“Things kept secret too long have a way of gettin’ out, Ben. Better tell her b’fore she finds out on her own. If that happens, she may never take you for your word again.”
Ben whipped around in confrontation. “You’re the only one who knows. The only one. So does that mean you’re gonna be blabbin’?”
“Well, I can’t rightly comprehend. I tend t’ talk in my sleep.” He offered the sweet smile of a benevolent angel and went back to whittling.
A snort of disgust was all that greeted this admission. Damn these moldering old cowpunchers that had outlived their usefulness, anyway!
Hands stuffed into front pockets, sombrero’d head lowered in thought, Ben scuffed through the gravel around the side of the house much like a disgruntled boy being punished for some mischief. He had no particular destination in mind; he was just walking aimlessly while his brain chewed through a series of problems to be dealt with.
Fine thing, returning to his home after going out to fight the corporate wars, only to find the routine all out of kilter and his best friend taking up support for the wife who was causing such dissension! And what was this whole arrangement with Mrs. Wyeth? Last Ben had heard, the woman was going to be put out on her—well, her ear.
Besides, his back hurt, from too many hours spent in an uncomfortable position aboard the jet; and his head ached, probably from too much tension. He wanted some kind person to give him a little TLC, but he sensed that was a vain hope.
His wandering footsteps took him to the nearest corral, a tree-shaded green-sodded area where a few quarter horses browsed or dozed. The sight of the livestock on this ranch never failed to lift his heart; and he laid both folded arms onto the top rail and leaned forward, to let the pleasure wash over him and soothe the ruffled spirit caused by his talk with Tom.
He was staring gloomily out over his holdings: the buildings, the sheds, the pastures. It was a hot day, as befits the beginning of July, but a clear, sunny one in God’s country. Only a few puffy white clouds were easing slowly across the azure sky, like sheep strolling through a meadow, and the air smelled of gathering dust and, perhaps, a hint of rain off in the distance.
It was almost lunch time, and his empty belly was beginning to complain. Hell. Might as well go back inside and face the music. With a sigh, Ben turned away from the old-fashioned rail fence.
Just then, Caroline emerged from the front door. At her sight of him, schlumping around like a lost soul, she came out of the shadows. “Ben!”
“Yeah.”
He seemed so downcast, even seen from a distance, that she might almost have felt the tiniest twinge of sympathy for his situation. Except that she constantly carried the hurt of his behavior, festering deep inside like a splinter unremoved. Not a grudge. No. At least, she didn’t view it that way.
It was an injury that could not heal. Nor would she allow it, and that probably wasn’t right, either.
“Are you ready to come inside and eat?” she called, hardening her resolve. “We have soup and sandwiches. And please let Tom know.”
Ben’s middle rumbled, but his attention had shifted from hunger to curiosity.
A dirty, twenty-year-old blue truck, whose paint job was peppered with rust holes, had turned into the end of Ten Buck’s lane, circled around, and parked there, with the engine running.
Ben squinted into the distance and frowned. Odd behavior. Had someone chosen the wrong road, and was now trying to figure out directions before pulling back out into traffic? He considered heading forward to offer help. But that was a long way to walk in high-heeled boots. Even comfortable, broken-in boots, like his. Better to wait and see if anyone approached.
Sure enough, a minute or two later the driver climbed out and down from the cab. A man. A large, beefy man whose stance and carriage seemed vaguely familiar. Reaching over the side, into the pickup’s bed, to retrieve whatever was needed, he turned to face the Ten Buck homestead.
Suddenly the hair stood up on the back of Ben’s neck, and all of his catlike instincts went into overdrive.
Even as he shifted position, to get out of the way of possible danger, the unidentified driver put a Winchester rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and fired.
His aim was excellent.
The first bullet took Ben directly in the chest and spun him partly sideways as a second bullet cut across his upper arm.
He let out only an agonized groan as the force and the pain hit home, and slowly began to crumple.
Caroline screamed. Helpless witness, pinned in place by shock and disbelief, she finally uprooted her feet as Ben hit the ground. And ran, still screaming to wake the dead. Which might already be true.
Even as she sank down beside him, desperately hauling his limp, gory body across her lap and into her embrace, the gunman fled. Only a trail of dust in his wake gave evidence that someone had just tried to murder the young master of the estate.
And possibly succeeded.
Tom found her, keening, slumped over her husband’s form and smeared with his blood.
“Carrie!” he shouted. Having heard the report of a rifle where there should be none, and the fearsome cries, he had come racing from the barn to see what had befallen. “Are you hurt?”
She raised a tear-streamed, grieving face, whose every muscle trembled, and barely managed to shake her head.
“All right, then.” He stabbed an emergency number into his cell phone to request assistance, then attempted reassurance. “They’re comin’, honey,” he told her huskily. “We got help comin’. Let’s see if we can plug up them holes till the EMT’s get here.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Things were beeping; things were flashing; things were dripping; things were making muffled whoosh-whooshes. Other than that, the contents of the room and the occupant of the bed lay sightless, soundless, motionless. On some different plane, it seemed, one far removed from this earth and all its travail.
People came in. They checked this monitor and that IV hookup. They went out.
At least no more white uniforms from yesteryear. They were dressed in colorful outfits, some plain, some patterned, that added a hint of cheerful to an intolerable situation.
It was a place built for efficiency, rather than comfort. Although two club chairs upholstered in a soft navy print had been set up before a large sunny window, for anyone needing to wait. To watch. Not necessarily to pray; those requiring more drastic measures might prefer to visit a small multi-cultural chapel on the ground floor.
Benjamin Taggart reclined on his multi-functioning bed, wrapped in bandages and sheets, unmoving, barely breathing, eyelids closed, oblivious to all. At this point, his was just a body, being cared for by machinery.
“Any change?” Tom slipped inside with his easy westerner’s stride and quiet question. In one hand he carried a Styrofoam cup of hot black coffee; in the other, a Styrofoam cup of hot honeyed tea, with the tag on its string still dangling. This he offered to Caroline.
“He’s still alive.”
“Well, that’s a plus.” The cowboy seated himself in the chair beside hers and crossed one booted ankle over the other thigh. “He’s tough, honey. And he’s a fighter.”
“I know, Tom. So you’ve told me, a few hundred times.” The thin stretch of muscles indicated a smile, which did not reach her eyes.
Setting aside the cup, he laid his thin corded hand over hers, in an effort to lend her some of his strength. His calm, steady presence did help, enormously, just in the sense of comfort. And in the fact that she was not alone, facing another ordeal. At one time she had wept copiously against his shirt front; on several others, she had been enfolded in his arms for a lengthy embrace.
“You had any report from the doctor yet?”
Caroline lifted one shoulder. “It seems there really isn’t much to report. It’s more a matter of—enduring.”
“Ahuh. Harder on you, maybe, than on the patient.”
Leaning back, she let her head rest into the pillowing confine
s of the chair. “Please tell me that Sophie is all right.”
“Yeah, honey, she’s as fine as a cat with a bowl full of cream. Mrs. Wyeth has stepped up and done whatever needs t’ be done, carin’ for her—just like you said she would.”
Another very thin smile, with eyes closed. “There is a reason for everything,” she murmured. “Had I let her go, as I threatened, I’d be torn in half right now, trying to be in two places at once. Instead…well…I have Emma.”
“The woman has become downright human,” said Tom with a chuckle. “By God, she even gave me a halfway grin this mornin’.”
“Ah, bless her.”
The local fire rescue truck had beaten Ben’s own speed record over local roads to arrive at the ranch. Immediately working to stanch the flow of blood, attach various cuffs and equipment, stabilize vitals, and every other well-orchestrated procedure by well-trained paramedics, they had strapped Ben’s unconscious body onto a gurney and loaded him for transport.
Caroline, gory-red, dusty, tear-stained, was not about to be left behind. With both doors slammed shut and the truck on its way, Tom had hastened back to the house. Those inside needed to be updated and reassured, calls needed to be made, details needed to be seen to. With the number one man out of commission, the number two man would take charge.
The Marigold Municipal Hospital, located east of town, heading toward Austin, might not cover a wide area as far as space, but the standard for its medical facilities was considered world-class. Transported there, first directly to the Emergency Room for immediate care, then to surgery to remove the single bullet that had done so much damage, and then eventual transfer to an I.C.U., Ben was receiving the finest treatment for which anyone could possibly wish.
Through it all, Caroline had waited stoically.
At one point, somewhere along the line, a kindly nurse had given her a scrub top and directions to the ladies’ wash room, where she could clean up and change. She trailed beside, wherever he was taken, from room to room, from floor to floor, wincing at the terrible pallor of his face that was no whiter than the bandages wrapped around his arm and chest.
Ultimately Tom, having discharged his many duties at the ranch—at least, for the moment—had made his way to her. She was slumped in an upright barely-padded chair in some hallway somewhere. Still waiting.
Desperately relieved to see this tall, lanky, comforting man striding toward her, she had immediately begun weeping the tears that had been restrained for so long. Now she could share the burden of keeping vigil.
After a good hard hug, he had asked about Ben’s condition.
“I don’t know,” she said bitterly, mopping her face with the tissues so thoughtfully provided by the staff. “No one will tell me. No one comes out from those doors. I just hear messages over the loudspeaker, and people walking by, really fast.”
“Well, honey, no news is good news, I reckon,” he had soothed her. “So he’s still in surgery?”
“Yes. Cutting away.” A half-sob broke into her words before she could continue. “And—and—
t-t-tying things off…”
“Ahuh. Seems we’ll just have t’ wait some more, and then we can decide what t’ do from there.”
Quietly, then, he had recounted all that he had accomplished within the last few hours since the monstrous, inexplicable attack.
Although Mrs. Wyeth had heard all the commotion outside, and the gunshots, which had nearly scared the liver out of her, she had sensibly taken charge of Sophie and the pup. It was all a matter of getting them up to the child’s room with some excuse about needing a picture drawn and colored for Daddy, right now. Shocked by the news of what had happened, she assured Tom that, of course, she would be happy to watch over Sophie for however long was needed. Hadn’t she done it for a number of years?
The most important task discharged, Tom had asked her to find Caroline’s purse with all her valuables—mainly a cell phone, to keep in touch, since Lord only knew what had happened to the one Ben wore strapped to his belt—and to pack a bag with some clothes.
From there, he had gone into the corporate office, pulled some legal papers from an important document file, and stuffed them into a folder to take along. Just in case.
With everything packed away onto the ranch truck seat beside him, he had driven to the two-story adobe building that housed the Marigold Police Department.
The initial few words of his report about the assault at Ten Buck actually propelled Sheriff Chet Waring upright behind his desk. “The hell you say!”
“He’s at the hospital now, which is where I’m headin’ as soon as I’ve finished.”
“All right.” Motioning to a empty chair, Waring pulled forward a pad of paper and began making notes. “At the ranch. How long ago? D’ you know who done it? How bad hurt is the boy?”
Tom declined the offer to sit only because he was in a hurry. Passing on what meager information he could, he also included his cell phone number, where he could be reached, and started for the door.
“I’ll take a couple men and get out to the ranch, see what we can find,” promised the sheriff. “You think of any suspects, you let me know. And I’ll be checkin’ with the docs to see if—I mean, how soon I can talk to Ben. Helluva note,” he added gloomily. “One of the town’s upstandin’ citizens, gunned down in his own front yard.”
“Yeah.” Tom’s mood wasn’t gloomy. It was blistering, boiling mad, a layer of hot lava beneath what seemed to be a calm, cool surface and ready to erupt. He must remain calm and cool. There was still Caroline to consider, and what she was going through. “Thanks, Chet. I’ll let you know anything I can find out about Ben’s condition.”
And after that, with all hands on deck, had come the waiting time.
The bullet had nicked some vital places, to end up somewhere deep inside Ben’s chest. He was suffering almost as much from blood loss as from the wound itself; and, after many hours of surgery, it was still too early to tell just how long his recuperation period might be.
Or if he’d live long enough to have one.
For two days, Caroline had not left his side, other than to change into the clean clothing Mrs. Wyeth had sent and periodically refresh herself. The patient had had moments of drifting into semi-consciousness, which pleased his doctors, but none of actual lucidity. And the moments had been too few and too far apart for Caroline’s dwindling hopes.
“C’mon,” Tom said now, into the quiet room. Rising, he stretched weary muscles wide and then reached down a hand. “Let’s get outa here for a bit. We’ll go to the cafeteria, get some food and a change of scenery. It won’t do no good for you t’ come down sick, too.”
“I’m fine,” Caroline protested. “And I can’t leave, Tom. What if he wakes up, and I’m—not here—?” Her voice quavered.
“Darlin’, if’n he wakes up long enough t’ wanna talk t’ you, one of the nurses will let us know. C’mon. I ain’t takin’ no for answer.”
The cafeteria looked out over a small lake, liberally supplied with ducks, other water fowl, and a multitude of bushes. It was a peaceful scene, one conducive to restoring calm and soothing shattered nerves, and she was surprised by a lift in spirits as they took seats near the large window.
“You were right, Tom,” she conceded. “I’ll never question your judgment again.”
“Oh, I’m just sparked fulla good ideas,” he chuckled. “Here, you want some butter for that bread?”
For a few minutes, they simply enjoyed their meal—fairly tasty as far as hospital fare—in silence, while muted conversations and the rattling of dishes went on around them. Some hot soup, in the cool air-conditioned room, and a flaky croissant were enough to paint a little color back into Caroline’s pallid cheeks.
“What has Sophie been told about—everything—?” she asked, sipping from her cup of tea.
“Well, she’s been askin’ about you and Ben right along, as you might figure. Ain’t no flies on that child. Mrs. Wyeth said there’s b
een an accident, and her daddy was hurt, and her mommy was with him. And that Sophie herself could come and visit just as soon as Ben was awake.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, blue-ringed with exhaustion and worry. “The sweetheart. I’m sorry I had to leave as I did, without any sort of explanation, but—”
“Ain’t no point chastisin’ yourself, Carrie. It couldn’t be helped. We all knew Ben was our first priority. And I know,” he surveyed her thoughtfully, over the rim of his own cup, “what he’s come t’ mean to you.”
She looked down at her plate, then up again to meet his uncritical, understanding gaze, with the tears now gathering clear as glass. “That annoying, exasperating, pain-in-the-rear man…does it show so much?”
“O’ course it does. And it should.”
“Oh, Tom,” she whispered then, “I’m so scared. We had—we had words—before this last traveling binge of his, and I—and we—it wasn’t—”
“And you’re feelin’ guilty,” said Tom shrewdly, “in case he never comes to, and you won’t be able t’ tell him so.”
Abjectly Caroline nodded.
He reached across the small table to take her hand in his, and squeeze. He was a great hand-holder, was this Tom Sinclair, and she treasured every moment in his company.
“Reckon we’ll just haveta leave that problem t’ the man upstairs. You can’t take the whole world on your shoulders, Carrie. You gotta give a little, and let people share.”
“Oh, Tom. You’re so good to me.”
“Ain’t nobody deserves it more, honey.” His lopsided grin twisted her heart. “Okay. Enough philosophisin’. Wanna take a walk around that there lake, get some fresh air, b’fore we go back t’ Ben-sittin’? And maybe you can give Sophie a buzz. Be good for you two t’ talk a bit.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The charge nurse, a very capable, very efficient, very compassionate woman named Mary, caught them near the station as they returned to the fourth floor.
“I was just about to call you,” she explained. “Mr. Taggart woke a little while ago, and Sheriff Waring is with him now.”
Unwrap Me Daddy Page 69
