Short Cut to Santa Fe by Medora Sale Page B

Her body had turned into an alien entity, screaming for anesthetizing drink and pills. At least she hadn’t been stupid enough to dope herself while she was driving; but after all this time she was unable to deny the desperation in her need.
    The motel was very Taos. Adobe, with units scattered around a grassy courtyard, sheltering under broad cottonwoods backed by towering pines. She stepped out of the car and shivered in the chill wind. Inside the dark little office, she rang the bell on the counter with an impatient slap of her hand and called out: “Grosvenor. Kate Grosvenor. Two rooms.”
    â€œHi, Ms. Grosvenor.” The proprietor appeared around the curtain that shielded his living quarters from the public. “Rooms twelve and fourteen.” He pushed the inevitable little chunk of cardboard at her.
    She began to fill out the bare details of her existence—how many thousand times had she done that—and stopped, as always, to check her license plate number. “My friends arrive yet?” she asked.
    â€œNot yet, Ms. Grosvenor. You want me to call when they come in?”
    â€œSure. Thanks.” Her mouth stretched in a smile she didn’t feel and she picked up the key.
    The room was rustic, heavy with rough wood furniture. It was also damp and chilly, but supplied with both a heater and fireplace and abundant quantities of wood. It wasn’t “great country inns of the world” elegantly rustic, merely comfortable and solid. Under normal conditions—whatever they were—it was the sort of place she liked, one that numbed her pain, lulling her with memories of a childhood in the mountains.
    She dumped her suitcase on the bed, turned on the heater to take the damp out of the air, and collapsed in the big, soft chair in front of the empty hearth. Where in hell were Harriet and her fascist friend? She had expected them to be here, expected them to drag her resentfully out of her lassitude and misery, to force her out to a restaurant to eat, and, in short, to make her decisions for her. She had been fully prepared to be irritated and angry and uncooperative. Not to be alone. It was almost nine o’clock and they hadn’t dragged their asses up from Santa Fe yet. She’d give them thirty more minutes to get here, and then forget about them. She stared into the dark fireplace, exhaustion and despair keeping her immobile, preventing her from taking the bottle of Scotch from her suitcase, the painkillers from her bag. It hadn’t been clever of her to make the drive in one day, just because she always used to and only a wimp—even injured—would do it in two. In spite of the throbbing in her head, and the throbbing in her shoulder, Kate dozed off, soothed by the smell of pine and the cool air and the strange quiet.
    â€œThank God we’ve stopped,” said Jennifer Nicholls briskly. “Makes it a bit easier. Open up the other first-aid kit, would you? I need more gauze. As much as you can get me.” As she spoke, she kept on working at a rate that astonished Karen. Using the cheap, tiny scissors from Mrs. Green’s kit, she had already cut and ripped away the material from the area of the wound, mopped up the blood, and swabbed the surrounding skin with disinfecting pads while Karen struggled to open the first-aid kit supplied by the tour company. “Quick,” said the nurse. “Those things on the right-hand side are what I need. Come on, she’s bled enough already.”
    Karen fumbled through the supplies, trying to figure out which things she wanted; Jennifer ripped out several pads and pressed them into the wound. “Give me your hand,” she said, grabbing it and cleaning her fingertips off with a disinfecting pad. “There—now press down gently right here while I see what else we’ve got.” There was a gasp from the woman on the floor as Karen’s fingers settled on the mass of gauze pads.