With This Ring (2 page)

The male employees of the magazine mentally shook their heads as they watched the women employees flirt and preen and strut in the newcomer's wake.

"Sam! You're back! Welcome home!"

Sam Robbins grinned at Rosie Pritchard, a cartographer who'd been with the magazine since its inception in 1972. "Hey, Rosie-Posey, how's it goin'? Did you miss me?" He ruffled her sleek black hair, then dodged her friendly punch on the arm.

"Oh, yeah," she said with an exaggerated roll of her dark eyes, "I was counting the days. Couldn't hardly sleep at night, in fact."

"I've got a surefire cure for that," he said, winking. "Just name the time."

She laughed. "In your dreams."

"You're a hard woman, Rosie."

"Yeah, yeah, now get outta here. I got work to do." She shooed him away. But she was still smiling as he walked off.

Sam was smiling, too; he was thinking how much he liked Rosie. Sam liked women of all ages, provided they had a sense of humor and didn't take themselves, or him, too seriously.

As he made his way to the photography department, people called out in welcome.

"Hi, Sam!"

"Hey, Sambo, heard you got some great shots in Alaska!"

"Well, if it isn't The Rogue, in the flesh!"

Sam returned all the good-natured greetings, stopping to shoot the breeze for a few seconds with each co-worker. Finally he reached his destination—the office of his boss, the head of the photography department, Owen Church.

"He's waiting for you." Jeanne Linden, Owen's administrative assistant, inclined her curly blond head toward the open door, blushing and swatting him away as Sam dropped a quick peck on her cheek.

"Thanks, Jeanne." Sam tapped on the door frame before entering the big corner office.

"Sam! Come on in!" Owen Church was seated behind his mahogany desk, and he half stood to shake Sam's hand, then waved Sam to a seat. "The Alaskan shots are great." He chomped down on the unlit cigar that was as much a part of him as his wispy gray hair and gravelly voice. "Good job."

Sam felt a deep pleasure at Owen's praise. Of all the people he'd worked with over the years, he respected Owen the most. The older man had been with the Houston headquarters of
World of Nature
since he was twenty-two. He'd begun as a gofer for Monte Brewster, the nature-loving oil baron who'd started the magazine, and ended as the manager of one of the most elite sections, an accomplishment for which he was fiercely proud, and rightly so, Sam felt. Owen considered the photography department and its staff the way he would consider his children, if he'd ever had any.

He had given Sam his first break after Sam moved to Houston eight years ago—an assignment to photograph endangered wildlife along the Usumacinta River in Guatamala. He had liked Sam's work enough to offer him a staff job at the completion of the Guatamalan assignment. The job offer was a fantastic opportunity for someone who was only twenty-three. Sam still felt grateful, even though he knew he was damned good at what he did and had earned his place at
World of Nature.

Owen leaned back in his swivel chair. "What're your plans now? You going to take some of that vacation?"

"No. Not yet. I thought I'd wait and take some in the fall." Owen had been nagging at Sam since last summer to use some of the eight weeks vacation he'd accumulated.

For a long moment, Owen didn't reply, just studied Sam with his shrewd, pale blue eyes. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to pull rank on you this time, son."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm ordering you to take your vacation. At least six weeks of it."

Sam fought to keep his voice from betraying his quick surge of anger. "I don't
want
to take a vacation."

"Whether you want to or not, I think you need it."

Sam stared at his boss. Owen insisted that rest and recuperation were a necessary part of any job. He didn't understand that Sam didn't consider the work he did to be stressful or taxing nor did he feel the need to get away from it. He supposed if he were like most of the other staffers—with a home and family—he might look forward to time off, but Sam had no ties to speak of. And that was just the way he liked it.

Owen carefully balanced the cigar on the edge of a chipped glass ashtray that held paper clips and other assorted odds and ends. "Tell me something, Sam. Where do you see yourself going with your career?"

"Going? I don't see myself going anywhere other than where I am."

"No aspirations to strike out on your own or become a manager or do a book?"

"Nope. I like things just the way they are. What is this all about, Owen?"

Owen hesitated before answering. And when he did, his voice had softened. "Look, you know how much I think of you. CeCe and I, we've talked about you a lot, and we both agree that if we'd had a son, we'd have loved to have had one just like you."

CeCe was a favorite of Sam's. Feisty and fiery, just as her red hair suggested, she was one of the kindest and warmest women Sam had ever known. He had often thought what a damned shame it was that she and Owen had never had any children, because he knew how much they'd wanted them.

"And if you
were
my son," Owen continued, "I'd say the same things to you that I'm going to say now. I'm worried about you, Sam."

Sam started to interrupt, but Owen said, "Let me finish. Then you can talk. I'm worried because you don't seem to give a damn about anything, and as a result, you're taking too many risks."

Jesus Christ,
Sam thought,
did Roger tell Owen about what happened in Alaska?
Roger Blakely was the researcher who had accompanied Sam on the Alaskan assignment.

"You know," Owen continued, "no wildlife photographer can afford to be impatient or to put himself in danger—not if he wants to be one of the great ones . . . or if he wants to live to tell about it."

"Come on, Owen, you know I'd never do anything
really
dangerous—"

"Just hear me out, okay?"

Sam slumped back in resignation. "All right."

"As your boss, I have a responsibility to make sure you not only get the best pictures you can get but that you don't endanger your life or the life of anyone else you're working with in the process." Owen sighed. "Unfortunately, you
have
taken some needless risks in the past, which I excused by telling myself you were young, you'd learn. But now I've discovered you took another one in Alaska . . . "

Sam's jaw clenched, and the anger simmering below the surface flared into full flame.
Goddamn!
He'd wring Roger's neck when he saw him.

"And don't blame Roger," Owen said. "He has a larger responsibility than covering for you. He did the right thing when he told me what happened. Maybe if you had a family back here, as Roger does, you wouldn't take so many chances."

"Aw, come on, Owen, nothing happened. Roger's just an old lady! He's afraid of his own shadow, for Christ's sake!"

"Maybe nothing
did
happen, but it could have. Because you did something reckless in Alaska. You cornered that bear because you were either too impatient to wait and see if you could get the shots you wanted later, when you and Roger were out of harm's way, or you were too damned cocky to think that normal rules apply to you. Either way, I don't like it. It's only blind luck that everything turned out okay, but if you keep on like this, one of these days you won't be so lucky."

"Look, I'm sorry—"

"Saying you're sorry isn't good enough. Not this time. I want you to take time off. I'd like you to take your full eight weeks, but I'll settle for four." Again, his voice softened, and he leaned forward. "Sam, you have the potential to win a Pulitzer. But first you've got to learn the difference between calculated risk-taking and foolish endangerment."

Sam didn't trust himself to speak. He stood and walked over to the bank of windows and stared out at the afternoon traffic crawling along Westheimer and the intersecting West Loop. He had walked into Owen's office expecting congratulations and an exciting new assignment. Instead, he'd gotten a lecture.

"I know you're angry," Owen said. "But I want you to think about what I said. Think about what your goals are. And when your vacation is over, come in, and we'll talk about where you go from here."

* * *

After Sam left the office, Owen swivelled his chair around and gazed out the window unseeingly. He knew Sam was mad. Well, the kid would just have to get over it.

Owen sighed. If only he could knock some sense into Sam's head. Owen knew what drove Sam. He also knew, or thought he knew, what Sam's deep-seated fears were. Hell, if Owen had been born into the kind of situation Sam had been born into, if he'd had to scrounge on the streets from the time he was a little kid, if he'd been surrounded by pimps and prostitutes and drug pushers and addicts, if he'd been let down by all the people who were supposed to take care of him, maybe Owen would have the same kind of who-gives-a-shit attitude that Sam had.

But although Owen understood, although he realized that Sam had some kind of compulsion to thumb his nose at the conventional world as well as shout at the devil, Owen couldn't let him if it meant jeopardizing the work of the magazine or the lives of his co-workers.

He couldn't help smiling, though, as he remembered Sam's description of Roger Blakely. Roger
was
an old lady. He hated field work. He much preferred to bury his nose in library archives or microfiche than to be a part of an on-site research team. Too bad he was so good at it.

No matter. Sam was the one in the wrong, and he would either learn from this, straighten up and fly right, or he wouldn't fly at all.

* * *

Sam forced himself to pretend nothing was wrong as he made his way out of the magazine's offices. But he was seething inside, and he decided he'd go to the running trail in Memorial Park and blow off some steam.

Normally he ran in the mornings, but he'd gotten into town late last night, then he and Justin had stayed up even later, talking and pounding a few beers. As a result, Sam hadn't crawled out of bed until eleven this morning, and by the time he'd unpacked and showered and shaved and had something to eat, it was already the middle of the afternoon.

It only took him ten minutes to get from the
World of Nature
offices to his apartment near the park. It was a stifling day, but Sam didn't mind. He didn't even run the 'Vette's air conditioner, just put the windows down and let the hot air rush through. He'd spent lots of time in jungles and tropical climates the past eight years. His body was used to heat and humidity.

He always got a kick out of the way his Houston friends complained about the heat. Most of them wouldn't survive two days in some of the places he'd been. They were soft and spoiled, going from their air-conditioned homes to their air-conditioned cars to their air-conditioned offices.

Sam shook his head, remembering his astonishment the first time he'd gone to Astroworld and discovered that its creator had even tried to air-condition the outdoors. Only in Texas, he'd thought.

When he got to his apartment, he changed into his running shorts and shoes, then headed for the park. While he ran, he rehashed his conversation with Owen. He tried to get past his feelings of anger, but Owen's criticism rankled. Hell, any wildlife photographer had to take
some
risks. It went with the territory.

He felt like strangling Roger. Because of his big mouth, Sam had been grounded, like a misbehaving teenager. What in the
hell
was he going to do for four weeks? He'd go nuts.

He was still mulling over his problem when he finished his run and slowly walked toward the parking lot. As he approached his 'Vette, he heard a faint sound, like a cry.

Frowning, he looked around. There it was again. The sound seemed to be coming from under the thick Indian Hawthorne bushes that bordered the lot. He turned and walked in their direction.

Sam parted the bushes and peered under them. Sweat rolled off his neck.

"Meowww . . . " The muffled cry guided Sam as he finally located its source—a tiger-striped kitten, bedraggled and skinny. "Hey, fella," he said softly, "c'mere." He reached for it, and although the kitten meowed once more, it didn't resist as Sam pulled it out of its hiding place.

He cradled the kitten in his arms and stood. Poor little thing. It whimpered as he petted it and scratched behind its ears. Despite the heat, it was shaking all over. "Whatsa matter, fella? Did somebody toss you out on the streets? Huh? I know how that feels."

Sam knew he couldn't keep the kitten. He'd tried that once, with a puppy, and quickly discovered it was impossible to have a pet when you were away from home two-thirds of the time. In fact, that's how he and Justin had met. When Sam realized he would have to find another home for the pup, he'd put a notice up on the magazine's bulletin board, and Justin—who worked in the business office— answered it. He'd taken the dog, and in the process, he and Sam had become friends—a friendship that had strengthened as the years went by.

Sam cradled the kitten in his arms and wondered what he should do. It had obviously been abandoned, and if he left it, the kitten would probably starve to death.

He scratched its head gently. "Oh, hell, the least I can do is feed you. Then I guess I'll figure out something. C'mon, let's go. We'll be home in a few minutes. And who knows? If we play our cards right, maybe we can persuade Justin to take you, too!"

The first pink fingers of dawn crept over the horizon at six twenty-eight Saturday morning.

Amy Carpenter had been awake for over an hour. She'd been having trouble sleeping lately. She was restless and would awaken several times during the night.

Lark DeWitt, Amy's best friend since first grade, kept telling Amy she just needed a good fuck, which always made Amy cringe. She hated coarse language, and Lark knew it, so just to be perverse and get Amy's hackles up, Lark said the "F" word every chance she got.

Maybe Lark was right, Amy mused as she drank her third cup of coffee and nibbled on a bagel. She was sitting out on the second floor deck, under one of the leafy red oak trees that ringed her garage apartment. For the past thirty minutes she'd been listening to a mockingbird call to its friends and enjoying the relative coolness of the early morning air.