LITMIR.BIZ

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It’s all right. I’d forgotten about him, too. Anyway I’ve only been gone ten minutes.”

      “Ah,” said Bridget, relieved, “and I’ll be there in two. What trouble could the man get up to in twelve minutes, I ask you?”

      IF A MAN is determined and observant, he can discover a great deal in twelve minutes. Adam was determined, observant and quick to learn.

      He was looking over Mickey Nightingale’s office when he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. The housekeeper—she must be back. I need to get out of here.

      He turned from the pictures arranged on Mickey’s bookshelf. Her office was neat, almost Spartan, but like Carolyn, she enjoyed having framed snapshots about her while she worked. Adam had studied those snapshots with interest. Mickey’s choice of pictures was revealing—and mystifying.

      But he had no time to ponder the significance of the photographs. He slipped out of her office, shut the door and made his way to the den. He sat down in an armchair and snatched up a copy of Western Horseman. He swept his legs up onto the ottoman and opened the magazine just as he heard the front door swing open.

      He waited, giving the woman time to enter. Tentative footsteps sounded on the tiles of the foyer. A female voice called out, “Yoo-hoo. Mister Duran? It’s me, Bridget Blum. Mickey just phoned to tell me you were here. Mister Duran?”

      Then she appeared, framed in the doorway, a tall woman, sturdy rather than plump. Adam sprang to his feet, holding the magazine in his left hand. He tried to seem friendly, comfortable and confident—as if he had every right to be sitting in the Trents’ family room, as if he himself were like the Trents—someone of note and power.

      He approached Bridget, stretching his right hand to her. “Hi. I’m Adam Duran. Miss Nightingale said it was okay to use this room.”

      The woman gripped his hand and shook it with surprising strength. But she had the same look of disbelief on her face that Mickey Nightingale had when she’d met him.

      For the second time that day, he wished he’d sprung for new jeans, a more respectable shirt. But if his shabbiness caught her off guard, she quickly recovered.

      She pumped his hand more vigorously, and friendly words began to spill from her as if she were a very cornucopia of hospitality.

      “Welcome, Mr. Duran. I’m sorry you got left here rattling around alone. Everything is at sixes and sevens today. I don’t know if Mickey told you, but we’ve had such sad news, well, I hope it doesn’t stay sad, and that the ending is happy. Mrs. Trent’s grandbaby came early. She’s not well, poor tyke.”

      Adam nodded. Her warmth disarmed him in a way Mickey’s chill could not. “She told me,” he said, troubled anew at his mission here. “I’m sorry. I came at a bad time. I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

      “You’re not in my way at all.” She dropped his hand but gave his shoulder a motherly squeeze. “Are you hungry? Why, I hear they hardly give you any food at all these days on an airplane. You’re lucky if they toss you a pretzel. Did you have lunch?”

      “No,” he admitted. “But it’s okay. I—”

      The big woman seemed shocked. “Didn’t Mick feed you anything?”

      “No,” he repeated, almost shyly. “But it’s okay, really—”

      “It’s not okay,” Bridget said firmly. “I made some cheese bread for you special. You come into the kitchen and have a little snack while I start whipping up supper. If Mickey didn’t get some food into you—well, she’s upset, is all. Carolyn Trent is as dear as a mother to her.”

      Before Adam could protest, she had him in the kitchen, seated at a round oak table. He watched as she bustled, plugging in the coffeemaker, putting the cheese bread into the oven to warm.

      She was an attractive woman in her large-scale way. She had a broad, fair face with pink cheeks, a small nose and a generous jaw. Her dark red hair was so curly it was almost crinkly.

      She asked all the polite questions about his flight, and he answered, but he didn’t want to talk about himself. He guided the conversation in a different direction. “Have you worked for Mrs. Trent long?”

      She set down a coffee mug, a plate and a fork before him. “Nine years,” she said. “My aunt Consuela used to have this job. But she quit after the tornado, when the barn fell on Mr. Trent. ‘No deseo más de este tiempo de Tejas,’ she said. ‘No more of this Texas weather for me.’ And she made my uncle Emil take a job in British Columbia. Well, maybe she had a point. Because, at least, she missed that accursed flood last fall.”

      Adam looked up, his interest piqued. “Tornado?” he said. “Flood?”

      “Indeed.” Bridget shook her head with feeling. “It’s never dull around here. Now the tornado was an act of God, but that flood, it was another matter entirely….”

      She took the conversational bit between her teeth, and she was off and running.

      MICKEY STRETCHED out her trip to town. She went to the library, and Violet, the head librarian, had already heard about Beverly and the baby. News traveled fast in Crystal Creek.

      “Bridget’s sister told me,” Violet said with a sad shake of her head. She led Mickey straight to the medical section and handed her the latest book about children with heart conditions. “It’s a good book,” she said. “Last winter, Dr. Purdy recommended it to Betsy Hutchinson when her little boy was diagnosed with a heart murmur. Betsy said it was a great comfort.”

      She patted Mickey’s arm, and Mickey thanked her, touched by her concern.

      Mickey went to the Long Horn Coffee Shop. Kasey, the manager, came right over and filled her a coffee cup. She nodded at the book on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “I heard about what happened. Nora Slattery was in here earlier. She was mighty upset.”

      Mickey nodded sadly. Nora was the wife of J.T.’s foreman and had lived on J.T.’s ranch for years. She had known Beverly since childhood.

      Kasey said, “My cousin’s baby had the same problem, Mick. She came through with flying colors. You’d look at her and never guess. I hope it’s the same for this little gal. But Carolyn’s devastated at this point, I imagine.”

      “More than devastated,” Mickey said. “I—don’t think I can talk about it.” She didn’t want to cry again.

      “I understand, hon. Tell her hello, and that we’re all pulling for her and the whole family. I’ll leave you be. Read your book. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

      She surprised Mickey by giving her a brisk kiss on the cheek. Then she vanished into the kitchen. It was an hour before the supper rush would begin, and Mickey was the lone customer. She nursed her coffee and tried to read, but the words danced senselessly before her eyes.

      She finished her coffee and knew she couldn’t put off returning to the Circle T forever. Reluctantly she drove home. Just as she pulled into the carport, Leon Vanek appeared. He stood at the carport’s edge, shifting his weight, clenching and unclenching his big hands.

      His expression was far from happy. She wondered uneasily what he wanted. She got out of the car and faced him. “Yes, Leon? Did you want to see me about something?”

      He stared at the gravel in the drive, pulling his hat down farther over his face. “Mr. and Mrs. Trent are in Denver. Because that child is sick.”

      I know that all too well, Mickey thought. “Yes. We’re all concerned.”

      Leon said, “You should have notified me. I’m the foreman here. You should tell me these things. I heard it from Werner. Him a common hand, and he knew before I did.”

      Mickey knew Leon was a proud man and that his pride had been hurt. But she resented his accusatory tone. “I’m sorry. I just had a lot on my mind. We all did.”

      Leon

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