The Cowboy (23 page)

The whole time he was crooning to Hannah, his mind was awhirl with questions. How had Sam died? An accident? What kind of accident does a man in a wheelchair have? Had Sam perhaps taken his own life? They hadn’t heard any gunshots, but that didn’t mean Sam hadn’t slit his wrists or taken some pills, even if that wasn’t the way most men would have chosen to kill themselves.

Trace arrived at the house only a moment after the other two, but the kitchen was empty. He followed Eli’s sobs to a bedroom at the far end of the house on the ground floor. Callie was sitting on the unmade brass-rail bed, her expression stark, her eyes staring sightlessly at her brother, who was sitting slumped over in his wheelchair beside the bed. Eli was kneeling on the floor, holding Sam’s lifeless hand and bawling like a branded calf.

Trace looked for some sign of violence, a gunshot
wound or slit wrists or even an empty bottle of pills, but saw nothing. The blood had drained from Sam’s bloated face, leaving it a pale shade of gray. He certainly looked dead. “Were you expecting this? Was he sick?” he asked.

“Sick at heart,” Callie answered in a desolate voice.

“Any idea what might have killed him?”

“He drank himself to death.”

Trace stared at the man whose paralyzing accident so long ago had meant the end of any chance he’d had of marrying Callie Creed. It would have been better if Sam had died that day. He’d lived as a festering wound that had kept the feud between their families alive and well. And now, when Trace was only starting to know Callie again, he felt certain Sam’s death was going to put another wedge between them.

He so much wanted Sam to be alive, that at first he didn’t believe his eyes.
There’s sweat on Sam’s brow
. He set Hannah down carefully and bent over to put his fingertips to Sam’s throat, where he supposed the carotid artery might be.

“He’s got a pulse,” Trace said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

Callie scrambled to put her own fingertips to Sam’s neck on the other side. “Where? I can’t find it!”

“Believe me, it’s there. From the looks of him, he needs to see a doctor pronto, or he will be dead.” Trace bent to disconnect Sam’s foley catheter from the wheelchair.

“How did you know to do that?” Callie asked.

Trace didn’t take the time to answer, since the answer seemed obvious:
I’ve spent time with a man in a wheelchair
. He simply picked Sam up in his arms and said,
“Grab some blankets for the back of your pickup. Eli, you take Hannah’s hand, and make sure she gets into the cab of the truck okay.”

“I don’t have to—”

“Eli!” Callie said shrilly. “Do what you’re told!”

Callie barely had the blankets laid in the back of her Chevy pickup before Trace was there with Sam. Callie climbed into the bed of the truck and Trace laid Sam’s head in her lap, then made sure Sam’s feet were inside and slammed the tailgate.

Trace had an awful feeling of déjà vu. He took one look at Callie’s stricken face and wondered how many more of these calamities she could survive. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll drive as carefully as I can.”

“Forget careful,” she said. “Drive fast!”

When Trace slipped into the cab of the pickup he saw that neither Eli nor Hannah was wearing a seat belt. “Belt yourself in,” he ordered Eli, as he snapped the center belt around Hannah.

Eli glared at him. “I don’t have to do what you say.”

“This truck isn’t moving until you’re belted in. If your uncle dies—”

“All right,” Eli retorted. “You win!”

The click of the belt came at the same time Trace hit the gas, so that all three of them were thrown back against the worn leather seat.

The trip to the hospital in Bitter Creek would have been silent without Hannah there to comment. As it was, Trace had to force himself not to snap responses to the child’s remarks.

“You drive fast!” she exclaimed.

“Your uncle is very sick,” Trace said. “We have to get him to the hospital in a hurry.”

“Is Uncle Sam gonna die?” Hannah asked, peering up at him.

“I hope not,” Trace answered, avoiding her wide-eyed gaze by keeping his eyes on the road.

“My grampa died,” Hannah said.

“I know,” Trace answered.

“I had to wear my black velvet Sunday school dress with the white collar and Mommy bought me a brand-new pair of white socks with lace on them and I got a brand-new pair of black patent leather shoes with buckles.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t like to go to the hospital,” Hannah noted.

“Me neither,” Trace said.

“Can I see Gram at the hospital?”

“I suppose so. You’ll have to ask your mother.”

“Where’s Mommy?” Hannah asked anxiously, looking around, suddenly realizing her mother wasn’t in the cab with them.

“She’s in the back of the truck with your uncle Sam.”

When Hannah tried to get up to look out the back window. Trace held her in place. “You need to stay buckled in.”

“I want to see my mommy!” she shrieked.

“We’ll be at the hospital in a few minutes. You can see her then. Eli, talk to your sister,” Trace ordered. “Tell her she can see your mom—”

“Sit down, Hannah,” Eli said in a voice that cracked. “Mom’s in back with Uncle Sam. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

The little girl leaned against her brother, who put an
arm around her shoulders. “I’m scared, Eli,” she confided.

Eli glanced at Trace, then whispered to Hannah, “Me, too.”

Trace had called ahead with his cell phone, and when he pulled up to the emergency entrance at the Bitter Creek Regional Hospital, two orderlies met them with a gurney. “Stay in the truck,” he ordered Eli. “And keep your sister with you.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue!” he snapped.

As he helped lift Sam onto the gurney and the orderlies began rolling him inside, the doctor began his preliminary examination.

“How long has he been in this condition?” the doctor asked.

Trace looked at Callie. When she didn’t answer he said, “I don’t know.”

“Did he take any pills?”

Again Trace waited for Callie to answer, but she seemed to be in a stupor. “I don’t know. Sam’s been a paraplegic for eleven years. His nephew found him passed out in his wheelchair. His sister told me he’s been drinking heavily.”

The doctor leaned over to smell Sam’s breath and shook his head. “Could be alcohol poisoning,” he said. “We’ll do some tests and find out.”

Trace had heard of alcohol poisoning, but mostly in relation to teenage boys at college fraternity parties who played drinking games and consumed way too much hard liquor. Too much alcohol caused the body’s systems to shut down. Then you died.

“Will Sam be all right?” Eli called from the cab of the truck.

“We’ll do our best,” the doctor said, as he disappeared inside with Sam.

Trace followed with Callie, but they didn’t get far before the doctor disappeared behind a set of doors with the words
EMERGENCY ROOM
and
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
in red block lettering.

Callie was approached by a nurse informing her that she would need to provide insurance information. Trace put a hand to the small of her back to urge her toward the chest-high reception desk, but she didn’t move.

“Callie, are you all right?” he said in her ear.

She turned to look at him with eyes that were frighteningly vacant. A row of furrows appeared on her brow, and she looked around her as though she had no idea where she was.

The nurse behind the barrier laid a pile of forms in front of Callie. “These papers need to be filled out.”

Trace stood a little behind Callie, biting his tongue to keep from offering to pay Sam’s expenses. He was sure Callie wouldn’t welcome the offer, and he didn’t want to make things between them any worse than they already were.

Callie stared at the papers without speaking. She made no move to reach for the pen the nurse provided.

Trace took a step forward and said, “The patient is Sam Creed. His mother, Lauren Creed, is a patient here. Perhaps you can use her information for him.”

“Do they both have the same insurance carrier?” the nurse asked as she began typing on the computer. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

“What’s wrong?” Trace asked.

“Mrs. Creed has no insurance carrier. She paid a $20,000 cash guarantee upon admittance. Unless Mr. Creed has insurance, I’ll need another $20,000. Cashier’s check or credit card, please.”

Callie wavered on her feet. Her eyes brimmed with tears, which began to spill over. When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice came out in a croak. “I … I don’t think … Isn’t there any way …? Can’t you …?”

Trace caught her as she fainted.

“Get a doctor over here!” he yelled. “I need somebody NOW!”

“Oh, my,” the nurse said, rising to stare over the counter at Callie. “Is she sick, too?”

Trace didn’t answer the woman. His heart was racing too fast, and he was too angry—with Callie, mostly, for wearing herself out, but also at fate, for putting so many obstacles in the way of what he wanted.

“Dammit, Callie,” he muttered. “Why the hell haven’t you been taking care of yourself?”

He knew the answer. Because she was too busy taking care of everybody else. Well, that was going to stop. He had plans for her that required her to be healthy and rested. Starting right now, he was going to make sure that her family started carrying their share of the load.

A doctor showed up and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

“I think she’s just worn to the bone,” Trace said. “But maybe you ought to check her out. Have you got a bed where I can put her?”

“Of course,” the doctor said.

Before they could take a step, the nurse behind the reception desk leaned over and said, “First, we’ll need a cash guarantee.”

Trace shifted Callie higher in his arms, as he met the nurse’s gaze with eyes narrowed in fury. “My name is Trace Blackthorne. My father is Jackson Blackthorne. I’ll be responsible for all the hospital expenses for Mrs. Monroe and her brother. Now I need someone to show me a bed where I can lay Mrs. Monroe down so the doctor can examine her.”

Trace didn’t feel a bit ashamed of using his father’s name to get what he wanted. His family had donated the funds to build the Bitter Creek Regional Hospital, and his parents both served on the board. He’d worry later about what he was going to say to Callie when she confronted him about paying Creed hospital bills with Blackthorne money.

The doctor led Trace to an examining room, where he laid Callie on a paper-covered, padded table. As he stepped back, Callie’s eyes fluttered open and she tried to sit up.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“You fainted,” Trace replied, as he laid a palm on her shoulder to keep her prone.

“I’m fine,” Callie said, trying once more to rise.

“Let the doctor take a look at you.” Trace said.

Callie rolled her eyes, but remained prone. “This is ridiculous.”

The doctor smiled at her and said, “This won’t take long.”

The doctor did a quick check of her eyes, pulse, blood
pressure, and temperature. “Have you been having dizzy spells? Blurred vision? Headaches?”

“No,” Callie said. “I just …” She shot a look at Trace. “I’m just worn out,” she said defiantly.

The doctor smiled again. “Then I prescribe a great deal of bed rest, Mrs. Monroe.”

I can’t—

Trace cut her off. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

After the doctor had left the examining room, Callie slowly sat up. “What happened to Sam? Did the hospital agree to treat him?”

“Sam’s being cared for right now.”

“Where are my kids? They didn’t see me faint, did they?”

“I told them to stay in the truck.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

Callie scooted off the examining table. “I need to check on Sam and the kids.” She was wobbly on her feet but shrugged off the hand Trace offered to keep her steady. “I’m fine.”

“You will be, after you’ve had some rest,” Trace corrected. He figured he’d take her to the hunting cabin, but that meant finding someone to take care of her kids. There was no backup for Callie at home.

Callie ignored him and headed toward the emergency waiting room, where she asked a nurse, “Is there any word on my brother, Sam Creed?”

At that moment, the doctor who’d examined Sam came through the emergency room doors.

“How is my brother?” Callie asked anxiously.

“Definitely alcohol poisoning,” the doctor said. “I can’t promise you he’ll live. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“When will you know for sure?” Callie asked.

“We’ll keep a close eye on him through the night. We should know more by tomorrow morning.”

Trace heard Callie moan, deep in her throat. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and let it out, then said, “I have to check on my kids.”

She marched out of the hospital with Trace a step behind her. Even before they reached the truck, Trace realized her kids were no longer in it. He felt a clutch of panic.

“They’re not here!” Callie said. “Oh, God. Where could they have gone?”

“They must have gone looking for us.”

“But they weren’t in the emergency waiting room. Were they?”

“I didn’t see them,” Trace said. “Let’s go back inside.”

They didn’t find them in the waiting room. Trace shoved open the red-lettered doors, but a nurse caught him and said, “You don’t belong in here.”

“I’m looking for two kids.”

“Look somewhere else,” the nurse said.

He found Callie at the reception desk asking, “Have you seen two kids, a tall, skinny boy about ten and a towheaded little girl?”

“No, ma’am. I have not.”

“Can you tell me what room Lauren Creed is in?” Trace said.

“Of course!” Callie exclaimed. “They know my mother’s here. That must be where they went.”

“Visiting hours are over,” the nurse replied.

Trace narrowed his eyes and stared at her.

“Room 342,” the nurse said. “But you can’t—”

Trace grabbed Callie’s hand and headed for the elevator before the nurse could finish her protest. In a matter of minutes, they stood outside the open door to room 342. They paused and listened, as the children’s grandmother spoke.