Passing Through Midnight

  Passing Through Midnight

  By

  Mary Kay McComas

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  "So," Gil said, trying to sound unruffled, his hands finding hers in the darkness, "will you be out stargazing again tonight?"

  "Yes. Maybe. Probably. I guess. I'm not sure," Dorie said softly.

  He shifted his weight and looked uncomfortably at their entwined fingers. "Dorie." He used her name like a plea for understanding. "I get into all sorts of trouble trying to guess what other people are thinking."

  "You mean women?"

  He nodded and smiled a little. "I mean especially women."

  "Then talk to me as you would a man or the way you'd talk to the boys. And I'll do the same to you," she promised.

  He gave it some thought, then spoke. "Later, after the boys are in bed… if I come to your door, will you let me in?"

  It was the best he could do. She could hear it in his voice. His words were as plain as he could make them. He was like a blind man groping in the darkness for her. Feeling his way carefully toward tenderness and harmony with another human being. With her. He'd picked her to reach out to, as if she was someone special.

  "Dorie, if I come, will you let me in?" he asked again, gently demanding an answer.

  "Yes…"

  WHAT ARE LOVESWEPT ROMANCES?

  They are stories of true romance and touching emotion. We believe those two very important ingredients are constants in our highly sensual and very believable stories in the LOVESWEPT line. Our goal is to give you, the reader, stories of consistently high quality that may sometimes make you laugh, sometimes make you cry, but are always fresh and creative and contain many delightful surprises within their pages.

  Most romance fans read an enormous number of books. Those they truly love, they keep. Others may be traded with friends and soon forgotten. We hope that each LOVESWEPT romance will be a treasure—a "keeper." We will always try to publish

  LOVE STORIES YOU'LL NEVER FORGET

  BY AUTHORS YOU'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER

  The Editors

  PASSING THROUGH MIDNIGHT

  A Bantam Book/January 1995

  Copyright © 1994 by Mary Kay McComas.

  Back cover art copyright © 1994 by Barney Plotkin.

  Floral border by Joyce Kitchell.

  ISBN 0-553-44485-9

  For my longtime good friend,

  Honey Kay Ely

  Worked any miracles or made any trees lately?

  To the people of Colby, Kansas.

  Please forgive any and all license I've taken in the creation or this story. Years ago, I would hum along with John Denver's song "MATTHEW" while I walked the floors for hours with my colicky infant son—Matthew. The words told of a place where gold grew in the wheat fields and the only definition for blue was a summer sky; where joy was commonplace and love was simply a way of life. I thought Colby sounded like a wonderful place for a little boy to grow up strong and happy.

  ONE

  "When I grow up I wanna be a fire engine."

  The words came to her in a half-sleep state. The shadows in her mind began to form the silhouette of a huge red fire engine. It had big round headlight eyes on the front of it; a pudgy little nose with freckles, and the shiny front fender was a mouth that never stopped moving.

  "You can't be a fire engine, stupid. That's a thing. You have to be somethin' real. Somethin' human."

  Dorie rolled over and opened her eyes. It was the man and his sons again. The crisp air of early spring carried their voices like bubbles in water, bursting outside her open window.

  "Then I'll be a fire-man and drive a fire engine. I can do that, can't I, Dad?"

  "Last I heard, you can be anything you want, pal. And don't call your brother stupid," the man added, subtly changing his tone of voice as he addressed first one son, then the other. She liked the father's voice. It was soft and deep, like a subterranean river, slow flowing and penetrating. It had a way of rumbling around inside her head for hours after she heard it.

  She yawned and stretched her body from the head of the bed to the bottom, pulling at stiff, aching muscles as if she were trying to pop out of her skin. Going limp on the mattress, she tilted her head toward the alarm clock on the nightstand to see if the man and his sons were arriving or leaving.

  Eight-fifteen. They were leaving.

  The man—tall, lanky, and broad shouldered in blue denim. And his boys—one dark like his father, wearing similar pants and a jacket, the other a redhead in faded blue overalls and a thick canvas winter coat. She could set the clocks by them. They always came at seven in the morning and six in the evening, and they were usually gone an hour later.

  They came in a big black and silver stretch-cab pickup truck, parked anywhere they felt like parking in the space between the house and the barn, wandered off to do something to the cows in the fields beyond, stopped at the barn at least once, sometimes twice, and then they left. Every day.

  Dorie watched them sometimes from an upstairs window. The little boy was cute and full of energy. The other boy was all arms and legs, gangly and gawky, showing signs of inheriting his father's stature. The father, Gilliam Howlett was his name, walked with a long, confident stride, as if he knew where he was and where he was going all the time. He took each step as if he were on intimate terms with every rock and pebble and particle of dirt he stepped upon—and knew he'd never fall. It was as if he'd walked the city block between the house and the fence a gajillion times and wasn't tired of it yet. She envied him.

  "Will she come out today? Do you think we'll see her?" she heard the high, hearty voice ask.

  "Don't know."

  "Maybe she's sick and can't come out. Maybe we should go in and look at her." The little boy's voice was as full of concern as it was curiosity.

  "Maybe she died the first night she got here. Maybe she's in there rotting all over the floor, with maggots crawling in her eyes and…"

  The younger boy made a half-excited, half-terrified noise as the father broke in, "Knock it off, Fletcher. The lady's just fine, Bax. She'll come out and meet us when she's ready. Hop in, it's time to go."

  "Can I leave the map, Dad?"

  A hesitant pause. "Sure. Why not?"

  "Maybe we should write her a note and tell her not to be afraid of us."

  Dorie got out of bed and tiptoed over to the lace-draped window. Though raised only enough to let the smell of old dust and emptiness out of the house, it was also enough to let the sound of their voices in—and to freeze the wax on the wooden floor beneath her bare feet.

  "No," Gil said slowly, rejecting the idea of leaving his mysterious neighbor a note. "You did a fine job on that map. I think she'll get the picture. Hurry, now."

  The little boy scrambled into the cab of the truck, slipped out with a tube of paper in one fist, and bounced off toward the house. She heard his footsteps trip across the wide front porch below. The storm door squeaked and slammed closed.

  "Can I drive?" the older boy asked, standing next to his father on the driver's side of the truck, his hand palm up to receive the keys.

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "You know why."

  "I got a D. You said I had to pass algebra, and a D is passing."

  "Not in my book."

  "I drive the four-wheeler and the tractor…"

  "On private property, in an open field…" the father injected as if he'd had this conversation before.

/>   "… all the way over to the Beamans' place."

  "… eight miles, in first gear."

  "So, it's okay to drive if it's convenient for you, but until I get a C in algebra, I can't drive when I want to?"

  "You got it. Now, get in the truck or you'll be late for school."

  "Who cares?" the youth muttered, stomping around the front of the truck, shuffling his feet impatiently as he waited for his brother to climb onto the seat, closing the door with a single angry flick of his wrist.

  "I do," Gil said, his door closing much more quietly. "And watch your mouth, or you'll die of old age before you get to drive again."

  "Dad! Dad, look! It's the lady!"

  All three of them craned their necks down and upward to stare at the second-story window through the windshield.

  Dorie stepped back quickly, though she didn't miss the little boy's friendly, vigorous waving or his brother's eager curiosity or his father's worried frown. She held her breath for a moment or two, then edged her way back to the window to see what they were doing.

  There was a dread-filled moment when she thought they might come up to the door and knock again. She wasn't ready to see anyone. The day she moved in, they'd come to her door twice, when they'd first arrived and again before they'd left. When she didn't respond, they had made no further attempts to contact her. She'd appreciated their discretion. She'd also stayed well out of their sight until today.

  The engine revved, the tires crunched over wet gravel, and she sighed her relief as she watched the truck drive away. The Howletts were naturally curious. They were trying to be neighborly. But they had no idea what they were asking to see—or what it would cost her to show them.

  She tried not to feel guilty for shunning them, and she succeeded. She didn't want to see anyone, and she didn't wait anyone seeing her. She didn't feel like being polite, and she didn't want to have to pretend to be nice. If that was rude and inconsiderate, she wasn't going to feel guilty about it.

  She turned from the window and caught sight of herself in the warped mirror above the old mahogany chest of drawers. The puckered red scar on her left thigh peeked out below her T-shirt. The patch of hair stubble growing over the healing gash on her left temple was too obvious, as the dark brown hair on the other side of her head hung in loose waves to her shoulder.

  But it was the dark green and black discoloration around her eyes and the thread-thin scars on her cheek and chin, still too bright to cover with makeup, that kept her away from quizzical stares… Well, the scars and the fact that she was sick to death of people, she thought, turning from her image in disgust.

  The farmhouse she'd rented three weeks earlier was big and old and quiet. She descended the stairs, hearing nothing but an occasional creak from the wood in the steps, the now-familiar hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the constant whir of thoughts in her head.

  Why she went directly to the front door to retrieve the little boy's rolled-up piece of paper, she wasn't sure. It wasn't as if she was curious about it. Maybe it was knowing that it was there, out of place and needing to be disposed of that caused her to bring it in and toss it on the dining room table on her way to the kitchen. She'd throw it away later, if she could find the energy.

  She made coffee and sat in a straight-backed chair at the kitchen table waiting for it to brew. She didn't look out the big window across from her because she didn't care if there was any weather at all, and she wasn't much interested in the miles and miles of dull, flat Kansas landscape.

  It was her goal of late to keep her mind free of thought and emotion, to stare blankly at the clasped hands in her lap or a vacant spot on a wall. The less she worked her brain, the less she felt, the better off she was —though she frequently nodded off to sleep, exhausted from the effort.

  The phone rang just as she finished her coffee. She set the cup in the sink with the others she'd used that week, along with several dirty dishes and the pot she cooked her soup in twice a day.

  "Hello, Mother," she said without hesitation or enthusiasm.

  "Hello, darling, how are you feeling today?"

  "Better." She always said "better". If she didn't, she'd have someone else at her front door with a lot more than a rolled-up piece of paper in their hands.

  "How are your eyes, dear? Has the swelling gone down?"

  "Yes. They're fine."

  "Still black-and-blue?"

  "A little."

  "It's such a shame your nose didn't set right the first time. Having to break it again to fix whatever it was they couldn't fix the first time was such a bother. But I really think you were smart to get it all fixed at once, while you were still in the hospital with your leg. Going back to the hospital after spending so many months there getting well would have been very difficult for you."

  "I know." She stepped over to the sink and picking carefully, removed her coffee cup and filled it again. She could tell her mother was feeling chatty that morning.

  "It's all behind you now. From here on it's simply a matter of exercising your leg, getting your strength back and coming home. How long is your leave of absence?"

  "It's indefinite."

  "Well, you should get back as soon as you can, you know, so they don't give your job to someone else. You've worked far too hard for your position. All those years of medical school, your internship… three years of residency. You've given up so much for your career, it would be unspeakable to lose it all now because of some fluke accident. A tragedy, really, but certainly nothing you can't overcome. God doesn't give us more than we can bear, you know."

  "So I've heard." Frankly, she suspected that He had overestimated her endurance this time.

  "So, you're out walking every day, yes?" It was easier to let her make assumptions. "I'm sure all that country air can't be anything but good for you, darling. Though I must say that when I suggested you get away for a while, I never dreamed you'd end up in Nowhere, Kansas."

  "I'm not exactly in shape for Club Med, Mother."

  "No, I suppose not, but I was thinking of something along the lines of a health club or a body spa." Dorie knew what she had been thinking. She always knew what her mother was thinking. Her mother was entirely predictable, which was one of the many things she loved about her.

  "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as you're resting and getting strong again. Have you met any of the locals? Country people are so friendly. Not like city people. And you don't have to be afraid to go out your front door the way you do here. I understand that some of those farmers make a very good living…"

  Something else she loved about her mother—she dropped subtle hints the size of atomic bombs.

  "I'm not exactly in shape to get remarried either, Mother, so let's drop the subject," she said, thinking of Gil Howlett, not knowing why.

  "All right," she said, recognizing the tone of her daughter's voice. "Did you get the package I sent? Carmella was so sweet. I told her about the problem with your hair, and she says the best thing to do is cut it all short, then grow it out again. She found a book full of short hairstyles for you to look at. So many people here love you. Everyone asks about you. I don't know why you felt you needed to go so far away to recuperate when there are so many people right here who would be happy to help you."

  "I don't need any help, Mother. I just need time. Alone."

  "Yes, I know, dear. And I'm trying to understand. But it seems to me that when something this devastating happens, most people would want to have their family and friends nearby."

  "I'm only an hour away by plane, and I can reach out and touch you by phone whenever I want." Lord, how many times were they going to have to have this conversation? She sighed, and her gaze wandered into the dining room to the little boy's rolled-up paper on the table.

  "Well, I wish you would call once in a while," her mother said, sounding slightly irritated. "If I didn't make a point of calling you at least once a day, I'd never hear from you. I worry about you, dear, especially now…
"

  Dorie set the receiver on the counter ever so softly and walked back to the dining room. Slipping the rubber band from around the tube, she spread it out flat on the dark maple tabletop.

  Bold and bright, as only a map drawn in crayon could be, the little boy had put stick cows in the big field behind the house; he'd planted trees and still, green wheat fields exactly where they should be; the graveled drives and the road between their houses were outlined in black. The houses themselves were large X's to mark the spots with a curving dotted line between them to show the way. She forgave him the blond curly hair on the stick woman beside one of the X's… he'd never really seen her after all. Most appealing, however, was the huge smile on the face of the stick boy he'd drawn in his own front yard.

  For the first time in months a smile came to her lips, easy and spontaneous. He must have spent hours on such a masterpiece, she thought, sighing as a warm sensation spread through her chest.

  Still holding the map, studying the finer details, she returned to the kitchen.

  "… Midge's daughter, Eve? You remember? The one with that dreadful overbite? She had a mastectomy last year, and she's still married… eighteen years, I think Midge said. So, you see—"

  "Mother," she broke in quietly. "Happily ever after isn't in my story. Marriage and children just aren't written in it. If I've learned anything from this, it's that what is, is. You can't make things happen. You can't stop them from happening. They simply happen…" At the worst of times and when you least expect it, she added to herself, touching the smiling stick boy on the map. "… or they don't happen."

  "That sounds so fatalistic. Honey, I—"

  "Mother? Mom?" she broke in again. "Could I call you back? I was going into town today, and if I don't leave pretty soon, I'll be too tired."