Conquer the Memories

Chapter 3

A carpenter was hammering. No, not a carpenter. His apprentice. Drive and miss. Drive and miss.

Craig dug his elbow into the chair arm just so. With the side of his head supported by the heel of his hand, the hammering pain lessened. When he first woke up, the pressure inside his skull had made him almost violently ill. He could get out of bed in a day or two, the nurse had told him. Until then, he was to stay quiet.

He’d waited until the woman had finished her long list of orders and left to deliver more general-like commands to the rest of her patients. She really didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, anyway.

He’d made it to Sonia’s room. Walking up a flight of stairs and down a corridor hadn’t been the easiest project he’d ever taken on, but it was hardly impossible.

Sonia’s black curls were nestled on the pillow; stark white sheets were tucked under her chin. Her bed was right next to the chair he had collapsed into. Pale morning light was gradually infiltrating the hospital room; in another hour the rays would reach her curled-up form on the bed.

She was curled up, her knees nearly touching her chin, cocooned under the sheet in the fetal position. The position where one was safe…

Craig tried to shift and couldn’t. Whoever had kicked his kidneys should enter a competition for skill at the craft. The two cracked ribs weren’t bad. They only hurt when he breathed. The broken nose he found almost humorous. When he’d looked in a mirror, he’d found that his whole face had been rearranged. The flesh around one eye was vaguely purple; a spot on the opposite cheek was green and swollen.

None of that was of any serious concern to him. His post-concussion head was another matter. He couldn’t think, and he needed to think, but that carpenter’s apprentice kept hammering. If he moved too fast, he was annoyingly aware he would be sick.

Sonia shifted just slightly, her eyes fluttering open and then closing again. Her face was lovely in sleep, flushed and soft and vulnerable.

Vulnerable…the word twisted like a new pain, this one not in his head. Guilt and rage lanced his heart. The same picture kept materializing in his mind. A tall, lanky blond punk with strange light eyes, wearing dark, filthy jeans and a dark shirt. Young. Thick jowls and not much of a chin, a thin, arched nose.

He’d been working on a mental picture of the bastard for the past two hours, until it was exactingly clear, until he was positive of every detail. Yes, it had been dark, but the moon had been full and the park had had lights. Craig was sure he would know the filthy bastard again. Pianist’s fingers, long and thin. For the rest of his life, he would remember the shape of that hand on Sonia’s stomach, her horrified cringe at the cur’s touch, the sick helplessness in her eyes.

Craig closed his own eyes. He was the one who had let it all happen. Skipped out on the bodyguard. Taken Sonia where he knew there was potential danger. A city park, dammit. Charming in the daytime but-he should have known-risky at night. But he’d had it with the asphalt jungle, and had been hungry for grass and trees and privacy. The lake had beckoned…

No excuse. He had no excuses for himself.

His mother had died when he was nine; his father when he was seventeen. Craig had fended for himself and fought tooth and nail to make the ranch solvent. Shale, rich in oil, lay under his grazing land, and at the time he found it, the government had been willing to back anyone who could develop a process for extracting oil from shale. Craig knew as much about oil extraction as every other rancher in the area: nothing. Hard and fast, he learned. Hard and fast, he’d learned everything. For years, he’d needed no one, though the tough, hard veneer had worn off once he was old enough, and experienced enough, to no longer need a protective wall around himself. He’d never been able to define precisely his attitude toward Sonia. He’d played a long, wide field before he met her. With no other woman had he ever felt such intense, instinctive surges of protectiveness.

Sonia was vulnerable. He loved that in her. She believed in people, in their basic goodness; she had such perception and compassion and love in her. The first time he’d touched her, he’d felt a violent urge to destroy anyone who would hurt her, who would dare to harm her. She delighted in teasing him that she’d “been around.” She’d been around like a newborn kitten without claws. Her trust-that gut trust that came from the sweetest core of her-she’d never given to anyone before him.

He’d failed to earn that trust last night.

“Craig.”

His eyes blinked open. Her sleepy ones met his, soft and shadowed, wrenching his heart.

“Good morning,” he whispered. He had to use both hands to get up from the chair, and ignored the apprentice going wild in his head at even slow-motion efforts. He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine. Maybe a little sore. Everything’s…fine, except that I feel pumped full of drugs.” She smiled groggily, and then frowned. “Honey, what on earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be flat on your-”

He motioned to the empty bed next to her, his choice of where he preferred being flat on his back totally clear.

Sonia’s smile was sleepy. “This is the women’s ward.”

“I like women.”

“You’d better not. You’re already in trouble with me, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh?” He made it back to the chair when he felt he could no longer stand, tugging it closer to her bed so he could touch her.

“You all but promised to make love to me last night,” she joked groggily. “Lord, what a tease. What kind of way was that to end the evening?”

“A frustrated one,” he said wryly.

Slowly, she eased herself up to a sitting position, letting the sheet fall to her waist. The hospital gown made her figure disappear; she looked ten years old with her disheveled mass of blue-black curls and huge turquoise eyes.

Totally disoriented from the sedatives the doctor had pumped into her, Sonia was finding it a monumental task to concentrate. “Craig, you have a concussion-”

“A light one,” he lied.

“Did they tape the rib?”

He shook his head. Slowly. “They don’t always do that anymore. It’s nothing, Sonia.”

It wasn’t nothing. As her vision cleared, she could see the terrible bruises, and beneath his natural tan there was a grayish pallor that terrified her. She reached over to touch his fingers. Their hands matched, forming a tent, fingertip to fingertip. “If you don’t lie down, I’m going to tickle you till you cry uncle,” she whispered.

Slowly, he raised himself up to a standing position. “You need breakfast. And coffee.”

He reached behind her to push a button near the head of her bed. She saw the tiny row of perspiration beads break out on his forehead at that small effort, and wanted desperately to force him to lie down. But how? His eyes had a strange, haunted cast to them she’d never seen before, something that was more than the physical pain she knew he must be suffering. She felt as helpless to do anything for him as she had the night before.

Of their own volition, her fingers groped at her neck.

“Where’s my…they took my opal!”

His jaw turned to stone. “I know, honey. The nurse will be here in a moment.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” But she wasn’t. Memories of last night flooded through her with sudden dizzying speed, and the sedative hangover only accented those nightmare images. “How could they? How could they take my opal?” Such a stupid thing to say, such a stupid thing even to think. It was just…she had always been a giver. No one had ever taken anything from her-no one had had to; there had never been anything she hadn’t been willing to give freely for the asking. The opal seemed a symbol of other things the blond bastard had threatened to take-although he hadn’t really touched her. He’d only touched the opal, something personal and precious to her, something that could never be retrieved.

Suddenly, she recalled all too clearly her unforgivable hysteria, the burst of uncontrollable crying that had started once she’d gotten Craig safely into the hospital the night before. Why then, when she was finally certain he would be all right? Her own loss of control had felt alien and strange, and for an instant she felt that terrible panic again.

Until Craig’s hand linked warmly in hers, until his lips came down on her cheek. The anguish in his eyes…was her fault. His touch was soothing, sensual, reassuring. So like Craig. She blinked back the tears and pressed his hand with a small smile. “They looked like a rock group. I may permanently take up classical music,” she whispered.

“Just don’t take up country.” His palm brushed her cheek, then lazily pushed back her hair. Her heart gradually stopped pounding.

“I thought you liked country music.”

“I thought you liked classical.” His fingers stopped their slow caress. One forefinger tapped her nose, then poked at the neckline of her hospital gown. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this,” he commented.

She chuckled. “You’re forever knocking my taste in clothes.”

“You have excellent taste, and you know it.” He paused. “It’s a little different from the satin thing you tried to put on a few nights ago.”

“Whose fault was it that I never got it on?” She smiled again. “Listen, buster. I got in late last night. This was the only room in town. Degenerate place. They don’t even stock toothbrushes.”

He leaned over her, his dark eyes glinting with something beyond that haunted pain. Those eyes came toward hers slowly, until firm, soft lips touched hers. “We’ll get you your toothbrush,” he murmured, “but in the meantime you smell sweet and you taste sweet, love, even in the morning. Must be the reason I married you.”

“I thought it was my legs.” She raised her hand, ever-so-gently touching the multicolored bruises on his face. He had a Band-Aid on his nose, but that was all. Come to think of it, how on earth would they put a nose in a cast? She was not going to cry. Deliberately, she smiled, and she intended to keep on smiling until it snowed in the tropics, unaware that there was a rainbow cast of brilliant moisture in her eyes.

“Silly, it was your eyes. What on earth makes you think I married you for your legs?”

“Listen, Hamilton. I have to take credit for my legs. God knows I wasn’t built like Mae West upstairs.”

“What fun would it be being married to a life jacket?”

“Lord, I’ve trained you well,” Sonia marveled.

“Very well. And in the meantime, I certainly hope you didn’t marry me for my nose.”

She chuckled again. “I did.” She cocked her head, studying him. “But I guess you’ll still do. It’d be too darn much trouble breaking in someone new.”

He heaved a weary sigh. “So you want to watch me tie you down and take a feather to your feet?”

When the nurse walked in, Sonia was grateful. The banter had set at a distance the horrors of the night before, but other realities were intruding with frightening speed. Craig was in pain. Serious pain. His movements were achingly slow and his color increasingly ashen. He was giving an Oscar-winning performance, trying to hide the fact that he was hurting, and she loved him with a raving, consuming frustration inside her. Give in, Craig. Taking on five men. You damn fool. If something had really happened to you, do you think I would have wanted to go on living?

“Mister Hamilton, I really don’t believe this.” The RN’s name was Trether. A tiny white cap was perched meticulously on butter-yellow hair, and the nurse’s whites were spotless on a tall, spare figure. “You will be returned to your own bed the very instant I can get an aide in here,” she scolded firmly, setting a tray down next to Sonia’s bedside. “The doctor will be in your room to see you shortly, and in the meantime Mrs. Hamilton is going to have her shower and eat her breakfast.”

Craig didn’t even turn around. “You feel up to a shower?” he asked quietly.

“Lord, yes.” Sonia was already slipping out of bed. The floor felt cold beneath her bare feet, and so did the provocative draft that sneaked in through the back opening of the hospital gown. Just standing up caused her whole body to ache like the devil, but she knew there was nothing seriously wrong with her. Well, her shoulder was injured. But her concern was all for Craig. She bent over him. “Do what the nurse says,” Sonia whispered. “You’ll be fed gruel if you don’t.”

And as she disappeared into the bathroom, Sonia crossed her fingers that he would have no reason not to lie down.

It didn’t work. When Sonia was behind the closed bathroom door, Craig turned with aching slowness to the nurse. His voice was low, and lethally quiet. “You left my wife alone last night.”

The accusation, so deadly flat, held more sentencing than a judgment in a court of law. Nurse Trether was taken aback. “Mrs. Hamilton had only to punch the button for any of the nurses to come in here if she’d needed the least thing.”

“I told you under no circumstances to leave her alone.”

The gently teasing, softly reassuring man who’d deliberately chased away Sonia’s memories was gone. Back was the commanding, determined man who’d risen from orphan to self-made engineer of a kind. A man who never backed down, not for a principle, never from a fight.

The nurse sucked in her breath at his tight, cold stare. “Mr. Hamilton, I intend to call the doctor immediately. You were told unequivocally to stay in bed. You shouldn’t even have been able to make it up here.”

“They x-rayed her shoulder last night.”

“We told you. It’s dislocated. She’ll be uncomfortable for a while, but then she’ll be perfectly fine.” The nurse, about to say something else, rapidly changed her mind. In four long strides, she reached Craig before he fell.

He woke up four hours later in the men’s ward, to find a familiar, wizened little man peering at him worriedly from the far corner of the hospital room.

“Charlie,” Craig managed to croak.

The man immediately surged forward. “About time you quit napping. Though I admit the plane trip in the middle of the night was worth it just to see your face. You haven’t been in a brawl since I can remember.”

Craig half smiled for his old friend. Charlie Adams had more wrinkles than a raisin, habitually looked cranky, and had been thirty-nine for more than a dozen years. Still, anyone who judged Charlie only by his tiny stature was a fool. Behind those puppy-brown eyes was a loyalty that could move mountains and victory over the alcoholism that had nearly destroyed his life-until Craig came along. For the past eight years or so, Charlie had managed Craig’s ranch and his house and, since the marriage, occasionally Sonia.

“I suppose I should ask you how you’re feeling,” Charlie remarked, clearly bored with the thought.

“Don’t bother.” Craig shifted up against the pillows, wincing in a way he never would have in front of Sonia. “You should have woken me when you came in.”

“Like hell.” Charlie drew a cigar from his pocket, looked at it and disgustedly put it back in his pocket after reading the No Smoking sign over the door. He stuck his hands in his pockets, staring worriedly at Craig. “You need some things? I mean, don’t tell me you dragged me all this way to talk business. You know I’ve got everything taken care of, and you’ll be in here at least a few more days.”

“I’ll be out of here by tomorrow,” Craig corrected, and took a painful breath, leaning back against the head of the metal bed. “I need some help here, though, first.”

They’d taken the phone out of his room. He wanted to know if the incident was going to be in the press, and if it was, he wanted the papers kept from Sonia. He didn’t want her reminded of what had happened, and he wanted to ensure that no one bombarded her with questions about it, either.

The police were supposed to be in later that day. Craig was already afraid of how that was going to go. In a city of three million people, tracking down five rather nondescript hoodlums wasn’t going to be duck soup. Not to mention that Chicago’s Finest probably had bigger priorities than hunting for petty muggers.

“So?”

“So…I want the bastard caught,” Craig said flatly. “The whole gang, forget it. But I want the leader found. Hire someone, Charlie-get him out to the park today, and then bring him back to me. I can give him an exact description.”

Charlie shook his head, not liking the idea at all. “That’s crazy. At least give the police a chance.”

“Every chance,” Craig agreed. “But do it, Charlie.” An almost mischievous smile creased his lips. “I’m sick. You have to cater to me.”

“You should be so sick.” But Charlie nodded reluctantly.

Craig had other requests. He wanted Charlie to check them out of the hotel, gather their clothes, arrange for plane reservations and transportation to the airport.

“You have something against following the doctor’s orders?” Charlie wondered idly. “What exactly is so wrong with room and board here for the week?”

“I want Sonia home.” Away from every memory of the night before, away before the story could break in the newspapers. In the country, at home, he could ensure that she would forget the horror of their Walpurgisnacht. And back in Cold Creek, he would try to make up to her for what he had let happen…

The color had drained from his face; his friend apparently noticed. Charlie’s hands left his pockets, and he buttoned his old cord jacket. “I got orders only to stay in here for no more than fifteen minutes. I’ve already been here more than an hour. I’ll come back for visiting hours tonight.”

“Don’t go yet,” Craig said wanly, and hated that weak sound in his voice. Dammit, how long was the headache going to last? “There’s a man. Peter Farling.”

“Never heard of him.”

Charlie worried about Craig dealing with people Charlie didn’t know.

“He’s a jewelry designer. I need a necklace.”

“Today?” Charlie said blandly. “Sure you do. Now be a good boy and lock the door so no one else sees you looking like a punching bag.”

“Charlie.”

He would do it. Craig relaxed when his friend left, and closed his eyes again. Peter Farling had designed the original opal-and-onyx necklace. And Charlie was the kind of man who didn’t ask why Craig needed a necklace in a hurry.

For a long time, Craig lay with his eyes closed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The new necklace would make up for nothing. Oh, in his rational mind, he knew Sonia would be all right. She was resilient and optimistic by nature, and he knew that, given time, she really would forget the details of the incident. Once he had her home with him, around places and things they both loved, away from pressures, he would see to it that the open wound scarred over quickly.

Whether he could forget it-and forgive himself-was another thing. The irrational part of him was well on the way to becoming obsessed with a memory.