a handyman was folding up a ladder. She looked up. Every third tile was emblazoned with a hand-drawn image a child created during her art classes. “Oh my gosh! They’re gorgeous.”

  Seeing the tiles gave Arie a feeling of great satisfaction. Something from a child who fought cancer would be seen for years to come. Some tiles would memorialize its creator; others would herald a child who beat the Big C. All were signed, colorful reminders of a child who passed through this hospital on a life journey not to be forgotten.

  “Have to run,” she said, and broke for the stairwell, where she climbed to the adult oncology floor and went into Dr. Austin’s office. The receptionist directed her into an exam room where she saw Dr. Austin looking at CT scans hanging on the light board on the wall. “I know I’m late. The art class ran long and the tables were a wreck. Ever seen what a group of kids can do with acrylic paint?”

  Austin, with his wire-rim glasses and balding head, waved away her stream of words. “Have a seat.”

  She didn’t want to sit. Her eyes cut to the light board. “Mine?”

  “Yours.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  Arie bravely stepped to the glowing scans and stared at the pictures of her torso’s midsection and saw three small dark spots in the area she knew to be her liver. “It’s back?” she asked, forcing out the words, tamping down panic.

  “Yes,” Dr. Austin said. “I’m afraid so.”

  “But the area was clear just months ago. No spots at all. How could they come back? And so fast?”

  “I’d never have predicted this.”

  “Short remission.” The words tasted bitter.

  “I’m sorry, Arie.” He put his big hand on her shoulder. “It’s a setback, but not a defeat.”

  “So now what?”

  “More treatment, a new direction.”

  “What new direction? Haven’t I tried them all?” Chemo. Radiation. Drugs. Diet. Holistic, at her mother’s request. And pain. Always pain. “I’m supposed to start college in September.”

  “I’m reviewing options now. In the meantime, we’ll put you back on some meds. Chemo for sure.”

  His words sent shivers through her. She felt defeated. And afraid.

  “Arie? Are you listening? We need to get you into a protocol quickly.”

  She turned away from the light board that held the brutal truth and looked up at her doctor. “Not now,” she said softly. “Soon. I just want to go home now.”

  “Of course. Talk it over with your family and call me.” She turned to leave. He added, “Don’t wait too long. We need to get right on it.”

  Arie didn’t remember the two-hour drive to Windemere from the hospital, nor when the rain began to fall, but somehow the car was on the edge of town. She didn’t go home, though. Instead she drove out to Pickins’s place, turned off the engine, and stared into the pasture, numb all over. On the far side, several horses huddled in a group, their heads down, their rumps toward the driving rain. She picked out Caramel in the small herd and realized the horse should be in her stall. She couldn’t even manage her horse; how was she going to manage another cycle of cancer treatment?

  Ignoring the pelting rain, Arie left the car, climbed over the fence, and called out to her horse. The animal’s head lifted and her ears pricked forward, but she didn’t budge. Arie shouted until her voice gave out, realizing she had no control over the animal just as she had no control over her life. She buried her face in her hands, sank to her knees, and began to sob. Cold wet mud oozed through her slacks and her shirt stuck to her back.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Jon Mercer came jogging across the muddy pasture, soaked to the skin like Arie. He stopped as Arie, weighted down with water and mud, struggled to right herself. “Arie? What are you doing out here?” He bent, lifted her up, and turned her to face him.

  “I came to see my horse.”

  “Did you notice it was raining?” Water dripped off the sides of his hat. “I was busy in another pasture. I didn’t see you drive up. I thought you were in Nashville, at the hospital.”

  He bent his head, looked her full in the face. “Are you crying? What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong?”

  Unable to keep her grief away from him, Arie released an anguished sob and began to shake all over. “Life isn’t fair,” she screamed, clenching her fists, turning her face into the needle-sharp rain.

  “Nashville. The doctor.” He looked into her eyes, into her soul, and she allowed him to see the truth. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said, pulling her close and holding her tight. “Real sorry.” She should have known that the man who read and gentled horses could read people too. He said, “I’d do it for you if I could.”

  “You can’t,” she told Jon. “Nobody can.”

  “Come inside the barn and get dry.”

  She went with him into the barn where it was warmer. He sat her on a bale of straw, found a stack of towels, and wrapped several around her; then he began to rub the terry cloth on her skin to encourage circulation and stop her shivering. “Just got these from the dryer, so they’re clean,” he said. “Pickins keeps a washer and dryer in his tack room for us ranch hands’ laundry.”

  “Th-the horses,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “Horses are fine. I’ll bring them in soon.” He began to towel-dry her hair.

  She imagined it falling out in clumps into the towel. She gagged. Not again.

  “Hey, take it easy.” He stepped in front of her, lifting her chin with his forefinger. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough. I can’t talk about it now.”

  He returned to towel-drying her hair, wisely offering no platitudes of how she was a winner and could beat this thing, this monster inside her body.

  “You need to get those clothes off. I’ll wash them.”

  She was cold to her core but unable to move. Her teeth wouldn’t stop
chattering.

  Jon guided her into the tack room, pulled a load from the dryer, and offered her one of his denim work shirts. She took it and held it close. The fresh scent of his clothes and the scent of fresh straw and leather helped calm her. “Just put this on, wrap up in the towels, and hand me everything. And I mean everything.”

  He left the room and she did as he’d asked, dropping the soggy clothing into a heap. She wrapped herself in his shirt, holding on to the warmth and the comfort of knowing it was his. Barefoot, and with shirt and towels cocooning her, Arie stepped into the barn. “Okay.”

  He nodded and walked past her. Soon she heard the washer going and soon after that, a teakettle whistling. He emerged with two cups. “Hope you like tea. Wallace, one of the wranglers, drinks the stuff. I’m going with coffee.” He paused. “But if you’d rather have the coffee—”

  “Tea’s fine.” She eased onto the bale of straw and Jon pulled up a stool to settle in front of her. She grew acutely aware that she was naked beneath the shirt and towels. She took a sip of tea and closed her eyes as the warm liquid spread through her. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “One of my hobbies is rescuing pretty girls. Now what can I do to help?”

  “You’ve helped me get through this afternoon. Where’s my cell? I better call home before they call out the National Guard to search for me.”

  “I’ll get it.” Jon returned in seconds with her phone from her car.

  She dialed home and her mother answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mom,” she said brightly.

  “Where are you? We’re getting worried,” Patricia said.

  “Calm down. It’s raining really hard, so I pulled over to the side of the road to wait until it slacks off a bit.” Arie gave Jon a pleading look that asked him to forgive her lie. He shrugged.

  “Oh. Yes. That’s good thinking,” Patricia answered. “Just wait it out. A good idea. We … we’re wondering what your doctor said.”

  Arie stared Jon straight in the eyes, bolstering herself to tell the ultimate lie. “He said I was doing just fine. The scans look clean and clear.”

  Patricia squealed and passed the word to others apparently waiting in the room for this news. Arie’s hand went numb from holding the phone so tightly, and her conscience tingled with shame. Jon’s gaze never left hers, but it held no reprimand.

  Arie promised to be home as soon as possible and punched off the phone. She ducked her head, staring down at the floor. Jon had heard her lie, straight-faced. She was naked before him in many ways. “Will you keep my secret?”

  “It’s not my story to tell,” he said gently.

  At this moment, she felt futureless. Three remissions. Three failures. And now, dark ominous spots on her liver yet again. She cleared her throat. “Actually I need to think this out. Decide with my doctor.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  Jon’s large hands covered hers. “They’re your family. Maybe—”

  “I get to make my own choices now,” she interrupted him. “I have jurisdiction over my body. And just now I don’t know what I want to do. There are so many other things for me to think about. Other things I want. I’m tired of being sick.” She wanted college, travel, horse shows, a place of her own. She wanted him. At the moment, dreams lay at her feet like broken glass.

  In the stillness, the washer buzzed, signaling the wash cycle was over. “I’ll get your stuff into the dryer,” he said.

  She watched him head toward the tack room, her longing for him as tangible as his shirt on her body.

  Eden painted her toenails meticulously with a Day-Glo shade of polish called Pink-a-licious 911. She disliked the color but considered it an area of her life she still controlled. Pathetic, she thought. Nail polish as a statement. She sat in Tony’s living room, on his huge white sofa, the massive 3-D TV tuned to the evening news. Tony was out, but he’d be in soon, and she’d been instructed to “stay put.”

  She heaved a forlorn sigh. She felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web. On one side of the web stood Tony, weaving silky strands around her, while on the other side was the life she once led. Returning to the ordinary was one thing she’d never expected to want, yet she did. Her mother kept begging Eden to leave Tony and come home to live. If only she could. Compared to the life she was living with a drug lord, her old life seemed infinitely superior, crazy mother and all. Ever since she’d run into Meghan, she had ceased to defend Tony to her mother, yet she still lacked the courage to tell Gwen about Tony’s business. Fear, not pride, kept her quiet.

  “… female body found at Miller Lake.”

  Eden’s head snapped to attention at the announcer’s words. The video was unremarkable, just pictures of cops and yellow crime scene tape marking off a lakeside area at dusk. The announcer continued: “The body has already been identified as that of Meghan Oden, twenty.”

  Eden shot upright as a photo of the victim filled the screen, a photo obviously from a high school yearbook. Eden’s heart hammered. Meghan! Only a week had passed since Meghan had cornered Eden in the lobby. Now she was dead.

  “… picked up for solicitation numerous times by the police,” the announcer intoned. Another photo flashed onto the TV screen, this time a mug shot of the girl who hardly resembled the one in the first photo. This was the ruined, emaciated girl who had confronted Eden—disheveled hair, blotched face, bloodshot eyes, and bruises along one side of her mouth.

  “… suspected drug overdose.”

  Meghan had gotten the drugs she had wanted so desperately from somewhere. Oh God. Eden felt tears well behind her eyes. Dead. There was no coming back from dead. She’d not been friends with Meghan, but she had known her, talked to her, been warned by her to stay away from Tony. News of celebrities overdosing on drugs was something abstract, something she read about or heard about. Meghan was real. Had been real. She hadn’t helped her, but what could she really have done? Now she was no more. “… exact cause of death will be known following an autopsy,” the announcer said.

  Eden grabbed the TV remote and pushed the Off button, as if that might turn back time, erase the story she’d just heard on the news. She sat numbly and was still sitting there staring into space when Tony arrived.

  “Hey, babe. Why’s it so dark in here?” He flipped on two lamps.

  Eden couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  He lowered himself to the sofa and turned her to face him. “What’s wrong?”

  Still she couldn’t look at him. “Meghan Oden’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  The single word seared into her heart and mind. “Meghan! One of your clients.”

  Tony leaned away. “Are you thinking this is my fault? I cut her off weeks ago.”

  No remorse in his voice. Cold and indifferent.

  “I knew her,” Eden cried. “She’s dead.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Don’t you feel anything?”

  “She was a big girl. She knew what she was doing.” He sounded irritated. “She chose to be an addict.”

  “You made her one.”

  Tony grabbed Eden’s shoulders and shook her hard. “She made herself one. She had a crappy life and drugs made it easier for her to live it.”

  He was blaming Meghan, as if he’d done nothing wrong. It hit Eden that his inability to assume any blame was arrogant, and the fire in his eyes told her she should keep quiet. He let go of her arms and smoothed his hand along her cheek. She flinched, wanting to scream, Don’t touch me! but she stifled the impulse. Tony was explosive and without a conscience. She’d seen him be cruel to others.

  He stood, lifting her chin to stare into her eyes. “Go to the bedroom. I’ll be in after a few phone calls.”

  Did he expect her to make love to him after all that had happened? Did he expect her to whisper words of love when she felt only revulsion toward him? Icy cold fear crept up her spine, and because she knew how volatile he could become, she thought it best to cooperate. She knew she was pathetic. How sad. There was
a time when making love with Tony had been the center of her world. She got up and turned toward the bedroom. He caught her arm. “One more thing. I hate the color you’ve put on your toes. Take it off tomorrow. Paint on something red. I like you in red.”

  She lay awake in the dark shaking, waiting for him, her stomach sick and her brain in turmoil. She couldn’t live this way anymore. She had to get away.

  Or die trying.

  Ciana shut down the house for the night. Alice Faye had gone to bed long before, weaving up the stairs to her bedroom on the upper floor. Ciana’s bedroom was on the ground floor, in what had once been the maid’s quarters, renovated to her liking years before. She was undressing when the house phone rang. Who in the world? Her friends called her cell. She snatched up the receiver. “Beauchamp residence.”

  “Miz Ciana? This is Bill Pickins. Hate to bother you, but I don’t know who else to call.”

  “It’s all right. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my trainer, Jon Mercer. He’s in a bad way.”

  Her heart seized. “What happened? Is he hurt? Sick?”

  “He had to put his horse down today. Animal stepped in a gopher hole at a full gallop. Broke its leg so bad that Mercer had to put the horse out of its misery.”

  “He … he loved that horse.” Tears stung her eyes. “How can I help?

  “He’s holed up in the bunkhouse, drunk. His heart’s broke clean in two and I’m right worried about him.” Bill cleared his throat. “I’m thinking the situation needs a woman’s touch. My Essie’s visiting her sister this week, or she’d handle it. I’m no good at talking a man down from this kind of hurt. I tried calling Miz Arie first, but her mama says she’s back over in Nashville ’cause one of her little patients is dying and was asking for her.”

  Ciana felt bruised, petrified. If Arie went to Nashville to be with a dying child, she didn’t need to know this about Jon right now. “It’s okay, Mr. Pickins. I’m on my way.”