death with her.
Molly had begun to strain at the strap that held her in the baby seat. As she squirmed, she grew red-faced, and the whimpering escalated into full-blown crying.
“Sweetheart.” Crimson stroked the baby’s cheek. “Poor little thing.”
Grant glanced at his watch. “Maybe I should go see what’s keeping Kevin. I’ve got to get back to the ranch. With all this rain, I’m worried about the stable roof. Any chance you could...”
She was already unfastening Molly’s strap. She lifted the warm, damp baby out and folded her up against her shoulder.
“Of course,” she said, patting Molly’s back. She was well aware he hadn’t been asking if she’d pick up Kevin. “How about if I take your truck because you’ve got the car seat, and you take my car? I’ll stop by the pharmacy and grab a teething ring and then meet you back at the ranch. If I get there first, I’ll feed her, change her and put her down for a nap.”
“Perfect.” He nodded. “Mine’s right out front, so you won’t have to get wet.” He frowned, glancing at the front windows. “You drive carefully, though, okay?”
“I will. The truck’s four-wheel drive will be safer in this weather, anyhow.”
And wow, what weather, even for late May! The rain had grown steadily more intense while they were in the café. She’d heard about these wet Silverdell springs. The gully-washers were mostly short-lived and profoundly welcomed by the ranchers, who appreciated the free irrigation—as long as none of their own gullies got washed out.
Plus, the storms apparently were a boon for the wildflowers. She’d been hearing for weeks about how, if the drought continued, the annual wildflower festival might have to be canceled. Apparently, that would be a historic failure for Silverdell, and everyone had been eying the skies glumly, calculating the chances of rain.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised again, holding out her key ring. “You do the same, even if Kevin keeps you waiting and you’re ticked off.” She held his gaze sternly, daring him to deny he could get impatient behind the wheel, especially when he wanted to get home to check on the horses. “Deal?”
He smiled. “Deal.”
From her perch on Crimson’s shoulder, Molly wailed, suddenly at the end of her rope. Standing quickly, Grant leaned over and planted a firm kiss on Crimson’s cheek.
“Thanks, Red,” he said. “You’re the best. Be good to Auntie Red, kiddo.”
He patted Molly’s head perfunctorily as he moved away. He had paid and disappeared to the notes of “Danny Boy” before Crimson could even get the baby reinstalled in her carrier. Molly definitely wasn’t happy to be strapped in again, but she had found her fingers and begun to suck on them.
Crimson watched as Grant’s silhouette dashed past the front windows, his head ducked against the rain. He appeared in one window, then another, then the third, and then he finally disappeared.
“Interesting, isn’t it, sweetheart?” She bent low to rub Molly’s pink button nose with her own. “I’m pretty sure our friend Mr. Campbell is allergic to crying babies. What I can’t quite figure out...”
She glanced back at the windows, but no one else was walking past, not in this weather. All she could see was a thick sheet of silver rain that sparkled as it caught the reflected brilliance of streetlights that had blinked on, fooled into believing it was night.
“What I can’t quite figure out is why.”
AFTER SHE LEFT the tattoo parlor, Becky drove around Silverdell for a long time.
Even when the storm broke, she didn’t stop driving. She cruised down Elk Avenue, around the square and over to Callahan Circle, which Dellians always just called Mansion Street. She didn’t stop when she got to the blue French château with the mansard roof, even though she’d called that particular mansion home for twenty-one years.
She didn’t even look at it. Didn’t make any difference whether her dad was home or not—she wasn’t going to stop. She just kept driving. North, and then west onto Cimarron Street. After that, she went back into town to start the figure eight all over again.
Truth was, she really, really didn’t want to go back to Rory’s apartment. He was going to be mad about the tattoo...or the lack of a tattoo. And when he was mad, it was awful.
It was actually more awful than it ought to be, considering he didn’t scream or yell or break things. She almost wished he would. At least that kind of anger made sense.
Her dad was a yeller. He blew up like the storm that was turning Silverdell black as an eclipse right now, flooding the streets and shaking the traffic lights as if it wanted to yank them from their wires. But, like this storm, his anger blew over. Things might be damp and uncomfortable for a while, but the sun always came out again eventually.
Rory was different. He didn’t ever let loose. He got snake-eyed and sarcastic, but behind those curled lips and cold eyes, you could tell the same storm was raging. It just didn’t have an outlet, so it never blew itself out. It kept building, and it spit out in little scalding spurts, like when you overheated grease in a pan. It shot out in small, oddly painful insults, in little unexpected cruelties.
As her car sped through a pool of water so deep it sprayed out like a white fan from her tires, she realized she was going too fast. She had a headache from peering through the rain, and she’d been gripping her steering wheel so tightly her hands hurt.
Consciously flexing her fingers, she took several deliberate deep breaths. She should go home. So what if Rory was mad? She lifted her chin. She wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t why she didn’t want to go back. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.
It was just that, when Rory was mean, she didn’t like him very much. And when you loved somebody, it hurt to discover you didn’t like them. It hurt a lot.
Still...the later she showed up, the madder he’d be. And besides, where else did she have to go?
Half-consciously, she slid her hand into her jacket pocket, where she’d put the card that nice woman at the tattoo parlor had given her. But she almost had to laugh at how naive that was. Crimson Slash couldn’t be her real name. But anyone who chose a name like that for herself wasn’t likely to be Mother Teresa.
Which proved that, however nice she seemed, Crimson Slash hadn’t been serious when she said Becky should call her if she needed help.
If Becky were stupid enough to take the offer seriously, the woman probably wouldn’t even remember who the heck Becky Hampton was.
Suddenly, a traffic light swam at her out of the turbulent black ocean of the sky. The light was red. Her heart jumped, hot and huge, and tried to explode in her throat.
She stood on her brakes...belatedly hearing her father’s voice warning her never, never to stop too fast in the rain.
With a sickening awareness that her tires were only barely connected to the tarmac, Becky felt her car fishtail, as if it were hinged in the middle—and not under her control at all.
Oh,
