An Accidental Hero (8 page)

Lucas turned to another page, then met her eyes. “Everything looks completely normal, so I can assure you there’s no reason you can’t have another child…when you’re ready, of course.” He tapped a fingertip on the clipboard. “And let me stress that there is
no
reason to expect anything like this might happen again.”

Another baby? Cammi hadn’t even come to grips yet with losing this one. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to be alone, to think and pray about…about
every
thing.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Unable to trust her voice, Cammi shook her head.

“That guy who brought you in—is he your husband?”

Another head shake. “Friend,” she said. “He’s just…a friend.”

“Has anyone notified your husband?”

She took a deep breath, released it slowly. “My husband died in a car accident four months ago. In California.”

Lucas’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry, very sorry.” Standing, he put the chair back where he’d found it, tucked her file under his arm. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Anything I can do?”

“Nothing, thanks. My father is on his way.” He should be here by now. He must be stuck in traffic.

He dug around the oversize pocket on his lab coat, withdrew a business card. “If there’s anything, anything at all I can do to help…”

Cammi accepted the card, knowing even before he released it that she wouldn’t call. “Thanks,” she said again.

“Have they brought you anything to eat?”

She answered with a question of her own. “Will you be signing release forms now?”

“In the morning. I want to keep you overnight for observation.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor.”

He made a note on her file and recapped his pen. “You’re to take it real easy for a week or so. I mean it. Nothing strenuous. That means no laundry, no vacuuming, no lifting anything heavier than a five-pound bag of sugar.” Lucas started for the door. “And have someone go to the pharmacy,” he said over his shoulder, “to pick you up some iron tablets. You lost a lot of blood and need to build yourself up again.”

“Okay.”

“And no stairs. At least for the first few days.”

“But my room is—”

His wagging forefinger reminded Cammi of a metronome. “Uh-uh-uh. ‘No stairs’ means
no stairs.
Camp out on the couch until Wednesday or Thursday.”

Then she remembered the school, and Principal Gardner. “I’m supposed to start a new job on Monday!”

“Out of the question. Do that, and you’ll be right back in here by lunchtime, needing a transfusion…or worse.”

Feelings of helpless frustration overcame her.

“I’ll want to see you in two weeks,” Lucas said, half in, half out of the room. “I’ll have my nurse give you a call to schedule an appointment.”

What else could go wrong? she wondered as the doctor disappeared around the corner.

He hadn’t been gone a full minute when her father clomped into the room on well-worn cowboy boots. “What in tarnation is going on around here?” he said, tossing his dusty Stetson onto the foot of her bed.

Careful what you ask for,
Cammi thought wryly,
’cause you might just get it.

Halfway into the seven-hour trip to Fort Worth, Billy yawned and stretched. Digging in the sack of treats Reid had brought, he pulled out a candy bar and clucked his tongue. “You drive like an old man, you know that, son?”

Reid glanced at the dashboard, noted he’d been traveling at exactly the posted limit.
Should’ve seen me a couple of hours ago,
Reid thought, remembering his trip to the hospital, when he discovered the pickup could actually go the hundred twenty miles per hour promised by the speedometer. “If obeying the law makes me an old man, I’ve been old since I was fourteen.”

“Hmm,” Billy teased around a mouthful of chocolate. “That reminds me—the west fields need some fertilizer….” He laughed, then added, “You can’t kid a kidder, kid. I remember the way you used to drive that ancient green tractor of mine. Why, even the chickens knew to head for the henhouse when you climbed onto the seat of that monster!”

“True enough,” Reid said, chuckling, “but that was different. I never drove the tractor on the highway.”

“Speaking of highways, how far is it to Fort Worth, anyway?”

“Three hundred fifty miles, give or take.” He glanced at the dashboard clock. “I reckon we’ll roll into town just in the nick of time for your appointment.”

Billy blew a stream of air through his teeth. “Seven and a half hours on the road, and for what?” he grumbled.

“God willing,” Martina said from the back seat, “for a new medication or treatment that will save your life. Or, as you’re so fond of saying, ‘to save your ornery hide.”’

Turning to face her, he winked. “Guess I could at least
act
a mite grateful, eh?”

In the rearview mirror, Reid saw her blow Billy a kiss, saw the love beaming from her eyes. The sight made him smile, despite the traumatic morning, despite the long trip ahead…and the reason for this outing, because this couple was proof positive that happy marriages did exist. “I’d like to see a reporter from one of those women’s magazines interview you guys,” he said offhandedly.

“Interview us?” Billy faced front, eyes widened in disbelief. “What in thunderation for?”

Martina clucked her tongue. “William, please watch your language,” she said, gently tapping his shoulder with the blunt end of a knitting needle. To Reid, she said, “It’s a good question, though—why would a reporter want to interview
us?
”

Reid shrugged. “You’ve been married—what, a hundred fifty years, yet you’re still billing and cooing like young lovebirds.”

“Thirty-five years,” Martina corrected.

“Only
seems
like a hundred fifty,” Billy put in.

She gave him another light rap on the shoulder.

“Jiminy Cricket,” he said, laughing. “You didn’t let me finish. I was about to add, ‘living with me.”’

She giggled quietly. “Lies paint a dark spot on our souls, you know.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Billy said. “The Good Lord already knows I’m a tad ‘dotty.”’

Reid frowned. “Is that in the Bible?”

Martina lifted her chin. “No, it isn’t. But since my beloved granny said it, and my wonderful mama repeated it, there must be some truth to it.” She paused, then changed the subject. “Hard to believe we’ve been together that long, and most of them happy years, at that.”

“Most?”
Billy put in, heaving a huge fake sigh.

She leaned forward to muss his hair. “Yes, ‘most.’ Because
mostly,
you’re willing to compromise, to talk things out, to negotiate. That’s why marriage to you has been easy. Mostly.”

“No, it’s been easy because you’re wonderful.”

She giggled again. “No, because
you’re
wonderful.”

Reid had heard it all before, enough times to know that once they got the old “who’s best” ball rolling, it could go on and on. “This meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society has concluded,” he droned. He didn’t put any stock in Martina’s notions about lies darkening the soul, but he sure did hope there was
truth to the reasons she’d listed for their successful marriage. He’d always considered himself fair-minded and reasonable, so if he ever found the right girl…

If
he found the right girl? Reid believed he
had
found her. Didn’t make sense, being so sure about something that important in such a short time. But it would take a miracle to get “the right girl” to forgive him for her mother’s death.

What would Cammi be doing right now? he wondered. Sleeping peacefully, he hoped. If she were his wife, she wouldn’t need for anything, ever. He’d take two jobs, three if he had to, to provide anything her heart desired. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be hard…meeting her heart’s desires. She had an easy way about her that told him she’d be happy and satisfied with only the barest of necessities, provided her loved ones’ needs were being met. She didn’t seem the type to be impressed by mansions, imported furniture or fancy sports cars.

Imagine how good it would feel, he thought, being greeted by the likes of that smile after a long, hard day. He pictured Cammi, taking his arm, leading him to his favorite easy chair, where she’d snuggle into his lap to hear about his day. He could tell by the way she’d leaned into the conversation at Georgia’s the night of the accident for her, listening was a fine-honed skill.

Frowning, Reid pursed his lips. He’d never gone boots-over-Stetson for a woman before, not even the most gorgeous and willing of them—and there had been plenty, like Amanda, who’d dogged his heels
around the rodeo circuit. So why did he feel this way about Cammi, a woman he’d only just met?

No similarity between her and his own mother, whose loud, boisterous behavior so often shamed and humiliated him. In many ways she seemed more like Martina.

You’re an idiot, Alexander,
he chided himself. Her husband had only been gone a few months, and—

Husband. It surprised him, the way his fingers tightened on the steering wheel and his jaw clenched at the very thought of her sharing any portion of her life with another man. He tried to shake off the unthinkable thought.
Mind on the road,
he told himself.
Mind on the road
…

“What’s going through that handsome head of yours?” Martina asked.

He met her eyes in the rearview mirror and forced a grin. “Just concentrating on the drive, is all.”

“Nonsense,” she countered. “A man doesn’t grind down his molars and grimace because he’s reading road signs and avoiding potholes.”

Billy chuckled. “Well, I’ll give you my two cents’ worth. He’s buildin’ castles in the air about that li’l gal he crashed into.”

Reid feigned a look of exasperation. “Two cents is about all that theory is worth. Here’s an idea—go on back to sleep and save talk like that for—”

Billy laughed. “What’s that old saying? ‘Methinketh the cowboy protesteth too mucheth.”’

“Good thing there isn’t a law against butchering Shakespeare,” Reid pointed out, “’cause you just massacred that line.”

Martina leaned forward, excited about some wild-
flower or other growing alongside the road. Thankfully, Billy seemed interested in the scenery, too, pointing out tree species and shrubbery the state had planted in the last “Beautify Texas” campaign.

Reid had managed to sidetrack them—this time—but he knew he’d better be more careful about where he did his daydreaming from now on, especially when it involved Cammi Carlisle.

Which might be tricky, considering how often and how deeply she filled his thoughts.

Reid would have given anything to hear the same silly banter going home as he’d endured on the drive to Fort Worth, even if it meant putting up with talk of his having a “thing” for Cammi Carlisle. But the specialist who’d examined Billy last night agreed with all the others:

Billy had Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.

ALS.

And there was no known cure.

When the doctor in Amarillo first diagnosed the illness, Reid wanted to learn about the disease that might kill his best friend, his father figure, his mentor. Trips to the library and hours searching Internet Web sites made him yearn for those days when his only knowledge of ALS was that it had taken the life of baseball great Lou Gehrig.

In a horribly predictable fashion, the slight muscle weakness that sent Billy to the doctor in the first place quickly progressed, stealing finger dexterity and making it impossible for him to continue stringing the colorful, long-plumed fishing lures he’d been creating for years at the request of friends and neighbors.

Thanks to ALS, there’d be no more going off at dawn, fishing all by himself; twitching limbs and muscle spasms could cause him to lose his balance and topple out of his one-man johnboat.

Things would worsen gradually over these next few months, sapping Billy’s strength and dignity until, one by one, every major organ stopped doing its job.

Now, as Billy leaned against the passenger window pretending to be asleep, as Martina’s knitting needles click-clacked fast enough to create sparks, Reid wished he could reach out to them, wished there was something he could do or say to bring them comfort. But since the one thing they needed to hear—“cure”—was an impossibility, he held his silence.

For a reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted Cammi near. It made no sense, and he felt selfish for so much as thinking that she could comfort
him,
especially after all she’d been through. Still, something told him if she knew the details about Billy’s illness, if she knew how much the man meant to Reid, she’d shelve her own troubles to help him bear up under his.

On the other hand, being a devout Christian, Cammi would likely ply him with a list of Bible verses and prayers. He didn’t cotton to getting into a verbal sparring match with a good, churchgoing gal about the existence of God
or
His presence in their day-to-day lives.

It would be hours yet, before he delivered Billy and Martina back to the Rockin’ C Ranch, and since dawn had just broken it was too early to call Cammi. He’d barely slept a wink, lying on that too-soft hotel mattress, wondering how she was doing, wondering if her doctor had released her from the hospital and how
she’d taken the news of the miscarriage. He could only hope that whatever was wrong between her and Lamont could be set aside until Cammi was her strong, healthy self again.

He wanted to hear her voice. No,
needed
to hear it, if for no other reason than to prove she’d made it through the night all right. As soon as he got the hands started on their next chore, he’d take five minutes and give her a call. He’d start out by apologizing for not being there when she woke up, for not being there to hold her hand when the doctor came in.

Reasonable or not, for the first time in his life, he intended to do what felt
right,
rather than what made sense. That meant ’fessing up, admitting he’d been the one driving the pickup that awful night. If she didn’t slap him silly, maybe there was hope for them.