Donovan's Child Read online

  He said nothing. He only sat there, his strong hands gripping the wheels of his chair, watching her face.

  She dropped her hands, flat, to the drafting table, making a hard slapping sound. “Where will he go, Donovan?” Tears of frustration—and yes, guilt, too—tried to rise. She gulped them down, hard.

  He rolled a fraction closer and spoke with surprising gentleness. “Stop worrying. He owns a house in Fort Worth, near his family. And he’s an excellent engineer. I gave him a glowing letter of recommendation. He’ll easily find another job. Plus, it wasn’t just you. I think he was getting a little tired of things around here. A little tired of the isolation, of dealing with me. He was ready to move on. And he definitely has options as to what to do next. So please, take my word on it, Ben is going to be fine.”

  She stared at him, vaguely stunned. He had just been kind to her, hadn’t he? He’d made a real effort to soothe her worries about Ben.

  Had he ever once been kind to her before?

  Not that she recalled. And Donovan McRae being kind…that was something she would definitely have remembered.

  She pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, murmured softly, “It’s…kind of you, to say that.”

  “Not kind,” he answered gruffly. “It’s only the simple truth.”

  A weak laugh escaped her. “You just can’t stand it, can you? To have someone call you kind?”

  “Because I’m not kind. I’m a hardheaded SOB with absolutely no consideration for anyone but myself. We both know that.”

  She closed her eyes, pressed her fingertips against her shut eyelids and wished she could quit thinking about the things Ben had said last night—about how she had a thing for Donovan. About how, if she had questions for Donovan, she should gut up and ask them of the man himself.

  Well, she absolutely did not have a thing for Donovan. Not in the way Ben had meant. She was only…intrigued by him. She was curious about him.

  And yes, she wanted to help him get past whatever was eating at him, whatever had made him turn his back on his own life.

  Was that so wrong?

  He was watching her. Way too closely. “All right.” He pulled a very clever sort of wheelie maneuver, leaning back in the chair, so the wheels lifted a fraction, turning while the wheels were lifted, and then rolling the chair backward until he was sitting beside her at the drafting table. “What terrifying thoughts are racing through that mind of yours?” He almost sounded…friendly.

  So she told him. “I think you need someone to talk to.”

  “About what?”

  “About…all the stuff that’s bothering you. I think you need to see a trained professional.”

  He craned away from her in the chair. “A psychiatrist. You think I need a shrink.”

  “I do. Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Just like that?” She raised a hand and snapped her fingers. “No?”

  “That’s right. Just like that.”

  “Donovan, you’re a very intelligent man. You have to know that there’s no shame in seeking help.”

  “I didn’t say there was shame in it. I only said no. And since I am perfectly sane and a danger to no one, I have that right. I’m allowed to say no.”

  “It’s not about being sane. I know you’re sane.”

  “That’s a relief.” He pretended to wipe sweat off his brow.

  “I just thought that if you could talk it out with a professional, if you could—”

  “I’ll say it once more, since you have a bad habit of not listening when I say things the first time. No.”

  She could see she was getting nowhere on the shrink front. So she moved on to the next issue. “Then how about this? Will you go into Chula Mesa with me some evening?”

  He actually groaned. “Didn’t I make it clear two weeks ago that I was not going to Chula Mesa—with you, or otherwise?”

  “You could rethink that. You could change your mind. People do that, you know, change their minds?”

  “Abilene. Have you ever been in Chula Mesa?”

  “Well, besides driving through it, no, I haven’t.”

  “I’ve been in Chula Mesa. I’ve seen it all, been there. Done that. I don’t need to go there again.”

  “Just…think about it. Please.”

  “I fail to understand what a visit to Chula Mesa could possibly accomplish.”

  “We’ll get out of the house, see other people, broaden our horizons a little.”

  “If I wanted a broader horizon, I wouldn’t look for it in Chula Mesa.”

  She was becoming irritated with him again. “You really should stop saying mean things about Chula Mesa.”

  “I will be only too happy to. As soon as you stop trying to drag me there.”

  “I’ll leave it alone for now, okay? I’ll bring it up again later.”

  “Why is it I don’t find that comforting in the least?”

  She still had a thousand unanswered questions for him. “One more thing…”

  “With you, it’s never just one more thing.”

  “Tell me about what happened, on that mountain, when you broke both your legs.”

  He slumped back in the wheelchair. “It’s barely nine in the morning and already, you’ve exhausted me.”

  “Please. Tell me. I do want to know.”

  “You should have asked Ben, before you broke his heart.”

  She wanted to slap him. But then, that was nothing new. She schooled her voice to an even tone and reminded him, “A moment ago, you said he left more because of you than of me. Now you say I broke his heart.”

  “Figure of speech.”

  “Hah. Right—and since you brought it up, I’ll have you know that I did ask Ben, that very first day. He told me that you fell several hundred feet down the side of a mountain, that both of your legs were badly damaged in the fall, each sustaining multiple fractures. He also said there was a possibility you might someday walk again.”

  “I can already walk.” He smiled in a very self-satisfied way. “Your mouth is hanging open.”

  She snapped it shut. “But if you can walk…?”

  “The chair is much more efficient,” he explained. “And you have to understand that when I say I can walk, I mean with crutches. And also with considerable pain. Slowly, I’m improving. Very slowly.”

  “Well. That’s good, right? That’s excellent. What mountain was it, where?”

  “What difference does the mountain itself make?”

  “I would just like to know.”

  “We do eventually need to work today.” He spoke in an infinitely weary tone.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’? Last I checked, all the work was on me. What mountain?”

  He shook his golden head. “I can see it will take more energy to keep backing you off than to simply answer your unnecessary question.”

  “What mountain?”

  “It’s called Dhaulagiri.” He pronounced it doll-a-gear-ee. “Dhaulagiri One. It’s in Nepal, in the Himalayas. The seventh highest peak in the world. It’s known as one of the world’s deadliest mountains. Of all who try to reach the summit, forty percent don’t come back. At least, not alive.”

  “So of course, you had to try and climb it.”

  “Is that a criticism?”

  “No. Just an observation. So what happened—I mean, after you fell?”

  “My climbing partner managed to lower himself down to me. And then, with him dragging me and me hauling myself along with my hands as best I could, we ascended again, to a more stable spot. He dug the ice cave. I wasn’t much help with that. He dragged me in there. After that, he had to leave me to get help. That’s a big no-no, in the climbing community. You never leave your partner. But we both agreed it was the only way, that since both of my legs were out of commission, there was no possibility I could make it down with only him to help me. So he made the descent without me. I was fortunate in that the weather held and a successful helicopter rescue was accomplished—but only a
fter I spent three days alone on the mountain.”

  “In terrible pain,” she added, because he didn’t. “And is that it, then, those three horrific days? Are they why you say you won’t work again, why you’ve retreated from the world?”

  He studied her face for several very uncomfortable seconds, before he demanded, “What does it matter to you? What difference can it possibly make in your life, in the work that I’m perfectly willing to help you with, in the things I’m willing to teach you about the job I know you love?”

  “Donovan, I want to understand.”

  He watched her some more. A searching kind of look. And then he said, “No.”

  She didn’t get it. “No, you won’t tell me?”

  “No, it wasn’t the three days in the ice cave—not essentially.”

  “So you’re saying that was part of it, right?”

  “No, that’s not what I said.”

  “But if you—”

  He put up a hand. “Listen. Are you listening?”

  She pressed her lips together, nodded.

  “If I’m a different man than I was a year ago…” He spoke slowly, as if to a not-very-bright child. “…it’s not about my injuries. It’s not about how I got them or how much they hurt. And it’s not about the endless series of surgeries that came after my rescue, not about adapting to life on wheels. Society may ascribe all kinds of negative values to my situation, may view what happened to me when I fell down the mountain as a tragedy, blow it up all out of proportion to the reality, which is that I survived and I’m learning to live in my body as it is now.”

  She couldn’t let that stand. “But Donovan, you’re not learning to live, not in the truest sense. You’re still…angry and isolated. You have Olga turn people away at the front door, people who care about you, people who have to be suffering, wondering what’s going on with you.”

  He grunted. “Since you don’t even know who those people are, how would you know that they’re suffering?”

  “You turn them away without even seeing them. That’s just plain cruel. And on top of all the rest, you never intend to work again. That is a crime.”

  “Don’t exaggerate.”

  “I’m not exaggerating. It is a crime, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not right. Work is important. Work is…what we do.”

  “We?” He tried really hard to put on an air of superiority.

  She wasn’t letting him get away with that. “Yes, we. People. All people. We work. We all need that. Purposeful activity. Especially someone like you, who is the absolute best at what he does.”

  “You’re going too far.” His voice was low, a rumble of warning. “Way too far. You have no idea what I need. What I have to do.”

  “Well, all right. Then tell me. Explain it to me.”

  “Let it go, Abilene.”

  “But I want—”

  He cut her off. “What you want. Yes. All, right. Let me hear it. You tell me what you want.”

  “I want to understand.”

  He leaned in closer to her. His eyes were the dark gray of thunderheads. “Why?”

  “Well, I…” She was just too…aware of him. Of the scent of him that was turbulent, somehow. Fresh and dangerous, like the air before a big storm.

  He prodded her. “Answer me.”

  “Because I…” She couldn’t go on. All at once, she realized she wasn’t sure. Not of what she really wanted. And certainly not of what was actually going on here.

  “Leave it alone,” he said low. And then he wheeled away from her, swinging the chair effortlessly around the jut of her drafting table and out into the room. Halfway to his own desk, he spun on her again. “Will you just leave it now?”

  She stared across the distance between them. And for no reason she could fathom, she felt her face flood with heat. And she felt guilty, suddenly. Guiltier even than when he told her that Ben had gone. She felt thoroughly reprehensible now, as if she’d been sneaking around somewhere she had no right go to, peering into private places, touching secret things.

  “All right,” she said, the words ragged-sounding, barely a whisper. “I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

  “Leave it alone once and for all. Please.” He waited for her to say that she would.

  But she didn’t answer him. She gave him no agreement, no promise that she would cease trying to learn about him, to understand him.

  She couldn’t make that kind of promise.

  She couldn’t tell that kind of lie.

  Chapter Five

  Donovan needed distance.

  The painful conversation in the studio the morning that Ben quit was too much. He never should have let that happen between him and Abilene, and he set about making sure that nothing like it would happen again.

  During work hours, he took care to set himself apart from her, to be only what he actually was to her: a teacher, the one who had set himself the task of helping her accomplish her goal. She was in his house for one reason—to get the design for the children’s center ready to be presented to the Help the Children Foundation.

  He was not her friend, he reminded himself repeatedly. They were not equals. She had a task to accomplish with his guidance. And that was all.

  She did him the courtesy of letting him claim the distance he needed. He was on guard constantly, waiting for her to step over the line again, to badger him under the guise of trying to “understand” him.

  But she didn’t. She worked and she worked hard.

  In the evening, all that week, by tacit agreement, they skipped the usual cocktails in the sitting area. They saw each other in the dining room, for dinner. They spoke of the progress that had been made on the design.

  After they’d eaten, they said good-night.

  He placed an ad in the local weekly paper, the Chula Mesa Messenger, for a new assistant. No, he didn’t hold out much hope that he’d get an acceptable applicant that way. But he gave it a try.

  The ad appeared when the paper came out on Thursday. Friday morning, four days after Ben’s departure, he had three replies. He held the interviews that day.

  One of the applicants seemed worth giving a trial. Her name was Helen Abernathy, and she was a retired secretary from Austin. Helen agreed to start that following Monday. She preferred not to live in, to return nightly to her own house and her retired husband, Virgil.

  Helen’s living at home was no problem for Donovan. He didn’t really need a live-in assistant anymore, anyway. He’d become reasonably adept at taking care of himself by then. He could get into the shower by himself, dress himself, even drive himself in the specially modified van he’d bought, should he ever want to go anywhere. He only needed someone to handle correspondence, to pay the bills and field phone calls.

  Since Helen would be going home at six, that would leave only him and Abilene at dinner. And when she returned to San Antonio, which would be in three weeks now, if all went as planned, he would eat alone.

  That was fine with him. Perfect. It was the choice he had made.

  Saturday, Abilene knocked off work at about four.

  Donovan knew she would use the pool, which he kept heated in the winter. Lately, she’d been swimming every day after she finished working.

  Donovan knew this because he’d happened to be in his rooms around five on the afternoon of the day Ben quit. He glanced out the French doors of his sitting room—and saw her by the pool.

  He watched her swim that day.

  And each day since.

  She wore a plain blue tank suit, a suit that showed off the clean, sleek lines of her body. She had slim hips and nice breasts, breasts that were beautifully rounded, high and full—but not too full. The breasts of a woman who had yet to bear a child.

  He admired her pretty body in the same way that he admired her spirit and her quick mind. Objectively. From the safe cocoon of his own isolation. He felt no desire when he watched her. It wasn’t sexual. It was simple appreciation of the beauty of her healthy, young female form.
>
  When she emerged from her rooms, she would toss her towel on a bench and dive right in. She would swim the length of the pool, turn underwater, and swim back to where she had started, turn again, and head back the other way.

  Back and forth, over and over. She swam tirelessly.

  After twenty minutes or so, she would emerge, breathing hard. She would towel off quickly, and disappear into her rooms again.

  That Saturday afternoon, when she climbed from the pool, as she was reaching for the towel she’d left thrown across a stone bench, she paused. She turned her head until it seemed to him she was looking directly at him, where he sat in his chair just inside the French doors.

  She simply stood there, water sliding off her slim flanks, her hair slicked close to her head. She stood there and she stared right at him through those eyes that seemed fully golden right then, not so much as tinged with the faintest hint of green.

  He knew she couldn’t see him, that the light was wrong—and so what if she did see him? It wasn’t any big deal, that he had seen her swimming.

  Still, he rolled his chair backward until he was out of her line of sight.

  Dinner was at seven-thirty, as usual. He went to the dining room with apprehension tightening his chest, sure she was going to give him a hard time about spying on her while she swam.

  But when she joined him, she seemed the same as always—or at least, the same as she had been since they’d both said too much on the morning Ben left. She was quiet. Polite. Professional. They spoke of the project. They agreed that it was going well.

  Olga was just clearing off to bring the dessert when the doorbell rang. The housekeeper straightened from gathering up the dirty dishes.

  Abilene leaped to her feet. “It’s okay, Olga. I’ll get the door.” She spoke to the housekeeper—but she was looking straight at him. Daring him. Challenging him.

  Olga hovered in place at the edge of the table, not sure what to do next.

  So be it, he thought. “All right, Abilene. Go ahead. Get the door.”

  It was almost worth having to deal with whoever waited outside, to see the look of surprise on her face, the frank disbelief that he was finally going to let someone else in the house.