A Love Story
17)
Antoinette Quartermaine—who preferred the name Skye—rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore the newspaper sitting at her side. It was difficult, especially as how the words followed her around all day.
Nasty painful words like "loss" and "mourning"; whispers that swirled through her head with flashes of things she shouldn't see. She shouldn't care really, not like they did, did they? They'd swept her out of the books, out of the all-powerful Chandler family tree… so why the Hell did everything inside her want to hop the first flight home?
No, not home… not anymore… sure, Stuart probably remembers me but Adam? Not letters, not a gift, not even a fucking call in years… Skye tapped her spoon against the edge of her coffee mug, legs folded as she forced her eyes to stay on the ceramic cup, focus on the way the black liquid rippled at each tap.
Sure, JR had stopped by… but… really, now? What, he wanted a shoulder to cry on now? Nice how he came running to her when the world got too tough… what was the matter, daddy not gentle enough right now? Skye tossed her mane of dark red hair, catching a flash of the picture, a grainy black and white image.
She focused all the harder on her coffee, trying to breathe past the clog in her throat that grew at unbidden images of her nephew—not your nephew Skye… not your brother or your father or your uncle—in the water…
Mike, talking with Sam at the front bar, jerked partly when the cup hit the floor, shattering as it hit, sending hot coffee and sharp shards across the floor. Skye, hair covering her face, jumped out of her chair, sending it crashing to the floor; with a strangled call to Mike that she would pay for it, she fled out into the January cold.
Later, as him and Sam were picking up the pieces, Mike's eyes found the paper, or, at least the remains of it, half-shredded and drenched in coffee. The words of the front page, in bold black letters, read "Chandler Baby, Lost in Storm, is Cause of Widespread Mourning".
His coat closed tightly, maybe in some superstitious belief that he could hold on to his niece's warmth forever, Zach studied the lit window. It wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. His entire childhood had been him, standing aside warm houses and looking in, wondering if it was a warm as it looked.
"Why don't you just take a seat, Alexander, relax, this is a family dinner. See, even Michael's here."
He studied the small form, sitting in stony silence at the table, the swollen red eyes, the way small shoulders shook in the aftermath of sobs. Alexander knew the way a child sounded when they cried, that way that everything in their body followed the wrenching sobs… only a child cried like that… only Mikey.
He stood and he watched the two sit and enjoy the take-out from some restaurant, Styrofoam dishes and cartons spread across their laps and the table, and, aw Hell, she was a BBC fan? You learn something new everyday… as he watched he sat forward, set his food to the side and headed, ignoring her attempts to stop him, to the kitchen area.
He turned his gaze from Michael… Mikey, little Mikey my Mikey… to stare at his father's face, something that was cold, emotionless, not supposed to be that way… "Aw, Alexander, you're the spitting image of your father. Aren't you proud?"… no, he wasn't, not when people told him those things… no, those were the times that he wanted to tear his face, tear through the blood and bone that his father had cursed him with.
Mikey wasn't supposed to be home right now… he should still be with… Alexander froze, feeling a sort of chill creep through him, spreading from his spine outward, spread to chill him further than he was… "Father… Why isn't Michael with our Mother?"
Zach watched, from outside, as they had fun, ate and bonded and acted human and damn them, why did they get that? Why did they get to do things like that while he had stay back, stay hidden, and destroy any part of his daughter that hadn't been crushed beneath Carline Malone.
"I brought him home early, so he could be with his Father… Nicolette was happy to let him come home soon."
No, she wasn't, he wanted to scream at him, no, she wasn't happy… she hated it, hated letting Mikey go just like she hates you! She hates you and I hate you and we both want you to go away, far away and let us be and let her come home, or let us go see her… he was shaking, trembles running along his skin like wildfire, his vision blurring as he gazed down at the smooth, perfect wood of the dinner table.
Zach twisted suddenly, aware of how much he was shaking, and he prayed that she wouldn't suddenly realize he was there, like some lost child wanting warmth in winter… but why shouldn't she? There was warmth in that gaze, there was softness and calmness and something that made his heart ache… she would offer it to him happily, wouldn't she?
He wished, desperately, that he had Miranda in his arms… she wouldn't push him out, she would open the door and let him sit and… Hands shaking, despite his attempts at control, he fought the lock on his door, finally managing to open it… Kendall should be sitting with him… watching TV with him, laughing with him, her head on his shoulder, softness and fire and enough smething that she would fight for him…
Halfway into his place, he froze, staring at the form that stood in her doorway, staring at him… for a moment there was a something, a something that filled his vision…
A soft weight at his side, the way her hands would feel on his, fingers laced with his… that scent that hung heavy around her like some heavy smoke… the way her head, her cheek felt on his shoulder…
They watched each other, like two animals, frozen and still, both awaiting the killing blow from that great beast that would finally destroy what part of them still hoped… time stilled, and he wondered what her heart sounded like when she slept at night, curled at his side like some pampered cat…
Swallowing, aching, he reached out and closed his door, hoping it cut her out of his thoughts. He took those fleeting threads as he caught them, swirls of thoughts of what her laugh sounded like and how the sweep of her neck looked when she fell asleep in the passenger seat of his Rover…
He was good at closing away memories, good at pushing them, into the back, into the darkest recesses of his broken mind… and then, when the aching had stopped and he could breath again, he poured himself a drink with hands that, strangely, still shook. He was good at locking away memories… so why was the sound of her laugh still there, in his mind?
The Kincaide ranch, situated in Texas, was a home to the surprisingly private Buck Kincaide and his adopted daughter, Micaela.
It was where he had taught her to ride her first horse, a Palomino mare she'd happily called Calamity; it was where she had learned that people in the black hat were bad and, if you were John Wayne, you were always good. And, you must never forget, always circle the wagons when trouble comes calling.
And today, right now, Buck was considering ways to fix the nonsense his little girl had gotten herself into. Hadn't he taught her better than to go around, signing whatever was put in front of her face? Not to be tricked into anything by any man-sized rattlesnakes?
Apparently, it hadn't sunk in completely… at least to judge by the call he'd just received. No, all the call had done was concrete his growing, nagging worry. So, here he was, figuring out the best way to have Adam Chandler strung up by his heels. Goddamn sonofabitch…
Brushing his fingers across the brim of his hat, he picked it up from the table, slid it on and stood, heading around the table to the door of his den. With each step, the certainty grew that this was the best path… of course it was… she was his girl… she wouldn't like this at all but it had to be done.
Her nails were cleanly buffed and polished, and they were quite beautiful in the mirror as she reached up and slipped the towel off her head. Letting it fall to the floor of the bathroom, she shook out the mass of black hair. When it was mildly tamer, she pulled her jewelry out of her bag.
"Every cowboy, my girl, has a woman he fights for, through Hell or high water, to get back to safety. Most cowboys have a female friend…"
"You mean a bed buddy?"
"Please stop saying that, baby… that's so far beneath a girl like you."
"Sorry."
The diamond bracelet was slipped around her wrist, secured with the clip and she moved it back and forth, testing the hold; as she carefully sorted out the ends of the thin chain of her necklace, the light above her flashed off the bracelet in glints of silver. She never used to wear this much jewelry damn it… what had changed?
"And, for your information, it's not all sex—I mean… ah, hell, you're a Kincaide… it's not all sex for the real cowboys. The real cowboys, the real ones who follow that code of honor—"
"You mean the Cowboy Code, right?"
"These cutesy names don't really work all that well on cowboys, baby."
"Sorry, Pa."
The necklace, a simple matching piece to the bracelet went on, settled just right before she carefully secured it. She studied it in the light, studied the way it lay between and below her collarbones. Feeling pleased and calmed at having her wits back, she selected her ring, slipping it on one finger.
As she looked down at the ring, loving the way the emerald and silver looked together, she heard, in her mind, the laughter from the night of explanations about what made a cowboy a cowboy… the rules that, once that cowboy found you, you were loved for life…
It was pathetic she was still waiting for her cowboy… she was twenty-five, almost twenty-six… shouldn't she be married with kids? She didn't really want to be one of those women who only decide to have kids after they can't because, hello, kind of defeating the point.
Hmm… maybe she should join a dating service?
Erica, in an outfit she had brought just for this occasion, sat in the room, picking at one nail with another; dark eyes intent on her "work", she nonetheless looked over her shoulder when the door behind her opened. Smiling slightly, she arched one eyebrow, turned back to the picking of the nail with a comment of "Come on in and sit down, would you?"
The older man obeyed, slinking around her chair, sweeping his coat closed as he did and flopped out in the seat before her. From where he slouched there, shoulders hunched slightly he peered at her owlishly, letting out an unhappy sigh of "What do you want?"
"This is the answer I get to offering you a once-in-a-lifetime job?" She crossed her legs, leaned back in her seat, enjoying how well her black dress looked. "I need someone who I have something on…"
"You don't have that much on…" At her smirk he gave a disgusted sigh, theatrically dropping his head back in hopelessness. "Have I told you lately that I hate you?" he sang softly and it achieved the expected reaction. The air around her small form was practically sizzling when he finally raised his head to peer at her, offering her that damn grin.
"Look, buddy, you and I both know how much I have on you. You and I both know that I would not hesitate a single second to take you down… so you do this, okay? I need someone who's not afraid to get down and dirty to get some information."
"It looks like you have enough proof, Erica."
"All you have to do is go over there, ask a few questions, get a few names… if the answers are what I think they are, I can get my concrete proof, and, by then, he'll be on my side."
"What are you going to do, train this kid like a dog?"
"Why not?" she laughed, flexing her fingers thoughtfully; smiling to herself, she flipped her hair like the model she was, "He's desperate for some maternal attention… and he isn't getting it from Kendall anymore…"
He watched her, watched as she stood, beaming, but stopped her at the door with a short yell of "hey" that made her turn halfway, eyebrows lifting in question. "Aren't you going to tell about the other part of your plan?"
"Certainly," she chirped, nodding happily. "Der Frn Ti Jerlinn Mran Rwecv!" And then, laughing her petite form off, she strutted out of the room, offering a wiggle of fingers before closing the door of the Pine Cone room… and, one room away, with Harley trying on the new clothes, Maxie smiled to herself in glee, face pressed against the door.
There are moments that make us… good moments, bad moments, painful, joyful… the first time you hold your child… the first time you realize, in a nursery, in the dark, with the heavy scent of alcohol and agony on the air, that your reason for existing doesn't exist… these moments leave their mark.
Even years later, after most of it fades, the marks remain, like grisly scars of time, and they affect how your heart works, how you work, how you walk and talk and breathe… in a courtyard in Pine Valley, such a mark was made upon a man's heart and soul, something with bouncing curls and eyes like winter breath…
Now, Tad is storming through a hallway, strange images of a little girl before his eyes as he contemplates death for an enemy… he steps off any elevator, heads off, rubbing wrists that ache… back in the room, the two soon-to-be-fired idiots dream of raises that won't be coming…
He remembers the moment on the plane, Brooke's look and the pain there, for him and for his little girl… how she had tried to say the words she didn't want to hear… didn't want to say…
"Dixie's sister, she— Lanie called from Paris. She couldn't reach you."
"She lost the baby."
He ignores odd looks, storming, hating that he was here, just miles away from where his little girl and his Dixie had left him… where his life had started to become the complete and total fuck-up it was now… if he admitted it to himself, he would say that that little girl was in his head, a little girl that looked like what she would have looked…
"There was an accident. A car accident. They're not sure exactly what happened."
"How bad is she hurt?"
Tad turned a corner, and… he grunted when he hit the other form, startled at the force that hit his side and shoulder, and he staggered back, grabbing the nearby table, grimacing…
And then, eyes met her form, absorbed the face, caught the startled look in the face in front of his… his heart squeezed painfully, a harsh twist in his chest as he realized that one hand was braced against his arm for balance… that face wasn't hers, right?
That face couldn't be hers, couldn't be his Dixie's because… his Dixie was gone, long gone, nothing but memories of pancakes and chicken fingers and a happy bull that had caused her endless hours of laughter at his expense…
"The Swiss police think that she lost control, somehow, and— and the car went over the embankment."
"No."
He denied it, denied how her face looked and how her nervous "pardon me" rang with that familiar twang of Virginia as he stood and watched her… he was able to deny it, standing and hurting and wishing she would leave until his son—not our son, never our son, we'd never do that to our son—was there, pulling her back by an arm, pulling her away from Tad and then…
Dixie… his Dixie… the woman who loved him, made him something worthwhile… standing there, being carefully checked out by his son—not our son, Tad, we lost him already—being checked for hurts and aches… and then JR stared at him… and there it was, a broken sort of understanding, a knowledge that, right now, he could reach out and touch his Dixie…
Not his son, not anymore… his Dixie…
AN: Have I made anyone cry yet? I didn't want to put in all of this stuff but it was needed, once again, to help how the story progresses. The quotes in the last part came from the episode where Tad was informed of Dixie's "death". Made me cry like a baby, just too much drama.
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