Trauma Plan, page 13
Jack let the thought go, suddenly tired of fights and skirmishes, of grappling with strategies to maintain ground . . . and stall the dark inevitable. Today he wanted peace, respite, sunshine. And to simply enjoy this rare chance to be in the company of a beautiful woman. He hoped it wasn’t too much to ask.
He checked his watch. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. You still up for Fiesta?”
* * *
Riley stopped halfway down the steps from St. Mary’s Street, boggled by her first glimpse of the San Antonio River Walk. It felt like she’d been swept up in a Texas tornado and dropped into a south-of-the-border Oz—below the streets of the seventh-largest city in America. She held her breath, staring at a sultry and beckoning tangle of green: water, jungle-thick foliage, and a canopy of trees strung with colored lights and endless streamers. There were bright umbrellas, riverboats, tables on meandering sidewalks, neon signs, balloons, people everywhere. And a rich thrum of sounds: the chug-burble-splash of boat engines, childish squeals, ducks, sudden explosive cheers, the brass and string strains of mariachi music.
“Smell that?” Jack asked, pressing close to allow a family in magenta sombreros to squeeze by. “Every kind of food you can imagine . . . on a stick.”
She stared up at him, the fronts of their shirts touching in the crush of the crowd.
“I’m serious,” he said, laughing at the look on her face. “From German knockwurst to beer-battered shrimp to . . . chocolate-dipped New York cheesecake. And then there’s sit-down food, like the St. Mary’s oyster bake, A Taste of New Orleans, and every Tex-Mex dish imaginable.” He groaned and took hold of her hand. “What are we waiting for?”
They waded into a color-rich blur of tropical shirts and crazy hats, navigating the winding path that followed the river. Their boots stuck to cobbled pavement littered with confetti, popcorn, and the remains of hopelessly toppled ice cream cones. Riley thought of letting go of his hand but decided against it, knowing she’d be lost in the blink of an eye. Her mother’s long-ago dismissal of Fiesta flashed across Riley’s memory: “Too far, too crowded, not safe.” But impossibly, Jack seemed to know where he was going. She followed, feeling strangely as though she were heading into the heart of a South American jungle as the humidity increased, musky air scented by slow-moving water, boat exhaust, and beer. Talk wasn’t remotely possible in the din of music and shouts.
Within moments the sunset—starting on a horizon she couldn’t begin to see—turned the frenzied merriment rosy pink and let the long strings of tree lights compete proudly with the confetti and streamers. She moved her fingers inside Jack’s, his hand as damp as hers. He responded with a squeeze. And a tug forward.
She’d begun to wonder if the reason that Fiesta food came on a stick had to do with the obvious fact that there was nowhere to sit when Jack stopped. Stock-still, in front of a narrow staircase that led upward along a pink stucco wall. There was a chain across it and a sign that read Prohibida la Entrada—No Admittance.
He unhooked the chain, waved her confidently through.
Apparently rules were suspended in Oz.
Riley started up the crumbling stairs. With each step—and there were dozens—the air grew less humid, the din more distant, and the red roof tiles and canopy of trees came close enough to touch. Her pulse thudded against her throat and she felt dizzy; she reached for a handrail that wasn’t there. Two more steps and a palm frond snagged at her hair. Something screeched from above. Riley hesitated in the deepening dusk, thinking of the ever-staring grackles, and then felt Jack’s light touch at the small of her back.
“Almost there,” he said, promise in his voice.
She climbed again, wrestling with a sudden, ridiculous thought about abduction and a fleeting memory of Jack in camouflage that first day, when she was sure he was a maniac. And then last night, with his hands around the throat of that boy.
She climbed four more steps, felt a tug on her belt loop.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That wooden gate, under the arch of vines.”
Riley squinted into the shadows, mouth dry. The dizziness returned, making her queasy. And her mother’s voice whispered without mercy. “Godless, greedy people who would do anything . . .”
“Here, let me.” He reached past her for the gate latch, coming close enough that his beard-roughened jaw brushed her cheek. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”
The gate swung inward into what looked like a magical tree house. A canopy of branches strung with tiny white lights and jewel-hued paper lanterns spread out over a red Saltillo porch inlaid with painted ceramic tiles. And a private, festively decorated table for two.
Jack’s low laugh tickled her ear. “Did you think I was going to make you gnaw your dinner off a stick?”
14
Riley stepped under the leafy arch and through the gate, took a few steps . . . then stood there, stunned. She glanced toward a low stucco wall dotted with flickering luminarias, back at the vine-covered exterior of the aging building. The magical array of lights reflected from the panes of partially opened French doors; flanked by espaliered vines, they led into a long, tiled hallway and toward a soft clatter of dishes.
“Where are we?” She met Jack’s gaze, realizing she’d whispered. And that the roller coaster of emotions—from confusion to fear, relief, and now delight—had left her knees weak.
“One of the oldest hotel restaurants on the River Walk.” He grinned. “The owner is an impressive rock climber. This is her private table.”
Her . . . ? Riley untied the tails of her shirt, brushed her fingers over her bangs.
“And—” Jack walked toward the corner of the balcony behind the table—“it’s not half-bad for catching a sunset. If you’re into that kind of thing. Come look.”
“Yes,” she agreed, joining him. “Texas knows how to paint her sunsets. Oh . . . beautiful. Purple, pink, and see that sliver of gold?” She looked up at Jack, noticing that the diffuse pink light had turned his skin an almost-rosy bronze. And that he was staring at her. Her stomach dipped and she glanced back at the view, then down through the tree branches toward the river, a breath-stealing distance below. She leaned over a bit farther, spotting the colored umbrellas—haphazard polka dots along the pavement—and the riverboats, Fisher-Price in dimension. She stepped back, suddenly dizzy.
Jack caught her arm. “Are you okay?”
“Yes . . . fine. Sometimes I’m not good with heights.” She smiled weakly. “I’m guessing you don’t ever have that problem.” She tapped her fingertip against the embroidered logo on his polo. “Eagle Skydiving?”
Jack grinned. “It’s great. I’m going again next week—hey, you should try it.” His eyes lit. “Come with me.”
She grimaced. “No way. Not going to happen. Ever.” She took another step back from the balcony, feeling Jack’s hand slip from her arm.
“Think of it as a prescription,” he urged, excitement still lighting his eyes.
“I’ll take Bandy’s peanut butter sandwich, thank you.”
Jack laughed. “I’m telling you the truth. Once you’ve done it, spit in the face of fear—”
He turned as a man with a huge tray of dishes—steamy and audibly sizzling—arrived at the French doors.
“Señor? Con permiso?”
“Yes, please,” Jack replied. He turned back to Riley. “I hope you like fajitas.”
“Love them,” she said, glad the waiter’s timing gave her a reprieve. Skydiving?
Jack pulled out her chair, and Riley stole a glance at him. She wondered, once again, why she’d come—how she could even imagine herself in the company of this man. They were so different on every level. “Spit in the face of fear”? What would Jack think if he knew she could barely face a simple flight of stairs for the first six months after her accident? That even now she fought nightmares of that terrifying fall?
Riley’s stomach tensed. Last night she’d lain awake for hours because the incident at the clinic—that boy snatching at her purse—brought the Houston assault back in wrenching detail. How could someone like Jack Travis understand the way Riley had been raised? Caution was practically the Hale family motto. Spit in the face of fear? Not. Even. Possible.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Jack watched as the waiter cleared away the empty dish that had held his caramel-topped flan. He smiled at Riley across the table. She shook her head, blue eyes nearly as bright as the festive wreath on her hair—a rainbow-colored mass of paper flowers and ribbon streamers. His spontaneous gift. Under the endless strings of firefly lights, it made her look like some sort of girlish gypsy . . . angel.
“You’re completely sneaky,” she said, her voice still husky from laughing. “I can’t believe you found this so fast; I was only in the ladies’ room for a few minutes.” She shook her head again, the ribbons shimmering under the tree lights. “I saw a little girl wearing one once. That day you commandeered the conference room with your suture kit.”
“And you accused me of being dangerous.”
She leaned close and once again touched a finger to his shirt’s skydiving logo. “I rest my case. Anyway, I was sitting in the hospital gazebo, and a little girl wearing a flower wreath exactly like this one came flying by. Squealing with terror.”
Jack raised his brows.
“Because . . .” Riley tilted her head. She smiled slowly, one hand picking at the table’s centerpiece. “Her brother was chasing her with . . .” Riley snatched up a purple-striped cascarón. Aimed.
“No.”
“Ohhh yes!” She pitched it, whooping like she’d fired the Alamo cannon.
He inhaled confetti. Scrambled for ammunition. Blasted back.
She squealed as it exploded in a cloud of color, then settled on the remains of her flan.
“War!” she declared, reloading.
Jack ducked.
They grabbed the last two eggs and stood, pelting each other without aim, scattering confetti across the patio—and laughing until they were weak.
“Ah . . .” Jack staggered backward toward the balcony as Riley struggled against another wave of mirth. “Truce. Have mercy.”
“You looked . . . so . . .” She moaned, swiped at a tear, the Fiesta wreath tipping low over one brow. “Admit it, Dr. Travis. I took you by surprise.”
“Completely,” he said. Completely. You did. You do.
Jack watched as Riley brushed confetti from her shirt and then inspected her coffee cup. She’d surprised him with far more than the egg toss. From that first day, when she’d defended herself in the conference room, then gone to bat for his frightened patient in the hospital chapel. She’d surprised him by volunteering at his clinic, even after his less-than-sensitive ploy to recruit her. And again today, with those jeans and boots. And the way she’d bowed her head discreetly before eating her dinner. She was gutsy, inspired, special. And far different from him. Too different maybe. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing. Or if the difference between them was even surmountable. But . . .
Jack smiled at Riley. “How’s the coffee? Salvageable?”
“If you like it with cream and confetti.”
He shrugged. “Ask for it every morning at Starbucks—venti. Bring it over here. You should see these parade barges.”
* * *
Riley stayed quiet for a few moments, fussing with the coffee, refolding the napkins, and letting herself move from silly battle mode to . . . what, exactly? She had no clue; the only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t ready for this evening to end. She took a deep breath before carrying the coffee to the balcony.
“I spooned out the most obvious speckles and added fresh coffee from the carafe, but . . .” Riley handed Jack his cup.
“I’ll take the risk.” His eyes held hers for a long moment.
Riley looked down at the river, reminded herself to breathe.
“The height’s not making you dizzy?” Jack asked, stepping closer.
“No.” You are.
She leaned on the railing to steady herself, listening to the music below. Violins, trumpets, high-pitched strains of guitar, drifting upward from float after float of musicians dressed in black, silver-studded charro attire. Their wide-brimmed white hats dipped as they played. Crowds gathered on the banks, cheering, clapping as they passed.
“Middle school and high school mariachi bands,” Jack explained. “One of many parades over Fiesta.” He chuckled. “There’s even a Pooch Parade, sponsored by an animal therapy group. I told Bandy he should enter Hobo, but I think our cowboy’s had more than his fill of crowds. And he only walks about a block or two around the clinic, with all that arthritis.”
“From bull riding?”
“He was a clown, too.” Jack smiled at the surprise on Riley’s face. “I’m serious. When he stopped competing, after the injuries took their toll. Not that being a rodeo clown isn’t just as dangerous—maybe more; pretty easy to become a human shish kebab when a bull’s got you in his sights.”
Riley doubted Jack had considered that when he ran those streets in Pamplona—spitting in the furry face of fear? “How long was Bandy a rodeo clown?”
“Until his second MI.”
Riley winced. “Two heart attacks?”
“Three. The last time he collapsed with cardiac arrest in a pen full of sheep. Volunteering in the kids’ mutton-busting event at the Amarillo rodeo. He and Hobo.” Jack shook his head. “He’s told me a hundred times that he’s living on ‘God-given bonus time’ and he’s not afraid to die. Says he knows where he’s going—‘and it’s a long way from west Texas.’”
Riley smiled. “Bandy told me that he was homeless. And you gave him a place to live.”
“Officially—if anyone asks—he still lives in that camper truck. Truthfully . . . I think having Bandy in the clinic does far more for me than for him.” Jack glanced down as if he was uncomfortable with what he’d revealed. “He’s a good man. Better than me, that’s for sure.”
“A big buckle doesn’t make a big man.” Bandy’s words.
“So anyway—” Jack shrugged—“Bandy works his behind off manning the desk, cleaning up, doling out sandwiches. And probably some Scripture when I’m out of earshot. I buy groceries, make sure he has enough cash for the movies, gasoline, and—” He stopped short, staring at her. “Hey, wait. Hold still.”
“What?”
Jack set his cup down, reached toward her. “Confetti. Hanging right . . . there.” His fingertip brushed the side of her nose.
Riley pulled back. “I can do that.”
Jack stopped her arm. “Sure, if you want me to pick it out from under your eyelid afterward. Hold still. Close your eyes. Doctor’s orders.”
She held still. His fingertip brushed alongside her nose, over her cheekbone. She felt his breath as he leaned closer. “Done yet?”
“Almost.” Jack lifted her bangs.
The scars. Riley opened her eyes, saw the questions in his.
“A halo brace,” she said before he could ask. “I was in one for three months. After surgery.” She tried to glance away, couldn’t. “C2. And facets on 4 and 5, with fragments impinging on my cord.” Riley curled her right hand into her left, fought a shudder. Please, Lord, I don’t want to talk about this.
“From a fall at work? How could that happen?”
Riley swallowed. Oh, please . . .
“I don’t get it. Wet floor? Stumbled over equipment?” Jack stared at her, waiting.
Riley took a breath. “It happened in the parking garage. On the stairs. It was dark, and—”
“You’re shaking. Hey . . .” Jack reached out, lifted her chin, made her look at him. “Riley?”
“I was . . . attacked,” she said, her voice cracking. “A random assault. Strangled and shoved down a flight of cement steps. They found me on the floor. With a skull fracture, broken ribs . . . and my neck. They still don’t know who it was, or—” A sob wrenched free and the brimming tears spilled over, streaming down her face.
Before she could take another breath, Jack’s arms were around her.
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“Shhh . . . shhh. I’ve got you.” Jack held Riley against his chest, cradling the back of her head in his hand. He whispered, lips against her hair, “It’s okay.”
Assaulted, strangled. Jack’s stomach roiled at the memory of Jane Doe . . . of Abby. His attempt at comfort was a lie. There was no way to make this kind of nightmare okay.
“I’m sorry,” Riley whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She pulled back, brushing at her eyes. “I’m . . . fine now.”
He released her reluctantly, and she peered up at him, a festive speck of pink still clinging to her left cheek. Her chin trembled. “Th-thank you, Jack.”
“No problem.” He led Riley back toward the table, saw their waiter discreetly close the French doors and switch off the hallway lights. Jack made a mental note to leave the man a generous tip.
“Here you go.” Jack shook confetti from a napkin and handed it to her. She blotted her eyes, and his throat squeezed at how vulnerable she looked. And broken. Despite her injury, he’d never thought of Riley that way. Not for a minute.
“I’m sorry I pressed you,” he said, moving his chair close.
“I don’t talk about it much.” Riley tried to smile. “Not since I walked away from the fleet of therapists my parents were paying to listen. Enough is enough. It’s been almost a year.”
A year is nothing, Chaplain. Especially if you were . . . Jack opened his mouth to ask the question. Couldn’t.
“I wasn’t . . . He didn’t do anything more,” she said, reading his eyes. “There’s that to be grateful for.” She flexed the fingers on her right hand. “And I have more use of my arm than the surgeons expected. Not as much as I want—but enough to make my parents crazy with worry. They want me to give up my nursing career,” she explained. “Come back to Houston. They were opposed to my being a nurse from the beginning, think it’s too dangerous for me.”
Jack suppressed a groan, seeing Vanessa Hale’s visit to the clinic in a new light. And then the attempted purse snatching later the same day . . . no wonder Riley had been so frightened.
