Chapter 5

Tori was not afraid of her mother. Exactly. Call it healthy and well-justified caution. Claire Briggs-Patterson was a world-class neurosurgeon, accustomed to performing marathon procedures on only the most complex cases. Her concentration was unbreakable, her tenacity and attention to minuscule details the stuff of legend. Fabulous traits if you were her patient. Not so much if you were her daughter.

Especially the daughter who wasn’t toeing the family line.

“I’m at a symposium in Chicago,” Claire said, skipping over the niceties like Are you settling in at your new house? and Did your first day on the job go well? These were not what Claire considered to be pressing topics of conversation. “I spoke to one of the directors of the Northwestern University Prosthetics-Orthotics Center. With the overwhelming demand for advanced prosthetics from the Veterans Administration, they are desperate for doctoral candidates with practical experience. He is extremely interested in hearing from you.”

Tori swallowed a sigh. “I already have a job.”

Her mother was too smart to dismiss her career outright. Instead, she said, “I know, darling. But the research they’re doing at Northwestern is changing the lives of soldiers who’ve lost limbs. Your contributions would affect thousands of amputees.”

Tori thumped her head against the steering wheel to shatter the beguiling images forming in her mind. Laboratories full of sleek, state-of-the-art equipment. Fellow researchers—brilliant, intense, and dedicated to the betterment of mankind. Proud, smiling men and women, returned to the ranks of productive society, their joyful families clustered around them.

“I’m emailing you an article on the work they did with one of the Boston Marathon bombing victims. So inspiring.” Claire’s voice was pure silk, but her sales pitch was rough as a cat’s tongue across the surface of Tori’s conscience.

All those people you could be helping if you weren’t so selfish.

This was what made her mother dangerous. Claire wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t nag. She would simply keep searching out opportunities and waving them under her daughter’s nose until she found the one that tempted Tori beyond reason.

Tori examined her armor, piece by piece, to be certain there were no gaps before she answered, “I haven’t even settled in here yet. And I hate Chicago.”

A long, weighted pause, designed to give Tori ample time to consider how petulant and self-centered she sounded. Then a barely audible but distinctly reproachful sigh. “Well, I’m sure eventually you’ll be ready to move on. I’ll just keep my eyes open.”

Translation: Expect to hear from me again.

Tori could have told her not to bother. Could have insisted that she loved her work. She liked to think her current patients were equally deserving of her best efforts—Delon flashed into her head, but she chased him out—and there were hundreds of aspiring researchers who would jump at the chances Claire offered her.

It would have been a waste of breath. “I’m doing fine, Mother. And I appreciate the call, but I need to get to my chores.”

“I suppose you’re still roping.” She said it like another mother might say I suppose you’re still mainlining heroin.

“Yes. Good night, Mother.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear, disconnecting almost before Claire’s distant “Good night, Victoria.”

Tori scrubbed the back of her hand over her forehead, wiping away imaginary sweat. One more bullet dodged. Then she grinned, picturing her mother’s face if she could see what Tori was looking at right now.

Directly in front of her sat what might be the ugliest house in the Texas Panhandle. But hey, ugly was cheap, especially located beside a graveyard for old farm equipment. And the squatty, cinder-block structure probably had a better than average chance of surviving a tornado. But even if a twister did wipe the thing clean off the face of the earth, it would double her property value.

The lone occupant of her pasture came at a trot, greeting her with low, snuffling nickers. She’d be flattered, but it wasn’t like she had any competition for Fudge’s affection. She stepped out of the car, inhaled, and blew out a long, deep breath. The only sound was the occasional car humming past on the highway beyond the field full of deceased tractors. No supposedly well-meaning strangers to ask how she was really doing, their concern like tiny needles, probing for untapped reserves of pain to siphon off for their own incomprehensible purposes. No sanctimonious prigs to enlighten her about how a woman in her position should behave.

And Willy’s family—she adored them, but there were so many of them, and their grief was so huge it drowned her. They seemed compelled to keep it fresh, scraping at the wound as if the sight of blood somehow kept Willy close.

Tori understood. God knew, she did, but she had bled out months ago and now every tribute, every memorial, every bittersweet memory dragged up at Sunday dinner was like a knife on bone. She had to escape or be crushed by the weight of their collective suffering.

So she’d come home. Yippee.

She loved the soil and sky of the Panhandle, with its endless horizons and jagged canyons. She’d fallen for Cheyenne in part because the arid landscape felt familiar. So did the people—ranchers, ropers, salt of the earth types. The kind Tori had always wanted, and failed, to be accepted by here in the Panhandle.

Tori hitched the long strap of her messenger bag over her shoulder and leaned against the corral fence to rub the narrow white strip on Fudge’s face. He did not enjoy alone time. Fudge was the equine equivalent of a junior high girl—if he had his way, he wouldn’t even take a leak by himself. Tori dumped her bag on the hood of her car and went into the barn to fetch hay and toss it in Fudge’s manger. He wandered in through the open gate at the end of his run to bang one hoof on the wooden fence, impatient for the scoop of sweet feed she dumped in his bucket.

She gave his forehead one last rub, then switched off the light, retrieved her bag, and headed up the narrow, uneven sidewalk to what she’d begun to think of as her bunker. A fortress where she could go to ground when being human and reasonably functional got to be too much.

There was a package on her doorstep. She picked it up—heavy for its size—and examined the return address. Elizabeth? What could her older sister possibly be sending her? It wasn’t even time for their regularly scheduled ninety-day phone call, which Tori was pretty sure was slotted into Elizabeth’s electronic calendar, somewhere between Publish groundbreaking scholarly article and Cure cancer.

Tori gave the package an experimental shake and got a metallic rattle. Huh. She tucked it under her arm to punch in the security code on the system her father had insisted she install, just like in every other house she’d occupied—except for the one she’d shared with Willy. Not even the senator could persuade Willy Hancock that he wasn’t capable of defending his own home. And his wife.

Inside, Tori flipped on the light in the galley kitchen, just off the entryway. The low-watt bulb and yellowed glass globe didn’t provide the best illumination, but given Tori’s current lack of interest in decor and housekeeping, dim lighting was the place’s most attractive feature. She dropped her bag on the dingy linoleum and set the package on the cheap Formica countertop. Fishing a steak knife out of a drawer, she cut the packing tape and lifted out the bubble-wrapped bundle.

And stared, baffled, at an armadillo that appeared to be constructed of rusty bike parts. He wore doll-sized boots and a miniature cowboy hat. A horseshoe formed his arms, and a twisted wire was made to look like a rope, the loop frozen midswing. When Tori set him down—it had to be male with that grotesque, leering grin and a tiny metal cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth—he rocked onto his back.

Dear God. It was even uglier than her house. Tori clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, which seemed rude even if Elizabeth couldn’t see her. With six years’ difference in age and an even bigger gap in interests, they’d never been incredibly close, but seriously? This was what her sister considered to be her style?

She rummaged around in the box and found a single, folded piece of notepaper with the logo of a medical supply company at the top.

Thought you could use some company in the new house. Love, Elizabeth

Company? She glanced at its lewd smile and laughed outright. Yeah, that thing would be a real comfort to her. Tori examined the creature from every angle and concluded that it was intended to be a wine bottle holder. She didn’t even drink wine.

Shaking her head, she pulled out her phone and spent five minutes composing a tactfully worded text.

Got your housewarming gift. Thank you. It’s one of a kind.

Or so she hoped. She set the phone aside, stripped off her jacket, and tossed it in the recliner. Too bad Elizabeth hadn’t sent a coatrack instead. After two weeks in the house, Tori had still only unpacked the bare minimum. Clothes. Dishes. A couple boxes of personal stuff. The rest was all stacked in the spare bedroom, awaiting that magical day when she would suddenly give a shit.

The buzz of her phone, loud against the hard countertop, made her jump. Elizabeth already?

Stopped for a dinner break before finishing up a late shift at the lab, she wrote, rightly assuming that Tori would wonder what had possessed her sister to respond in less than twenty-four hours. Pratimi dragged me to a flea market in Napa last weekend. We laughed so hard when we saw that armadillo, she said I had to send it to you. You need a reason to smile at least once a day.

Tori’s throat clenched around a hard, aching lump. Her answering words were blurred by a well of tears. Leave it to Elizabeth. Just when you thought she was completely oblivious. And bless Pratimi—who, in deference to their father’s position as a political conservative, was referred to only as Elizabeth’s roommate or coworker—for occasionally forcing Elizabeth to take a moment to interact with segments of humanity that weren’t seen through a microscope.

He’s perfect, Tori typed.

He’s hideous, Elizabeth replied. But you can probably teach him to drink beer.

Tori gave a soggy laugh. Maybe, if it’s a longneck.

They signed off, Tori feeling warmer than she had in days. She swiped at her eyes as she walked down the hall and into her bedroom. Stripping off her work clothes, she tossed them onto the lone piece of furniture, a plastic patio chair beside the closet. Her sweatpants were in the tangle of semiclean laundry on the floor. She pulled them on along with one of Willy’s flannel shirts, big enough to hang almost to her knees, and wandered to the bathroom to scrub off what remained of her makeup. Back in the living room, she grabbed the remote from beside the television and looked at the photo on the top shelf of the entertainment center.

“Hey, babe. Whatcha in the mood for tonight?”

Willy didn’t answer. Which was good. When her dead husband’s picture started talking back, she’d have to drop a wad on either a shrink or a ghostbuster. Besides, his spirit had no reason to follow her to Texas. They had no unresolved issues. It’d taken most of a year, but she wasn’t furious with him anymore. Well, not as often. Or as furious. She kissed her fingertips, pressed them to his face, then settled into the nest of blankets on the couch to stare at the television until exhaustion or boredom put her to sleep, hopefully not to dream.

Not that she had nightmares. Her dreams were wonderful. It just hurt too damn much to wake up.

But tonight…as she flicked through the channels, it wasn’t the well-worn memories of Willy that haunted her. Seeing Delon had breathed stuttering life into what had once been her fantasy. A job at one of the top therapy clinics in Amarillo. A house and acreage somewhere between the city and Earnest. Horses. An arena. And now, she’d made it come true. Almost.

All that was missing was the dark-eyed cowboy who, back then, could have turned it from a dream into a home.