Even the Nights are Better. Margot Dalton

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      “I hear Carolyn’s really upset about the Hole in the Wall,” he ventured. “Has she said anything to you, Martin?”

      Martin shrugged. “Just in passing one night a few weeks ago when we were all over at the Double C for one of Cynthia’s fancy dinners. She’s not happy about it, that’s for sure.”

      Vernon creased one of the papers thoughtfully, head lowered, eyes concentrated on the careful movements of his tanned hands. “I’m glad we’ve been able to keep it quiet,” he said.

      “Now, Vern, you know as well as I do what this town’s like,” Martin said mildly. “Everybody finds out everything, sooner or later.”

      “Maybe not,” Vernon said. “Nobody knows the details of the sale of the dude ranch but you and me and Scott Harris.”

      “And J.T.” Martin said. “But he’s no gossip, that’s for sure.”

      “Right. So if we all stay quiet, maybe we can keep it safely under the rug until Carolyn’s had a chance to find out for herself that the Hole in the Wall won’t be such a bad neighbor after all.”

      Martin chuckled. “She’s not an easy girl to convince of anything, Vern, never has been. What a woman.”

      Both men were silent for a moment, but this time their faces were affectionate as they thought about Carolyn Townsend. The phone rang and Martin cursed mildly, then lifted it and barked a greeting.

      “Carolyn,” he said after a brief pause, his voice softening. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about you. How are y’all this fine spring day?”

      Vernon tensed in his chair and sat erect, eyes fixed on Martin’s face. But Martin was unaware of his friend. He was listening to the voice at the other end, his debonair face slowly turning ashen.

      “God, Carolyn” he muttered finally. “That’s terrible, girl. What can I do?”

      Vern made frantic gestures, but Martin waved him to silence and listened to the caller again.

      “Okay,” he said finally. “Vern’s here with me now and we’ll both come right on over.”

      He murmured a farewell and hung up slowly, staring at his friend across the desk with a stricken expression.

      “That was Carolyn,” he said unnecessarily. “J.T.’s had a heart attack. They just brought him in to the hospital by ambulance.”

      “Oh, my God,” Vernon whispered, gazing unseeingly at Martin’s face. Despite the shock of the news his first thought, as always, was for Carolyn. He recalled the woman he loved and the way she’d looked earlier in the day, with the spring sun in her hair and her eyes as blue as the morning, telling him fiercely that she’d seen enough of suffering and death….

      “I’ll go right over there,” he muttered, getting hastily to his feet and stuffing the papers into his briefcase. “Maybe I can help somehow. Coming, Martin?”

      Without a word, Martin took his suede jacket from a coat tree by the door and followed Vernon out into the bright morning sunlight.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE SHABBY LITTLE visitors’ lounge at the Crystal Creek Community Hospital seemed filled to overflowing with people. Most were crowded into uncomfortable chrome armchairs and long slippery vinyl lounges while a few, like Ruth Holden and Tyler McKinney, stood near the automated hot drink dispenser sipping blankly at foam cups of the vile black liquid that passed for coffee.

      Vernon was fairly certain that Tyler McKinney could have been drinking battery acid and he wouldn’t have been aware of it. The young man’s face was pale and haggard, bleak with fear, making him look twenty years older. In fact, Tyler McKinney, on this bright spring morning, looked more than ever like his father.

      Lynn, beside him, had obviously run in from the stables and not taken the time to change her clothes. She was small and shapely in her riding gear. Her beautiful tanned face was wide-eyed and strained, and she kept glancing desperately toward the door as if waiting for someone.

      While Vernon and Martin edged toward a vacant couch, Sam Russell followed them into the crowded room and Lynn went to him, moving blindly into his arms like a child, oblivious to everyone else in the room. Sam held her in a close embrace, patting her heaving back and murmuring to her, his blond head close to her auburn one. Vernon swallowed and looked away from them, sinking down onto the couch and glancing around.

      Cynthia McKinney sat across the room from him, with Rose Purdy, the doctor’s wife, on one side and Carolyn on the other, both of them holding her hands firmly and murmuring to her by turns. Beverly Townsend sat next to her mother, her lovely golden face streaked with tears.

      Vernon couldn’t help wondering as he looked thoughtfully at Beverly if the tears were real or if they were just there for effect, in case somebody from the media might be around snapping camera footage of the bereaved family.

      But as soon as he framed the thought, he chided himself for being uncharitable. He knew Beverly had her good qualities, and that Carolyn, despite her frequent impatience with the girl, loved her daughter deeply. Still, Vernon found himself wondering sometimes how a woman as generous, intelligent and practical as Carolyn Townsend could have produced an offspring so self-absorbed and shallow.

      As he was gazing with cool appraisal at Beverly, a couple of children came wandering into the room hand in hand. They were little girls of about seven and three, both wearing institutional gray bathrobes. The older one trundled a mobile IV unit along beside her, strapped to her left arm, and the other one limped badly, trailing a leg in a heavy steel and plastic brace.

      While Vernon watched in amazement, Beverly got up, smiling through her tears, and gathered the smaller child tenderly in her arms. She murmured something to the older girl, then took the child’s hand and walked from the room still carrying the younger girl. Vernon watched them go, stunned by the little tableau and the obvious warmth and sincerity of Beverly’s interaction with the children.

      He shook his head and then smiled automatically as Reverend Howard Blake and his wife, Eva, came into the room, followed by Bubba Gibson, who looked hastily assembled and a lot less chipper than usual.

      Vern shifted awkwardly on the hard vinyl seat, waiting for his chance to go to Cynthia and offer his own sympathy and support. But she was surrounded, and the crowd seemed to be growing by the minute. There was another stir at the door and Cal McKinney entered, limping slightly from an old rodeo injury. He was followed by Serena Davis, who looked quiet and pale.

      No wonder, Vernon thought, glancing at his watch. Cal was already notorious for how fast he drove that stretch of highway between Wolverton and the home ranch, but he must have set some new records today. His body was tense, his hazel eyes glittering with tears as he was gathered into the arms of his family.

      Vernon felt a startling quick stab of pain, wondering what it must be like to be J.T. McKinney and have such a rich legacy, to have all this family loving and fretting for you, these tall handsome sons weeping over you….

      He looked up to find Carolyn’s blue eyes resting on him with mute appeal. He began to rise, to move toward her. But just at that moment the room fell silent and everyone turned to the door where Nate Purdy stood, weary and somber in his crisp white lab coat.

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