Page 12 of Prime Time

“Are you not feeling well, Dad?” Lyon asked. “Should I call Dr. Baker?”

“No, no. I’m not feeling anything but eighty-some-odd years old. I’m going to bed now and get a good night’s sleep. I want to look my best when Andy interviews me.” He winked at her again. Impulsively she got up and, leaning over his wheelchair, kissed him on the cheek.

“Goodnight, General Ratliff.”

“Forget the warm milk, Lyon, I think I can go right to sleep now.” He waved good night and then steered his chair out of the room.

“Can he … do … for himself? See to his needs?” she asked softly.

Lyon’s sigh was sad and resigned. “Yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a weary hand. “He insists that he still dress and undress himself, though I know it exhausts him. He’s proud. He wouldn’t even agree to a male nurse.” His look was bleak as he stared at the empty doorway through which his father had just passed, and Andy knew that the son loved the father and vice versa. After a moment he shook his head slightly and looked down at her. “Are you finished with your pie?”

She pinched off one last morsel of the fluted crust and popped it into her mouth. “Delicious,” she exclaimed, daintily flicking her tongue across the tips of her fingers to rid them of crumbs. When all had been thoroughly cleaned, she looked up at him smilingly.

The breath caught in her throat and her smile dissolved into the partially opened lips of a woman about to be kissed. Lyon stared at her mouth with single-minded concentration, and it was impossible not to respond to his heated gaze. She felt herself gravitating toward him. His magnetism was as potent as the moon’s pull on the tide, and it was as futile to resist.

“I think you missed some,” he said hoarsely. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he drew her fingers toward his lips.

My God, her mind screamed. If he does it, I’ll die. Yet at that moment she couldn’t think of anything more electrifying than having his tongue bathe each of her fingertips with gentle, wet strokes.

His eyes locked onto hers and refused to let go. But instead of licking her fingertips, he blew on them gently until the tiny flakes of pastry gave up their tenuous hold.

Her heart knocked painfully against her ribs. What little breath had been momentarily trapped in her throat was expelled on a shuddering sigh. Then it was impossible to draw any more in, and her lungs constricted against the emptiness. She only hoped she had been able to stifle the soft moan that had pressed against her vocal cords before it could be uttered.

“Lyon, Andy, are you finished?” He dropped her hand and took a step backward as Gracie pushed her way through the swinging door that connected the dining room to the kitchen. “Would you like your coffee on the patio?”

“We’re going to walk down to the river,” he answered with more calm than Andy could have mustered at that moment. “Why don’t you have it waiting for us when we get back? I don’t know how long we’ll be, so go on to bed if you want.”

“I’ll wash up these dishes and check on General Ratliff,” Gracie said. “Your coffee will be waiting for you on the patio, and if I don’t see you later, good night.”

“Good night, Gracie,” Lyon said.

“Good night and thank you for the delicious dinner,” Andy said, hoping the housekeeper wouldn’t notice her high color.

“You’re welcome. Now you two scoot out of my way. Get on with your walk.”

Lyon led the way through Gracie’s domain, the kitchen. It was enormous, and stainless-steel, commercial-sized appliances lined the walls.

“Does she cook for all your hands in here?” Andy knew that the Ratliff ranch was like a small city. Dozens of cowboys and their families lived within its boundaries.

“For years she cooked for the single men who live in the bunkhouse. He indicated a dormitory-looking building to the left as they went through the patio door. “But when Dad got so ill, I hired a cook for that kitchen. Gracie’s main responsibility now is to look after Dad when I’m not around.”

“You said this morning that she’d been here longer than you.”

“Yes, she came to this house with Mom and Dad when it was built. Mom died when I was ten. Gracie’s seen to me ever since.”

“What was your mother like?” They were walking down the path toward the river, having skirted the pool and a few of the many outbuildings that made up the compound. Andy noted that the shrubbery Mr. Houghton had planted looked very well. An earthy, mossy smell from the freshly turned and dampened soil permeated the night air.

It was a beautiful night. The crescent moon looked like a prop for a stage play, perfectly suspended over the distant hills. A southern breeze lifted the hair away from Andy’s face as she walked with Lyon under the canopy of pecan and live oak branches.

“It’s sad, but I remember incidents rather than the person. My impressions of Mom are gentleness, kindness, warmth. But maybe all children think of their mothers that way.” He smiled, and his teeth shone even in the deepening shadows. “I remember that she always smelled a particular way. I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled that perfume before or since, but I’d know her by that fragrance even now. Her name was Rosemary.”

“Yes, I read that today in some of the clippings. Your father was said to have been very diligent during the war about writing home to her. They must have been very close.”

“They were. Rarely so.” The bitterness in his voice couldn’t be masked, and he quickly changed the subject. “What about your parents?”

“Mother lives in Indianapolis. Father died several years ago.”

“What did he do?”

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