Mystic Cowboy(78)
Where he should be.
The damp heat filled his body as he sucked in air. The warmth burned through his uncertainty, his confusion.
His path was right there in front of him.
He just had to walk it.
It wasn’t dignified, but Madeline waited for him. She sat on the porch for the third undignified night in a row, her eyes scanning the hills and valley until the night sky made it more obviously pointless than it already was.
He has to come back, she thought for the millionth time. He couldn’t let her go—he’d said so himself, over and over, until she’d had no choice but to believe him. Until she’d had no choice but to fall in love with him. He had to come back. He had to come back for her.
She’d seriously considered going looking for him this afternoon. The sneakers had materialized on her feet, three bottles of water had stood at the ready on the counter and a floppy bucket hat had appeared in her hand.
But she hadn’t made it past the porch. Instead, she’d stood there for almost an hour before she gave up and sat in the recliner. What would she have said if she’d found him? I’m sorry I did what you wanted? I’m sorry I got results? I’m sorry you overreacted? Please take me back?
She couldn’t do it. He’d made his position plain, and Madeline Mitchell did not beg. Waited? Yes. Pined? Just a little. Begged? No. She had one shred of dignity left, and she fiercely clung to it. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. People needed her. That was how it worked before, and that was how it would work again. She just needed a little time to readjust, that was all.
Still, she waited.
Saturday night settled over the land with the same relentless darkness that had left her all alone on Thursday and Friday night. Again, he hadn’t come.
She had to face facts.
He wasn’t coming. Not for her.
Only five weeks to go until she broke the last guy’s record.
The phone’s ring cut through a dreamless sleep. Go away, Madeline thought as she rolled over. Nothing good could come from the phone ringing at... She propped open one eye. At 2:13 in the morning. Nothing good at all. She closed her eye again, willing the phone to stop ringing. It certainly wasn’t Rebel—he’d never called her, not once. He didn’t even own a phone. Which meant someone needed her, and right now, she didn’t want to be needed outside of normal business hours.
But the phone kept on ringing with determined insistence. Damn it, she thought as she sat. This better be good.
“Madeline?” The voice was faint, but familiar.
“Tara?” Nothing good at all. Her brain kicked on in seconds. “What’s the matter?”
Tara began to cry. “We’re sick, Madeline.”
Bad. Her stomach fell like a lead balloon. Bad, bad, bad. Tara didn’t get sick, and Tara didn’t cry, and Tara most definitely didn’t call her at 2:13 in the morning. Not unless it was really bad. She was up and out of bed, pulling on her pants as she said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nelly...” She was interrupted by the sound of vomiting.
Nelly. Nelly was sick, and Tara was throwing up. What the hell had happened? When Jesse had dropped Nelly off at the clinic at closing time last night everyone had been fine. Not even a headache. Don’t panic, she told herself. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. “Tara, where are you?”
“Oh, oh, Madeline,” Tara wept. “She’s so sick, and I’m sick, and Mom...”
“Can you make it to the clinic?”
“I don’t...” The vomiting sounded louder this time. “I’m so sorry...”
Oh, no. Her totally together receptionist was hysterically, violently ill. “I’m coming, Tara. Where are you?”
“I’m so sorry...it’s so late,” Tara blubbered. “But Nelly...”
She pulled the receiver away from her ear just long enough to get her shirt on. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming, Tara. I promise.”
“My house. Down the road from the Quik-E Mart. Oh, hurry, Madeline. Please.”
She was out the door in seconds. Come on, she prayed as she powered up the cell and peeled out. Just a few bars. That’s all I need.
“What?” Clarence demanded in a tired-but-super-pissed voice.
She’d have to apologize later for waking him up. She didn’t have time for pleasantries now. “It’s me, Madeline. Tara says everyone’s sick. I’m going to pick them up. Can you meet me at the clinic?”
Clarence was silent for a moment. Come on, she thought. I need you right now. “That flu?” he finally said.
“Maybe it’s not the flu. Maybe it’s something else.” Suddenly, Rebel looked more than delusional. He looked right. He’d been off by about four days, but something was wrong. Very wrong.