New Way to Fly (23 page)

“Maybe she does stuff like that all the time, Alvin,” Brock muttered aloud, pulling into his ranch yard and parking by the house. “Maybe for these
classy New York girls, casual sex is just another form of entertainment.”

But even as he spoke the words, he knew he didn't believe them. He couldn't be
that
wrong about a person. Amanda Walker might be shallow and calculating and pretentious, but Brock was certain that she hadn't taken his lovemaking lightly.

Still, she'd certainly shown her true colors the night of the dinner party. Her motivation had been so painfully, embarrassingly clear…to get the poor yokel in the same room with Prince Edward, to prove to herself and the whole world that he had no right to aspire to the hand of the princess.

Actually, Brock told himself grimly, it was just another form of comparison shopping, wasn't it? She even gave the same advice to women in her television commercials. “If you're in doubt, for instance with these two jackets, hold the two items up side by side and you'll note how cheap and ill-fitting this one is….”

The woman had treated him shabbily. She'd teased him, toyed with him, used his body to satisfy some obscure need of her own and then ground him underfoot so firmly that nobody could have any doubts about her feelings.

And then, finally, she'd gone off to her glamorous life in New York without a backward glance or a word of apology.

“So why does it hurt so much, Alvin?” Brock groaned in sudden agony, lifting the little dog out of the truck and setting him on the dusty grass. “Why can't I ever seem to get her off my mind?”

Alvin looked up at his master sadly and licked his hand with unexpected gentleness, then started off at a brisk trot toward the safety of the house. Brock followed, shaking his head, struggling to free himself of haunting images of deep blue eyes and wind-tossed black hair, of warm melting sweetness and a love that filled his whole body and soul.

A
HARVEST MOON
floated above the line of blackened hills. The chilly fingers of its light touched each tree and leaf with silver, frosted the tall waving grass, glittered in the eyes of night creatures and turned the slow-flowing river into a broad ribbon of hammered pewter.

At the Double C Ranch, the moon was almost eclipsed by strings of brilliant lights strung across the yard, over the trees fronting the house, around fences and patio railings. Noise and laughter flowed over the quiet landscape, bright bursts of hand-clapping, scraps of country music and loud cheery conversation.

Brock Munroe parked his truck near the barn along with dozens of others, and made his way slowly across the ranch yard toward the lights and gaiety that swirled all around the big pillared veranda of the house.

People drifted past him, laughing and waving, clad in a bewildering array of costumes. There were pi
rates and hoboes, Trekkies and princesses, goblins and androids, all sipping punch and exchanging jests, laughing and dancing in the moonlight.

“Hi, Brock,” a cheerful voice said nearby. Brock turned to see a handsome sun-browned face and a tall muscular body incongruously attired in lederhosen, embroidered shirt and Alpine hat.

“Hi, Jeff,” he said, chuckling. “Who are you supposed to be? Pinocchio?”

“We're Hansel and Gretel,” Jeff Harris said with an abashed grin. “You should see Bev. She's wearing this little peasant-girl dress and pigtails, looks like a million dollars.”

Brock refrained from comment, but began to feel a lot less ridiculous in his own outfit. He wore furry angora chaps, long curving spurs with huge rowels, a battered leather vest and a big old-fashioned ten-gallon sombrero. A pair of six-guns hung low on his hips, and the bandanna around his neck rested at his throat, ready to be pulled into position as soon as he neared the house.

“I'm an old-time bank robber,” he explained when Jeff eyed him curiously. “Stick 'em up, kid.”

Jeff chuckled and turned to greet his brother Scott, who wandered by with his wife, Valerie. Brock gazed at the two of them, admiring their costumes.

The pair from the Hole in the Wall were dressed as cave people, wearing soft furry animal hides, tall
leather moccasins and bone jewelry. Valerie had a fetching ornament of bones and leather worked into her shining hair. Bare-armed and bare-legged, their tall splendid bodies glowed with health and vigor and they smiled warmly as they passed by, clearly in love with each other and the whole world.

“Lucky it's a warm evening,” Jeff commented, unimpressed, watching as his tall brother strode off toward the house with his arm around Val. “Poor ol' Scott, he'll freeze his buns off in that rig if the weather gets a little nippy.”

Brock nodded agreement. “He'll just have to keep dancing, then. I guess I should go say hello to the hostess,” he added.

“Better hurry,” Jeff advised, peering around in search of his peasant girl. “She looks like she could be rushed to the hospital at any moment.”

Brock grinned, moving off toward the house. “Okay. Hi, Gretel,” he added as Beverly approached, her dirndl skirt swaying. “There's a weird guy over there in short pants who's looking for you.”

He pulled his bandanna into position, tugged his hat down so nothing showed but his eyes and clattered across the veranda and into the house, where more people crowded, their costumes whirling by in a brilliant kaleidoscope of color.

Old Hank Travis was in his chair by the fire, scowling but obviously enjoying himself. Somebody
had dressed the old man as a matador, with a squashed black felt hat and a brightly embroidered red silk jacket over his cowboy shirt. Old Hank was well into the spirit of the evening, occasionally hoisting his creaking body out of the rocker and making dramatic passes with his cape while one of the younger men thundered past him with lowered head, pretending to be a fighting bull.

Brock laughed, greeting the old man with warm affection, admiring the indomitable feisty spirit that had carried Hank Travis to the very threshold of his hundredth birthday.

He glanced around and saw Cynthia McKinney standing in the archway, gracious as ever, smiling and chatting with her guests.

What an impressive woman, Brock thought. She was still the perfect hostess, even though she was so massively pregnant that she looked positively dangerous.

With characteristic humor, Cynthia McKinney had dressed herself as a pumpkin for this Halloween party. She wore dark green tights on her slim legs, a round orange globe made of velvet supported on wires and a tight-fitting hood of soft green with a couple of big fabric leaves attached to it. Even her hands were attired in dark green gloves, protruding awkwardly from slits in the curved velvet globe.

Her husband stood next to her in jeans and boots,
looking tanned and robust again in spite of his health problems earlier in the year, his craggy face alight with pleasure.

“Good evening, Cynthia. You sure are the prettiest pumpkin I've ever seen. Evening, J.T.,” Brock added solemnly. “So, how come you aren't all dressed up, neighbor?”

J.T. peered closely at his guest, then settled back on his heels, grinning. “Well, well, if isn't Bad Brock Munroe, the terrible train robber. The reason I'm not dressed up,” he added cheerfully, “is that this woman is set to go into labor at any moment. It's gonna be embarrassing enough delivering a pumpkin to the hospital, without me being dressed up in a goddamn skeleton suit besides.”

Brock chuckled and moved on, bumping into Mary Gibson, who paused to give him a big hug. “Hi, Brock,” she said cheerfully. “Isn't this a wonderful party?”

“Dammit, everybody recognizes me the second they lay eyes on me,” Brock complained from behind his bandanna. “And I thought this was a pretty good disguise.”

Mary giggled. “Better not rob any banks, dear. They'd catch you in no time.”

Brock smiled, pleased by her obvious happiness. Then he stood back suddenly and gazed at her in
astonishment. “Mary…what the hell are
you
supposed to be?”

Mary grinned up at him placidly. She wore a lot of eye makeup and black tights that showed off a pair of very shapely legs. Her head and body were covered by a long white hooded pullover that bulged alarmingly over a hump at her small rear, probably formed by a couple of pillows stuffed beneath the pullover. Tall feathery plumes were attached to the hump, and swayed gently in the air currents that swirled all around the crowded rooms.

“I'm an ostrich,” she whispered, giggling breathlessly and standing on tiptoe to kiss Brock's cheek. Then she was gone, moving through the room with stately dignity while Brock gazed after her.

He edged his way through the crowd toward the rear patio where a hardy group was square-dancing out on the tennis court, cheerfully oblivious to the crispness of the evening breeze and the enclosing darkness of the night. The music swelled with steady primal rhythm, and lights glimmered on faces and costumes, iridescent and magical against the starry Texas sky.

Brock lingered in the shadows, smiling, tapping one of his boots in time to the music with a quick even beat that set his huge spur rowels jingling.

Jessica Reynolds drifted by, absorbed in the intricate patterns of the dance. Her diaphanous glittering
costume made her look like a tall golden butterfly. She was laughing, swinging on the arm of Wayne Jackson, who was dressed as Mr. Spock, complete with tight blue tunic and pointed Vulcan ears.

Behind Jessica, Lynn McKinney two-stepped to the beat, and whirled down the line of clapping pairs in her Little Red Riding Hood outfit with cape and basket. She was followed by Sam Russell, who made a realistic but amiable-looking wolf in a hairy costume and mask.

Brock's smile faded and he drew farther back into the shadows, feeling a sudden dark flood of loneliness. These young couples looked so happy and so well paired. Watching them, Brock felt painfully alone and unbearably sad.

He stood in the darkness gazing wistfully at the dancers, fighting an urgent desire to escape, go back home to Alvin and his cluttered lonely house, his old chair and books and the solitary life that seemed to be his fate.

He was on the verge of leaving, actually edging toward the back gate, when he paused abruptly and stared, his throat tight, his heart thundering against the heavy old leather vest.

A woman stood in the shadows beneath a trailing fall of vines strung with little pinpoints of light. She was alone, gazing uncertainly into the whirling crowds, her face turned partly away so he could see
her profile, the pure sweet curve of her cheek and the lovely long pearl-tinted line of her neck and shoulders.

She wore a shimmering low-cut gown of red silk and old Spanish lace, and her dark hair was pulled sleekly back from her face, gathered and covered with a brief lacy mantilla. Pearls glimmered in her ears and at her throat, and a fan trailed from her long scarlet-tipped fingers.

Brock stared at her, wondering if he could be imagining such a lovely vision. He swallowed hard and forced himself to remember the words he'd said to this woman when she lay wrapped in his arms in the autumn sunlight.

“I've dreamed about you all my life, Amanda…as long as I can remember,” he'd whispered huskily.

“A woman with a face just like yours, those eyes, that hair and mouth, just like you. But I always pictured you wearing Spanish lace, you know, with your hair pulled back and pearls in your ears….”

Slowly, haltingly, Brock edged through the darkness toward her, keeping himself well back in the shadows where she wouldn't see him. As he drew nearer, he began to feel almost dizzy.

They said she'd gone to New York with her boyfriend, just this past week. Why was she here at a party in Crystal Creek? And why was she wearing
the very outfit he'd described in those moments of unbearable tenderness?

Brock's face hardened. He paused, wondering if this was just another obscure taunt, a way of making fun of his dreams and his passion. She certainly seemed capable of such an action, judging by the things she'd already done.

But why bother? Brock thought, his confusion welling up again. Why go to so much effort to embarrass and humiliate a poor cowboy who'd done nothing wrong except fall in love with the wrong woman?

He hesitated close to her shadowy glittering bower, still torn by indecision but feeling the beginning of a deep cold anger. Finally he stepped out and confronted her, gazing into her startled eyes as he slowly pulled the bandanna down to reveal his face.

For what seemed like a lifetime they stood gazing at each other, tense and wordless while the music washed around them and the dancers whirled by in a multicolored blur. At last, unable to bear it, Brock turned on his heel and strode away across the flagged patio, around the darkened bulk of the big house, through the ranch yard toward his truck.

He paused beside the vehicle, bending to unbuckle the big unwieldy spurs when he heard light running footsteps.

“Brock!” she called in the darkness. “Brock, where are you?”

Brock crouched silently in the moonlight, waiting for her to go away. But she was edging along the line of parked vehicles, her steps echoing uncertainly in the darkness. Through the dim gleaming bulk of trucks and cars he could see the moonlight shining faintly on the white lace of her mantilla, glistening on the pure whiteness of her neck and shoulders in the low-cut silken gown.

“Brock?” she said again, stopping beside his truck. Brock stood slowly erect and gazed down at her in silence, the spurs dangling from his hand.

“Hello, Amanda,” he said. “I thought you'd gone back to New York.”

“I haven't gone anywhere. I wanted to talk to you first,” she said, startling him into silence once more. “Brock, I'm so sorry. What I did, it was just terrible. I know you hate me for it, and I deserve that, but I still want the chance to apologize to you.”

“What did you do, Amanda?”

She stared at him, her lips quivering. “You know what I did.”

“I think we both know. But I want to hear you say it.”

“I used you,” Amanda said steadily. “I used you physically because I was lonely and confused, and
then I betrayed you by using you again to help me make a decision about my life.”

“You thought that all you needed to do was put me beside your New York boyfriend so you'd be able to see just what a no-account jerk I was. Then you could leave Texas without any regrets. Wasn't that it, Amanda?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Brock…I know it was awful. But I was so confused by…how I felt about Edward, and the job he's been offering me, and what happened between you and me, and so many things…. I just thought I'd die if I couldn't make some kind of decision and start to get my life sorted out.”

“Did it work?” Brock asked her, forcing his voice to retain a mocking lightness that hid the ache in his heart. “Did your little plan help you come to any decisions?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Well, good.” Brock turned away and reached for his truck door. “It's always nice when a plan works, isn't it?”