Helen R. - A Man To Count On

He’d put serious thought into this and that added to E.D.’s torment. Despite her concern for security, she needed to take a risk and make him see what an error he could be making. “This is supposed to be the happiest professional day of your life—and I am so pleased and proud for you—but look at what you’re doing. Why would you risk your future by having any contact with me? If this gets out, don’t you realize what conclusions people will draw?”

The sigh that came over the line sent her heart sinking as deeply as when she’d first heard of Dani’s crisis. So he was only being a gentleman and would let her talk him out of this. Well, she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. No one else had stepped forward so gallantly.

After a considerable silence Dylan opined, “And here I thought you knew me better than that.”

Could she have underrated him that much? E.D. pressed her fingers to her lips to fight back a building sob. “The fact is I don’t claim to know anyone anymore,” she forced herself to admit.

“Oh, I think we know each other so well, it’s scaring you,” he countered. “Use the key or I’ll come get you myself.”

Usethe key…

It should have been impossible for E.D. to smile, but she did, several times on her drive to Dylan’s personal refuge. First because he’d pulled the kind of threat that should only be successful on puppies and kids under the age of five. When she was a child, her family had had a rebellious, independent pup that had never obeyed the simplest command until he’d heard her father’s warning, “Don’t make me come get you.” And then the leggy critter would charge for the stairs as if a T-bone was on the other side of the kitchen door. Dylan couldn’t possibly know that story, but he’d used the technique with her father’s intonation.

Next she smiled appreciating the man’s tenderness and compassion. What a pity that she couldn’t extol his goodness publicly. Regardless of what lay down the road, she would cherish his friendship and generosity.

Dylan’s ranch—although he was the last to call it that due to its modest size by Texas standards—was five hundred-plus acres in the Hill Country, property that he’d inherited from his parents after their untimely death while on vacation. He kept it because he wisely knew the most patrolled property in Austin couldn’t assure him the serenity and privacy these rolling hills of the rough prairie did. E.D. suspected that Dylan also kept it because a part of him clung to a dream never voiced to anyone but himself.

It took close to an hour to get there, her fault thanks to a wrong turn that cost her extra time. At the electronic gate, she spent another minute figuring out the keypad code. Dylan hadn’t provided it, which told her that he knew she could figure it out—and wanted her to. Suddenly reminded of the note with the last four digits of his phone number and his appreciation for puzzles, she tried it two different ways without success, then thought of “gate” and split, then inverted the two sets of numbers…and the real gate opened.

Shaking her head at his wit, as much as his determination not to allow her to get buried in fear and self-pity, she drove in. Mesquite, cedar and rock outcroppings protected the view of the house from the main road. Originally a one-bedroom log cabin, the building had been renovated to add on another bedroom, bathroom and a dream kitchen. E.D. remembered the layout only slightly from the wedding, but knew one thing for certain—she wouldn’t be sleeping in the bed where Dylan and Brenda had spent their honeymoon. That would finish denying her a wink of rest. One of the couches would serve her fine for this short stay.

As she pulled up to the house, she saw the lights on and a Jeep in front. A wiry-built man in his early forties pushed himself up from one of the large cypress rockers on the porch and stepped out to greet her. He wore a worn straw hat and denim work clothes, and politely removed the hat.

“Ms. Martel?”

How not surprising, E.D. thought. Dylan had obviously instructed his foreman how to address her. “E.D., please,” she said extending her hand. “You’re…?”

“Coats, ma’am. Chris Coats.” After the handshake, he pointed west of the house. “My cabin is down by the creek about a quarter of a mile. Press one on the phone’s memory dial or use the walkie-talkie if you need me. You’ll find your radio by the bed stand. If you’re planning to walk around outside after dark, I’d appreciate you letting me know. We have our share of snakes and varmints, you know.”

“I think I can safely assure you that I won’t test my luck.”

He nodded approvingly. “The fridge is freshly stocked and all utilities and linens have been checked. Is there anything else I can do, ma’am? Did you have dinner? My cooking won’t keep you up all night if you have a taste for a steak or an omelet.”

E.D. smiled. She felt comfortable with this what-you-see-is-what-you-get throwback to a fast-fading era, but suspected he’d already put in a long day with the stock and repairing fences, or whatever his job description included. “You’re kind, but I suspect it’s already been a long day for you, and I—” she’d almost said I lost my appetite before I went to bed last night. Quickly editing herself, she continued, “I’ll be fine, thank you very much.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. Having anticipated that you may be tired, there’s a salad, also a stew in the fridge that only needs warming. I’ll just get your luggage inside and be on my way.”

E.D. waited for him with her shoulder bag and briefcase in hand, wondering what his story was and how long Dylan had entrusted this mystical place to him. On further study she noted that he moved like a man of thirty-five or so, but his weathered features suggested adding some years. Suspecting that as much as he liked it here that life wasn’t a free ride, she appreciated Chris all the more for making this so easy for her—at least as easy as an already humiliated woman could feel at this point.

Minutes later, she stood alone in the cabin. It wasn’t her familiar two-story Tudor with halls full of family photos, hutches of antique crystal, silver and china, some that she could trace back to great-grandparents. Yes, there were antiques, but of a more primitive Mexican design. Interspersed with large leather couches and chairs, they reflected Dylan’s grounded, stable personality well and she could see him everywhere she looked.

Strangely, that left her feeling all the more of a fraud what with her home being predominantly about status and image and less about who she was. Save for her sunroom-breakfast nook, it struck E.D. that the word home had become mostly a lie to her. At least in the nook she could corner the kids long enough to share their experiences and ask about anxieties. It was also where her African violets and orchids caught her attention, getting the water and fertilizer they needed to bloom. She shook her head, realizing she’d have been willing to sacrifice the plants if her kids could have thrived more. The den was well lived in, thanks to the kids’study marathons and movie parties. But except for their bedrooms, the rest of the house was all for appearance—the French provincial dining room, the equally formal parlor. As for Trey’s office, it was known as No Man’s Land to everyone including her, and yet also furnished to give the impression of intellectualism and success. That was the biggest joke considering that all those wooden file cabinets contained were unfinished manuscripts and rejection letters.

As bitterness rose again like bile in her throat, the phone rang.

E.D. glanced around and found the remote on the sofa table. Grabbing it, she saw the caller ID information and smiled. “Yes, I’m here,” she said in lieu of a greeting.