crept to her mouth to hold back the anguished cry that emanated from the depths of her soul.
“I’m sorry.”
The sound of Rick’s voice broke the spell of immobility that held Maggie rooted to the floor. With a high, keening wail, she launched herself across the room and dropped to her knees beside Rio’s still, bleeding body, trying her best to rouse him, wanting, needing to hear him say he was all right. But there was no sign of life, except a horrible sucking noise that came from his chest with every shallow breath he took.
Swaying from a growing light-headedness, Maggie was marginally aware of Jeremy arriving, his shotgun in tow, demanding that Rick put down his weapon, which he did while chanting a litany that he was sorry.
“Call an ambulance, Maggie,” Jeremy commanded.
Maggie’s dazed gaze moved from Rick’s white face to Jeremy’s. “What?”
“Call an ambulance, dammit!” Jeremy yelled.
Shocked by the unaccustomed violence in his manner, Maggie scrambled to her feet and dialed 911, telling the operator in a strangely detached tone what had happened. Assured that the ambulance and the police were on their way, she went back and knelt beside Rio, wiping at the fine spray of blood on his face with the hem of her satin dress and watching in helpless surprise when more reappeared.
“He’s bleeding to death,” Jeremy said in a tearthickened voice. “For God’s sake, Maggie, do something besides sit there and watch him die.”
Once again, the harsh criticism in his voice jolted her from the dreamlike passivity enshrouding her. Rio dying? She looked up at Jeremy with the idea of giving him a piece of her mind and encountered the anguish on his face. It was like the slap of a wet washrag. Jeremy thought Rio was dying.
She looked down at Rio, really seeing him for the first time. He was pale and still. Too still, except for the noise rattling in his chest. Too still, she thought on a fresh rush of panic, but alive.
Bits and pieces from the first aid class she’d taken in college came rushing back. Nothing was obstructing his breathing. But he was bleeding from the wound that misted his chest with a fine spray of blood with every breath he expelled.
The term for the type of wound emerged from somewhere in the back of her mind, probably all the thrillers she read. It was a sucking chest wound.
Petroleum jelly and gauze. That tidbit, too, came from nowhere…somewhere. It was worth a try, better than watching blood being pumped from him with every beat of his heart. Running to the bathroom, Maggie located some gauze bandages and a jar of petroleum jelly.
She got back to the living room in time to see the sheriff’s car screech to a sliding stop in the driveway, his siren blaring, the red and blue lights on top of the county vehicle slashing the darkness with metronomic frenzy.
Fully aware of the danger of the situation, Maggie was too busy trying to stanch the flow of blood to concern herself with what Wayne Jackson was doing. She knew that Jeremy relinquished his guard to a deputy while Wayne handcuffed Rick. As the sheriff herded his prisoner toward the squad car, Maggie heard him reciting the Miranda code over the harsh sounds of Jeremy’s crying and the scream of the approaching ambulance.
But the thing that she would always remember was Rick’s quivering young voice saying brokenly, “I didn’t do it, Sheriff. I swear, I didn’t do it.”
Maggie closed her eyes. It was the same thing he’d said about the dog.
Eva Blake looked up from the delicate square she was crocheting, one of many that would comprise the bedspread she was making for Maggie and Rio. She laid down her handwork and gazed tenderly at her husband. At sixty-five, he was still a fine-looking man, tall and trim and fit from his twice-weekly tennis games, the craggy lines in his face only adding to his good looks.
As it always did when she looked at Howard, her heart swelled with a wave of love so strong it hurt. How many times during the past forty-three years had she looked across a room and fallen in love with him all over again? His head, mostly gray now, was buried between pages of newsprint, as it was most evenings. He preferred to digest the news along with his breakfast, but it was seldom that he made it through his morning meal without someone calling about this crisis and the next, needing his advice, his help, his steadfastness.
In all the years they’d been together, Eva had never known him to put his own wishes ahead of those of his flock. His selflessness was just one of the reasons she loved him. Howard would be the first to tell her not to put him on any pedestal, that he wasn’t perfect by a long shot, but he was so close to perfection—at least in her mind—that it wasn’t worth splitting hairs over.
She knew she was getting sentimental, but what if she was? She couldn’t help being sentimental any more than she could help that her hair was more gray now than auburn or that she cried when she heard the “StarSpangled Banner” or that she liked country line dancing—which she often practiced in the living room when Howard was at the church building. She shot Howard a sideways glance and bit her bottom lip to hold back a giggle. What would Howard say if he knew?
A Christmas commercial filled the television screen and Eva sighed. The McKinneys’ big party was coming up soon.
“What should I wear to the McKinneys’ Christmas party?” she asked, lifting her gaze to Howard again.
“Whatever you want,” he said without looking up.
Eva smiled. He was on automatic pilot. “I was thinking of getting something new.”
“That’s fine.”
“I saw a cute little number in Frederick’s of Hollywood the other day,” she said with feigned nonchalance.
Did she imagine it, or was there the slightest pause before he answered? “That’s nice.”
Eva moved her crocheting from her lap to the coffee table and hugged a throw pillow to her ample breasts. “Howard,” she said in a serious tone.
“Mmm?”
“I’m having an affair.” It was a credit to her acting ability that she delivered the line straight-faced.
His eyes never left the paper. “Uh-huh.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Is that all you have to say?”
Howard turned another page of his paper. “Lucky guy,” he said, deadpan.
“Oh, you!” Eva fumed.
His blue eyes alight with merriment, Howard looked up in time to catch the pillow that came flying through the air at him.
“I had you going there for a while, didn’t I?” he said with a chuckle.
She pretended to pout. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Come on, Evie, talk.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Tell me about the Frederick’s outfit.”
“You’re incorrigible!” she said, but she was doing her best to hide a smile.
“But you love me.”
She
