Paradise Valley

Page 12

“And if he doesn’t? What if he won’t see me?” she asked, and as she spoke, her eyes filled up with tears again.
“Like I said, we’ll get through the influence of anesthesia and pain drugs before we revisit the issue. We can’t really judge his feelings while he’s on that morphine planet. But he’ll get used to the morphine pretty quick and it won’t make him insane anymore. Then he’ll see you. He will. The nurse said this sort of thing happens a lot, but usually later on. Some patients get real clingy, need a lot of reassurance that they’re still lovable, some actually have such an inferiority complex about their body image, they push loved ones away. Like they don’t deserve love even when it’s offered.”
“Why couldn’t he be a clingy one?” she said softly.
Jack actually laughed. “Rick? We both know why. Because he’s too damn proud for his own good, that’s why. Liz, honey, there’s no reason Rick can’t have a completely full, productive life. There’s almost nothing a guy with a prosthetic limb can’t do. I’ve seen news stories on guys with fake legs running marathons. And Rick will learn, he will. He’ll do whatever he wants…eventually. But if I know my boy, he’s going to be a giant pain in the ass getting there.”
She laughed through some tears.
“Mel told me this story. She said it was too soon to tell Rick, and she didn’t know the half of that. She said she worked with a doctor in the emergency room back in L.A. for a year before she realized he had a prosthetic leg. She never did say how she found out. I don’t know what you know about big-city trauma centers, but those docs have to be fast and strong and steady. And I don’t know how well you know Mel, but she’s demanding as all hell. If she worked with a doc who didn’t pull his weight in any way, she’d be all over him.” He took a drink of his beer. “Yeah, she didn’t know about the guy’s leg for a year. What does that tell you?”
“There’s hope?”
“You bet. But, Liz, it isn’t going to be easy on Rick. He’s dealing with way more than just the leg—he’s been to war. And if it’s not easy on Rick, it’s not going to be easy on us. What do you think of my idea? We give him a little time to settle down? Get through the drug haze before we push on him? We don’t need another crazy outburst.”
“I guess that’s okay,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so disappointed.”
“Aw, honey, I know. Believe me, I never saw that coming.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help by being here. I thought he’d be glad to know how much I love him.”
“I bet when we’re through the worst of this, he will be.”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
“My idea?” Jack pushed. “You’ll have some time on your hands. I don’t think you should try to see him until the timing is better. Not just for him, honey. For you, too.”
“But I want to go with you. I won’t go in his room until he says it’s okay, but I want to be there. In case.”
“You sure the temptation won’t be too strong?” he asked her. “Because I think until we get a little stability here, you shouldn’t even peek in the room.”
“I’ll stay in the waiting room downstairs. I brought my backpack with school stuff. And they have a TV— I saw an English news program on it. I’ll try to be patient. I promise.”
“Good for you. You done eating? We can share this reading material. And I want you to get some rest so you can deal with these ups and downs.”
“Okay,” she said with a small smile.
Two hours later, Jack stepped outside the hotel and used his cell phone to call Mel. It was nine hours earlier in California and she was at the clinic. When she answered, he just said, “Baby.”
“Jack! Did you see him?”
He took a breath. “Mel, he’s going to recover. But it was the worst experience of my life. I shouldn’t have brought Liz. He took her apart. Ripped her heart out.”
Over his thirty-five-year military career, Walt Booth had seen hundreds of injured soldiers. He’d made dozens and dozens of goodwill visits to hospitals; he’d attended many wheelchair-basketball games and races. He had nothing but respect and admiration for the men and women who turned their physical disabilities into productive lives.
But something about Rick Sudder’s injuries got to him. He didn’t even know Rick that well. It was probably all about the timing. Walt’s son was army now. Rick and Tom were only a year apart in age and had become friends. Sometimes when Walt thought about Rick coming home with one leg, he got confused in his mind and pictured Tom. He hated that. It cost him sleep. There was no logical reason for it. Tom was tucked away at West Point, working his butt off, studying day and night, not in a war zone.
He knew he was affected, that it showed on him. Vanni had asked him if he was all right and he admitted the truth—thinking about that strong and vital young man dealing with an injury like this was working on him, grieving him. Muriel had asked him what was wrong in one of their phone calls and he laid it out for her—Jack and Liz had gone to Germany to be there for Rick when he was waking up after surgery and he worried about all of them. “This war is a hellish business,” he had said. “And, Muriel, there’s always a war somewhere. That was my life’s work, staying on top of the wars. And Rick, he’s such a nice young man. So proud and dedicated. I hate to think of his suffering.”
She’d been so lovely in her response, consoling him, praising his sensitivity. But what he really wanted was to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. He had no idea how long it would be until he could do that again.
They didn’t even talk every day. When he called her, he almost always got her voice mail; when she called him, it was usually very early or very late. Sometimes she called him while she was on the treadmill, killing two birds with one stone, and the huffing and puffing was too annoying for him to listen to.
He soldiered on. It was what he was trained to do. The bar in Virgin River was a little sparse and quiet these days, but he dropped by to see if there was any news from Jack. Sometimes he had dinner with Vanni, Paul and Abby at their house. And he tended Muriel’s horses twice a day, letting them into the corral after feeding them, mucking their stalls, brushing them down, checking their hooves.
On this particular night, he ate a sandwich and headed for Muriel’s with the dogs in tow. They seemed to love going home. He drove up at dusk and noticed there was an old car parked in front of the porch and all the lights were on inside the big house. The dogs immediately started barking at the front door. He thought about calling Mike V to tell him Muriel’s had been broken into, but instead he fetched a pitchfork from the barn and used his key to let himself in. He knew the dogs would let him know where the intruder was.
They ran right up the stairs. He followed at a distance and then heard a squeal he definitely recognized.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway, pitchfork in hand, clad in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, and looked at the woman in the bed. She was struggling to keep the sheet over her naked breasts, laughing, petting her dogs. “Well!” she said. “About time! Maybe I should get a better caretaker. I thought you’d never get here.”
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked, leaning the pitchfork up against the wall.
She grinned at him and pushed her dogs off the bed. “Bringing comfort and joy.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A couple of hours. Completely naked and getting cold. Did you close the front door?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, a state of shock overwhelming him.
“Then, Walt, what say you close it. So these dogs don’t have free run of the property.”
“Muriel,” he said. “Holy damn, are you a sight for sore eyes.”
“So are you,” she said softly. “Now, get that door closed for me. Hmm?”
He grinned largely. “You got it.”
“Thank God. I’m in no condition to take care of that. But I am in a condition.”
He was downstairs and back upstairs in short order. He closed the Labs out of the bedroom and stood at the side of the bed. He looked down at her and his eyes glowed. “You look a little different,” he said.
“I’ve had my hair colored several times. They don’t think I have it right yet.” She held out her hands. “Nails. I have nails again. And I’m wearing makeup for a change. But I have the same body. I don’t know if that’ll come as good news or bad.”
He grinned at her. Then he pulled off his boots and clothes, dropped everything on the floor and crawled in beside her, taking her into his arms. “Good news,” he said. “God, Muriel. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you more, I think.”
“We can’t even have a goddamn conversation.”
“Insane, isn’t it? I hate the schedule. But I tried to tell you—it’s not about being a star, it’s about working your tail off. There’s never a break.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“I had a small fit. I’m entitled once in a while. I know all about when and how to do that, you know. A couple of our wannabe stars were missing all sorts of fittings and readings and I finally said, Hey, I have property, animals and a boyfriend up north and I’m not feeling happy about wasting time here, waiting around for people to get it together. I need a day off! So one of the producers rounded up an airplane and gave me a little time off.”
“Is there a Lear at that little airport?”
“There is.”
“Whose car do you have parked outside?”
“Something left in long-term parking by an airport-tower guy who’s out of town. I have permission.”
“And how much time do you have?”
“A night and long morning. I’m sorry. I’m not that good at tantrums. But I wanted to see you.” She ran her fingers through his silver hair. “How are you, Walt? I’ve been a little worried.”
“I’m better now.” He lifted the sheets. “I’m getting better by the second.” He ran a big hand down over her shoulder, her breast, all the way to her hip. “You’re the same here. Your skin may be softer.” And then he covered her mouth with his. He kissed her deeply and thoroughly. “I haven’t fed the horses yet.”
“I fed them. I didn’t want us to be interrupted,” she said. “Ohhhh. I’m really glad I showed up. Do you have any idea how wonderful your hands feel on me?”
“Tell me,” he said, kissing her cheeks, neck, shoulder, breast.
“Mmm. Well, almost as good as your lips….”
He chuckled. “Muriel, did you just come back for sex?”
“Certainly not,” she whispered, her eyes closed, her body straining toward his. “I’d like to talk.” She sighed deeply. “After.”
He laughed at her again. “If I’d said that to you, you would have been highly insulted. But a man is almost never offended to learn he’s needed for sex.”
“Oh, good,” she said, smiling. “You don’t mind, then.”
“Mind? I’m flattered.” He positioned himself over her. “I hope you’re not in a big hurry. I’m planning to take my sweet old time.”
“Jesus,” she whispered. “Thank you, Jesus.”
“Muriel,” he laughed. “Thank me.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got first. Then we’ll see if thanks are in order.”
He didn’t laugh, though he thought she was funny. Instead, he worked her body. He stroked her, kissed her, licked her, entered her and rode her, remembering those wonderful sounds she made when she was getting close. When she came apart on him, boiling over in a fantastic climax, he gave her a moment to thoroughly enjoy herself, and when she was no longer preoccupied with her own pleasure, he took his. He wanted her to feel it deep inside her. And she moaned deliciously, holding on to him, kissing and sucking his shoulder.