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He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and looked at the sky. “No rain yet. Probably none for another week, the meteorologists say,” he remarked. “We need it badly.”
“I know. We used to have this old guy, Elmer Randall, who worked at the newspaper office helping to run the presses. He was part Comanche. Every time we had a drought, he’d get into his tribal clothes and go out and do ceremonies outside town.”
“Did it work?” he asked with real interest.
She laughed. “One time after he did it, we had a flood. It almost always rained. Nobody could figure it out. He said his grandfather had been a powerful shaman and rode with Quanah Parker.” She shrugged. “People believe what they want to, but I thought he might really have a gift. Certainly, nobody told him to stop.”
“Whatever works,” he agreed. He checked his watch. “I’d better get home. I’m expecting a phone call from Japan.”
“Do you speak the language?”
He laughed. “I try to. But the company I’m merging with has plenty of translators.”
“I’ll bet Japan is an interesting place,” she said with dreamy eyes. “I’ve never been to Asia in my whole life.”
He looked surprised. “I thought everybody traveled these days.”
“We never had the money,” she said simply. “Grandad’s idea of international travel was to buy Fodor’s Guides to the countries that interested him. He spent his spare cash on books, hundreds of books.”
“He taught history, you said. What was his period?”
She hesitated as she looked up at his lean, handsome face. Wouldn’t it sound too pat and coincidental to tell him the truth?
He frowned. “Well?”
She grimaced. “World War II,” she confessed. “The North African theater of war.”
His intake of breath was audible. “You didn’t mention that when I ordered books on the subject.”
“I thought it would sound odd,” she said. “I mean, here you were, a total stranger looking for books on that subject, and my grandfather taught it. It seems like some weird coincidence.”
“Yes, but they do happen.” He moved restlessly. “Did he have autobiographies?”
“Yes, all sorts of first person accounts on both sides of the battle. His favorite subjects were German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel and General George Patton, but he liked the point of view of the 9th Australian Division, as well as British General Bernard Montgomery’s memoirs.”
“I asked the high school age son of one of my vice presidents which of the generals he liked to read about when he was studying history. He said they hadn’t taught him about any individual officers. He didn’t even know who Rommel was.”
The allusion to vice presidents went right by her. She smiled sheepishly. She’d only graduated from high school two years before, and he didn’t know that. “I didn’t, either, from high school courses,” she confessed. “But Grandad was good for a two-hour lecture on any subject I mentioned.”
He pursed his lips, really interested. “Who was the last commander of the British Eighth Army before Montgomery in North Africa?”
She chuckled. “You don’t think I know, do you? It was Auchinleck—Sir Claude. He was a big, redheaded man, and his wife was from America.”
His eyebrows arched. “You’re good. What was Rommel’s wife called?”
“Her name was Lucie, but he called her Lu. They had a son, Manfred, who eventually became Lord Mayor of Stuttgart, Germany.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Want to know what sort of anti-tank field artillery Rommel used that confounded the British generals? It was the 88 millimeter antiaircraft gun. He camouflaged them and then lured the British tanks within firing range. They thought it was some sort of super weapon, but they were just regular antiaircraft weapons. One captured officer told Rommel that it wasn’t fair to use them against tanks. But it was war.”
“It was.” He was looking at her in a totally different way than he had before. “Do you ever loan books?”
She frowned. “Well, I never have before. But I might make an exception for you. Grandad would have loved talking with you about North Africa.”
“I would have enjoyed it, too.” He glanced again at his watch. “Lord, I’m late!”
“I have to get back home, too.” She looked down at the tombstone. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry about your grandfather. Holidays are the worst times, aren’t they? I stayed drunk for two days last Christmas. It was my first without her.”
“I don’t drink,” she replied. “But my heart wasn’t in celebrating. I spent Christmas day at one of the senior citizen homes, reading to a lady who didn’t get any company.”
He reached out unexpectedly and touched her hair. “I wouldn’t have guessed you had so many soft spots. Sara. Isn’t it?”
She nodded, thrilled by the faint caress. “Sara Dobbs.”
He smiled tenderly. “I’ll be in touch.”
She smiled back, her eyes twinkling with emotion. “See you.”
He drove off in a fancy red sports car like ones she’d seen on televised auto shows. She smiled as she considered his interest in her because of Grandad’s favorite subject. First Harley, now the iron cowboy. She felt better than she had in years.
But she wondered if her ogre would still be interested if he found out how young she was. She’d just keep that to herself, she decided, like her past. There was no need for him to know anything about either subject yet. And by the time there was…well, maybe it wouldn’t matter anymore.
* * *
On Thursday, when she got home from work, she sorted out Grandad’s books, carefully pairing subject matter with time period, in case Jared Cameron wanted to borrow one. She knew her grandfather wouldn’t have minded. He enjoyed teaching students about the amazing contradictions of the North African theater, where what many called a “gentleman’s war” was fought. Rommel had actually called a truce during one bloody battle and sent his men to help move Allied wounded off the battlefield.
Patton had entered the campaign too late to face off against Rommel, but he had read Rommel’s book about the strategy and tactics of World War I. The general was known for his own lightning strike sort of attack; he said that fewer soldiers were lost when battles were won quickly. Both soldiers led from the front, and both were respected by not only their own men, but by the enemy as well.
Her hands touched a book by a missionary who’d worked in Africa and stilled. This had been one of Grandad’s favorite biographies, although it had nothing to do with World War II. The author of the book was a physician. He’d gone to Africa, sanctioned as a missionary, and remained there for many years treating natives. The book had inspired Grandad to missionary work, but he’d chosen to become a college educator instead. He’d regretted his decision later in life and had sold the idea wholesale to his daughter’s husband.
Sara put the book aside, shoving it into a bookcase with undue savagery. If only he’d realized what the consequences of his fervor for mission work would be…
She stacked the books she was through sorting and got up. Morris was crying to be fed.
As she moved into the kitchen, she felt suddenly nauseous, and that pain in her stomach came back full force. She managed to get the sack of dry cat food and poured some of it into his bowl. Then she sat down and groaned. She was so sick she could barely move. It hurt to move, anyway.
She rested her forehead on her forearm, draped across the scarred little kitchen table where she and Grandad always had meals. She was sweating. It wasn’t that hot in the house. She had a window air conditioner, and it was running full tilt.
These sick spells were getting closer together. Could she be having the same virus week after week? she wondered. Or could it be something else?
Her grandmother had suffered from gallbladder disease. She remembered, barely, the old lady being taken to the hospital when Sara was about four years old to have an operation. Doctors had removed it. She recalled that old Mrs. Franklin had complained of terrible pain in her stomach and feeling nauseous.
But gallbladder problems were in the upper right area of the abdomen. This felt like it was dead-center. Could she possibly have an ulcer?
It would pass, she told herself. She’d just sit very still and not move around and it would go away, like it always did.
But it didn’t go away. An hour later, it hurt to walk and nausea washed over her unexpectedly. She barely made it to the bathroom in time to lose her breakfast. The pain was horrible. She’d never felt anything like it. She felt feverish as well. Something was wrong. Something bad.
She crawled to the phone in the living room and pulled it down on the floor with her. She pressed in 911.
When the dispatcher answered, she gave her symptoms and then her name and address. The lady told her to stay on the line while she sent the paramedics out.
Sara leaned back against the wall, so sick she couldn’t bear the thought of being moved. The pain was in her side, her right side. It was so bad that even the lightest touch of her fingers caused her to jump.
Morris, sensing that something was wrong, came into the living room and rubbed against her, purring. She petted him, but she couldn’t let him get into her lap.
Fortunately she hadn’t locked up for the night. She’d managed to reach up and turn on the porch light. When the paramedics knocked, she shouted for them to come in.
One of them was a girl she’d gone to high school with, a brunette with short hair who’d been kind to her when other students hadn’t been.
“Hi, Lucy,” Sara managed as the woman bent over her with a stethoscope.
“Hi, Sara. Where does it hurt?”
Sara showed her. When Lucy pressed her fingers against it, Sara came up off the floor, groaning.
The three paramedics looked at each other.
Lucy put the thermometer into Sara’s ear. “A hundred and two,” she remarked. “Any nausea?”
“Yes,” Sara groaned.
“Okay, we’re taking you in to the hospital. What do you need us to do?”
“Get my purse on the sofa and make sure I’ve turned off everything and then lock the door with the key that’s in this side of the dead bolt,” she said weakly.
“Will do. Curt, can you check the appliances and turn off the lights?”
“Sure. What about the cat?”
“He can stay here, he’s been fed and he has a litter box. I’ll get my boss to run out and feed him tomorrow…” She sat back with a sigh. “My goodness, it stopped hurting,” she said, smiling at Lucy. “I may not need to go to the hospital…”
“Get her loaded, stat!” Lucy said at once, and moved away to speak into the microphone on her shoulder so that Sara couldn’t hear. She nodded as the reply came back. When she turned, Sara was on her way into the ambulance, arguing all the way. She wouldn’t know until hours later that the cessation of pain had been a signal that her appendix had perforated. If she’d argued successfully to stay home, she’d have been dead by morning.
Four
It was all a blur to Sara. She was surprised that they’d prepped her for surgery and had her sign a consent form only minutes after she arrived at the hospital.
Dr. “Copper” Coltrain, the redheaded local surgeon, was already masked and gowned when they wheeled her in.
“Hi, Dr. Coltrain,” Sara said, her voice drowsy from the preop meds. “Are you going to carve me up?”
“Only your appendix, Sara,” he replied with a chuckle. “You won’t even miss it, I promise.”
“But it feels fine now.”
“I imagine so. That’s a very bad sign. It means it’s perforated.”
“What’s that?” she asked, while a capped, gowned and masked woman beside her put something in a syringe into the drip that led down to the needle in her arm.
“It’s something to make you comfortable,” came the reply. “Count backward from a hundred for me, will you?”
Sara smiled, sleepy. “Sure. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety…”
She came to in the recovery room, dazed and completely confused. She wanted to ask them what they’d done to her, but her lips wouldn’t work.
A nurse came in and checked her. “Awake, are we?” she asked pleasantly. “Good!”
“Did Dr. Coltrain take out my appendix?”
“Yes, dear,” the nurse replied.
Sara closed her eyes again and went back to sleep.
One of the great unsolved mysteries of small town life is how quickly word gets around if someone local is injured or killed. The process seems to consist largely of word of mouth. Someone who works at the hospital is related to someone who owns a small business, and phone traffic increases exponentially. Soon after the incident, it’s an open secret.
Exactly how Jared Cameron found out that Sara’s appendix had gone ballistic was never known. But he showed up about the time they’d moved Sara into a semiprivate room.
Tony Danzetta came with him and stood quietly outside the hospital room while Jared walked into it. The nurse who was making Sara comfortable and checking her vitals did a double take when she saw him and his companion.
“Don’t mind Tony,” Jared told her. “He goes everywhere with me.”
Sara peered at him past the nurse. “Don’t worry about it,” she told the nurse in a still-drowsy tone. “He’s not the only man who carries protection around with him.”
The nurse burst out laughing. So did Jared.
Sara closed her eyes and drifted off again.
* * *
The second time she awoke, it was to find Jared lounging in the chair beside her bed. He was wearing working clothes. He looked really good in denim, she considered through a mixture of drugs and pain. He was very handsome. She didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until he raised both eyebrows.
“Sorry,” she apologized.
He smiled. “How do you feel?”
“I’m not sure how to put it into words.” She looked past him at Tony, still standing patiently outside her room. “I seem to have lost my appendix. Do you suppose you could send Tony the Dancer out to look for it?”
“It’s long gone by now. You’ll improve. While you’re improving, I’m taking you home with me.”
She blinked. “That will cause gossip.”
“It won’t matter to your friends and what your enemies think doesn’t matter to you. Or it shouldn’t.”
“Put that way,” she agreed, “I guess you’re right.”
“You can’t stay at your house alone, in this condition.”
“What about Morris?”
