Mike bent to look into her eyes, but she turned her head away. “You’re going to him, aren’t you?”
“It’s none of your—”
“Sam, you can’t go to that man! He’s a killer!”
She gave him a look of disgust. “He’s ninety-one years old, and he’s in a wheelchair. What possible reason would he have to harm me? I’m not rich, so it can’t be that he wants my money. I somehow doubt that he wants sex from me. Maybe his whole story is a lie. Maybe he concocted the whole thing in an effort to get Maxie’s granddaughter to live with him for his last few—very few—remaining years. If that’s true, then what’s wrong with it? He’s a lonely old man and I’m…” She broke off, not wanting to say any more.
“Go ahead and say it. You’re a lonely young woman.” His voice softened, his hands dropping to her arms as he moved closer to her. “Tell me what you want, Samantha. Tell me what you want and I’ll try to give it to you. Is it love you want? Then I’ll—”
She jerked out of his grasp. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ll give me love. I’ve had all the love from greedy young men that I can take. What do I have to say to you, do to you to make you realize that I’m serious: I don’t want to stay in this house with you. I don’t want to go to bed with you; I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
Mike stared at her for a moment, his expression changing from anger to bewilderment, then finally to resignation. “I can take a hint,” he said with a little smile of mockery. “You are free to do what you want. In the morning I will go to the bank and get your money for you. Is a cashier’s check all right with you?”
“Yes, fine,” she said quickly, then turned away and started for the stairs toward her apartment. Stopping on the first tread, she looked back at him. “Mike, I do appreciate what you’ve tried to do for me. I sincerely believe that your heart has always been in the right place. It’s just that you don’t know me, not really. I think you have an image of me that I’m…” She took a breath. “That I’m one of your wounded birds. I’m not. I know what I want.”
“Barrett,” Mike said tersely. “You want that old man because he says he might be related to you. He’s never—” He didn’t say any more because Samantha ran up the stairs.
When she was upstairs, she closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. Not that locking the door would do any good, she thought with disgust, because he had his own key.
She dragged her big suitcase out of the closet, put it on the bed, and began to pack. With each of her new, heavenly garments she folded away, she felt sadness at leaving this apartment, at leaving this house that had become familiar to her. But she did her best to strengthen her resolve and kept packing.
When half of the suitcase was filled, she sat on the edge of the bed. Where was she going to go? It wasn’t as though Mr. Barrett had asked her to come live with him, although she had seen that he very much needed a good housekeeper to take care of his neglected house. And it wasn’t as though Michael Taggert wanted her for anything except sex. It always amazed her that men though if they couldn’t “conquer” a woman, then they had failed. Sometimes she thought that when a man was pestering her without ceasing, she ought to just lay down on the bed and give him what he wanted so he’d go away. Maybe that’s what she should do with Mike. After he’d had what he wanted from her, he wouldn’t care whether she stayed in his house, whether she went to live with a former gangster, or what she did.
Standing up, she continued packing. She didn’t want to give Mike what he wanted, didn’t want to hear him say all the things that men say when they’re trying to get under a woman’s skirts: that he loved her and wanted to live with her for the rest of his life, that he was nothing without her, that she was everything to him. No, she didn’t want that from Mike, because up until now, he’d been a friend to her. He’d been kind at times, if a bit autocratic. If she were honest with herself, she found his jealousy flattering. Mike had spent time with her. The day they had gone shopping had been one of the most joyous of her life. He had made her laugh, and at times he’d made her forget all the death that had followed her in her life.
She started to slip a pair of shoes into her bag, then stopped. All her life she would remember this time with Mike, remember the arguments they’d had, remember how he’d made her angry at every turn. She’d remember the way he looked after his shower, his hair wet, wearing only a pair of jeans, his feet and chest bare. She’d remember every touch, every look. She’d remember the way he smiled, just slightly out of one side of his mouth, as though his smile were tinted with sarcasm and disbelief that there was something to smile about.
She jammed the shoes into the case. Maybe she’d move to Seattle. Living around the rain forest might be nice. After the dryness of Santa Fe, her skin could stand living where it was foggy and cool.
She finished packing and set the suitcase on the floor. In the morning she would leave. What was she going to do? Have a taxi take her to the airport then go to an airline counter and say she’d like a ticket on the next available plane?
“Not exactly well thought out, are you, Sam?” she said aloud, then smiled at having called herself Sam. When she’d turned eleven and three-quarters, she had become aware of herself as a female and had declared to her family that she was no longer to be called a boy’s name. From then on she was to be called Samantha. Her father and grandfather had readily complied, but her mother had infuriated her by laughing and continuing to call her Sam. After her mother died, no one had called her Sam—until she’d met Mike, that is.
Looking around the room, at her father’s furniture, at her father’s colors, for the first time she thought that maybe she’d like different curtains. Maybe rose-colored damask, she thought, and maybe she could put a matching spread on the bed.
She began unbuttoning her blouse, her nightgown over her arm, as she walked toward the bathroom to take a shower. In her next place of residence she could do whatever she wanted with the curtains and furniture.
There was no warning. One minute Samantha was asleep and the next there was a hand around her throat and she was fighting for her life. She clawed at the hand that was cutting off her breath, but even when she felt her nails tear his skin, he didn’t move.
“Where is Half Hand’s money?” the man whispered.
The moonlight coming through the window allowed her to see that he wore a stocking over his head.
“Where is Half Hand’s money?” he repeated, but he didn’t loosen the pressure on her throat to allow her to answer.
Samantha tried to kick him, but he was beside her in such a way that she couldn’t re
ach his body. Besides, with no air getting to her lungs, she was losing strength. Michael, she thought, then used what little strength she had remaining to hit the wall with her heel. Once, she hit it. Twice. Three times. Then she began to fade out of reality as the pressure on her throat continued.
When the pressure was abruptly taken away from her throat, at first she still couldn’t breathe. It was as though parts of her throat had been crushed beyond usefulness, and when she gasped, no air entered her lungs. Even when she sat up in the bed, her hand to her injured throat, she still couldn’t breathe.
Turning quickly to the sound of a loud crash, she saw the shadow of Michael as he fought the man who had been trying to kill her. Mike was bigger than the man, stronger, and when Mike’s fist plowed into the man’s face, he hadn’t a chance to survive the blow. As the man fell to the floor with a thud, Mike was beside her, his arms around her.
“Breathe, baby,” he commanded her. “Goddamn you! Breathe!”
Hitting her on the back, he held her as Samantha gasped for air. Mike’s strong hands clutched her shoulders, giving her a little shake as his eyes bored into hers. It was as though he were commanding her to do what she couldn’t, yet she found herself wanting to breathe, if for no other reason than to do what he wanted. After what seemed to be hours, the air entered her lungs in a painful, jerking gasp.
Pulling her into his arms, her head on his bare shoulder, he stroked her back. He put one hand on her head, cradling it as she struggled with breath after breath, her chest heaving in little spasms.